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What changes does Barry Barr undergo throughout the story?
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After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about The Lost Tribes of Venus by Erik Fennel.
Relevant chunks:
THE LOST TRIBES OF VENUS
By ERIK FENNEL
On mist-shrouded Venus, where hostile swamp meets hostile sea ... there did Barry Barr—Earthman transmuted—swap his Terran heritage for the deep dark waters of Tana; for the strangely beautiful Xintel of the blue-brown skin.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories May 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Evil luck brought the meteorite to those particular space-time coordinates as Number Four rode the downhill spiral toward Venus. The football-sized chunk of nickel-iron and rock overtook the ship at a relative speed of only a few hundred miles per hour and passed close enough to come within the tremendous pseudo-gravatic fields of the idling drivers.
It swerved into a paraboloid course, following the flux lines, and was dragged directly against one of the three projecting nozzles. Energy of motion was converted to heat and a few meteoric fragments fused themselves to the nonmetallic tube casing.
In the jet room the positronic line accelerator for that particular driver fouled under the intolerable overload, and the backsurge sent searing heat and deadly radiation blasting through the compartment before the main circuit breakers could clack open.
The bellow of the alarm horn brought Barry Barr fully awake, shattering a delightfully intimate dream of the dark haired girl he hoped to see again soon in Venus Colony. As he unbuckled his bunk straps and started aft at a floating, bounding run his weightlessness told him instantly that Number Four was in free fall with dead drivers.
Red warning lights gleamed wickedly above the safety-locked jet room door, and Nick Podtiaguine, the air machines specialist, was manipulating the emergency controls with Captain Reno at his elbow. One by one the crew crowded into the corridor and watched in tense silence.
The automatic lock clicked off as the jet room returned to habitable conditions, and at Captain Reno's gesture two men swung the door open. Quickly the commander entered the blasted jet room. Barry Barr was close behind him.
Robson Hind, jet chief of Four and electronics expert for Venus Colony, hung back until others had gone in first. His handsome, heavy face had lost its usual ruddiness.
Captain Reno surveyed the havoc. Young Ryan's body floated eerily in the zero gravity, charred into instant death by the back-blast. The line accelerator was a shapeless ruin, but except for broken meter glasses and scorched control handles other mechanical damage appeared minor. They had been lucky.
"Turnover starts in six hours twelve minutes," the captain said meaningfully.
Robson Hind cleared his throat. "We can change accelerators in two hours," he declared. With a quick reassumption of authority he began to order his crew into action.
It took nearer three hours than two to change accelerators despite Hind's shouted orders.
At last the job was completed. Hind made a final check, floated over to the control panel and started the fuel feed. With a confident smile he threw in the accelerator switch.
The meter needles climbed, soared past the red lines without pausing, and just in time to prevent a second blowback, Hind cut the power.
" There's metal in the field! " His voice was high and unsteady.
Everyone knew what that meant. The slightest trace of magnetic material would distort the delicately balanced cylinder of force that contained and directed the Hoskins blast, making it suicidal to operate.
Calmly Captain Reno voiced the thought in every mind.
"It must be cleared. From the outside."
Several of the men swore under their breaths. Interplanetary space was constantly bombarded, with an intensity inverse to the prevailing gravitation, by something called Sigma radiation. Man had never encountered it until leaving Earth, and little was known of it except that short exposure killed test animals and left their bodies unpredictably altered.
Inside the ship it was safe enough, for the sleek hull was charged with a Kendall power-shield, impervious to nearly any Sigma concentration. But the shielding devices in the emergency spacesuits were small and had never been space-tested in a region of nearly equalized gravitations.
The man who emerged from the airlock would be flipping a coin with a particularly unpleasant form of death.
Many pairs of eyes turned toward Robson Hind. He was jet chief.
"I'm assigned, not expendable," he protested hastily. "If there were more trouble later...." His face was pasty.
Assigned. That was the key word. Barry Barr felt a lump tightening in his stomach as the eyes shifted to him. He had some training in Hoskins drivers. He knew alloys and power tools. And he was riding Four unassigned after that broken ankle had made him miss Three. He was the logical man.
"For the safety of the ship." That phrase, taken from the ancient Earthbound code of the sea, had occurred repeatedly in the indoctrination manual at Training Base. He remembered it, and remembered further the contingent plans regarding assigned and unassigned personnel.
For a moment he stood indecisively, the nervous, unhumorous smile quirking across his angular face making him look more like an untried boy than a structural engineer who had fought his way up through some of the toughest tropical construction camps of Earth. His lean body, built more for quick, neatly coordinated action than brute power, balanced handily in the zero gravity as he ran one hand through his sandy hair in a gesture of uncertainty.
He knew that not even the captain would order him through the airlock.
But the members of the Five Ship Plan had been selected in part for a sense of responsibility.
"Nick, will you help me button up?" he asked with forced calmness.
For an instant he thought he detected a sly gleam in Hind's eyes. But then the jet chief was pressing forward with the others to shake his hand.
Rebellious reluctance flared briefly in Barry's mind. Dorothy Voorhees had refused to make a definite promise before blasting off in Three—in fact he hadn't even seen her during her last few days on Earth. But still he felt he had the inside track despite Hind's money and the brash assurance that went with it. But if Hind only were to reach Venus alive—
The blazing disc of Sol, the minor globes of the planets, the unwinking pinpoints of the stars, all stared with cosmic disinterest at the tiny figure crawling along the hull. His spacesuit trapped and amplified breathing and heartbeats into a roaring chaos that was an invitation to blind panic, and all the while there was consciousness of the insidiously deadly Sigma radiations.
Barry found the debris of the meteorite, an ugly shining splotch against the dull superceramic tube, readied his power chisel, started cutting. Soon it became a tedious, torturingly strenuous manual task requiring little conscious thought, and Barry's mind touched briefly on the events that had brought him here.
First Luna, and that had been murderous. Man had encountered Sigma for the first time, and many had died before the Kendall-shield was perfected. And the chemical-fueled rockets of those days had been inherently poor.
Hoskins semi-atomics had made possible the next step—to Mars. But men had found Mars barren, swept clear of all life in the cataclysm that had shattered the trans-Martian planet to form the Asteroid Belt.
Venus, its true surface forever hidden by enshrouding mists, had been well within one-way range. But Hoskins fuel requirements for a round trip added up to something beyond critical mass. Impossible.
But the Five Ship Plan had evolved, a joint enterprise of government and various private groups. Five vessels were to go out, each fueled to within a whiskered neutron of spontaneous detonation, manned by specialists who, it was hoped, could maintain themselves under alien conditions.
On Venus the leftover fuel from all five would be transferred to whichever ship had survived the outbound voyage in best condition. That one would return to Earth. Permanent base or homeward voyage with colonists crowded aboard like defeated sardines? Only time would tell.
Barry Barr had volunteered, and because the enlightened guesses of the experts called for men and women familiar with tropical conditions, he had survived the rigorous weeding-out process. His duties in Venus Colony would be to refabricate the discarded ships into whatever form was most needed—most particularly a launching ramp—and to study native Venusian materials.
Dorothy Voorhees had signed on as toxicologist and dietician. When the limited supply of Earth food ran out the Colony would be forced to rely upon Venusian plants and animals. She would guard against subtle delayed-action poisons, meanwhile devising ways of preparing Venusian materials to suit Earth tastes and digestions.
Barry had met her at Training Base and known at once that his years of loneliness had come to an end.
She seemed utterly independent, self-contained, completely intellectual despite her beauty, but Barry had not been deceived. From the moment of first meeting he had sensed within her deep springs of suppressed emotion, and he had understood. He too had come up the hard way, alone, and been forced to develop a shell of hardness and cold, single-minded devotion to his work. Gradually, often unwillingly under his insistence, her aloofness had begun to melt.
But Robson Hind too had been attracted. He was the only son of the business manager of the great Hoskins Corporation which carried a considerable share in the Five Ship Plan. Dorothy's failure to virtually fall into his arms had only piqued his desires.
The man's smooth charm had fascinated the girl and his money had opened to her an entirely new world of lavish nightclubs and extravagantly expensive entertainments, but her inborn shrewdness had sensed some factor in his personality that had made her hesitate.
Barry had felt a distrust of Hind apart from the normal dislike of rivalry. He had looked forward to being with Dorothy aboard Three, and had made no secret of his satisfaction when Hind's efforts to have himself transferred to Three also or the girl to Four had failed.
But then a scaffold had slipped while Three was being readied, and with a fractured ankle he had been forced to miss the ship.
He unclipped the magnetic detector from his belt and ran it inch by inch over the nozzle. He found one spot of metal, pinhead-sized, but enough to cause trouble, and once more swung his power chisel into stuttering action.
Then it was done.
As quickly as possible he inched back to the airlock. Turnover had to start according to calculations.
Barry opened his eyes. The ship was in normal deceleration and Nick Podtiaguine was watching him from a nearby bunk.
"I could eat a cow with the smallpox," Barry declared.
Nick grinned. "No doubt. You slept around the clock and more. Nice job of work out there."
Barry unhitched his straps and sat up.
"Say," he asked anxiously. "What's haywire with the air?"
Nick looked startled. "Nothing. Everything checked out when I came off watch a few minutes ago."
Barry shrugged. "Probably just me. Guess I'll go see if I can mooch a handout."
He found himself a hero. The cook was ready to turn the galley inside out while a radio engineer and an entomologist hovered near to wait on him. But he couldn't enjoy the meal. The sensations of heat and dryness he had noticed on awakening grew steadily worse. It became difficult to breathe.
He started to rise, and abruptly the room swirled and darkened around him. Even as he sank into unconsciousness he knew the answer.
The suit's Kendall-shield had leaked!
Four plunged toward Venus tail first, the Hoskins jets flaring ahead. The single doctor for the Colony had gone out in Two and the crewmen trained in first aid could do little to relieve Barry's distress. Fainting spells alternated with fever and delirium and an unquenchable thirst. His breathing became increasingly difficult.
A few thousand miles out Four picked up a microbeam. A feeling of exultation surged through the ship as Captain Reno passed the word, for the beam meant that some Earthmen were alive upon Venus. They were not necessarily diving straight toward oblivion. Barry, sick as he was, felt the thrill of the unknown world that lay ahead.
Into a miles-thick layer of opacity Four roared, with Captain Reno himself jockeying throttles to keep it balanced on its self-created support of flame.
"You're almost in," a voice chanted into his headphones through crackling, sizzling static. "Easy toward spherical one-thirty. Hold it! Lower. Lower. CUT YOUR POWER!"
The heavy hull dropped sickeningly, struck with a mushy thud, settled, steadied.
Barry was weak, but with Nick Podtiaguine steadying him he was waiting with the others when Captain Reno gave the last order.
"Airlock open. Both doors."
Venusian air poured in.
"For this I left Panama?" one of the men yelped.
"Enough to gag a maggot," another agreed with hand to nose.
It was like mid-summer noon in a tropical mangrove swamp, hot and unbearably humid and overpowering with the stench of decaying vegetation.
But Barry took one deep breath, then another. The stabbing needles in his chest blunted, and the choking band around his throat loosened.
The outer door swung wide. He blinked, and a shift in the encompassing vapors gave him his first sight of a world bathed in subdued light.
Four had landed in a marsh with the midships lock only a few feet above a quagmire surface still steaming from the final rocket blast. Nearby the identical hulls of Two and Three stood upright in the mud. The mist shifted again and beyond the swamp he could see the low, rounded outlines of the collapsible buildings Two and Three had carried in their cargo pits. They were set on a rock ledge rising a few feet out of the marsh. The Colony!
Men were tossing sections of lattice duckboard out upon the swamp, extending a narrow walkway toward Four's airlock, and within a few minutes the new arrivals were scrambling down.
Barry paid little attention to the noisy greetings and excited talk. Impatiently he trotted toward the rock ledge, searching for one particular figure among the men and women who waited.
"Dorothy!" he said fervently.
Then his arms were around her and she was responding to his kiss.
Then unexpected pain tore at his chest. Her lovely face took on an expression of fright even as it wavered and grew dim. The last thing he saw was Robson Hind looming beside her.
By the glow of an overhead tubelight he recognized the kindly, deeply lined features of the man bending over him. Dr. Carl Jensen, specialist in tropical diseases. He tried to sit up but the doctor laid a restraining hand on his shoulder.
"Water!" Barry croaked.
The doctor held out a glass. Then his eyes widened incredulously as his patient deliberately drew in a breath while drinking, sucking water directly into his lungs.
"Doctor," he asked, keeping his voice low to spare his throat. "What are my chances? On the level."
Dr. Jensen shook his head thoughtfully. "There's not a thing—not a damned solitary thing—I can do. It's something new to medical science."
Barry lay still.
"Your body is undergoing certain radical changes," the doctor continued, "and you know as much—more about your condition than I do. If a normal person who took water into his lungs that way didn't die of a coughing spasm, congestive pneumonia would get him sure. But it seems to give you relief."
Barry scratched his neck, where a thickened, darkening patch on each side itched infuriatingly.
"What are these changes?" he asked. "What's this?"
"Those things seem to be—" the doctor began hesitantly. "Damn it, I know it sounds crazy but they're rudimentary gills."
Barry accepted the outrageous statement unemotionally. He was beyond shock.
"But there must be—"
Pain struck again, so intense his body twisted and arched involuntarily. Then the prick of a needle brought merciful oblivion.
II
Barry's mind was working furiously. The changes the Sigma radiations had inflicted upon his body might reverse themselves spontaneously, Dr. Jensen had mentioned during a second visit—but for that to happen he must remain alive. That meant easing all possible strains.
When the doctor came in again Barry asked him to find Nick Podtiaguine. Within a few minutes the mechanic appeared.
"Cheez, it's good to see you, Barry," he began.
"Stuff it," the sick man interrupted. "I want favors. Can do?"
Nick nodded vigorously.
"First cut that air conditioner and get the window open."
Nick stared as though he were demented, but obeyed, unbolting the heavy plastic window panel and lifting it aside. He made a face at the damp, malodorous Venusian air but to Barry it brought relief.
It was not enough, but it indicated he was on the right track. And he was not an engineer for nothing.
"Got a pencil?" he asked.
He drew only a rough sketch, for Nick was far too competent to need detailed drawings.
"Think you can get materials?"
Nick glanced at the sketch. "Hell, man, for you I can get anything the Colony has. You saved Four and everybody knows it."
"Two days?"
Nick looked insulted.
He was back in eight hours, and with him came a dozen helpers. A power line and water tube were run through the metal partition to the corridor, connections were made, and the machine Barry had sketched was ready.
Nick flipped the switch. The thing whined shrilly. From a fanshaped nozzle came innumerable droplets of water, droplets of colloidal size that hung in the air and only slowly coalesced into larger drops that fell toward the metal floor.
Barry nodded, a smile beginning to spread across his drawn features.
"Perfect. Now put the window back."
Outside lay the unknown world of Venus, and an open, unguarded window might invite disaster.
A few hours later Dr. Jensen found his patient in a normal sleep. The room was warm and the air was so filled with water-mist it was almost liquid. Coalescing drops dripped from the walls and curving ceiling and furniture, from the half clad body of the sleeping man, and the scavenger pump made greedy gulping sounds as it removed excess water from the floor.
The doctor shook his head as he backed out, his clothes clinging wet from the short exposure.
It was abnormal.
But so was Barry Barr.
With breathing no longer a continuous agony Barry began to recover some of his strength. But for several days much of his time was spent in sleep and Dorothy Voorhees haunted his dreams.
Whenever he closed his eyes he could see her as clearly as though she were with him—her face with the exotic high cheek-bones—her eyes a deep gray in fascinating contrast to her raven hair—lips that seemed to promise more of giving than she had ever allowed herself to fulfil—her incongruously pert, humorous little nose that was a legacy from some venturesome Irishman—her slender yet firmly lithe body.
After a few days Dr. Jensen permitted him to have visitors. They came in a steady stream, the people from Four and men he had not seen since Training Base days, and although none could endure his semi-liquid atmosphere more than a few minutes at a time Barry enjoyed their visits.
But the person for whom he waited most anxiously did not arrive. At each knock Barry's heart would leap, and each time he settled back with a sigh of disappointment. Days passed and still Dorothy did not come to him. He could not go to her, and stubborn pride kept him from even inquiring. All the while he was aware of Robson Hind's presence in the Colony, and only weakness kept him from pacing his room like a caged animal.
Through his window he could see nothing but the gradual brightening and darkening of the enveloping fog as the slow 82-hour Venusian day progressed, but from his visitors' words he learned something of Venusian conditions and the story of the Colony.
Number One had bumbled in on visual, the pilot depending on the smeary images of infra-sight goggles. An inviting grassy plain had proved to be a layer of algae floating on quicksand. Frantically the crew had blasted down huge balsa-like marsh trees, cutting up the trunks with flame guns to make crude rafts. They had performed fantastic feats of strength and endurance but managed to salvage only half their equipment before the shining nose of One had vanished in the gurgling ooze.
Lost in a steaming, stinking marsh teeming with alien creatures that slithered and crawled and swam and flew, blinded by the eternal fog, the crew had proved the rightness of their choice as pioneers. For weeks they had floundered across the deadly terrain until at last, beside a stagnant-looking slough that drained sluggishly into a warm, almost tideless sea a mile away, they had discovered an outcropping of rock. It was the only solid ground they had encountered.
One man had died, his swamp suit pierced by a poisonous thorn, but the others had hand-hauled the radio beacon piece by piece and set it up in time to guide Two to a safe landing. Houses had been assembled, the secondary power units of the spaceship put to work, and the colony had established a tenuous foothold.
Three had landed beside Two a few months later, bringing reinforcements, but the day-by-day demands of the little colony's struggle for survival had so far been too pressing to permit extended or detailed explorations. Venus remained a planet of unsolved mysteries.
The helicopter brought out in Three had made several flights which by radar and sound reflection had placed vague outlines on the blank maps. The surface appeared to be half water, with land masses mainly jungle-covered swamp broken by a few rocky ledges, but landings away from base had been judged too hazardous.
Test borings from the ledge had located traces of oil and radioactive minerals, while enough Venusian plants had proven edible to provide an adequate though monotonous food source.
Venus was the diametric opposite of lifeless Mars. Through the fog gigantic insects hummed and buzzed like lost airplanes, but fortunately they were harmless and timid.
In the swamps wildly improbable life forms grew and reproduced and fought and died, and many of those most harmless in appearance possessed surprisingly venomous characteristics.
The jungle had been flamed away in a huge circle around the colony to minimize the chances of surprise by anything that might attack, but the blasting was an almost continuous process. The plants of Venus grew with a vigor approaching fury.
Most spectacular of the Venusian creatures were the amphibious armored monsters, saurian or semi-saurians with a slight resemblance to the brontosauri that had once lived on Earth, massive swamp-dwellers that used the slough beside the colony's ledge as a highway. They were apparently vegetarians, but thorough stupidity in tremendous bulk made them dangerous. One had damaged a building by blundering against it, and since then the colony had remained alert, using weapons to repel the beasts.
The most important question—that of the presence or absence of intelligent, civilized Venusians—remained unanswered. Some of the men reported a disquieting feeling of being watched, particularly when near open water, but others argued that any intelligent creatures would have established contact.
Barry developed definite external signs of what the Sigma radiation had done to him. The skin between his fingers and toes spread, grew into membranous webs. The swellings in his neck became more pronounced and dark parallel lines appeared.
But despite the doctor's pessimistic reports that the changes had not stopped, Barry continued to tell himself he was recovering. He had to believe and keep on believing to retain sanity in the face of the weird, unclassifiable feelings that surged through his body. Still he was subject to fits of almost suicidal depression, and Dorothy's failure to visit him did not help his mental condition.
Then one day he woke from a nap and thought he was still dreaming. Dorothy was leaning over him.
"Barry! Barry!" she whispered. "I can't help it. I love you even if you do have a wife and child in Philadelphia. I know it's wrong but all that seems so far away it doesn't matter any more." Tears glistened in her eyes.
"Huh?" he grunted. "Who? Me?"
"Please, Barry, don't lie. She wrote to me before Three blasted off—oh, the most piteous letter!"
Barry was fully awake now. "I'm not married. I have no child. I've never been in Philadelphia," he shouted. His lips thinned.
"I—think—I—know—who—wrote—that—letter!" he declared grimly.
"Robson wouldn't!" she objected, shocked, but there was a note of doubt in her voice.
Then she was in his arms, sobbing openly.
"I believe you, Barry."
She stayed with him for hours, and she had changed since the days at Training Base. Long months away from the patterned restraints of civilization, living each day on the edge of unknown perils, had awakened in her the realization that she was a human being and a woman, as well as a toxicologist.
When the water-mist finally forced her departure she left Barry joyous and confident of his eventual recovery. For a few minutes anger simmered in his brain as he contemplated the pleasure of rearranging Robson Hind's features.
The accident with the scaffold had been remarkably convenient, but this time the ruthless, restless, probably psychopathic drive that had made Robson Hind more than just another rich man's spoiled son had carried him too far. Barry wondered whether it had been inefficiency or judiciously distributed money that had made the psychometrists overlook some undesirable traits in Hind's personality in accepting him for the Five Ship Plan.
But even with his trickery Hind had lost.
He slept, and woke with a feeling of doom.
The slow Venusian twilight had ended in blackness and the overhead tubelight was off.
He sat up, and apprehension gave way to burning torture in his chest.
Silence! He fumbled for the light switch, then knelt beside the mist machine that no longer hummed. Power and water supplies were both dead, cut off outside his room.
Floating droplets were merging and falling to the floor. Soon the air would be dry, and he would be choking and strangling. He turned to call for help.
The door was locked!
He tugged and the knob came away in his hand. The retaining screw had been removed.
He beat upon the panel, first with his fists and then with the metal doorknob, but the insulation between the double alloy sheets was efficient soundproofing. Furiously he hurled himself upon it, only to bounce back with a bruised shoulder. He was trapped.
Working against time and eventual death he snatched a metal chair and swung with all his force at the window, again, again, yet again. A small crack appeared in the transparent plastic, branched under continued hammering, became a rough star. He gathered his waning strength, then swung once more. The tough plastic shattered.
He tugged at the jagged pieces still clinging to the frame. Fog-laden Venusian air poured in—but it was not enough!
He dragged himself head first through the narrow opening, landed sprawling on hands and knees in the darkness. In his ears a confused rustling drone from the alien swamp mingled with the roar of approaching unconsciousness.
There was a smell in his nostrils. The smell of water. He lurched forward at a shambling run, stumbling over the uneven ground.
Then he plunged from the rocky ledge into the slough. Flashes of colored light flickered before his eyes as he went under. But Earth habits were still strong; instinctively he held his breath.
Then he fainted. Voluntary control of his body vanished. His mouth hung slack and the breathing reflex that had been an integral part of his life since the moment of birth forced him to inhale.
Bubbles floated upward and burst. Then Barry Barr was lying in the ooze of the bottom. And he was breathing, extracting vital oxygen from the brackish, silt-clouded water.
III
Slowly his racing heartbeat returned to normal. Gradually he became aware of the stench of decaying plants and of musky taints he knew instinctively were the scents of underwater animals. Then with a shock the meaning became clear. He had become a water-breather, cut off from all other Earthmen, no longer entirely human. His fellows in the colony were separated from him now by a gulf more absolute than the airless void between Earth and Venus.
Something slippery and alive touched him near one armpit. He opened his eyes in the black water and his groping hand clutched something burrowing into his skin. With a shudder of revulsion he crushed a fat worm between his fingers.
Then dozens of them—hundreds—were upon him from all sides. He was wearing only a pair of khaki pants but the worms ignored his chest to congregate around his face, intent on attacking the tender skin of his eyelids.
For a minute his flailing hands fought them off, but they came in increasing numbers and clung like leeches. Pain spread as they bit and burrowed, and blindly he began to swim.
Faster and faster. He could sense the winding banks of the slough and kept to midchannel, swimming with his eyes tightly closed. One by one the worms dropped off.
He stopped, opened his eyes, not on complete darkness this time but on a faint blue-green luminescence from far below. The water was saltier here, and clearer.
He had swum down the slough and out into the ocean. He tried to turn back, obsessed by a desire to be near the colony even though he could not go ashore without strangling, but he had lost all sense of direction.
He was still weak and his lungs were not completely adjusted to underwater life. Again he grew dizzy and faint. The slow movements of hands and feet that held him just below the surface grew feeble and ceased. He sank.
Down into dimly luminous water he dropped, and with his respiratory system completely water-filled there was no sensation of pressure. At last he floated gently to the bottom and lay motionless.
Shouting voices awakened him, an exultant battle cry cutting through a gasping scream of anguish. Streaks of bright orange light were moving toward him in a twisting pattern. At the head of each trail was a figure. A human figure that weaved and swam in deadly moving combat. One figure drifted limply bottomward.
Hallucination, Barry told himself. Then one of the figures broke from the group. Almost overhead it turned sharply downward and the feet moved in a powerful flutter-kick. A slender spear aimed directly at the Earthman.
Barry threw himself aside. The spear point plunged deep into the sticky, yielding bottom and Barry grappled with its wielder.
Pointed fingernails raked his cheek. Barry's balled fist swung in a roundhouse blow but water resistance slowed the punch to ineffectiveness. The creature only shook its head and came in kicking and clawing.
Barry braced his feet against the bottom and leaped. His head butted the attacker's chest and at the same instant he lashed a short jab to the creature's belly. It slumped momentarily, its face working.
Human—or nearly so—the thing was, with a stocky, powerful body and webbed hands and feet. A few scraps of clothing, seemingly worn more for ornament than covering, clung to the fishbelly-white skin. The face was coarse and savage.
It shook off the effects of Barry's punch and one webbed hand snatched a short tube from its belt.
Barry remembered the spring-opening knife in his pocket, and even as he flicked the blade out the tube-weapon fired. Sound thrummed in the water and the water grew milky with a myriad of bubbles. Something zipped past his head, uncomfortably close.
Then Barry struck, felt his knife slice flesh and grate against bone. He struck again even as the undersea being screamed and went limp.
Barry stared through the reddening water.
Another figure plunged toward him. Barry jerked the dead Venusian's spear from the mud and raised it defensively.
But the figure paid no attention. This one was a female who fled desperately from two men closing in from opposite sides. One threw his spear, using an odd pushing motion, and as she checked and dodged, the other was upon her from behind.
One arm went around her neck in a strangler's hold, bending her slender body backward. Together captor and struggling captive sank toward the bottom. The other recovered his thrown spear and moved in to help secure her arms and legs with lengths of cord.
One scooped up the crossbow the girl had dropped. The other ripped at her brief skirt and from her belt took a pair of tubes like the one the dead Venusian had fired at Barry, handling them as though they were loot of the greatest value. He jerked cruelly at the slender metallic necklace the girl wore but it did not break.
He punched the helpless girl in the abdomen with the butt of his spear. The girl writhed but she did not attempt to cry out.
Barry bounded toward them in a series of soaring leaps, knife and spear ready. One Venusian turned to meet him, grinning maliciously.
Barry dug one foot into the bottom and sidestepped a spear thrust. His own lunge missed completely. Then he and the Venusian were inside each other's spear points, chest to chest. A pointed hook strapped to the inside of the creature's wrist just missed Barry's throat. The Earthman arched his body backward and his knife flashed upward. The creature gasped and pulled away, clutching with both hands at a gaping wound in its belly.
The other one turned too late as Barry leaped.
Barry's hilt cracked against its jawbone.
Question:
What changes does Barry Barr undergo throughout the story?
Answer:
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[
"Barry Barr transforms from a regular human male to a creature that breathes underwater and requires moisture to survive. After being exposed to Sigma radiation while removing particles from the outer hull of Four, Barry began to feel changes in his body. Air felt dry and hot in his lungs and he quickly developed shortness of breath. Fainting spells ensued and breathing difficulties. Once they arrived on Venus, Dr. Carl Jensen gave a grave diagnosis of the unknown. Barry developed dark marks on both sides of his neck, which soon transformed into gills. Webbing grew between his fingers and toes, and his revulsion to dry air only grew. He built a moisture machine to keep in his room so he could breathe comfortably. But it still wasn’t enough. On the night he was trapped inside of the dry room, he broke out and escaped to the water. Although his lungs weren’t fully adjusted to breathing water, he took off like a rocket and battled several Venusian creatures with ease. Barry goes from completely human to a humanoid merman of sorts. ",
"After volunteering for the spacewalk to remove the meteorite debris, Barr wakens from a nap unusually hungry and has trouble breathing the air on the ship. As he tries to eat, he notices a sense of heat and dryness that bothers him so much that it becomes difficult to breathe. When his meal is over, he loses consciousness just after it dawns on him that the Kendall-shield on his spacesuit had leaked. Barr suffers delirium, fever, fainting spells, and unquenchable thirst; all the while, breathing becomes increasingly difficult for him. After drawing a plan, his friend Nick builds a humidifier for Barr, which keeps his room so humid that water is dripping off the walls; this enables him to breathe more freely. When he gets a glass of water, he pours it down his throat while breathing, meaning the water goes into his lungs. The doctor doesn’t know what is happening to Barr, but he tells him that if a normal person poured water in their lungs like that, they would die of a coughing spasm or congestive pneumonia. Once they land on Venus, however, Barr can breathe easily due to the humid air. Barr also has rudimentary gills growing on the sides of his neck, and webbed skins begin growing between his fingers and toes as his gills develop further. When Hinds cuts off the humidifier to Barr’s room and locks him in, Barr would have died if he hadn’t been able to break the window and get out. Even then, his gills have developed so much that the Venusian air doesn’t completely take care of his needs. Not until he submerges himself in the water of the slough can Barr breathe freely. When he makes his way to the ocean, he encounters creatures who are nearly human but who, like Barr, have webbed fingers and toes, so it appears that Barr has become a Venusian.\n",
"Barry had been chosen for the Five Ships Plan because of his structural engineering expertise as well as his experience in tropical climates. His job in the Venus Colony would be to repurpose the ships that would be left behind on Venus into useful items as well as to study native Venusian materials. After stepping out into space to remove the debris from the outside of Number Four, Barry succumbs to Sigma radiation poisoning and begins to physically transform. At first, he has difficulty breathing in the air pumped through the spaceship. When Number Four lands on Venus, he is pleased to discover the thick humidity eases the choking in his throat. But the water in the atmosphere is not enough, and he continues to experience severe pains in his body as the change continues. Dr. Carl Jensen helps him through this process; he initially identifies the darkening patch on the sides of his neck as rudimentary gills. In addition, Barry develops webbed feet. Although his love for Dorothy has motivated Barry to push through adversity to arrive safely on Venus, he begins to realize that his physical developments are going to become a permanent barrier between his old reality and his new one. He can no longer breathe on land, so he desperately plunges into the water. As he swims into the ocean, his lungs fill with water and he can breathe easier. He also runs into the elusive Venusian natives, who look much like humans with bodies adapted to life underwater. This will likely become Barry's new home.",
"Before the story begins, Barry volunteers for the Five Ship Plan with his experience in tropical conditions making him a good fit. At the Training Base, he meets Dorothy Voorhees who he falls for, but Robson Hind is also interested, so Barry doesn't trust Robson. At the start of the story, Barry wakes up with the ship in free fall and works with the rest of the crew to stabalize whatever systems they can. After he is exposed to Sigma radiation, it gets harder and harder for him to breathe over time. In the early stages, he faints a lot, and develops a fever, becomes delirious, and has an unquenchable thirst. When he is exposed to Venusian air, it becomes easier for him to breathe and his chest pains become more manageable. After he passes out again, he starts inhaling water to put it straight into his lungs, surprising his doctor, which leads to him noticing the gills developing on his neck. His hands and feet grow webs as his gills developed further, and his depression gets worse through the transformation. He wakes up one day to find his machine has been turned off, andd has to break out of the room and jump into the water to save himself, where he learns that his gills work perfectly well. He finds he is much more comfortable underwater even though he still needs more time to adapt to these changes, as his lungs are still strained very quickly which impacts his endurance."
] |
63932
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THE LOST TRIBES OF VENUS
By ERIK FENNEL
On mist-shrouded Venus, where hostile swamp meets hostile sea ... there did Barry Barr—Earthman transmuted—swap his Terran heritage for the deep dark waters of Tana; for the strangely beautiful Xintel of the blue-brown skin.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories May 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Evil luck brought the meteorite to those particular space-time coordinates as Number Four rode the downhill spiral toward Venus. The football-sized chunk of nickel-iron and rock overtook the ship at a relative speed of only a few hundred miles per hour and passed close enough to come within the tremendous pseudo-gravatic fields of the idling drivers.
It swerved into a paraboloid course, following the flux lines, and was dragged directly against one of the three projecting nozzles. Energy of motion was converted to heat and a few meteoric fragments fused themselves to the nonmetallic tube casing.
In the jet room the positronic line accelerator for that particular driver fouled under the intolerable overload, and the backsurge sent searing heat and deadly radiation blasting through the compartment before the main circuit breakers could clack open.
The bellow of the alarm horn brought Barry Barr fully awake, shattering a delightfully intimate dream of the dark haired girl he hoped to see again soon in Venus Colony. As he unbuckled his bunk straps and started aft at a floating, bounding run his weightlessness told him instantly that Number Four was in free fall with dead drivers.
Red warning lights gleamed wickedly above the safety-locked jet room door, and Nick Podtiaguine, the air machines specialist, was manipulating the emergency controls with Captain Reno at his elbow. One by one the crew crowded into the corridor and watched in tense silence.
The automatic lock clicked off as the jet room returned to habitable conditions, and at Captain Reno's gesture two men swung the door open. Quickly the commander entered the blasted jet room. Barry Barr was close behind him.
Robson Hind, jet chief of Four and electronics expert for Venus Colony, hung back until others had gone in first. His handsome, heavy face had lost its usual ruddiness.
Captain Reno surveyed the havoc. Young Ryan's body floated eerily in the zero gravity, charred into instant death by the back-blast. The line accelerator was a shapeless ruin, but except for broken meter glasses and scorched control handles other mechanical damage appeared minor. They had been lucky.
"Turnover starts in six hours twelve minutes," the captain said meaningfully.
Robson Hind cleared his throat. "We can change accelerators in two hours," he declared. With a quick reassumption of authority he began to order his crew into action.
It took nearer three hours than two to change accelerators despite Hind's shouted orders.
At last the job was completed. Hind made a final check, floated over to the control panel and started the fuel feed. With a confident smile he threw in the accelerator switch.
The meter needles climbed, soared past the red lines without pausing, and just in time to prevent a second blowback, Hind cut the power.
" There's metal in the field! " His voice was high and unsteady.
Everyone knew what that meant. The slightest trace of magnetic material would distort the delicately balanced cylinder of force that contained and directed the Hoskins blast, making it suicidal to operate.
Calmly Captain Reno voiced the thought in every mind.
"It must be cleared. From the outside."
Several of the men swore under their breaths. Interplanetary space was constantly bombarded, with an intensity inverse to the prevailing gravitation, by something called Sigma radiation. Man had never encountered it until leaving Earth, and little was known of it except that short exposure killed test animals and left their bodies unpredictably altered.
Inside the ship it was safe enough, for the sleek hull was charged with a Kendall power-shield, impervious to nearly any Sigma concentration. But the shielding devices in the emergency spacesuits were small and had never been space-tested in a region of nearly equalized gravitations.
The man who emerged from the airlock would be flipping a coin with a particularly unpleasant form of death.
Many pairs of eyes turned toward Robson Hind. He was jet chief.
"I'm assigned, not expendable," he protested hastily. "If there were more trouble later...." His face was pasty.
Assigned. That was the key word. Barry Barr felt a lump tightening in his stomach as the eyes shifted to him. He had some training in Hoskins drivers. He knew alloys and power tools. And he was riding Four unassigned after that broken ankle had made him miss Three. He was the logical man.
"For the safety of the ship." That phrase, taken from the ancient Earthbound code of the sea, had occurred repeatedly in the indoctrination manual at Training Base. He remembered it, and remembered further the contingent plans regarding assigned and unassigned personnel.
For a moment he stood indecisively, the nervous, unhumorous smile quirking across his angular face making him look more like an untried boy than a structural engineer who had fought his way up through some of the toughest tropical construction camps of Earth. His lean body, built more for quick, neatly coordinated action than brute power, balanced handily in the zero gravity as he ran one hand through his sandy hair in a gesture of uncertainty.
He knew that not even the captain would order him through the airlock.
But the members of the Five Ship Plan had been selected in part for a sense of responsibility.
"Nick, will you help me button up?" he asked with forced calmness.
For an instant he thought he detected a sly gleam in Hind's eyes. But then the jet chief was pressing forward with the others to shake his hand.
Rebellious reluctance flared briefly in Barry's mind. Dorothy Voorhees had refused to make a definite promise before blasting off in Three—in fact he hadn't even seen her during her last few days on Earth. But still he felt he had the inside track despite Hind's money and the brash assurance that went with it. But if Hind only were to reach Venus alive—
The blazing disc of Sol, the minor globes of the planets, the unwinking pinpoints of the stars, all stared with cosmic disinterest at the tiny figure crawling along the hull. His spacesuit trapped and amplified breathing and heartbeats into a roaring chaos that was an invitation to blind panic, and all the while there was consciousness of the insidiously deadly Sigma radiations.
Barry found the debris of the meteorite, an ugly shining splotch against the dull superceramic tube, readied his power chisel, started cutting. Soon it became a tedious, torturingly strenuous manual task requiring little conscious thought, and Barry's mind touched briefly on the events that had brought him here.
First Luna, and that had been murderous. Man had encountered Sigma for the first time, and many had died before the Kendall-shield was perfected. And the chemical-fueled rockets of those days had been inherently poor.
Hoskins semi-atomics had made possible the next step—to Mars. But men had found Mars barren, swept clear of all life in the cataclysm that had shattered the trans-Martian planet to form the Asteroid Belt.
Venus, its true surface forever hidden by enshrouding mists, had been well within one-way range. But Hoskins fuel requirements for a round trip added up to something beyond critical mass. Impossible.
But the Five Ship Plan had evolved, a joint enterprise of government and various private groups. Five vessels were to go out, each fueled to within a whiskered neutron of spontaneous detonation, manned by specialists who, it was hoped, could maintain themselves under alien conditions.
On Venus the leftover fuel from all five would be transferred to whichever ship had survived the outbound voyage in best condition. That one would return to Earth. Permanent base or homeward voyage with colonists crowded aboard like defeated sardines? Only time would tell.
Barry Barr had volunteered, and because the enlightened guesses of the experts called for men and women familiar with tropical conditions, he had survived the rigorous weeding-out process. His duties in Venus Colony would be to refabricate the discarded ships into whatever form was most needed—most particularly a launching ramp—and to study native Venusian materials.
Dorothy Voorhees had signed on as toxicologist and dietician. When the limited supply of Earth food ran out the Colony would be forced to rely upon Venusian plants and animals. She would guard against subtle delayed-action poisons, meanwhile devising ways of preparing Venusian materials to suit Earth tastes and digestions.
Barry had met her at Training Base and known at once that his years of loneliness had come to an end.
She seemed utterly independent, self-contained, completely intellectual despite her beauty, but Barry had not been deceived. From the moment of first meeting he had sensed within her deep springs of suppressed emotion, and he had understood. He too had come up the hard way, alone, and been forced to develop a shell of hardness and cold, single-minded devotion to his work. Gradually, often unwillingly under his insistence, her aloofness had begun to melt.
But Robson Hind too had been attracted. He was the only son of the business manager of the great Hoskins Corporation which carried a considerable share in the Five Ship Plan. Dorothy's failure to virtually fall into his arms had only piqued his desires.
The man's smooth charm had fascinated the girl and his money had opened to her an entirely new world of lavish nightclubs and extravagantly expensive entertainments, but her inborn shrewdness had sensed some factor in his personality that had made her hesitate.
Barry had felt a distrust of Hind apart from the normal dislike of rivalry. He had looked forward to being with Dorothy aboard Three, and had made no secret of his satisfaction when Hind's efforts to have himself transferred to Three also or the girl to Four had failed.
But then a scaffold had slipped while Three was being readied, and with a fractured ankle he had been forced to miss the ship.
He unclipped the magnetic detector from his belt and ran it inch by inch over the nozzle. He found one spot of metal, pinhead-sized, but enough to cause trouble, and once more swung his power chisel into stuttering action.
Then it was done.
As quickly as possible he inched back to the airlock. Turnover had to start according to calculations.
Barry opened his eyes. The ship was in normal deceleration and Nick Podtiaguine was watching him from a nearby bunk.
"I could eat a cow with the smallpox," Barry declared.
Nick grinned. "No doubt. You slept around the clock and more. Nice job of work out there."
Barry unhitched his straps and sat up.
"Say," he asked anxiously. "What's haywire with the air?"
Nick looked startled. "Nothing. Everything checked out when I came off watch a few minutes ago."
Barry shrugged. "Probably just me. Guess I'll go see if I can mooch a handout."
He found himself a hero. The cook was ready to turn the galley inside out while a radio engineer and an entomologist hovered near to wait on him. But he couldn't enjoy the meal. The sensations of heat and dryness he had noticed on awakening grew steadily worse. It became difficult to breathe.
He started to rise, and abruptly the room swirled and darkened around him. Even as he sank into unconsciousness he knew the answer.
The suit's Kendall-shield had leaked!
Four plunged toward Venus tail first, the Hoskins jets flaring ahead. The single doctor for the Colony had gone out in Two and the crewmen trained in first aid could do little to relieve Barry's distress. Fainting spells alternated with fever and delirium and an unquenchable thirst. His breathing became increasingly difficult.
A few thousand miles out Four picked up a microbeam. A feeling of exultation surged through the ship as Captain Reno passed the word, for the beam meant that some Earthmen were alive upon Venus. They were not necessarily diving straight toward oblivion. Barry, sick as he was, felt the thrill of the unknown world that lay ahead.
Into a miles-thick layer of opacity Four roared, with Captain Reno himself jockeying throttles to keep it balanced on its self-created support of flame.
"You're almost in," a voice chanted into his headphones through crackling, sizzling static. "Easy toward spherical one-thirty. Hold it! Lower. Lower. CUT YOUR POWER!"
The heavy hull dropped sickeningly, struck with a mushy thud, settled, steadied.
Barry was weak, but with Nick Podtiaguine steadying him he was waiting with the others when Captain Reno gave the last order.
"Airlock open. Both doors."
Venusian air poured in.
"For this I left Panama?" one of the men yelped.
"Enough to gag a maggot," another agreed with hand to nose.
It was like mid-summer noon in a tropical mangrove swamp, hot and unbearably humid and overpowering with the stench of decaying vegetation.
But Barry took one deep breath, then another. The stabbing needles in his chest blunted, and the choking band around his throat loosened.
The outer door swung wide. He blinked, and a shift in the encompassing vapors gave him his first sight of a world bathed in subdued light.
Four had landed in a marsh with the midships lock only a few feet above a quagmire surface still steaming from the final rocket blast. Nearby the identical hulls of Two and Three stood upright in the mud. The mist shifted again and beyond the swamp he could see the low, rounded outlines of the collapsible buildings Two and Three had carried in their cargo pits. They were set on a rock ledge rising a few feet out of the marsh. The Colony!
Men were tossing sections of lattice duckboard out upon the swamp, extending a narrow walkway toward Four's airlock, and within a few minutes the new arrivals were scrambling down.
Barry paid little attention to the noisy greetings and excited talk. Impatiently he trotted toward the rock ledge, searching for one particular figure among the men and women who waited.
"Dorothy!" he said fervently.
Then his arms were around her and she was responding to his kiss.
Then unexpected pain tore at his chest. Her lovely face took on an expression of fright even as it wavered and grew dim. The last thing he saw was Robson Hind looming beside her.
By the glow of an overhead tubelight he recognized the kindly, deeply lined features of the man bending over him. Dr. Carl Jensen, specialist in tropical diseases. He tried to sit up but the doctor laid a restraining hand on his shoulder.
"Water!" Barry croaked.
The doctor held out a glass. Then his eyes widened incredulously as his patient deliberately drew in a breath while drinking, sucking water directly into his lungs.
"Doctor," he asked, keeping his voice low to spare his throat. "What are my chances? On the level."
Dr. Jensen shook his head thoughtfully. "There's not a thing—not a damned solitary thing—I can do. It's something new to medical science."
Barry lay still.
"Your body is undergoing certain radical changes," the doctor continued, "and you know as much—more about your condition than I do. If a normal person who took water into his lungs that way didn't die of a coughing spasm, congestive pneumonia would get him sure. But it seems to give you relief."
Barry scratched his neck, where a thickened, darkening patch on each side itched infuriatingly.
"What are these changes?" he asked. "What's this?"
"Those things seem to be—" the doctor began hesitantly. "Damn it, I know it sounds crazy but they're rudimentary gills."
Barry accepted the outrageous statement unemotionally. He was beyond shock.
"But there must be—"
Pain struck again, so intense his body twisted and arched involuntarily. Then the prick of a needle brought merciful oblivion.
II
Barry's mind was working furiously. The changes the Sigma radiations had inflicted upon his body might reverse themselves spontaneously, Dr. Jensen had mentioned during a second visit—but for that to happen he must remain alive. That meant easing all possible strains.
When the doctor came in again Barry asked him to find Nick Podtiaguine. Within a few minutes the mechanic appeared.
"Cheez, it's good to see you, Barry," he began.
"Stuff it," the sick man interrupted. "I want favors. Can do?"
Nick nodded vigorously.
"First cut that air conditioner and get the window open."
Nick stared as though he were demented, but obeyed, unbolting the heavy plastic window panel and lifting it aside. He made a face at the damp, malodorous Venusian air but to Barry it brought relief.
It was not enough, but it indicated he was on the right track. And he was not an engineer for nothing.
"Got a pencil?" he asked.
He drew only a rough sketch, for Nick was far too competent to need detailed drawings.
"Think you can get materials?"
Nick glanced at the sketch. "Hell, man, for you I can get anything the Colony has. You saved Four and everybody knows it."
"Two days?"
Nick looked insulted.
He was back in eight hours, and with him came a dozen helpers. A power line and water tube were run through the metal partition to the corridor, connections were made, and the machine Barry had sketched was ready.
Nick flipped the switch. The thing whined shrilly. From a fanshaped nozzle came innumerable droplets of water, droplets of colloidal size that hung in the air and only slowly coalesced into larger drops that fell toward the metal floor.
Barry nodded, a smile beginning to spread across his drawn features.
"Perfect. Now put the window back."
Outside lay the unknown world of Venus, and an open, unguarded window might invite disaster.
A few hours later Dr. Jensen found his patient in a normal sleep. The room was warm and the air was so filled with water-mist it was almost liquid. Coalescing drops dripped from the walls and curving ceiling and furniture, from the half clad body of the sleeping man, and the scavenger pump made greedy gulping sounds as it removed excess water from the floor.
The doctor shook his head as he backed out, his clothes clinging wet from the short exposure.
It was abnormal.
But so was Barry Barr.
With breathing no longer a continuous agony Barry began to recover some of his strength. But for several days much of his time was spent in sleep and Dorothy Voorhees haunted his dreams.
Whenever he closed his eyes he could see her as clearly as though she were with him—her face with the exotic high cheek-bones—her eyes a deep gray in fascinating contrast to her raven hair—lips that seemed to promise more of giving than she had ever allowed herself to fulfil—her incongruously pert, humorous little nose that was a legacy from some venturesome Irishman—her slender yet firmly lithe body.
After a few days Dr. Jensen permitted him to have visitors. They came in a steady stream, the people from Four and men he had not seen since Training Base days, and although none could endure his semi-liquid atmosphere more than a few minutes at a time Barry enjoyed their visits.
But the person for whom he waited most anxiously did not arrive. At each knock Barry's heart would leap, and each time he settled back with a sigh of disappointment. Days passed and still Dorothy did not come to him. He could not go to her, and stubborn pride kept him from even inquiring. All the while he was aware of Robson Hind's presence in the Colony, and only weakness kept him from pacing his room like a caged animal.
Through his window he could see nothing but the gradual brightening and darkening of the enveloping fog as the slow 82-hour Venusian day progressed, but from his visitors' words he learned something of Venusian conditions and the story of the Colony.
Number One had bumbled in on visual, the pilot depending on the smeary images of infra-sight goggles. An inviting grassy plain had proved to be a layer of algae floating on quicksand. Frantically the crew had blasted down huge balsa-like marsh trees, cutting up the trunks with flame guns to make crude rafts. They had performed fantastic feats of strength and endurance but managed to salvage only half their equipment before the shining nose of One had vanished in the gurgling ooze.
Lost in a steaming, stinking marsh teeming with alien creatures that slithered and crawled and swam and flew, blinded by the eternal fog, the crew had proved the rightness of their choice as pioneers. For weeks they had floundered across the deadly terrain until at last, beside a stagnant-looking slough that drained sluggishly into a warm, almost tideless sea a mile away, they had discovered an outcropping of rock. It was the only solid ground they had encountered.
One man had died, his swamp suit pierced by a poisonous thorn, but the others had hand-hauled the radio beacon piece by piece and set it up in time to guide Two to a safe landing. Houses had been assembled, the secondary power units of the spaceship put to work, and the colony had established a tenuous foothold.
Three had landed beside Two a few months later, bringing reinforcements, but the day-by-day demands of the little colony's struggle for survival had so far been too pressing to permit extended or detailed explorations. Venus remained a planet of unsolved mysteries.
The helicopter brought out in Three had made several flights which by radar and sound reflection had placed vague outlines on the blank maps. The surface appeared to be half water, with land masses mainly jungle-covered swamp broken by a few rocky ledges, but landings away from base had been judged too hazardous.
Test borings from the ledge had located traces of oil and radioactive minerals, while enough Venusian plants had proven edible to provide an adequate though monotonous food source.
Venus was the diametric opposite of lifeless Mars. Through the fog gigantic insects hummed and buzzed like lost airplanes, but fortunately they were harmless and timid.
In the swamps wildly improbable life forms grew and reproduced and fought and died, and many of those most harmless in appearance possessed surprisingly venomous characteristics.
The jungle had been flamed away in a huge circle around the colony to minimize the chances of surprise by anything that might attack, but the blasting was an almost continuous process. The plants of Venus grew with a vigor approaching fury.
Most spectacular of the Venusian creatures were the amphibious armored monsters, saurian or semi-saurians with a slight resemblance to the brontosauri that had once lived on Earth, massive swamp-dwellers that used the slough beside the colony's ledge as a highway. They were apparently vegetarians, but thorough stupidity in tremendous bulk made them dangerous. One had damaged a building by blundering against it, and since then the colony had remained alert, using weapons to repel the beasts.
The most important question—that of the presence or absence of intelligent, civilized Venusians—remained unanswered. Some of the men reported a disquieting feeling of being watched, particularly when near open water, but others argued that any intelligent creatures would have established contact.
Barry developed definite external signs of what the Sigma radiation had done to him. The skin between his fingers and toes spread, grew into membranous webs. The swellings in his neck became more pronounced and dark parallel lines appeared.
But despite the doctor's pessimistic reports that the changes had not stopped, Barry continued to tell himself he was recovering. He had to believe and keep on believing to retain sanity in the face of the weird, unclassifiable feelings that surged through his body. Still he was subject to fits of almost suicidal depression, and Dorothy's failure to visit him did not help his mental condition.
Then one day he woke from a nap and thought he was still dreaming. Dorothy was leaning over him.
"Barry! Barry!" she whispered. "I can't help it. I love you even if you do have a wife and child in Philadelphia. I know it's wrong but all that seems so far away it doesn't matter any more." Tears glistened in her eyes.
"Huh?" he grunted. "Who? Me?"
"Please, Barry, don't lie. She wrote to me before Three blasted off—oh, the most piteous letter!"
Barry was fully awake now. "I'm not married. I have no child. I've never been in Philadelphia," he shouted. His lips thinned.
"I—think—I—know—who—wrote—that—letter!" he declared grimly.
"Robson wouldn't!" she objected, shocked, but there was a note of doubt in her voice.
Then she was in his arms, sobbing openly.
"I believe you, Barry."
She stayed with him for hours, and she had changed since the days at Training Base. Long months away from the patterned restraints of civilization, living each day on the edge of unknown perils, had awakened in her the realization that she was a human being and a woman, as well as a toxicologist.
When the water-mist finally forced her departure she left Barry joyous and confident of his eventual recovery. For a few minutes anger simmered in his brain as he contemplated the pleasure of rearranging Robson Hind's features.
The accident with the scaffold had been remarkably convenient, but this time the ruthless, restless, probably psychopathic drive that had made Robson Hind more than just another rich man's spoiled son had carried him too far. Barry wondered whether it had been inefficiency or judiciously distributed money that had made the psychometrists overlook some undesirable traits in Hind's personality in accepting him for the Five Ship Plan.
But even with his trickery Hind had lost.
He slept, and woke with a feeling of doom.
The slow Venusian twilight had ended in blackness and the overhead tubelight was off.
He sat up, and apprehension gave way to burning torture in his chest.
Silence! He fumbled for the light switch, then knelt beside the mist machine that no longer hummed. Power and water supplies were both dead, cut off outside his room.
Floating droplets were merging and falling to the floor. Soon the air would be dry, and he would be choking and strangling. He turned to call for help.
The door was locked!
He tugged and the knob came away in his hand. The retaining screw had been removed.
He beat upon the panel, first with his fists and then with the metal doorknob, but the insulation between the double alloy sheets was efficient soundproofing. Furiously he hurled himself upon it, only to bounce back with a bruised shoulder. He was trapped.
Working against time and eventual death he snatched a metal chair and swung with all his force at the window, again, again, yet again. A small crack appeared in the transparent plastic, branched under continued hammering, became a rough star. He gathered his waning strength, then swung once more. The tough plastic shattered.
He tugged at the jagged pieces still clinging to the frame. Fog-laden Venusian air poured in—but it was not enough!
He dragged himself head first through the narrow opening, landed sprawling on hands and knees in the darkness. In his ears a confused rustling drone from the alien swamp mingled with the roar of approaching unconsciousness.
There was a smell in his nostrils. The smell of water. He lurched forward at a shambling run, stumbling over the uneven ground.
Then he plunged from the rocky ledge into the slough. Flashes of colored light flickered before his eyes as he went under. But Earth habits were still strong; instinctively he held his breath.
Then he fainted. Voluntary control of his body vanished. His mouth hung slack and the breathing reflex that had been an integral part of his life since the moment of birth forced him to inhale.
Bubbles floated upward and burst. Then Barry Barr was lying in the ooze of the bottom. And he was breathing, extracting vital oxygen from the brackish, silt-clouded water.
III
Slowly his racing heartbeat returned to normal. Gradually he became aware of the stench of decaying plants and of musky taints he knew instinctively were the scents of underwater animals. Then with a shock the meaning became clear. He had become a water-breather, cut off from all other Earthmen, no longer entirely human. His fellows in the colony were separated from him now by a gulf more absolute than the airless void between Earth and Venus.
Something slippery and alive touched him near one armpit. He opened his eyes in the black water and his groping hand clutched something burrowing into his skin. With a shudder of revulsion he crushed a fat worm between his fingers.
Then dozens of them—hundreds—were upon him from all sides. He was wearing only a pair of khaki pants but the worms ignored his chest to congregate around his face, intent on attacking the tender skin of his eyelids.
For a minute his flailing hands fought them off, but they came in increasing numbers and clung like leeches. Pain spread as they bit and burrowed, and blindly he began to swim.
Faster and faster. He could sense the winding banks of the slough and kept to midchannel, swimming with his eyes tightly closed. One by one the worms dropped off.
He stopped, opened his eyes, not on complete darkness this time but on a faint blue-green luminescence from far below. The water was saltier here, and clearer.
He had swum down the slough and out into the ocean. He tried to turn back, obsessed by a desire to be near the colony even though he could not go ashore without strangling, but he had lost all sense of direction.
He was still weak and his lungs were not completely adjusted to underwater life. Again he grew dizzy and faint. The slow movements of hands and feet that held him just below the surface grew feeble and ceased. He sank.
Down into dimly luminous water he dropped, and with his respiratory system completely water-filled there was no sensation of pressure. At last he floated gently to the bottom and lay motionless.
Shouting voices awakened him, an exultant battle cry cutting through a gasping scream of anguish. Streaks of bright orange light were moving toward him in a twisting pattern. At the head of each trail was a figure. A human figure that weaved and swam in deadly moving combat. One figure drifted limply bottomward.
Hallucination, Barry told himself. Then one of the figures broke from the group. Almost overhead it turned sharply downward and the feet moved in a powerful flutter-kick. A slender spear aimed directly at the Earthman.
Barry threw himself aside. The spear point plunged deep into the sticky, yielding bottom and Barry grappled with its wielder.
Pointed fingernails raked his cheek. Barry's balled fist swung in a roundhouse blow but water resistance slowed the punch to ineffectiveness. The creature only shook its head and came in kicking and clawing.
Barry braced his feet against the bottom and leaped. His head butted the attacker's chest and at the same instant he lashed a short jab to the creature's belly. It slumped momentarily, its face working.
Human—or nearly so—the thing was, with a stocky, powerful body and webbed hands and feet. A few scraps of clothing, seemingly worn more for ornament than covering, clung to the fishbelly-white skin. The face was coarse and savage.
It shook off the effects of Barry's punch and one webbed hand snatched a short tube from its belt.
Barry remembered the spring-opening knife in his pocket, and even as he flicked the blade out the tube-weapon fired. Sound thrummed in the water and the water grew milky with a myriad of bubbles. Something zipped past his head, uncomfortably close.
Then Barry struck, felt his knife slice flesh and grate against bone. He struck again even as the undersea being screamed and went limp.
Barry stared through the reddening water.
Another figure plunged toward him. Barry jerked the dead Venusian's spear from the mud and raised it defensively.
But the figure paid no attention. This one was a female who fled desperately from two men closing in from opposite sides. One threw his spear, using an odd pushing motion, and as she checked and dodged, the other was upon her from behind.
One arm went around her neck in a strangler's hold, bending her slender body backward. Together captor and struggling captive sank toward the bottom. The other recovered his thrown spear and moved in to help secure her arms and legs with lengths of cord.
One scooped up the crossbow the girl had dropped. The other ripped at her brief skirt and from her belt took a pair of tubes like the one the dead Venusian had fired at Barry, handling them as though they were loot of the greatest value. He jerked cruelly at the slender metallic necklace the girl wore but it did not break.
He punched the helpless girl in the abdomen with the butt of his spear. The girl writhed but she did not attempt to cry out.
Barry bounded toward them in a series of soaring leaps, knife and spear ready. One Venusian turned to meet him, grinning maliciously.
Barry dug one foot into the bottom and sidestepped a spear thrust. His own lunge missed completely. Then he and the Venusian were inside each other's spear points, chest to chest. A pointed hook strapped to the inside of the creature's wrist just missed Barry's throat. The Earthman arched his body backward and his knife flashed upward. The creature gasped and pulled away, clutching with both hands at a gaping wound in its belly.
The other one turned too late as Barry leaped.
Barry's hilt cracked against its jawbone.
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Why is John Smith interested in holes?
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After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about The Holes and John Smith by Edward W. Ludwig.
Relevant chunks:
He was something out of a nightmare but his music was straight from heaven. He was a ragged little man out of a hole but he was money in the bank to Stanley's four-piece combo. He was —whoops!...
The Holes and John Smith
By Edward W. Ludwig
Illustration by Kelly Freas
It all began on a Saturday night at The Space Room . If you've seen any recent Martian travel folders, you know the place:
"A picturesque oasis of old Martian charm, situated on the beauteous Grand Canal in the heart of Marsport. Only half a mile from historic Chandler Field, landing site of the first Martian expedition nearly fifty years ago in 1990. A visitor to the hotel, lunch room or cocktail lounge will thrill at the sight of hardy space pioneers mingling side by side with colorful Martian tribesmen. An evening at The Space Room is an amazing, unforgettable experience."
Of course, the folders neglect to add that the most amazing aspect is the scent of the Canal's stagnant water—and that the most unforgettable experience is seeing the "root-of-all-evil" evaporate from your pocketbook like snow from the Great Red Desert.
We were sitting on the bandstand of the candle-lit cocktail lounge. Me—Jimmie Stanley—and my four-piece combo. Maybe you've seen our motto back on Earth:
"The Hottest Music This Side of Mercury."
But there weren't four of us tonight. Only three. Ziggy, our bass fiddle man, had nearly sliced off two fingers while opening a can of Saturnian ice-fish, thus decreasing the number of our personnel by a tragic twenty-five per cent.
Which was why Ke-teeli, our boss, was descending upon us with all the grace of an enraged Venusian vinosaur.
"Where ees museek?" he shrilled in his nasal tenor. He was almost skeleton thin, like most Martians, and so tall that if he fell down he'd be half way home.
I gulped. "Our bass man can't be here, but we've called the Marsport local for another. He'll be here any minute."
Ke-teeli, sometimes referred to as Goon-Face and The Eye, leered coldly down at me from his eight-foot-three. His eyes were like black needle points set deep in a mask of dry, ancient, reddish leather.
"Ees no feedle man, ees no job," he squeaked.
I sighed. This was the week our contract ended. Goon-Face had displayed little enough enthusiasm for our music as it was. His comments were either, "Ees too loud, too fast," or "Ees too slow, too soft." The real cause of his concern being, I suspected, the infrequency with which his cash register tinkled.
"But," I added, "even if the new man doesn't come, we're still here. We'll play for you." I glanced at the conglomeration of uniformed spacemen, white-suited tourists, and loin-clothed natives who sat at ancient stone tables. "You wouldn't want to disappoint your customers, would you?"
Ke-teeli snorted. "Maybe ees better dey be deesappointed. Ees better no museek den bad museek."
Fat Boy, our clarinetist who doubles on Martian horn-harp, made a feeble attempt at optimism. "Don't worry, Mr. Ke-teeli. That new bass man will be here."
"Sure," said Hammer-Head, our red-haired vibro-drummer. "I think I hear him coming now."
Suspiciously, Ke-teeli eyed the entrance. There was only silence. His naked, parchment-like chest swelled as if it were an expanding balloon.
"Five meenutes!" he shrieked.
"Eef no feedle, den you go!" And he whirled away.
We waited.
Fat Boy's two hundred and eighty-odd pounds were drooped over his chair like the blubber of an exhausted, beach-stranded whale.
"Well," he muttered, "there's always the uranium pits of Neptune. Course, you don't live more than five years there—"
"Maybe we could make it back to Lunar City," suggested Hammer-Head.
"Using what for fare?" I asked.
"Your brains?"
Hammer-Head groaned. "No. I guess it'll have to be the black pits of Neptune. The home of washed-up interplanetary musicians. It's too bad. We're so young, too."
The seconds swept by. Ke-teeli was casting his razor-edged glare in our direction. I brushed the chewed finger nails from the keyboard of my electronic piano.
Then it happened.
From the entrance of The Space Room came a thumping and a grating and a banging. Suddenly, sweeping across the dance floor like a cold wind, was a bass fiddle, an enormous black monstrosity, a refugee from a pawnbroker's attic. It was queerly shaped. It was too tall, too wide. It was more like a monstrous, midnight-black hour-glass than a bass.
The fiddle was not unaccompanied as I'd first imagined. Behind it, streaking over the floor in a waltz of agony, was a little guy, an animated matchstick with a flat, broad face that seemed to have been compressed in a vice. His sandcolored mop of hair reminded me of a field of dry grass, the long strands forming loops that flanked the sides of his face.
His pale blue eyes were watery, like twin pools of fog. His tightfitting suit, as black as the bass, was something off a park bench. It was impossible to guess his age. He could have been anywhere between twenty and forty.
The bass thumped down upon the bandstand.
"Hello," he puffed. "I'm John Smith, from the Marsport union." He spoke shrilly and rapidly, as if anxious to conclude the routine of introductions. "I'm sorry I'm late, but I was working on my plan."
A moment's silence.
"Your plan?" I echoed at last.
"How to get back home," he snapped as if I should have known it already.
Hummm, I thought.
My gaze turned to the dance floor. Goon-Face had his eyes on us, and they were as cold as six Indians going South.
"We'll talk about your plan at intermission," I said, shivering.
"Now, we'd better start playing. John, do you know On An Asteroid With You ?"
"I know everything ," said John Smith.
I turned to my piano with a shudder. I didn't dare look at that horrible fiddle again. I didn't dare think what kind of soul-chilling tones might emerge from its ancient depths.
And I didn't dare look again at the second monstrosity, the one named John Smith. I closed my eyes and plunged into a four-bar intro.
Hammer-Head joined in on vibro-drums and Fat Boy on clarinet, and then—
My eyes burst open. A shiver coursed down my spine like gigantic mice feet.
The tones that surged from that monstrous bass were ecstatic. They were out of a jazzman's Heaven. They were great rolling clouds that seemed to envelop the entire universe with their vibrance. They held a depth and a volume and a richness that were astounding, that were like no others I'd ever heard.
First they went Boom-de-boom-de-boom-de-boom , and then, boom-de-de-boom-de-de-boom-de-de-boom , just like the tones of all bass fiddles.
But there was something else, too. There were overtones, so that John wasn't just playing a single note, but a whole chord with each beat. And the fullness, the depth of those incredible chords actually set my blood tingling. I could feel the tingling just as one can feel the vibration of a plucked guitar string.
I glanced at the cash customers. They looked like weary warriors getting their first glimpse of Valhalla. Gap-jawed and wide-eyed, they seemed in a kind of ecstatic hypnosis. Even the silent, bland-faced Martians stopped sipping their wine-syrup and nodded their dark heads in time with the rhythm.
I looked at The Eye. The transformation of his gaunt features was miraculous. Shadows of gloom dissolved and were replaced by a black-toothed, crescent-shaped smile of delight. His eyes shone like those of a kid seeing Santa Claus.
We finished On An Asteroid With You , modulated into Sweet Sally from Saturn and finished with Tighten Your Lips on Titan .
We waited for the applause of the Earth people and the shrilling of the Martians to die down. Then I turned to John and his fiddle.
"If I didn't hear it," I gasped,
"I wouldn't believe it!"
"And the fiddle's so old, too!" added Hammer-Head who, although sober, seemed quite drunk.
"Old?" said John Smith. "Of course it's old. It's over five thousand years old. I was lucky to find it in a pawnshop. Only it's not a fiddle but a Zloomph . This is the only one in existence." He patted the thing tenderly. "I tried the hole in it but it isn't the right one."
I wondered what the hell he was talking about. I studied the black, mirror-like wood. The aperture in the vesonator was like that of any bass fiddle.
"Isn't right for what?" I had to ask.
He turned his sad eyes to me.
"For going home," he said.
Hummm, I thought.
We played. Tune after tune. John knew them all, from the latest pop melodies to a swing version of the classic Rhapsody of The Stars . He was a quiet guy during the next couple of hours, and getting more than a few words from him seemed as hard as extracting a tooth. He'd stand by his fiddle—I mean, his Zloomph —with a dreamy expression in those watery eyes, staring at nothing.
But after one number he studied Fat Boy's clarinet for a moment.
"Nice clarinet," he mused. "Has an unusual hole in the front."
Fat Boy scratched the back of his head. "You—you mean here? Where the music comes out?"
John Smith nodded. "Unusual."
Hummm, I thought again.
Awhile later I caught him eyeing my piano keyboard. "What's the matter, John?"
He pointed.
"Oh, there," I said. "A cigarette fell out of my ashtray, burnt a hole in the key. If The Eye sees it, he'll swear at me in seven languages."
"Even there," he said softly,
"even there...."
There was no doubt about it. John Smith was peculiar, but he was the best bass man this side of a musician's Nirvana.
It didn't take a genius to figure out our situation. Item one: Goon-Face's countenance had evidenced an excellent imitation of Mephistopheles before John began to play. Item two: Goon-Face had beamed like a kitten with a quart of cream after John began to play.
Conclusion: If we wanted to keep eating, we'd have to persuade John Smith to join our combo.
At intermission I said, "How about a drink, John? Maybe a shot of wine-syrup?"
He shook his head.
"Then maybe a Venusian fizz?"
His grunt was negative.
"Then some old-fashioned beer?"
He smiled. "Yes, I like beer."
I escorted him to the bar and assisted him in his arduous climb onto a stool.
"John," I ventured after he'd taken an experimental sip, "where have you been hiding? A guy like you should be playing every night."
John yawned. "Just got here. Figured I might need some money so I went to the union. Then I worked on my plan."
"Then you need a job. How about playing with us steady? We like your style a lot."
He made a long, low humming sound which I interpreted as an expression of intense concentration.
"I don't know," he finally drawled.
"It'd be a steady job, John." Inspiration struck me. "And listen, I have an apartment. It's got everything, solar shower, automatic chef,
'copter landing—if we ever get a
'copter. Plenty of room there for two people. You can stay with me and it won't cost you a cent. And we'll even pay you over union wages."
His watery gaze wandered lazily to the bar mirror, down to the glittering array of bottles and then out to the dance floor.
He yawned again and spoke slowly, as if each word were a leaden weight cast reluctantly from his tongue:
"No, I don't ... care much ... about playing."
"What do you like to do, John?"
His string-bean of a body stiffened.
"I like to study ancient history ... and I must work on my plan."
Oh Lord, that plan again!
I took a deep breath. "Tell me about it, John. It must be interesting."
He made queer clicking noises with his mouth that reminded me of a mechanical toy being wound into motion. "The whole foundation of this or any other culture is based on the history of all the time dimensions, each interwoven with the other, throughout the ages. And the holes provide a means of studying all of it first hand."
Oh, oh , I thought. But you still have to eat. Remember, you still have to eat.
"Trouble is," he went on, "there are so many holes in this universe."
"Holes?" I kept a straight face.
"Certainly. Look around you. All you see is holes. These beer bottles are just holes surrounded by glass. The doors and windows—they're holes in walls. The mine tunnels make a network of holes under the desert. Caves are holes, animals live in holes, our faces have holes, clothes have holes—millions and millions of holes!"
I winced and thought, humor him because you gotta eat, you gotta eat.
His voice trembled with emotion.
"Why, they're everywhere. They're in pots and pans, in pipes, in rocket jets, in bumpy roads. There are buttonholes and well holes, and shoelace holes. There are doughnut holes and stocking holes and woodpecker holes and cheese holes. Oceans lie in holes in the earth, and rivers and canals and valleys. The craters of the Moon are holes. Everything is—"
"But, John," I said as patiently as possible, "what have these holes got to do with you?"
He glowered at me as if I were unworthy of such a confidence.
"What have they to do with me?" he shrilled. "I can't find the right one—that's what!"
I closed my eyes. "Which particular hole are you looking for, John?"
He was speaking rapidly again now.
"I was hurrying back to the University with the Zloomph to prove a point of ancient history to those fools. They don't believe that instruments which make music actually existed before the tapes! It was dark—and some fool researcher had forgotten to set a force-field over the hole—I fell through."
I closed my eyes. "Now wait a minute. Did you drop something, lose it in the hole—is that why you have to find it?"
"Oh I didn't lose anything important," he snapped, " just my own time dimension. And if I don't get back they will think I couldn't prove my theory, that I'm ashamed to come back, and I'll be discredited."
His chest sagged for an instant. Then he straightened. "But there's still time for my plan to work out—with the relative difference taken into account. Only I get so tired just thinking about it."
"Yes, I can see where thinking about it would tire any one."
He nodded. "But it can't be too far away."
"I'd like to hear more about it," I said. "But if you're not going to play with us—"
"Oh, I'll play with you," he beamed. "I can talk to you . You understand."
Thank heaven!
Heaven lasted for just three days. During those seventy-two golden hours the melodious tinkling of The Eye's cash register was as constant as that of Santa's sleigh bells.
John became the hero of tourists, spacemen, and Martians, but nevertheless he remained stubbornly aloof. He was quiet, moody, playing his Zloomph automatically. He'd reveal definite indications of belonging to Homo Sapiens only when drinking beer and talking about his holes.
Goon-Face was still cautious.
"Contract?" he wheezed. "Maybe. We see. Eef feedleman stay, we have contract. He stay, yes?"
"Oh, sure," I said. "He'll stay—just as long as you want him."
"Den he sign contract, too. No beeg feedle, no contract."
"Sure. We'll get him to sign it." I laughed hollowly. "Don't worry, Mr. Ke-teeli."
Just a few minutes later tragedy struck.
A reporter from the Marsport Times ambled into interview the Man of The Hour. The interview, unfortunately, was conducted over the bar and accompanied by a generous guzzling of beer. Fat Boy, Hammer-Head and I watched from a table. Knowing John as we did, a silent prayer was in our eyes.
"This is the first time he's talked to anybody," Fat Boy breathed.
"I—I'm scared.
"Nothing can happen," I said, optimistically. "This'll be good publicity."
We watched.
John murmured something. The reporter, a paunchy, balding man, scribbled furiously in his notebook.
John yawned, muttered something else. The reporter continued to scribble.
John sipped beer. His eyes brightened, and he began to talk more rapidly.
The reporter frowned, stopped writing, and studied John curiously.
John finished his first beer, started on his second. His eyes were wild, and he was talking more and more rapidly.
"He's doing it," Hammer-Head groaned. "He's telling him!"
I rose swiftly. "We better get over there. We should have known better—"
We were too late. The reporter had already slapped on his hat and was striding to the exit. John turned to us, dazed, his enthusiasm vanishing like air from a punctured balloon.
"He wouldn't listen," he said, weakly. "I tried to tell him, but he said he'd come back when I'm sober. I'm sober now. So I quit. I've got to find my hole."
I patted him on the back. "No, John, we'll help you. Don't quit. We'll—well, we'll help you."
"We're working on a plan, too," said Fat Boy in a burst of inspiration.
"We're going to make a more scientific approach."
"How?" John asked.
Fat Boy gulped.
"Just wait another day," I said.
"We'll have it worked out. Just be patient another day. You can't leave now, not after all your work."
"No, I guess not," he sighed. "I'll stay—until tomorrow."
All night the thought crept through my brain like a teasing spider: What can we do to make him stay? What can we tell him? What, what, what?
Unable to sleep the next morning, I left John to his snoring and went for an aspirin and black coffee. All the possible schemes were drumming through my mind: finding an Earth blonde to capture John's interest, having him electro-hypnotized, breaking his leg, forging a letter from this mythical university telling him his theory was proved valid and for him to take a nice long vacation now. He was a screwball about holes and force fields and dimensional worlds but for that music of his I'd baby him the rest of his life.
It was early afternoon when I trudged back to my apartment.
John was squatting on the living room floor, surrounded by a forest of empty beer bottles. His eyes were bulging, his hair was even wilder than usual, and he was swaying.
"John!" I cried. "You're drunk!"
His watery eyes squinted at me.
"No, not drunk. Just scared. I'm awful scared!"
"But you mustn't be scared. That reporter was just stupid. We'll help you with your theory."
His body trembled. "No, it isn't that. It isn't the reporter."
"Then what is it, John?"
"It's my body. It's—"
"Yes, what about your body? Are you sick?"
His face was white with terror.
"No, my— my body's full of holes . Suppose it's one of those holes! How will I get back if it is?"
He rose and staggered to his Zloomph , clutching it as though it were somehow a source of strength and consolation.
I patted him gingerly on the arm.
"Now John. You've just had too much beer, that's all. Let's go out and get some air and some strong black coffee. C'mon now."
We staggered out into the morning darkness, the three of us. John, the Zloomph , and I.
I was hanging on to him trying to see around and over and even under the Zloomph —steering by a sort of radar-like sixth sense. The street lights on Marsport are pretty dim compared to Earthside. I didn't see the open manhole that the workmen had figured would be all right at that time of night. It gets pretty damned cold around 4: A.M. of a Martian morning, and I guess the men were warming up with a little nip at the bar across the street.
Then—he was gone.
John just slipped out of my grasp— Zloomph and all—and was gone—completely and irrevocably gone. I even risked a broken neck and jumped in the manhole after him. Nothing—nothing but the smell of ozone and an echo bouncing crazily off the walls of the conduit.
"—is it.—is it.—is it.—is it."
John Smith was gone, so utterly and completely and tragically gone it was as if he'd never existed....
Tonight is our last night at The Space Room . Goon-Face is scowling again with the icy fury of a Plutonian monsoon. As Goon-Face has said, "No beeg feedle, no contract."
Without John, we're notes in a lost chord.
We've searched everything, in hospitals, morgues, jails, night clubs, hotels. We've hounded spaceports and 'copter terminals. Nowhere, nowhere is John Smith.
Ziggy, whose two fingers have healed, has already bowed to what seems inevitable. He's signed up for that trip to Neptune's uranium pits. There's plenty of room for more volunteers, he tells us. But I spend my time cussing the guy who forgot to set the force field at the other end of the hole and let John and his Zloomph back into his own time dimension. I cuss harder when I think how we were robbed of the best bass player in the galaxy.
And without a corpus delecti we can't even sue the city.
... THE END
Question:
Why is John Smith interested in holes?
Answer:
|
[
"John Smith is interested in holes because he wants to go back to his own time dimension. He explains to Jimmie that his colleagues did not believe that before the tapes, instruments that played music existed. He further details that on his way back to the University with his instrument, the Zloomph, he fell through a hole and out of his own time dimension. He states that a researcher is to blame for not securing a force field over the hole to prevent someone from falling through. John Smith is interested in holes because he believes that any hole could potentially bring him back to his own time dimension so that he can prove that this theory was credit. He does not want people to think that he was wrong. ",
"He is interested in the holes because he needs to find the correct one in order to go home. He mentions that the foundation of their cultures is based on the history of all the time dimensions. The different dimensions are interwoven and the holes can provide insights into the different dimensions. Similar to time or space travel. Back in his time, he was proving a point to the University, but some researcher forgot to set a force-field for the hole, thus, he fell through the hole into Jimmie’s time. He needs to go back immediately. If he doesn’t, the University will think that he cannot prove his theory and ran away. But because everything are made up of holes – even his body has holes – John becomes worried of not able to find the correct one. ",
"John Smith desperately wants to return home and believes that finding the right hole is the way. There are many time dimensions interwoven through the ages and the holes let people travel between and study them. Such a hole may be anything, so it's almost impossible to find the inter-dimensional one. John fell into one in the dark in his dimension, that way he showed up in this place, but he wants to return, so he studies every hole. The fall prevented John from proving his point about ancient history to some scientists and he doesn't want them to consider him a coward. He needs to return to his dimension and prove the point. ",
"John Smith is interested in holes because he believes that he can return to his time dimension through the right one. During his conversation with Jimmie, he explains that holes are a first-hand method of studying time dimensions and cultures. All of the objects around them, including the beer bottles, doors, caves, animal holes, mines, faces, and clothes, all have millions of holes. However, even with all of these holes, John is desperate because he cannot find the right one to return home. He blames his initial travel on some fool of a researcher who forgot to set a force-fold over the hole that he fell through in his dimension. "
] |
32667
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He was something out of a nightmare but his music was straight from heaven. He was a ragged little man out of a hole but he was money in the bank to Stanley's four-piece combo. He was —whoops!...
The Holes and John Smith
By Edward W. Ludwig
Illustration by Kelly Freas
It all began on a Saturday night at The Space Room . If you've seen any recent Martian travel folders, you know the place:
"A picturesque oasis of old Martian charm, situated on the beauteous Grand Canal in the heart of Marsport. Only half a mile from historic Chandler Field, landing site of the first Martian expedition nearly fifty years ago in 1990. A visitor to the hotel, lunch room or cocktail lounge will thrill at the sight of hardy space pioneers mingling side by side with colorful Martian tribesmen. An evening at The Space Room is an amazing, unforgettable experience."
Of course, the folders neglect to add that the most amazing aspect is the scent of the Canal's stagnant water—and that the most unforgettable experience is seeing the "root-of-all-evil" evaporate from your pocketbook like snow from the Great Red Desert.
We were sitting on the bandstand of the candle-lit cocktail lounge. Me—Jimmie Stanley—and my four-piece combo. Maybe you've seen our motto back on Earth:
"The Hottest Music This Side of Mercury."
But there weren't four of us tonight. Only three. Ziggy, our bass fiddle man, had nearly sliced off two fingers while opening a can of Saturnian ice-fish, thus decreasing the number of our personnel by a tragic twenty-five per cent.
Which was why Ke-teeli, our boss, was descending upon us with all the grace of an enraged Venusian vinosaur.
"Where ees museek?" he shrilled in his nasal tenor. He was almost skeleton thin, like most Martians, and so tall that if he fell down he'd be half way home.
I gulped. "Our bass man can't be here, but we've called the Marsport local for another. He'll be here any minute."
Ke-teeli, sometimes referred to as Goon-Face and The Eye, leered coldly down at me from his eight-foot-three. His eyes were like black needle points set deep in a mask of dry, ancient, reddish leather.
"Ees no feedle man, ees no job," he squeaked.
I sighed. This was the week our contract ended. Goon-Face had displayed little enough enthusiasm for our music as it was. His comments were either, "Ees too loud, too fast," or "Ees too slow, too soft." The real cause of his concern being, I suspected, the infrequency with which his cash register tinkled.
"But," I added, "even if the new man doesn't come, we're still here. We'll play for you." I glanced at the conglomeration of uniformed spacemen, white-suited tourists, and loin-clothed natives who sat at ancient stone tables. "You wouldn't want to disappoint your customers, would you?"
Ke-teeli snorted. "Maybe ees better dey be deesappointed. Ees better no museek den bad museek."
Fat Boy, our clarinetist who doubles on Martian horn-harp, made a feeble attempt at optimism. "Don't worry, Mr. Ke-teeli. That new bass man will be here."
"Sure," said Hammer-Head, our red-haired vibro-drummer. "I think I hear him coming now."
Suspiciously, Ke-teeli eyed the entrance. There was only silence. His naked, parchment-like chest swelled as if it were an expanding balloon.
"Five meenutes!" he shrieked.
"Eef no feedle, den you go!" And he whirled away.
We waited.
Fat Boy's two hundred and eighty-odd pounds were drooped over his chair like the blubber of an exhausted, beach-stranded whale.
"Well," he muttered, "there's always the uranium pits of Neptune. Course, you don't live more than five years there—"
"Maybe we could make it back to Lunar City," suggested Hammer-Head.
"Using what for fare?" I asked.
"Your brains?"
Hammer-Head groaned. "No. I guess it'll have to be the black pits of Neptune. The home of washed-up interplanetary musicians. It's too bad. We're so young, too."
The seconds swept by. Ke-teeli was casting his razor-edged glare in our direction. I brushed the chewed finger nails from the keyboard of my electronic piano.
Then it happened.
From the entrance of The Space Room came a thumping and a grating and a banging. Suddenly, sweeping across the dance floor like a cold wind, was a bass fiddle, an enormous black monstrosity, a refugee from a pawnbroker's attic. It was queerly shaped. It was too tall, too wide. It was more like a monstrous, midnight-black hour-glass than a bass.
The fiddle was not unaccompanied as I'd first imagined. Behind it, streaking over the floor in a waltz of agony, was a little guy, an animated matchstick with a flat, broad face that seemed to have been compressed in a vice. His sandcolored mop of hair reminded me of a field of dry grass, the long strands forming loops that flanked the sides of his face.
His pale blue eyes were watery, like twin pools of fog. His tightfitting suit, as black as the bass, was something off a park bench. It was impossible to guess his age. He could have been anywhere between twenty and forty.
The bass thumped down upon the bandstand.
"Hello," he puffed. "I'm John Smith, from the Marsport union." He spoke shrilly and rapidly, as if anxious to conclude the routine of introductions. "I'm sorry I'm late, but I was working on my plan."
A moment's silence.
"Your plan?" I echoed at last.
"How to get back home," he snapped as if I should have known it already.
Hummm, I thought.
My gaze turned to the dance floor. Goon-Face had his eyes on us, and they were as cold as six Indians going South.
"We'll talk about your plan at intermission," I said, shivering.
"Now, we'd better start playing. John, do you know On An Asteroid With You ?"
"I know everything ," said John Smith.
I turned to my piano with a shudder. I didn't dare look at that horrible fiddle again. I didn't dare think what kind of soul-chilling tones might emerge from its ancient depths.
And I didn't dare look again at the second monstrosity, the one named John Smith. I closed my eyes and plunged into a four-bar intro.
Hammer-Head joined in on vibro-drums and Fat Boy on clarinet, and then—
My eyes burst open. A shiver coursed down my spine like gigantic mice feet.
The tones that surged from that monstrous bass were ecstatic. They were out of a jazzman's Heaven. They were great rolling clouds that seemed to envelop the entire universe with their vibrance. They held a depth and a volume and a richness that were astounding, that were like no others I'd ever heard.
First they went Boom-de-boom-de-boom-de-boom , and then, boom-de-de-boom-de-de-boom-de-de-boom , just like the tones of all bass fiddles.
But there was something else, too. There were overtones, so that John wasn't just playing a single note, but a whole chord with each beat. And the fullness, the depth of those incredible chords actually set my blood tingling. I could feel the tingling just as one can feel the vibration of a plucked guitar string.
I glanced at the cash customers. They looked like weary warriors getting their first glimpse of Valhalla. Gap-jawed and wide-eyed, they seemed in a kind of ecstatic hypnosis. Even the silent, bland-faced Martians stopped sipping their wine-syrup and nodded their dark heads in time with the rhythm.
I looked at The Eye. The transformation of his gaunt features was miraculous. Shadows of gloom dissolved and were replaced by a black-toothed, crescent-shaped smile of delight. His eyes shone like those of a kid seeing Santa Claus.
We finished On An Asteroid With You , modulated into Sweet Sally from Saturn and finished with Tighten Your Lips on Titan .
We waited for the applause of the Earth people and the shrilling of the Martians to die down. Then I turned to John and his fiddle.
"If I didn't hear it," I gasped,
"I wouldn't believe it!"
"And the fiddle's so old, too!" added Hammer-Head who, although sober, seemed quite drunk.
"Old?" said John Smith. "Of course it's old. It's over five thousand years old. I was lucky to find it in a pawnshop. Only it's not a fiddle but a Zloomph . This is the only one in existence." He patted the thing tenderly. "I tried the hole in it but it isn't the right one."
I wondered what the hell he was talking about. I studied the black, mirror-like wood. The aperture in the vesonator was like that of any bass fiddle.
"Isn't right for what?" I had to ask.
He turned his sad eyes to me.
"For going home," he said.
Hummm, I thought.
We played. Tune after tune. John knew them all, from the latest pop melodies to a swing version of the classic Rhapsody of The Stars . He was a quiet guy during the next couple of hours, and getting more than a few words from him seemed as hard as extracting a tooth. He'd stand by his fiddle—I mean, his Zloomph —with a dreamy expression in those watery eyes, staring at nothing.
But after one number he studied Fat Boy's clarinet for a moment.
"Nice clarinet," he mused. "Has an unusual hole in the front."
Fat Boy scratched the back of his head. "You—you mean here? Where the music comes out?"
John Smith nodded. "Unusual."
Hummm, I thought again.
Awhile later I caught him eyeing my piano keyboard. "What's the matter, John?"
He pointed.
"Oh, there," I said. "A cigarette fell out of my ashtray, burnt a hole in the key. If The Eye sees it, he'll swear at me in seven languages."
"Even there," he said softly,
"even there...."
There was no doubt about it. John Smith was peculiar, but he was the best bass man this side of a musician's Nirvana.
It didn't take a genius to figure out our situation. Item one: Goon-Face's countenance had evidenced an excellent imitation of Mephistopheles before John began to play. Item two: Goon-Face had beamed like a kitten with a quart of cream after John began to play.
Conclusion: If we wanted to keep eating, we'd have to persuade John Smith to join our combo.
At intermission I said, "How about a drink, John? Maybe a shot of wine-syrup?"
He shook his head.
"Then maybe a Venusian fizz?"
His grunt was negative.
"Then some old-fashioned beer?"
He smiled. "Yes, I like beer."
I escorted him to the bar and assisted him in his arduous climb onto a stool.
"John," I ventured after he'd taken an experimental sip, "where have you been hiding? A guy like you should be playing every night."
John yawned. "Just got here. Figured I might need some money so I went to the union. Then I worked on my plan."
"Then you need a job. How about playing with us steady? We like your style a lot."
He made a long, low humming sound which I interpreted as an expression of intense concentration.
"I don't know," he finally drawled.
"It'd be a steady job, John." Inspiration struck me. "And listen, I have an apartment. It's got everything, solar shower, automatic chef,
'copter landing—if we ever get a
'copter. Plenty of room there for two people. You can stay with me and it won't cost you a cent. And we'll even pay you over union wages."
His watery gaze wandered lazily to the bar mirror, down to the glittering array of bottles and then out to the dance floor.
He yawned again and spoke slowly, as if each word were a leaden weight cast reluctantly from his tongue:
"No, I don't ... care much ... about playing."
"What do you like to do, John?"
His string-bean of a body stiffened.
"I like to study ancient history ... and I must work on my plan."
Oh Lord, that plan again!
I took a deep breath. "Tell me about it, John. It must be interesting."
He made queer clicking noises with his mouth that reminded me of a mechanical toy being wound into motion. "The whole foundation of this or any other culture is based on the history of all the time dimensions, each interwoven with the other, throughout the ages. And the holes provide a means of studying all of it first hand."
Oh, oh , I thought. But you still have to eat. Remember, you still have to eat.
"Trouble is," he went on, "there are so many holes in this universe."
"Holes?" I kept a straight face.
"Certainly. Look around you. All you see is holes. These beer bottles are just holes surrounded by glass. The doors and windows—they're holes in walls. The mine tunnels make a network of holes under the desert. Caves are holes, animals live in holes, our faces have holes, clothes have holes—millions and millions of holes!"
I winced and thought, humor him because you gotta eat, you gotta eat.
His voice trembled with emotion.
"Why, they're everywhere. They're in pots and pans, in pipes, in rocket jets, in bumpy roads. There are buttonholes and well holes, and shoelace holes. There are doughnut holes and stocking holes and woodpecker holes and cheese holes. Oceans lie in holes in the earth, and rivers and canals and valleys. The craters of the Moon are holes. Everything is—"
"But, John," I said as patiently as possible, "what have these holes got to do with you?"
He glowered at me as if I were unworthy of such a confidence.
"What have they to do with me?" he shrilled. "I can't find the right one—that's what!"
I closed my eyes. "Which particular hole are you looking for, John?"
He was speaking rapidly again now.
"I was hurrying back to the University with the Zloomph to prove a point of ancient history to those fools. They don't believe that instruments which make music actually existed before the tapes! It was dark—and some fool researcher had forgotten to set a force-field over the hole—I fell through."
I closed my eyes. "Now wait a minute. Did you drop something, lose it in the hole—is that why you have to find it?"
"Oh I didn't lose anything important," he snapped, " just my own time dimension. And if I don't get back they will think I couldn't prove my theory, that I'm ashamed to come back, and I'll be discredited."
His chest sagged for an instant. Then he straightened. "But there's still time for my plan to work out—with the relative difference taken into account. Only I get so tired just thinking about it."
"Yes, I can see where thinking about it would tire any one."
He nodded. "But it can't be too far away."
"I'd like to hear more about it," I said. "But if you're not going to play with us—"
"Oh, I'll play with you," he beamed. "I can talk to you . You understand."
Thank heaven!
Heaven lasted for just three days. During those seventy-two golden hours the melodious tinkling of The Eye's cash register was as constant as that of Santa's sleigh bells.
John became the hero of tourists, spacemen, and Martians, but nevertheless he remained stubbornly aloof. He was quiet, moody, playing his Zloomph automatically. He'd reveal definite indications of belonging to Homo Sapiens only when drinking beer and talking about his holes.
Goon-Face was still cautious.
"Contract?" he wheezed. "Maybe. We see. Eef feedleman stay, we have contract. He stay, yes?"
"Oh, sure," I said. "He'll stay—just as long as you want him."
"Den he sign contract, too. No beeg feedle, no contract."
"Sure. We'll get him to sign it." I laughed hollowly. "Don't worry, Mr. Ke-teeli."
Just a few minutes later tragedy struck.
A reporter from the Marsport Times ambled into interview the Man of The Hour. The interview, unfortunately, was conducted over the bar and accompanied by a generous guzzling of beer. Fat Boy, Hammer-Head and I watched from a table. Knowing John as we did, a silent prayer was in our eyes.
"This is the first time he's talked to anybody," Fat Boy breathed.
"I—I'm scared.
"Nothing can happen," I said, optimistically. "This'll be good publicity."
We watched.
John murmured something. The reporter, a paunchy, balding man, scribbled furiously in his notebook.
John yawned, muttered something else. The reporter continued to scribble.
John sipped beer. His eyes brightened, and he began to talk more rapidly.
The reporter frowned, stopped writing, and studied John curiously.
John finished his first beer, started on his second. His eyes were wild, and he was talking more and more rapidly.
"He's doing it," Hammer-Head groaned. "He's telling him!"
I rose swiftly. "We better get over there. We should have known better—"
We were too late. The reporter had already slapped on his hat and was striding to the exit. John turned to us, dazed, his enthusiasm vanishing like air from a punctured balloon.
"He wouldn't listen," he said, weakly. "I tried to tell him, but he said he'd come back when I'm sober. I'm sober now. So I quit. I've got to find my hole."
I patted him on the back. "No, John, we'll help you. Don't quit. We'll—well, we'll help you."
"We're working on a plan, too," said Fat Boy in a burst of inspiration.
"We're going to make a more scientific approach."
"How?" John asked.
Fat Boy gulped.
"Just wait another day," I said.
"We'll have it worked out. Just be patient another day. You can't leave now, not after all your work."
"No, I guess not," he sighed. "I'll stay—until tomorrow."
All night the thought crept through my brain like a teasing spider: What can we do to make him stay? What can we tell him? What, what, what?
Unable to sleep the next morning, I left John to his snoring and went for an aspirin and black coffee. All the possible schemes were drumming through my mind: finding an Earth blonde to capture John's interest, having him electro-hypnotized, breaking his leg, forging a letter from this mythical university telling him his theory was proved valid and for him to take a nice long vacation now. He was a screwball about holes and force fields and dimensional worlds but for that music of his I'd baby him the rest of his life.
It was early afternoon when I trudged back to my apartment.
John was squatting on the living room floor, surrounded by a forest of empty beer bottles. His eyes were bulging, his hair was even wilder than usual, and he was swaying.
"John!" I cried. "You're drunk!"
His watery eyes squinted at me.
"No, not drunk. Just scared. I'm awful scared!"
"But you mustn't be scared. That reporter was just stupid. We'll help you with your theory."
His body trembled. "No, it isn't that. It isn't the reporter."
"Then what is it, John?"
"It's my body. It's—"
"Yes, what about your body? Are you sick?"
His face was white with terror.
"No, my— my body's full of holes . Suppose it's one of those holes! How will I get back if it is?"
He rose and staggered to his Zloomph , clutching it as though it were somehow a source of strength and consolation.
I patted him gingerly on the arm.
"Now John. You've just had too much beer, that's all. Let's go out and get some air and some strong black coffee. C'mon now."
We staggered out into the morning darkness, the three of us. John, the Zloomph , and I.
I was hanging on to him trying to see around and over and even under the Zloomph —steering by a sort of radar-like sixth sense. The street lights on Marsport are pretty dim compared to Earthside. I didn't see the open manhole that the workmen had figured would be all right at that time of night. It gets pretty damned cold around 4: A.M. of a Martian morning, and I guess the men were warming up with a little nip at the bar across the street.
Then—he was gone.
John just slipped out of my grasp— Zloomph and all—and was gone—completely and irrevocably gone. I even risked a broken neck and jumped in the manhole after him. Nothing—nothing but the smell of ozone and an echo bouncing crazily off the walls of the conduit.
"—is it.—is it.—is it.—is it."
John Smith was gone, so utterly and completely and tragically gone it was as if he'd never existed....
Tonight is our last night at The Space Room . Goon-Face is scowling again with the icy fury of a Plutonian monsoon. As Goon-Face has said, "No beeg feedle, no contract."
Without John, we're notes in a lost chord.
We've searched everything, in hospitals, morgues, jails, night clubs, hotels. We've hounded spaceports and 'copter terminals. Nowhere, nowhere is John Smith.
Ziggy, whose two fingers have healed, has already bowed to what seems inevitable. He's signed up for that trip to Neptune's uranium pits. There's plenty of room for more volunteers, he tells us. But I spend my time cussing the guy who forgot to set the force field at the other end of the hole and let John and his Zloomph back into his own time dimension. I cuss harder when I think how we were robbed of the best bass player in the galaxy.
And without a corpus delecti we can't even sue the city.
... THE END
|
What is Daniel Oak’s job?
|
After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about His Master's Voice by Randall Garrett.
Relevant chunks:
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from Analog March 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
ILLUSTRATED BY KRENKEL
HIS MASTER'S VOICE ANALOG SCIENCE FACT · SCIENCE FICTION
Spaceship McGuire had lots of knowledge—but no wisdom. He was smart—but incredibly foolish. And, as a natural consequence, tended to ask questions too profound for any philosopher—questions like "Who are you?"
By RANDALL GARRETT
I'd been in Ravenhurst's office on the mountain-sized planetoid called Raven's Rest only twice before. The third time was no better; Shalimar Ravenhurst was one of the smartest operators in the Belt, but when it came to personal relationships, he was utterly incompetent. He could make anyone dislike him without trying.
When I entered the office, he was
[3]
sitting behind his mahogany desk, his eyes focused on the operation he was going through with a wineglass and a decanter. He didn't look up at me as he said:
"Sit down, Mr. Oak. Will you have some Madeira?"
I decided I might as well observe the pleasantries. There was no point in my getting nasty until he did. "Thank you, Mr. Ravenhurst, I will."
He kept his eyes focused on his work: It isn't easy to pour wine on a planetoid where the gee-pull is measured in fractions of a centimeter per second squared. It moves slowly, like ropy molasses, but you have to be careful not to be fooled by that. The viscosity is just as low as ever, and if you pour it from any great height, it will go scooting right out of the glass
[4]
again. The momentum it builds up is enough to make it splash right out again in a slow-motion gush which gets it all over the place.
Besides which, even if it didn't splash, it would take it so long to fall a few inches that you'd die of thirst waiting for it.
Ravenhurst had evolved a technique from long years of practice. He tilted the glass and the bottle toward each other, their edges touching, like you do when you're trying to pour beer without putting a head on it. As soon as the wine wet the glass, the adhesive forces at work would pull more wine into the wine glass. To get capillary action on a low-gee asteroid, you don't need a capillary, by any means. The negative meniscus on the wine was something to see; the first time you see it, you get the eerie feeling that the glass is spinning and throwing the wine up against the walls by centrifugal force.
I took the glass he offered me (Careful! Don't slosh!) and sipped at it. Using squirt tubes would have been a hell of a lot easier and neater, but Ravenhurst liked to do things his way.
He put the stopper back in the decanter, picked up his own glass and sipped appreciatively. Not until he put it back down on the desk again did he raise his eyes and look at me for the first time since I'd come in.
"Mr. Oak, you have caused me considerable trouble."
"I thought we'd hashed all that out, Mr. Ravenhurst," I said, keeping my voice level.
[5]
"So had I. But it appears that there were more ramifications to your action than we had at first supposed." His voice had the texture of heavy linseed oil.
He waited, as if he expected me to make some reply to that. When I didn't, he sighed slightly and went on. "I fear that you have inadvertently sabotaged McGuire. You were commissioned to prevent sabotage, Mr. Oak, and I'm afraid that you abrogated your contract."
I just continued to keep my voice calm. "If you are trying to get back the fee you gave me, we can always take it to court. I don't think you'd win."
"Mr. Oak," he said heavily, "I am not a fool, regardless of what your own impression may be. If I were trying to get back that fee, I would hardly offer to pay you another one."
I didn't think he was a fool. You don't get into the managerial business and climb to the top and stay there unless you have brains. Ravenhurst was smart, all right; it was just that, when it came to personal relationships, he wasn't very wise.
"Then stop all this yak about an abrogated contract and get to the point," I told him.
"I shall. I was merely trying to point out to you that it is through your own actions that I find myself in a very trying position, and that your sense of honor and ethics should induce you to rectify the damage."
"My honor and ethics are in fine shape," I said, "but my interpretation of the concepts might not be quite
[6]
the same as yours. Get to the point."
He took another sip of Madeira. "The robotocists at Viking tell me that, in order to prevent any further ... ah ... sabotage by unauthorized persons, the MGYR-7 was constructed so that, after activation, the first man who addressed orders to it would thenceforth be considered its ... ah ... master.
"As I understand it, the problem of defining the term 'human being' unambiguously to a robot is still unsolved. The robotocists felt that it would be much easier to define a single individual. That would prevent the issuing of conflicting orders to a robot, provided the single individual were careful in giving orders himself.
"Now, it appears that you , Mr. Oak, were the first man to speak to McGuire after he had been activated. Is that correct?"
"Is that question purely rhetorical," I asked him, putting on my best expression of innocent interest. "Or are you losing your memory?" I had explained all that to him two weeks before, when I'd brought McGuire and the girl here, so that Ravenhurst would have a chance to cover up what had really happened.
My sarcasm didn't faze him in the least. "Rhetorical. It follows that you are the only man whose orders McGuire will obey."
"Your robotocists can change that," I said. This time, I was giving him my version of "genuine" innocence.
[7]
A man has to be a good actor to be a competent double agent, and I didn't want Ravenhurst to know that I knew a great deal more about the problem than he did.
He shook his head, making his jowls wobble. "No, they cannot. They realize now that there should be some way of making that change, but they failed to see that it would be necessary. Only by completely draining McGuire's memory banks and refilling them with new data can this bias be eliminated."
"Then why don't they do that?"
"There are two very good reasons," he said. And there was a shade of anger in his tone. "In the first place, that sort of operation takes time, and it costs money. If we do that, we might as well go ahead and make the slight changes in structure necessary to incorporate some of the improvements that the robotocists now feel are necessary. In other words, they might as well go ahead and build the MGYR-8, which is precisely the thing I hired you to prevent."
"It seems you have a point there, Mr. Ravenhurst." He'd hired me because things were shaky at Viking. If he lost too much more money on the McGuire experiment, he stood a good chance of losing his position as manager. If that happened some of his other managerial contracts might be canceled, too. Things like that can begin to snowball, and Ravenhurst might find himself out of the managerial business entirely.
"But," I went on, "hasn't the additional wasted time already cost you
[8]
money?"
"It has. I was reluctant to call you in again—understandably enough, I think."
"Perfectly. It's mutual."
He ignored me. "I even considered going through with the rebuilding work, now that we have traced down the source of failure of the first six models. Unfortunately, that isn't feasible, either." He scowled at me.
"It seems," he went on, "that McGuire refuses to allow his brain to be tampered with. The self-preservation 'instinct' has come to the fore. He has refused to let the technicians and robotocists enter his hull, and he has threatened to take off and leave Ceres if any further attempts are made to ... ah ... disrupt his thinking processes."
"I can't say that I blame him," I said. "What do you want me to do? Go to Ceres and tell him to submit like a good boy?"
"It is too late for that, Mr. Oak. Viking cannot stand any more of that kind of drain on its financial resources. I have been banking on the McGuire-type ships to put Viking Spacecraft ahead of every other spacecraft company in the System." He looked suddenly very grim and very determined. "Mr. Oak, I am certain that the robot ship is the answer to the transportation problems in the Solar System. For the sake of every human being in the Solar System, we must get the bugs out of McGuire!"
What's good for General Bull-moose is good for everybody , I quoted to myself. I'd have said it out loud,
[9]
but I was fairly certain that Shalimar Ravenhurst was not a student of the classics.
"Mr. Oak, I would like you to go to Ceres and co-operate with the robotocists at Viking. When the MGYR-8 is finally built, I want it to be the prototype for a fast, safe, functional robot spaceship that can be turned out commercially. You can be of great service, Mr. Oak."
"In other words, I've got you over a barrel."
"I don't deny it."
"You know what my fees are, Mr. Ravenhurst. That's what you'll be charged. I'll expect to be paid weekly; if Viking goes broke, I don't want to lose more than a week's pay. On the other hand, if the MGYR-8 is successful, I will expect a substantial bonus."
"How much?"
"Exactly half of the cost of rebuilding. Half what it would take to build a Model 8 right now, and taking a chance on there being no bugs in it."
He considered that, looking grimmer than ever. Then he said: "I will do it on the condition that the bonus be paid off in installments, one each six months for three years after the first successful commercial ship is built by Viking."
"My lawyer will nail you down on that wording," I said, "but it's a deal. Is there anything else?"
"No."
"Then I think I'll leave for Ceres before you break a blood vessel."
"You continue to amaze me, Mr. Oak," he said. And the soft oiliness
[10]
of his voice was the oil of vitriol. "Your compassion for your fellowman is a facet of your personality that I had not seen before. I shall welcome the opportunity to relax and allow my blood pressure to subside."
I could almost see Shalimar Ravenhurst suddenly exploding and adding his own touch of color to the room.
And, on that gladsome thought, I left. I let him have his small verbal triumph; if he'd known that I'd have taken on the job for almost nothing, he'd really have blown up.
Ten minutes later, I was in my vacuum suit, walking across the glaring, rough-polished rectangle of metal that was the landing field of Raven's Rest. The sun was near the zenith in the black, diamond-dusted sky, and the shadow of my flitterboat stood out like an inkblot on a bridal gown. I climbed in, started the engine, and released the magnetic anchor that held the little boat to the surface of the nickel-iron planetoid. I lifted her gently, worked her around until I was stationary in relation to the spinning planetoid, oriented myself against the stellar background, and headed toward the first blinker beacon on my way to Ceres.
For obvious economical reasons, it it impracticable to use full-sized spaceships in the Belt. A flitterboat, with a single gravitoinertial engine and the few necessities of life—air, some water, and a very little food—still costs more than a Rolls-Royce
[11]
automobile does on Earth, but there has to be some sort of individual transportation in the Belt.
They can't be used for any great distances because a man can't stay in a vac suit very long without getting uncomfortable. You have to hop from beacon to beacon, which means that your average velocity doesn't amount to much, since you spend too much time accelerating and decelerating. But a flitterboat is enough to get around the neighborhood in, and that's all that's needed.
I got the GM-187 blinker in my sights, eased the acceleration up to one gee, relaxed to watch the radar screen while I thought over my coming ordeal with McGuire.
Testing spaceships, robotic or any other kind, is strictly not my business. The sign on the door of my office in New York says: DANIEL OAK, Confidential Expediter ; I'm hired to help other people Get Things Done. Usually, if someone came to me with the problem of getting a spaceship test-piloted, I'd simply dig up the best test pilot in the business, hire him for my client, and forget about everything but collecting my fee. But I couldn't have refused this case if I'd wanted to. I'd already been assigned to it by someone a lot more important than Shalimar Ravenhurst.
Every schoolchild who has taken a course in Government Organization and Function can tell you that the Political Survey Division is a branch of the System Census Bureau of the UN Government, and that its job is to evaluate the political activities of
[12]
various sub-governments all over the System.
And every one of those poor tykes would be dead wrong.
The Political Survey Division does evaluate political activity, all right, but it is the Secret Service of the UN Government. The vast majority of
[13]
the System's citizens don't even know the Government has a Secret Service. I happen to know only because I'm an agent of the Political Survey Division.
The PSD was vitally interested in the whole McGuire project. Robots of McGuire's complexity had been built before; the robot that runs the traffic patterns of the American Eastern Seaboard is just as capable as McGuire when it comes to handling a tremendous number of variables and making decisions on them. But that robot didn't have to be given orders except in extreme emergencies. Keeping a few million cars moving and safe at the same time is actually pretty routine stuff for a robot. And a traffic robot isn't given orders verbally; it is given any orders that may be necessary via teletype by a trained programming technician. Those orders are usually in reference to a change of routing due to repair work on the highways or the like. The robot itself can take care of such emergencies as bad weather or even an accident caused by the malfunctioning of an individual automobile.
McGuire was different. In the first place, he was mobile. He was in command of a spacecraft. In a sense, he was the spacecraft, since it served him in a way that was analogous to the way a human body serves the human mind. And he wasn't in charge of millions of objects with a top velocity of a hundred and fifty miles an hour; he was in charge of a single object that moved at velocities of thousands of miles per second. Nor
[14]
did he have a set, unmoving highway as his path; his paths were variable and led through the emptiness of space.
Unforeseen emergencies can happen at any time in space, most of them having to do with the lives of passengers. A cargo ship would be somewhat less susceptible to such emergencies if there were no humans aboard; it doesn't matter much to a robot if he has no air in his hull.
But with passengers aboard, there may be times when it would be necessary to give orders— fast ! And that means verbal orders, orders that can be given anywhere in the ship and relayed immediately by microphone to the robot's brain. A man doesn't have time to run to a teletyper and type out orders when there's an emergency in space.
That meant that McGuire had to understand English, and, since there has to be feedback in communication, he had to be able to speak it as well.
And that made McGuire more than somewhat difficult to deal with.
For more than a century, robotocists have been trying to build Asimov's famous Three Laws of Robotics into a robot brain.
First Law: A robot shall not, either through action or inaction, allow harm to come to a human being.
Second Law: A robot shall obey the orders of a human being, except when such orders conflict with the First Law .
[15]
Third Law: A robot shall strive to protect its own existence, except when this conflicts with the First or Second Law.
Nobody has succeeded yet, because nobody has yet succeeded in defining the term "human being" in such a way that the logical mind of a robot can encompass the concept.
A traffic robot is useful only because the definition has been rigidly narrowed down. As far as a traffic robot is concerned, "human beings" are the automobiles on its highways. Woe betide any poor sap who tries, illegally, to cross a robot-controlled highway on foot. The robot's only concern would be with the safety of the automobiles, and if the only way to avoid destruction of an automobile were to be by nudging the pedestrian aside with a fender, that's what would happen.
And, since its orders only come from one place, I suppose that a traffic robot thinks that the guy who uses that typer is an automobile.
With the first six models of the McGuire ships, the robotocists attempted to build in the Three Laws exactly as stated. And the first six went insane.
If one human being says "jump left," and another says "jump right," the robot is unable to evaluate which human being has given the more valid order. Feed enough confusing and conflicting data into a robot brain, and it can begin behaving in ways that, in a human being, would be called paranoia or schizophrenia or catatonia or what-have-you, depending
[16]
on the symptoms. And an insane robot is fully as dangerous as an insane human being controlling the same mechanical equipment, if not more so.
So the seventh model had been modified. The present McGuire's brain was impressed with slight modifications of the First and Second Laws.
If it is difficult to define a human being, it is much more difficult to define a responsible human being. One, in other words, who can be relied upon to give wise and proper orders to a robot, who can be relied upon not to drive the robot insane.
The robotocists at Viking Spacecraft had decided to take another tack. "Very well," they'd said, "if we can't define all the members of a group, we can certainly define an individual. We'll pick one responsible person and build McGuire so that he will take orders only from that person."
As it turned out, I was that person. Just substitute "Daniel Oak" for "human being" in the First and Second Laws, and you'll see how important I was to a certain spaceship named McGuire.
When I finally caught the beam from Ceres and set my flitterboat down on the huge landing field that had been carved from the nickel-iron of the asteroid with a focused sun beam, I was itchy with my own perspiration and groggy tired. I don't like riding in flitterboats, sitting on a
[17]
bucket seat, astride the drive tube, like a witch on a broomstick, with nothing but a near-invisible transite hull between me and the stars, all cooped up in a vac suit. Unlike driving a car, you can't pull a flitterboat over and take a nap; you have to wait until you hit the next beacon station.
Ceres, the biggest rock in the Belt, is a lot more than just a beacon station. Like Eros and a few others, it's a city in its own right. And except for the Government Reservation, Viking Spacecraft owned Ceres, lock, stock, and mining rights.
Part of the reason for Viking's troubles was envy of that ownership. There were other companies in the Belt that would like to get their hands on that plum, and there were those who were doing everything short of cutting throats to get it. The PSD was afraid it might come to that, too, before very long.
Ceres is fifty-eight million cubic miles of nickel-iron, but nobody would cut her up for that. Nickel-iron is almost exactly as cheap as dirt on Earth, and, considering shipping costs, Earth soil costs a great deal more than nickel-iron in the Belt.
But, as an operations base, Ceres is second to none. Its surface gravity averages .0294 Standard Gee, as compared with Earth's .981, and that's enough to give a slight feeling of weight without unduly hampering the body with too much load. I weigh just under six pounds on Ceres, and after I've been there a while, going back to Earth is a strain that takes a
[18]
week to get used to. Kids that are brought up in the Belt are forced to exercise in a room with a one-gee spin on it at least an hour a day. They don't like it at first, but it keeps them from growing up with the strength of mice. And an adult with any sense takes a spin now and then, too. Traveling in a flitterboat will give you a one-gee pull, all right, but you don't get much exercise.
I parked my flitterboat in the space that had been assigned to me by Landing Control, and went over to the nearest air-lock dome.
After I'd cycled through and had shucked my vac suit, I went into the inner room to find Colonel Brock waiting for me.
"Have a good trip, Oak?" he asked, trying to put a smile on his scarred, battered face.
"I got here alive, if that makes it a good flitterboat trip," I said, shaking his extended hand.
"That's the definition of a good trip," he told me.
"Then the question was superfluous. Seriously, what I need is a bath and some sleep."
"You'll get that, but first let's go somewhere where we can talk. Want a drink?"
"I could use one, I guess. Your treat?"
"My treat," he said. "Come on."
I followed him out and down a ladder to a corridor that led north. By definition, any asteroid spins toward the east, and all directions follow from that, regardless of which way the axis may point.
[19]
Colonel Harrington Brock was dressed in the black-and-gold "union suit" that was the uniform of Ravenhurst's Security Guard. My own was a tasteful green, but some of the other people in the public corridor seemed to go for more flashiness; besides silver and gold, there were shocking pinks and violent mauves, with stripes and blazes of other colors.
A crowd wearing skin-tight cover-alls might shock the gentle people of Midwich-on-the-Moor, England, but they are normal dress in the Belt. You can't climb into a vac suit with bulky clothing on, and, if you did, you'd hate yourself within an hour, with a curse for every wrinkle that chafed your skin. And, in the Belt, you never know when you might have to get into a vac suit fast. In a "safe" area like the tunnels inside Ceres, there isn't much chance of losing air, but there are places where no one but a fool would ever be more than ten seconds away from his vac suit.
I read an article by a psychologist a few months back, in which he claimed that the taste for loud colors in union suits was actually due to modesty. He claimed that the bright patterns drew attention to the colors themselves, and away from the base the colors were laid over. The observer, he said, tends to see the color and pattern of the suit, rather than the body it clings to so closely. Maybe he's right; I wouldn't know, not being a psychologist. I have spent summers in nudist resorts, though, and I never noticed anyone painting themselves with lavender
[20]
and chartreuse checks. On the other hand, the people who go to nudist resorts are a self-screened group. So are the people who go to the Belt, for that matter, but the type of screening is different.
I'll just leave that problem in the hands of the psychologists, and go on wearing my immodestly quiet solid-color union suits.
Brock pushed open the inch-thick metal door beneath a sign that said
"O'Banion's Bar," and I followed him in. We sat down at a table and ordered drinks when the waiter bustled over. A cop in uniform isn't supposed to drink, but Brock figures that the head of the Security Guard ought to be able to get away with a breach of his own rules.
We had our drinks in front of us and our cigarettes lit before Brock opened up with his troubles.
"Oak," he said, "I wanted to intercept you before you went to the plant because I want you to know that there may be trouble."
"Yeah? What kind?" Sometimes it's a pain to play ignorant.
"Thurston's outfit is trying to oust Ravenhurst from the managership of Viking and take over the job. Baedecker Metals & Mining Corporation, which is managed by Baedecker himself, wants to force Viking out of business so that BM&M can take over Ceres for large-scale processing of precious metals.
"Between the two of 'em, they're raising all sorts of minor hell around
[21]
here, and it's liable to become major hell at any time. And we can't stand any hell—or sabotage—around this planetoid just now!"
"Now wait a minute," I said, still playing ignorant, "I thought we'd pretty well established that the 'sabotage' of the McGuire series was Jack Ravenhurst's fault. She was the one who was driving them nuts, not Thurston's agents."
"Perfectly true," he said agreeably. "We managed to block any attempts of sabotage by other company agents, even though it looked as though we hadn't for a while." He chuckled wryly. "We went all out to keep the McGuires safe, and all the time the boss' daughter was giving them the works." Then he looked sharply at me. "I covered that, of course. No one in the Security Guard but me knows that Jack was responsible."
"Good. But what about the Thurston and Baedecker agents, then?"
He took a hefty slug of his drink. "They're around, all right. We have our eyes on the ones we know, but those outfits are as sharp as we are, and they may have a few agents here on Ceres that we know nothing about."
"So? What does this have to do with me?"
He put his drink on the table. "Oak, I want you to help me." His onyx-brown eyes, only a shade darker than his skin, looked directly into my own. "I know it isn't part of your assignment, and you know I can't afford to pay you anything near what you're worth. It will have to come out of my
[22]
pocket because I couldn't possibly justify it from operating funds. Ravenhurst specifically told me that he doesn't want you messing around with the espionage and sabotage problem because he doesn't like your methods of operation."
"And you're going to go against his orders?"
"I am. Ravenhurst is sore at you personally because you showed him that Jack was responsible for the McGuire sabotage. It's an irrational dislike, and I am not going to let it interfere with my job. I'm going to protect Ravenhurst's interests to the best of my ability, and that means that I'll use the best of other people's abilities if I can."
I grinned at him. "The last I heard, you were sore at me for blatting it all over Ceres that Jaqueline Ravenhurst was missing, when she sneaked aboard McGuire."
He nodded perfunctorily. "I was. I still think you should have told me what you were up to. But you did it, and you got results that I'd been unable to get. I'm not going to let a momentary pique hang on as an irrational dislike. I like to think I have more sense than that."
"Thanks." There wasn't much else I could say.
"Now, I've got a little dough put away; it's not much, but I could offer you—"
I shook my head, cutting him off. "Nope. Sorry, Brock. For two reasons. In the first place, there would be a conflict of interest. I'm working for Ravenhurst, and if he doesn't want
[23]
me to work for you, then it would be unethical for me to take the job.
"In the second place, my fees are standardized. Oh, I can allow a certain amount of fluctuation, but I'm not a physician or a lawyer; my services are
[24]
not necessary to the survival of the individual, except in very rare cases, and those cases are generally arranged through a lawyer when it's a charity case.
"No, colonel, I'm afraid I couldn't
[25]
possibly work for you."
He thought that over for a long time. Finally, he nodded his head very slowly. "I see. Yeah, I get your point." He scowled down at his drink.
" But ," I said, "it would be a pleasure
[26]
to work with you."
He looked up quickly. "How's that?"
"Well, let's look at it this way: You can't hire me because I'm already working for Ravenhurst; I can't hire
[27]
you because you're working for Ravenhurst. But since we may need each other, and since we're both working for Ravenhurst, there would be no conflict of interest if we co-operate.
"Or, to put it another way, I can't take money for any service I may render you, but you can pay off in services. Am I coming through?"
His broad smile made the scars on his face fold in and deepen. "Loud and clear. It's a deal."
I held up a hand, palm toward him. "Ah, ah, ah! There's no 'deal' involved. We're just old buddies helping each other. This is for friendship, not business. I scratch your back; you scratch mine. Fair?"
"Fair. Come on down to my office; I want to give you a headful of facts and figures."
"Will do. Let me finish my guzzle."
Question:
What is Daniel Oak’s job?
Answer:
|
[
"Daniel Oak states that he has an office in New York and describes himself as a Confidential Expediter. He has worked with Ravenhurst before and the story begins with an understanding that Daniel recently completed a job for Ravenhurst. He later mentions that he is a double agent. Daniel works for the Political Survey Division branch of the System Census Bureau for the UN government. Unbeknownst to most of the System’s citizens, the Political Survey Division is the Secret Service arm of the UN government. \n\nA flitterboat is a more economical option than a full spaceship. It is described as having a single gravitoinertial engine. It is meant to have the most basic necessities that are needed for a person to survive their journey, which includes oxygen, water, and the requirement of food necessary. The flitterboat is not necessarily more affordable, but it does provide the purpose of transporting from one Belt to another Belt. Daniel Oak details how a vacuum suit is needed to be worn in a flitterboat.\n",
"Daniel is, officially, a confidential expediter. In this role, he helps to ensure the rapid completion of projects to which his employers have assigned him. Typically, his job involves finding other people who are able to fulfil the request initially assigned to him, and collecting his fee. \nIn the case of the McGuire project, which involves the construction of a sophisticated spaceship operating system capable of understanding and speaking English, Daniel is also operating in his capacity as an agent of the Political survey Division. The PSD is a branch of the System Census Bureau of the UN government, and is often thought to be responsible for surveying the state of political systems throughout the System. However, in reality the PSD more closely resembles a secret service of the UN. \n",
"Daniel Oak's official job title is a Confidential Expediter. His job consists of helping others complete tasks, usually hiring a third party and collecting a fee. Daniel Oak is also an agent of the Political Survey Division, a Secret Service organization. In the story, Daniel Oak has been hired by Ravenhurst directly in order to ensure that his company, Viking Spacecraft, succeeds in business with the development of the new McGuire model. He is hired specifically to prevent sabotage to McGuire, as sabotage would lead to the downfall of the Viking business.",
"Daniel Oak is a confidential expediter who helps people to get their things done. So normally he would find someone who is an expert in the area that his customers are looking for, then pair them and then collect the fees. Interestingly, now he is a double agent. He was working for Ravenhurst where he had to prevent sabotage. However, during that job, he was not successful since he did sabotage their robot, McGuire. Because he is the first one that the robot spoke to after it is activated, thus McGuire only listens to the order given by him. Moreover, since costly thus not worthwhile , and McGuire’s build in program does not allow tampering. \n\nCurrently, Ravenhurst is telling Oak to go to Ceres to help with the roboticists build MGYR-8. Because Raverhurst wants it to be not only fast and safe, but also wants it to become something that can be used commercially. And later, when he arrives in Ceres, Brock asks him for help. While he didn’t agree to do so, he did suggest they work together, since they are all working for Ravenhurst, there should not be a conflict of interest. "
] |
48513
|
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from Analog March 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
ILLUSTRATED BY KRENKEL
HIS MASTER'S VOICE ANALOG SCIENCE FACT · SCIENCE FICTION
Spaceship McGuire had lots of knowledge—but no wisdom. He was smart—but incredibly foolish. And, as a natural consequence, tended to ask questions too profound for any philosopher—questions like "Who are you?"
By RANDALL GARRETT
I'd been in Ravenhurst's office on the mountain-sized planetoid called Raven's Rest only twice before. The third time was no better; Shalimar Ravenhurst was one of the smartest operators in the Belt, but when it came to personal relationships, he was utterly incompetent. He could make anyone dislike him without trying.
When I entered the office, he was
[3]
sitting behind his mahogany desk, his eyes focused on the operation he was going through with a wineglass and a decanter. He didn't look up at me as he said:
"Sit down, Mr. Oak. Will you have some Madeira?"
I decided I might as well observe the pleasantries. There was no point in my getting nasty until he did. "Thank you, Mr. Ravenhurst, I will."
He kept his eyes focused on his work: It isn't easy to pour wine on a planetoid where the gee-pull is measured in fractions of a centimeter per second squared. It moves slowly, like ropy molasses, but you have to be careful not to be fooled by that. The viscosity is just as low as ever, and if you pour it from any great height, it will go scooting right out of the glass
[4]
again. The momentum it builds up is enough to make it splash right out again in a slow-motion gush which gets it all over the place.
Besides which, even if it didn't splash, it would take it so long to fall a few inches that you'd die of thirst waiting for it.
Ravenhurst had evolved a technique from long years of practice. He tilted the glass and the bottle toward each other, their edges touching, like you do when you're trying to pour beer without putting a head on it. As soon as the wine wet the glass, the adhesive forces at work would pull more wine into the wine glass. To get capillary action on a low-gee asteroid, you don't need a capillary, by any means. The negative meniscus on the wine was something to see; the first time you see it, you get the eerie feeling that the glass is spinning and throwing the wine up against the walls by centrifugal force.
I took the glass he offered me (Careful! Don't slosh!) and sipped at it. Using squirt tubes would have been a hell of a lot easier and neater, but Ravenhurst liked to do things his way.
He put the stopper back in the decanter, picked up his own glass and sipped appreciatively. Not until he put it back down on the desk again did he raise his eyes and look at me for the first time since I'd come in.
"Mr. Oak, you have caused me considerable trouble."
"I thought we'd hashed all that out, Mr. Ravenhurst," I said, keeping my voice level.
[5]
"So had I. But it appears that there were more ramifications to your action than we had at first supposed." His voice had the texture of heavy linseed oil.
He waited, as if he expected me to make some reply to that. When I didn't, he sighed slightly and went on. "I fear that you have inadvertently sabotaged McGuire. You were commissioned to prevent sabotage, Mr. Oak, and I'm afraid that you abrogated your contract."
I just continued to keep my voice calm. "If you are trying to get back the fee you gave me, we can always take it to court. I don't think you'd win."
"Mr. Oak," he said heavily, "I am not a fool, regardless of what your own impression may be. If I were trying to get back that fee, I would hardly offer to pay you another one."
I didn't think he was a fool. You don't get into the managerial business and climb to the top and stay there unless you have brains. Ravenhurst was smart, all right; it was just that, when it came to personal relationships, he wasn't very wise.
"Then stop all this yak about an abrogated contract and get to the point," I told him.
"I shall. I was merely trying to point out to you that it is through your own actions that I find myself in a very trying position, and that your sense of honor and ethics should induce you to rectify the damage."
"My honor and ethics are in fine shape," I said, "but my interpretation of the concepts might not be quite
[6]
the same as yours. Get to the point."
He took another sip of Madeira. "The robotocists at Viking tell me that, in order to prevent any further ... ah ... sabotage by unauthorized persons, the MGYR-7 was constructed so that, after activation, the first man who addressed orders to it would thenceforth be considered its ... ah ... master.
"As I understand it, the problem of defining the term 'human being' unambiguously to a robot is still unsolved. The robotocists felt that it would be much easier to define a single individual. That would prevent the issuing of conflicting orders to a robot, provided the single individual were careful in giving orders himself.
"Now, it appears that you , Mr. Oak, were the first man to speak to McGuire after he had been activated. Is that correct?"
"Is that question purely rhetorical," I asked him, putting on my best expression of innocent interest. "Or are you losing your memory?" I had explained all that to him two weeks before, when I'd brought McGuire and the girl here, so that Ravenhurst would have a chance to cover up what had really happened.
My sarcasm didn't faze him in the least. "Rhetorical. It follows that you are the only man whose orders McGuire will obey."
"Your robotocists can change that," I said. This time, I was giving him my version of "genuine" innocence.
[7]
A man has to be a good actor to be a competent double agent, and I didn't want Ravenhurst to know that I knew a great deal more about the problem than he did.
He shook his head, making his jowls wobble. "No, they cannot. They realize now that there should be some way of making that change, but they failed to see that it would be necessary. Only by completely draining McGuire's memory banks and refilling them with new data can this bias be eliminated."
"Then why don't they do that?"
"There are two very good reasons," he said. And there was a shade of anger in his tone. "In the first place, that sort of operation takes time, and it costs money. If we do that, we might as well go ahead and make the slight changes in structure necessary to incorporate some of the improvements that the robotocists now feel are necessary. In other words, they might as well go ahead and build the MGYR-8, which is precisely the thing I hired you to prevent."
"It seems you have a point there, Mr. Ravenhurst." He'd hired me because things were shaky at Viking. If he lost too much more money on the McGuire experiment, he stood a good chance of losing his position as manager. If that happened some of his other managerial contracts might be canceled, too. Things like that can begin to snowball, and Ravenhurst might find himself out of the managerial business entirely.
"But," I went on, "hasn't the additional wasted time already cost you
[8]
money?"
"It has. I was reluctant to call you in again—understandably enough, I think."
"Perfectly. It's mutual."
He ignored me. "I even considered going through with the rebuilding work, now that we have traced down the source of failure of the first six models. Unfortunately, that isn't feasible, either." He scowled at me.
"It seems," he went on, "that McGuire refuses to allow his brain to be tampered with. The self-preservation 'instinct' has come to the fore. He has refused to let the technicians and robotocists enter his hull, and he has threatened to take off and leave Ceres if any further attempts are made to ... ah ... disrupt his thinking processes."
"I can't say that I blame him," I said. "What do you want me to do? Go to Ceres and tell him to submit like a good boy?"
"It is too late for that, Mr. Oak. Viking cannot stand any more of that kind of drain on its financial resources. I have been banking on the McGuire-type ships to put Viking Spacecraft ahead of every other spacecraft company in the System." He looked suddenly very grim and very determined. "Mr. Oak, I am certain that the robot ship is the answer to the transportation problems in the Solar System. For the sake of every human being in the Solar System, we must get the bugs out of McGuire!"
What's good for General Bull-moose is good for everybody , I quoted to myself. I'd have said it out loud,
[9]
but I was fairly certain that Shalimar Ravenhurst was not a student of the classics.
"Mr. Oak, I would like you to go to Ceres and co-operate with the robotocists at Viking. When the MGYR-8 is finally built, I want it to be the prototype for a fast, safe, functional robot spaceship that can be turned out commercially. You can be of great service, Mr. Oak."
"In other words, I've got you over a barrel."
"I don't deny it."
"You know what my fees are, Mr. Ravenhurst. That's what you'll be charged. I'll expect to be paid weekly; if Viking goes broke, I don't want to lose more than a week's pay. On the other hand, if the MGYR-8 is successful, I will expect a substantial bonus."
"How much?"
"Exactly half of the cost of rebuilding. Half what it would take to build a Model 8 right now, and taking a chance on there being no bugs in it."
He considered that, looking grimmer than ever. Then he said: "I will do it on the condition that the bonus be paid off in installments, one each six months for three years after the first successful commercial ship is built by Viking."
"My lawyer will nail you down on that wording," I said, "but it's a deal. Is there anything else?"
"No."
"Then I think I'll leave for Ceres before you break a blood vessel."
"You continue to amaze me, Mr. Oak," he said. And the soft oiliness
[10]
of his voice was the oil of vitriol. "Your compassion for your fellowman is a facet of your personality that I had not seen before. I shall welcome the opportunity to relax and allow my blood pressure to subside."
I could almost see Shalimar Ravenhurst suddenly exploding and adding his own touch of color to the room.
And, on that gladsome thought, I left. I let him have his small verbal triumph; if he'd known that I'd have taken on the job for almost nothing, he'd really have blown up.
Ten minutes later, I was in my vacuum suit, walking across the glaring, rough-polished rectangle of metal that was the landing field of Raven's Rest. The sun was near the zenith in the black, diamond-dusted sky, and the shadow of my flitterboat stood out like an inkblot on a bridal gown. I climbed in, started the engine, and released the magnetic anchor that held the little boat to the surface of the nickel-iron planetoid. I lifted her gently, worked her around until I was stationary in relation to the spinning planetoid, oriented myself against the stellar background, and headed toward the first blinker beacon on my way to Ceres.
For obvious economical reasons, it it impracticable to use full-sized spaceships in the Belt. A flitterboat, with a single gravitoinertial engine and the few necessities of life—air, some water, and a very little food—still costs more than a Rolls-Royce
[11]
automobile does on Earth, but there has to be some sort of individual transportation in the Belt.
They can't be used for any great distances because a man can't stay in a vac suit very long without getting uncomfortable. You have to hop from beacon to beacon, which means that your average velocity doesn't amount to much, since you spend too much time accelerating and decelerating. But a flitterboat is enough to get around the neighborhood in, and that's all that's needed.
I got the GM-187 blinker in my sights, eased the acceleration up to one gee, relaxed to watch the radar screen while I thought over my coming ordeal with McGuire.
Testing spaceships, robotic or any other kind, is strictly not my business. The sign on the door of my office in New York says: DANIEL OAK, Confidential Expediter ; I'm hired to help other people Get Things Done. Usually, if someone came to me with the problem of getting a spaceship test-piloted, I'd simply dig up the best test pilot in the business, hire him for my client, and forget about everything but collecting my fee. But I couldn't have refused this case if I'd wanted to. I'd already been assigned to it by someone a lot more important than Shalimar Ravenhurst.
Every schoolchild who has taken a course in Government Organization and Function can tell you that the Political Survey Division is a branch of the System Census Bureau of the UN Government, and that its job is to evaluate the political activities of
[12]
various sub-governments all over the System.
And every one of those poor tykes would be dead wrong.
The Political Survey Division does evaluate political activity, all right, but it is the Secret Service of the UN Government. The vast majority of
[13]
the System's citizens don't even know the Government has a Secret Service. I happen to know only because I'm an agent of the Political Survey Division.
The PSD was vitally interested in the whole McGuire project. Robots of McGuire's complexity had been built before; the robot that runs the traffic patterns of the American Eastern Seaboard is just as capable as McGuire when it comes to handling a tremendous number of variables and making decisions on them. But that robot didn't have to be given orders except in extreme emergencies. Keeping a few million cars moving and safe at the same time is actually pretty routine stuff for a robot. And a traffic robot isn't given orders verbally; it is given any orders that may be necessary via teletype by a trained programming technician. Those orders are usually in reference to a change of routing due to repair work on the highways or the like. The robot itself can take care of such emergencies as bad weather or even an accident caused by the malfunctioning of an individual automobile.
McGuire was different. In the first place, he was mobile. He was in command of a spacecraft. In a sense, he was the spacecraft, since it served him in a way that was analogous to the way a human body serves the human mind. And he wasn't in charge of millions of objects with a top velocity of a hundred and fifty miles an hour; he was in charge of a single object that moved at velocities of thousands of miles per second. Nor
[14]
did he have a set, unmoving highway as his path; his paths were variable and led through the emptiness of space.
Unforeseen emergencies can happen at any time in space, most of them having to do with the lives of passengers. A cargo ship would be somewhat less susceptible to such emergencies if there were no humans aboard; it doesn't matter much to a robot if he has no air in his hull.
But with passengers aboard, there may be times when it would be necessary to give orders— fast ! And that means verbal orders, orders that can be given anywhere in the ship and relayed immediately by microphone to the robot's brain. A man doesn't have time to run to a teletyper and type out orders when there's an emergency in space.
That meant that McGuire had to understand English, and, since there has to be feedback in communication, he had to be able to speak it as well.
And that made McGuire more than somewhat difficult to deal with.
For more than a century, robotocists have been trying to build Asimov's famous Three Laws of Robotics into a robot brain.
First Law: A robot shall not, either through action or inaction, allow harm to come to a human being.
Second Law: A robot shall obey the orders of a human being, except when such orders conflict with the First Law .
[15]
Third Law: A robot shall strive to protect its own existence, except when this conflicts with the First or Second Law.
Nobody has succeeded yet, because nobody has yet succeeded in defining the term "human being" in such a way that the logical mind of a robot can encompass the concept.
A traffic robot is useful only because the definition has been rigidly narrowed down. As far as a traffic robot is concerned, "human beings" are the automobiles on its highways. Woe betide any poor sap who tries, illegally, to cross a robot-controlled highway on foot. The robot's only concern would be with the safety of the automobiles, and if the only way to avoid destruction of an automobile were to be by nudging the pedestrian aside with a fender, that's what would happen.
And, since its orders only come from one place, I suppose that a traffic robot thinks that the guy who uses that typer is an automobile.
With the first six models of the McGuire ships, the robotocists attempted to build in the Three Laws exactly as stated. And the first six went insane.
If one human being says "jump left," and another says "jump right," the robot is unable to evaluate which human being has given the more valid order. Feed enough confusing and conflicting data into a robot brain, and it can begin behaving in ways that, in a human being, would be called paranoia or schizophrenia or catatonia or what-have-you, depending
[16]
on the symptoms. And an insane robot is fully as dangerous as an insane human being controlling the same mechanical equipment, if not more so.
So the seventh model had been modified. The present McGuire's brain was impressed with slight modifications of the First and Second Laws.
If it is difficult to define a human being, it is much more difficult to define a responsible human being. One, in other words, who can be relied upon to give wise and proper orders to a robot, who can be relied upon not to drive the robot insane.
The robotocists at Viking Spacecraft had decided to take another tack. "Very well," they'd said, "if we can't define all the members of a group, we can certainly define an individual. We'll pick one responsible person and build McGuire so that he will take orders only from that person."
As it turned out, I was that person. Just substitute "Daniel Oak" for "human being" in the First and Second Laws, and you'll see how important I was to a certain spaceship named McGuire.
When I finally caught the beam from Ceres and set my flitterboat down on the huge landing field that had been carved from the nickel-iron of the asteroid with a focused sun beam, I was itchy with my own perspiration and groggy tired. I don't like riding in flitterboats, sitting on a
[17]
bucket seat, astride the drive tube, like a witch on a broomstick, with nothing but a near-invisible transite hull between me and the stars, all cooped up in a vac suit. Unlike driving a car, you can't pull a flitterboat over and take a nap; you have to wait until you hit the next beacon station.
Ceres, the biggest rock in the Belt, is a lot more than just a beacon station. Like Eros and a few others, it's a city in its own right. And except for the Government Reservation, Viking Spacecraft owned Ceres, lock, stock, and mining rights.
Part of the reason for Viking's troubles was envy of that ownership. There were other companies in the Belt that would like to get their hands on that plum, and there were those who were doing everything short of cutting throats to get it. The PSD was afraid it might come to that, too, before very long.
Ceres is fifty-eight million cubic miles of nickel-iron, but nobody would cut her up for that. Nickel-iron is almost exactly as cheap as dirt on Earth, and, considering shipping costs, Earth soil costs a great deal more than nickel-iron in the Belt.
But, as an operations base, Ceres is second to none. Its surface gravity averages .0294 Standard Gee, as compared with Earth's .981, and that's enough to give a slight feeling of weight without unduly hampering the body with too much load. I weigh just under six pounds on Ceres, and after I've been there a while, going back to Earth is a strain that takes a
[18]
week to get used to. Kids that are brought up in the Belt are forced to exercise in a room with a one-gee spin on it at least an hour a day. They don't like it at first, but it keeps them from growing up with the strength of mice. And an adult with any sense takes a spin now and then, too. Traveling in a flitterboat will give you a one-gee pull, all right, but you don't get much exercise.
I parked my flitterboat in the space that had been assigned to me by Landing Control, and went over to the nearest air-lock dome.
After I'd cycled through and had shucked my vac suit, I went into the inner room to find Colonel Brock waiting for me.
"Have a good trip, Oak?" he asked, trying to put a smile on his scarred, battered face.
"I got here alive, if that makes it a good flitterboat trip," I said, shaking his extended hand.
"That's the definition of a good trip," he told me.
"Then the question was superfluous. Seriously, what I need is a bath and some sleep."
"You'll get that, but first let's go somewhere where we can talk. Want a drink?"
"I could use one, I guess. Your treat?"
"My treat," he said. "Come on."
I followed him out and down a ladder to a corridor that led north. By definition, any asteroid spins toward the east, and all directions follow from that, regardless of which way the axis may point.
[19]
Colonel Harrington Brock was dressed in the black-and-gold "union suit" that was the uniform of Ravenhurst's Security Guard. My own was a tasteful green, but some of the other people in the public corridor seemed to go for more flashiness; besides silver and gold, there were shocking pinks and violent mauves, with stripes and blazes of other colors.
A crowd wearing skin-tight cover-alls might shock the gentle people of Midwich-on-the-Moor, England, but they are normal dress in the Belt. You can't climb into a vac suit with bulky clothing on, and, if you did, you'd hate yourself within an hour, with a curse for every wrinkle that chafed your skin. And, in the Belt, you never know when you might have to get into a vac suit fast. In a "safe" area like the tunnels inside Ceres, there isn't much chance of losing air, but there are places where no one but a fool would ever be more than ten seconds away from his vac suit.
I read an article by a psychologist a few months back, in which he claimed that the taste for loud colors in union suits was actually due to modesty. He claimed that the bright patterns drew attention to the colors themselves, and away from the base the colors were laid over. The observer, he said, tends to see the color and pattern of the suit, rather than the body it clings to so closely. Maybe he's right; I wouldn't know, not being a psychologist. I have spent summers in nudist resorts, though, and I never noticed anyone painting themselves with lavender
[20]
and chartreuse checks. On the other hand, the people who go to nudist resorts are a self-screened group. So are the people who go to the Belt, for that matter, but the type of screening is different.
I'll just leave that problem in the hands of the psychologists, and go on wearing my immodestly quiet solid-color union suits.
Brock pushed open the inch-thick metal door beneath a sign that said
"O'Banion's Bar," and I followed him in. We sat down at a table and ordered drinks when the waiter bustled over. A cop in uniform isn't supposed to drink, but Brock figures that the head of the Security Guard ought to be able to get away with a breach of his own rules.
We had our drinks in front of us and our cigarettes lit before Brock opened up with his troubles.
"Oak," he said, "I wanted to intercept you before you went to the plant because I want you to know that there may be trouble."
"Yeah? What kind?" Sometimes it's a pain to play ignorant.
"Thurston's outfit is trying to oust Ravenhurst from the managership of Viking and take over the job. Baedecker Metals & Mining Corporation, which is managed by Baedecker himself, wants to force Viking out of business so that BM&M can take over Ceres for large-scale processing of precious metals.
"Between the two of 'em, they're raising all sorts of minor hell around
[21]
here, and it's liable to become major hell at any time. And we can't stand any hell—or sabotage—around this planetoid just now!"
"Now wait a minute," I said, still playing ignorant, "I thought we'd pretty well established that the 'sabotage' of the McGuire series was Jack Ravenhurst's fault. She was the one who was driving them nuts, not Thurston's agents."
"Perfectly true," he said agreeably. "We managed to block any attempts of sabotage by other company agents, even though it looked as though we hadn't for a while." He chuckled wryly. "We went all out to keep the McGuires safe, and all the time the boss' daughter was giving them the works." Then he looked sharply at me. "I covered that, of course. No one in the Security Guard but me knows that Jack was responsible."
"Good. But what about the Thurston and Baedecker agents, then?"
He took a hefty slug of his drink. "They're around, all right. We have our eyes on the ones we know, but those outfits are as sharp as we are, and they may have a few agents here on Ceres that we know nothing about."
"So? What does this have to do with me?"
He put his drink on the table. "Oak, I want you to help me." His onyx-brown eyes, only a shade darker than his skin, looked directly into my own. "I know it isn't part of your assignment, and you know I can't afford to pay you anything near what you're worth. It will have to come out of my
[22]
pocket because I couldn't possibly justify it from operating funds. Ravenhurst specifically told me that he doesn't want you messing around with the espionage and sabotage problem because he doesn't like your methods of operation."
"And you're going to go against his orders?"
"I am. Ravenhurst is sore at you personally because you showed him that Jack was responsible for the McGuire sabotage. It's an irrational dislike, and I am not going to let it interfere with my job. I'm going to protect Ravenhurst's interests to the best of my ability, and that means that I'll use the best of other people's abilities if I can."
I grinned at him. "The last I heard, you were sore at me for blatting it all over Ceres that Jaqueline Ravenhurst was missing, when she sneaked aboard McGuire."
He nodded perfunctorily. "I was. I still think you should have told me what you were up to. But you did it, and you got results that I'd been unable to get. I'm not going to let a momentary pique hang on as an irrational dislike. I like to think I have more sense than that."
"Thanks." There wasn't much else I could say.
"Now, I've got a little dough put away; it's not much, but I could offer you—"
I shook my head, cutting him off. "Nope. Sorry, Brock. For two reasons. In the first place, there would be a conflict of interest. I'm working for Ravenhurst, and if he doesn't want
[23]
me to work for you, then it would be unethical for me to take the job.
"In the second place, my fees are standardized. Oh, I can allow a certain amount of fluctuation, but I'm not a physician or a lawyer; my services are
[24]
not necessary to the survival of the individual, except in very rare cases, and those cases are generally arranged through a lawyer when it's a charity case.
"No, colonel, I'm afraid I couldn't
[25]
possibly work for you."
He thought that over for a long time. Finally, he nodded his head very slowly. "I see. Yeah, I get your point." He scowled down at his drink.
" But ," I said, "it would be a pleasure
[26]
to work with you."
He looked up quickly. "How's that?"
"Well, let's look at it this way: You can't hire me because I'm already working for Ravenhurst; I can't hire
[27]
you because you're working for Ravenhurst. But since we may need each other, and since we're both working for Ravenhurst, there would be no conflict of interest if we co-operate.
"Or, to put it another way, I can't take money for any service I may render you, but you can pay off in services. Am I coming through?"
His broad smile made the scars on his face fold in and deepen. "Loud and clear. It's a deal."
I held up a hand, palm toward him. "Ah, ah, ah! There's no 'deal' involved. We're just old buddies helping each other. This is for friendship, not business. I scratch your back; you scratch mine. Fair?"
"Fair. Come on down to my office; I want to give you a headful of facts and figures."
"Will do. Let me finish my guzzle."
|
Why is Mr. Crandon an important character in the story?
|
After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about What is POSAT? by Phyllis Sterling Smith.
Relevant chunks:
What is POSAT?
By PHYLLIS STERLING SMITH
Illustrated by ED ALEXANDER
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction September 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Of course coming events cast their shadows before, but this shadow was 400 years long!
The following advertisement appeared in the July 1953 issue of several magazines:
MASTERY OF ALL KNOWLEDGE CAN BE YOURS!
What is the secret source of those profound principles that can solve the problems of life? Send for our FREE booklet of explanation.
Do not be a leaf in the wind! YOU can alter the course of your life!
Tap the treasury of Wisdom through the ages!
The Perpetual Order of Seekers After Truth
POSAT
an ancient secret society
Most readers passed it by with scarcely a glance. It was, after all, similar to the many that had appeared through the years under the name of that same society. Other readers, as their eyes slid over the familiar format of the ad, speculated idly about the persistent and mildly mysterious organization behind it. A few even resolved to clip the attached coupon and send for the booklet—sometime—when a pen or pencil was nearer at hand.
Bill Evans, an unemployed pharmacist, saw the ad in a copy of Your Life and Psychology that had been abandoned on his seat in the bus. He filled out the blanks on the coupon with a scrap of stubby pencil.
"You can alter the course of your life!" he read again. He particularly liked that thought, even though he had long since ceased to believe it. He actually took the trouble to mail the coupon. After all, he had, literally, nothing to lose, and nothing else to occupy his time.
Miss Elizabeth Arnable was one of the few to whom the advertisement was unfamiliar. As a matter of fact, she very seldom read a magazine. The radio in her room took the place of reading matter, and she always liked to think that it amused her cats as well as herself. Reading would be so selfish under the circumstances, wouldn't it? Not but what the cats weren't almost smart enough to read, she always said.
It just so happened, however, that she had bought a copy of the Antivivisectionist Gazette the day before. She pounced upon the POSAT ad as a trout might snap at a particularly attractive fly. Having filled out the coupon with violet ink, she invented an errand that would take her past the neighborhood post office so that she could post it as soon as possible.
Donald Alford, research physicist, came across the POSAT ad tucked at the bottom of a column in The Bulletin of Physical Research . He was engrossed in the latest paper by Dr. Crandon, a man whom he admired from the point of view of both a former student and a fellow research worker. Consequently, he was one of the many who passed over the POSAT ad with the disregard accorded to any common object.
He read with interest to the end of the article before he realized that some component of the advertisement had been noted by a region of his brain just beyond consciousness. It teased at him like a tickle that couldn't be scratched until he turned back to the page.
It was the symbol or emblem of POSAT, he realized, that had caught his attention. The perpendicularly crossed ellipses centered with a small black circle might almost be a conventionalized version of the Bohr atom of helium. He smiled with mild skepticism as he read through the printed matter that accompanied it.
"I wonder what their racket is," he mused. Then, because his typewriter was conveniently at hand, he carefully tore out the coupon and inserted it in the machine. The spacing of the typewriter didn't fit the dotted lines on the coupon, of course, but he didn't bother to correct it. He addressed an envelope, laid it with other mail to be posted, and promptly forgot all about it. Since he was a methodical man, it was entrusted to the U.S. mail early the next morning, together with his other letters.
Three identical forms accompanied the booklet which POSAT sent in response to the three inquiries. The booklet gave no more information than had the original advertisement, but with considerable more volubility. It promised the recipient the secrets of the Cosmos and the key that would unlock the hidden knowledge within himself—if he would merely fill out the enclosed form.
Bill Evans, the unemployed pharmacist, let the paper lie unanswered for several days. To be quite honest, he was disappointed. Although he had mentally disclaimed all belief in anything that POSAT might offer, he had watched the return mails with anticipation. His own resources were almost at an end, and he had reached the point where intervention by something supernatural, or at least superhuman, seemed the only hope.
He had hoped, unreasonably, that POSAT had an answer. But time lay heavily upon him, and he used it one evening to write the requested information—about his employment (ha!), his religious beliefs, his reason for inquiring about POSAT, his financial situation. Without quite knowing that he did so, he communicated in his terse answers some of his desperation and sense of futility.
Miss Arnable was delighted with the opportunity for autobiographical composition. It required five extra sheets of paper to convey all the information that she wished to give—all about her poor, dear father who had been a missionary to China, and the kinship that she felt toward the mystic cults of the East, her belief that her cats were reincarnations of her loved ones (which, she stated, derived from a religion of the Persians; or was it the Egyptians?) and in her complete and absolute acceptance of everything that POSAT had stated in their booklet. And what would the dues be? She wished to join immediately. Fortunately, dear father had left her in a comfortable financial situation.
To Donald Alford, the booklet seemed to confirm his suspicion that POSAT was a racket of some sort. Why else would they be interested in his employment or financial position? It also served to increase his curiosity.
"What do you suppose they're driving at?" he asked his wife Betty, handing her the booklet and questionnaire.
"I don't really know what to say," she answered, squinting a little as she usually did when puzzled. "I know one thing, though, and that's that you won't stop until you find out!"
"The scientific attitude," he acknowledged with a grin.
"Why don't you fill out this questionnaire incognito, though?" she suggested. "Pretend that we're wealthy and see if they try to get our money. Do they have anything yet except your name and address?"
Don was shocked. "If I send this back to them, it will have to be with correct answers!"
"The scientific attitude again," Betty sighed. "Don't you ever let your imagination run away with the facts a bit? What are you going to give for your reasons for asking about POSAT?"
"Curiosity," he replied, and, pulling his fountain pen from his vest pocket, he wrote exactly that, in small, neat script.
It was unfortunate for his curiosity that Don could not see the contents of the three envelopes that were mailed from the offices of POSAT the following week. For this time they differed.
Bill Evans was once again disappointed. The pamphlet that was enclosed gave what apparently meant to be final answers to life's problems. They were couched in vaguely metaphysical terms and offered absolutely no help to him.
His disappointment was tempered, however, by the knowledge that he had unexpectedly found a job. Or, rather, it had fallen into his lap. When he had thought that every avenue of employment had been tried, a position had been offered him in a wholesale pharmacy in the older industrial part of the city. It was not a particularly attractive place to work, located as it was next to a large warehouse, but to him it was hope for the future.
It amused him to discover that the offices of POSAT were located on the other side of the same warehouse, at the end of a blind alley. Blind alley indeed! He felt vaguely ashamed for having placed any confidence in them.
Miss Arnable was thrilled to discover that her envelope contained not only several pamphlets, (she scanned the titles rapidly and found that one of them concerned the sacred cats of ancient Egypt), but that it contained also a small pin with the symbol of POSAT wrought in gold and black enamel. The covering letter said that she had been accepted as an active member of POSAT and that the dues were five dollars per month; please remit by return mail. She wrote a check immediately, and settled contentedly into a chair to peruse the article on sacred cats.
After a while she began to read aloud so that her own cats could enjoy it, too.
Don Alford would not have been surprised if his envelope had shown contents similar to the ones that the others received. The folded sheets of paper that he pulled forth, however, made him stiffen with sharp surprise.
"Come here a minute, Betty," he called, spreading them out carefully on the dining room table. "What do you make of these?"
She came, dish cloth in hand, and thoughtfully examined them, one by one. "Multiple choice questions! It looks like a psychological test of some sort."
"This isn't the kind of thing I expected them to send me," worried Don. "Look at the type of thing they ask. 'If you had discovered a new and virulent poison that could be compounded from common household ingredients, would you (1) publish the information in a daily newspaper, (2) manufacture it secretly and sell it as rodent exterminator, (3) give the information to the armed forces for use as a secret weapon, or (4) withhold the information entirely as too dangerous to be passed on?'"
"Could they be a spy ring?" asked Betty. "Subversive agents? Anxious to find out your scientific secrets like that classified stuff that you're so careful of when you bring it home from the lab?"
Don scanned the papers quickly. "There's nothing here that looks like an attempt to get information. Besides, I've told them nothing about my work except that I do research in physics. They don't even know what company I work for. If this is a psychological test, it measures attitudes, nothing else. Why should they want to know my attitudes?"
"Do you suppose that POSAT is really what it claims to be—a secret society—and that they actually screen their applicants?"
He smiled wryly. "Wouldn't it be interesting if I didn't make the grade after starting out to expose their racket?"
He pulled out his pen and sat down to the task of resolving the dilemmas before him.
His next communication from POSAT came to his business address and, paradoxically, was more personal than its forerunners.
Dear Doctor Alford:
We have examined with interest the information that you have sent to us. We are happy to inform you that, thus far, you have satisfied the requirements for membership in the Perpetual Order of Seekers After Truth. Before accepting new members into this ancient and honorable secret society, we find it desirable that they have a personal interview with the Grand Chairman of POSAT.
Accordingly, you are cordially invited to an audience with our Grand Chairman on Tuesday, July 10, at 2:30 P.M. Please let us know if this arrangement is acceptable to you. If not, we will attempt to make another appointment for you.
The time specified for the appointment was hardly a convenient one for Don. At 2:30 P.M. on most Tuesdays, he would be at work in the laboratory. And while his employers made no complaint if he took his research problems home with him and worried over them half the night, they were not equally enthusiastic when he used working hours for pursuing unrelated interests. Moreover, the headquarters of POSAT was in a town almost a hundred miles distant. Could he afford to take a whole day off for chasing will-o-wisps?
It hardly seemed worth the trouble. He wondered if Betty would be disappointed if he dropped the whole matter. Since the letter had been sent to the laboratory instead of his home, he couldn't consult her about it without telephoning.
Since the letter had been sent to the laboratory instead of his home! But it was impossible!
He searched feverishly through his pile of daily mail for the envelope in which the letter had come. The address stared up at him, unmistakably and fearfully legible. The name of his company. The number of the room he worked in. In short, the address that he had never given them!
"Get hold of yourself," he commanded his frightened mind. "There's some perfectly logical, easy explanation for this. They looked it up in the directory of the Institute of Physics. Or in the alumni directory of the university. Or—or—"
But the more he thought about it, the more sinister it seemed. His laboratory address was available, but why should POSAT take the trouble of looking it up? Some prudent impulse had led him to withhold that particular bit of information, yet now, for some reason of their own, POSAT had unearthed the information.
His wife's words echoed in his mind, "Could they be a spy ring? Subversive agents?"
Don shook his head as though to clear away the confusion. His conservative habit of thought made him reject that explanation as too melodramatic.
At least one decision was easier to reach because of his doubts. Now he knew he had to keep his appointment with the Grand Chairman of POSAT.
He scribbled a memo to the department office stating that he would not be at work on Tuesday.
At first Don Alford had some trouble locating the POSAT headquarters. It seemed to him that the block in which the street number would fall was occupied entirely by a huge sprawling warehouse, of concrete construction, and almost entirely windowless. It was recessed from the street in several places to make room for the small, shabby buildings of a wholesale pharmacy, a printer's plant, an upholstering shop, and was also indented by alleys lined with loading platforms.
It was at the back of one of the alleys that he finally found a door marked with the now familiar emblem of POSAT.
He opened the frosted glass door with a feeling of misgiving, and faced a dark flight of stairs leading to the upper floor. Somewhere above him a buzzer sounded, evidently indicating his arrival. He picked his way up through the murky stairwell.
The reception room was hardly a cheerful place, with its battered desk facing the view of the empty alley, and a film of dust obscuring the pattern of the gray-looking wallpaper and worn rug. But the light of the summer afternoon filtering through the window scattered the gloom somewhat, enough to help Don doubt that he would find the menace here that he had come to expect.
The girl addressing envelopes at the desk looked very ordinary. Not the Mata-Hari type , thought Don, with an inward chuckle at his own suspicions. He handed her the letter.
She smiled. "We've been expecting you, Dr. Alford. If you'll just step into the next room—"
She opened a door opposite the stairwell, and Don stepped through it.
The sight of the luxurious room before him struck his eyes with the shock of a dentist's drill, so great was the contrast between it and the shabby reception room. For a moment Don had difficulty breathing. The rug—Don had seen one like it before, but it had been in a museum. The paintings on the walls, ornately framed in gilt carving, were surely old masters—of the Renaissance period, he guessed. Although he recognized none of the pictures, he felt that he could almost name the artists. That glowing one near the corner would probably be a Titian. Or was it Tintorretto? He regretted for a moment the lost opportunities of his college days, when he had passed up Art History in favor of Operational Circuit Analysis.
The girl opened a filing cabinet, the front of which was set flush with the wall, and, selecting a folder from it, disappeared through another door.
Don sprang to examine the picture near the corner. It was hung at eye level—that is, at the eye level of the average person. Don had to bend over a bit to see it properly. He searched for a signature. Apparently there was none. But did artists sign their pictures back in those days? He wished he knew more about such things.
Each of the paintings was individually lighted by a fluorescent tube held on brackets directly above it. As Don straightened up from his scrutiny of the picture, he inadvertently hit his head against the light. The tube, dislodged from its brackets, fell to the rug with a muffled thud.
Now I've done it! thought Don with dismay. But at least the tube hadn't shattered.
In fact—it was still glowing brightly! His eyes registered the fact, even while his mind refused to believe it. He raised his eyes to the brackets. They were simple pieces of solid hardware designed to support the tube.
There were no wires!
Don picked up the slender, glowing cylinder and held it between trembling fingers. Although it was delivering as much light as a two or three hundred watt bulb, it was cool to the touch. He examined it minutely. There was no possibility of concealed batteries.
The thumping of his heart was caused not by the fact that he had never seen a similar tube before, but because he had. He had never held one in his hands, though. The ones which his company had produced as experimental models had been unsuccessful at converting all of the radioactivity into light, and had, of necessity, been heavily shielded.
Right now, two of his colleagues back in the laboratory would still be searching for the right combination of fluorescent material and radioactive salts with which to make the simple, efficient, self-contained lighting unit that he was holding in his hand at this moment!
But this is impossible! he thought. We're the only company that's working on this, and it's secret. There can't be any in actual production!
And even if one had actually been successfully produced, how would it have fallen into the possession of POSAT, an Ancient Secret Society, The Perpetual Order of Seekers After Truth?
The conviction grew in Don's mind that here was something much deeper and more sinister than he would be able to cope with. He should have asked for help, should have stated his suspicions to the police or the F.B.I. Even now—
With sudden decision, he thrust the lighting tube into his pocket and stepped swiftly to the outer door. He grasped the knob and shook it impatiently when it stuck and refused to turn. He yanked at it. His impatience changed to panic. It was locked!
A soft sound behind him made him whirl about. The secretary had entered again through the inner door. She glanced at the vacant light bracket, then significantly at his bulging pocket. Her gaze was still as bland and innocent as when he had entered, but to Don she no longer seemed ordinary. Her very calmness in the face of his odd actions was distressingly ominous.
"Our Grand Chairman will see you now," she said in a quiet voice.
Don realized that he was half crouched in the position of an animal expecting attack. He straightened up with what dignity he could manage to find.
She opened the inner door again and Don followed her into what he supposed to be the office of the Grand Chairman of POSAT.
Instead he found himself on a balcony along the side of a vast room, which must have been the interior of the warehouse that he had noted outside. The girl motioned him toward the far end of the balcony, where a frosted glass door marked the office of the Grand Chairman.
But Don could not will his legs to move. His heart beat at the sight of the room below him. It was a laboratory, but a laboratory the like of which he had never seen before. Most of the equipment was unfamiliar to him. Whatever he did recognize was of a different design than he had ever used, and there was something about it that convinced him that this was more advanced. The men who bent busily over their instruments did not raise their eyes to the figures on the balcony.
"Good Lord!" Don gasped. "That's an atomic reactor down there!" There could be no doubt about it, even though he could see it only obscurely through the bluish-green plastic shielding it.
His thoughts were so clamorous that he hardly realized that he had spoken aloud, or that the door at the end of the balcony had opened.
He was only dimly aware of the approaching footsteps as he speculated wildly on the nature of the shielding material. What could be so dense that only an inch would provide adequate shielding and yet remain semitransparent?
His scientist's mind applauded the genius who had developed it, even as the alarming conviction grew that he wouldn't—couldn't—be allowed to leave here any more. Surely no man would be allowed to leave this place alive to tell the fantastic story to the world!
"Hello, Don," said a quiet voice beside him. "It's good to see you again."
"Dr. Crandon!" he heard his own voice reply. " You're the Grand Chairman of POSAT?"
He felt betrayed and sick at heart. The very voice with which Crandon had spoken conjured up visions of quiet lecture halls and his own youthful excitement at the masterful and orderly disclosure of scientific facts. To find him here in this mad and treacherous place—didn't anything make sense any longer?
"I think we have rather abused you, Don," Dr. Crandon continued. His voice sounded so gentle that Don found it hard to think there was any evil in it. "I can see that you are suspicious of us, and—yes—afraid."
Don stared at the scene below him. After his initial glance to confirm his identification of Crandon, Don could not bear to look at him.
Crandon's voice suddenly hardened, became abrupt. "You're partly right about us, of course. I hate to think how many laws this organization has broken. Don't condemn us yet, though. You'll be a member yourself before the day is over."
Don was shocked by such confidence in his corruptibility.
"What do you use?" he asked bitterly. "Drugs? Hypnosis?"
Crandon sighed. "I forgot how little you know, Don. I have a long story to tell you. You'll find it hard to believe at first. But try to trust me. Try to believe me, as you once did. When I say that much of what POSAT does is illegal, I do not mean immoral. We're probably the most moral organization in the world. Get over the idea that you have stumbled into a den of thieves."
Crandon paused as though searching for words with which to continue.
"Did you notice the paintings in the waiting room as you entered?"
Don nodded, too bewildered to speak.
"They were donated by the founder of our Organization. They were part of his personal collection—which, incidentally, he bought from the artists themselves. He also designed the atomic reactor we use for power here in the laboratory."
"Then the pictures are modern," said Don, aware that his mouth was hanging open foolishly. "I thought one was a Titian—"
"It is," said Crandon. "We have several original Titians, although I really don't know too much about them."
"But how could a man alive today buy paintings from an artist of the Renaissance?"
"He is not alive today. POSAT is actually what our advertisements claim—an ancient secret society. Our founder has been dead for over four centuries."
"But you said that he designed your atomic reactor."
"Yes. This particular one has been in use for only twenty years, however."
Don's confusion was complete. Crandon looked at him kindly. "Let's start at the beginning," he said, and Don was back again in the classroom with the deep voice of Professor Crandon unfolding the pages of knowledge in clear and logical manner. "Four hundred years ago, in the time of the Italian Renaissance, a man lived who was a super-genius. His was the kind of incredible mentality that appears not in every generation, or even every century, but once in thousands of years.
"Probably the man who invented what we call the phonetic alphabet was one like him. That man lived seven thousand years ago in Mesopotamia, and his discovery was so original, so far from the natural course of man's thinking, that not once in the intervening seven thousand years has that device been rediscovered. It still exists only in the civilizations to which it has been passed on directly.
"The super-genius who was our founder was not a semanticist. He was a physical scientist and mathematician. Starting with the meager heritage that existed in these fields in his time, he began tackling physical puzzles one by one. Sitting in his study, using as his principal tool his own great mind, he invented calculus, developed the quantum theory of light, moved on to electromagnetic radiation and what we call Maxwell's equations—although, of course, he antedated Maxwell by centuries—developed the special and general theories of relativity, the tool of wave mechanics, and finally, toward the end of his life, he mathematically derived the packing fraction that describes the binding energy of nuclei—"
"But it can't be done," Don objected. "It's an observed phenomenon. It hasn't been derived." Every conservative instinct that he possessed cried out against this impossible fantasy. And yet—there sat the reactor, sheathed in its strange shield. Crandon watched the direction of Don's glance.
"Yes, the reactor," said Crandon. "He built one like it. It confirmed his theories. His calculations showed him something else too. He saw the destructive potentialities of an atomic explosion. He himself could not have built an atomic bomb; he didn't have the facilities. But his knowledge would have enabled other men to do so. He looked about him. He saw a political setup of warring principalities, rival states, intrigue, and squabbles over political power. Giving the men of his time atomic energy would have been like handing a baby a firecracker with a lighted fuse.
"What should he have done? Let his secrets die with him? He didn't think so. No one else in his age could have derived the knowledge that he did. But it was an age of brilliant men. Leonardo. Michelangelo. There were men capable of learning his science, even as men can learn it today. He gathered some of them together and founded this society. It served two purposes. It perpetuated his discoveries and at the same time it maintained the greatest secrecy about them. He urged that the secrets be kept until the time when men could use them safely. The other purpose was to make that time come about as soon as possible."
Crandon looked at Don's unbelieving face. "How can I make you see that it is the truth? Think of the eons that man or manlike creatures have walked the Earth. Think what a small fraction of that time is four hundred years. Is it so strange that atomic energy was discovered a little early, by this displacement in time that is so tiny after all?"
"But by one man," Don argued.
Crandon shrugged. "Compared with him, Don, you and I are stupid men. So are the scientists who slowly plodded down the same road he had come, stumbling first on one truth and then the succeeding one. We know that inventions and discoveries do not occur at random. Each is based on the one that preceded it. We are all aware of the phenomenon of simultaneous invention. The path to truth is a straight one. It is only our own stupidity that makes it seem slow and tortuous.
"He merely followed the straight path," Crandon finished simply.
Don's incredulity thawed a little. It was not entirely beyond the realm of possibility.
But if it were true! A vast panorama of possible achievements spread before him.
"Four hundred years!" he murmured with awe. "You've had four hundred years head-start on the rest of the world! What wonders you must have uncovered in that time!"
"Our technical achievements may disappoint you," warned Crandon.
"Oh, they're way beyond anything that you are familiar with. You've undoubtedly noticed the shielding material on the reactor. That's a fairly recent development of our metallurgical department. There are other things in the laboratory that I can't even explain to you until you have caught up on the technical basis for understanding them.
"Our emphasis has not been on physical sciences, however, except as they contribute to our central project. We want to change civilization so that it can use physical science without disaster."
For a moment Don had been fired with enthusiasm. But at these words his heart sank.
"Then you've failed," he said bitterly. "In spite of centuries of advance warning, you've failed to change the rest of us enough to prevent us from trying to blow ourselves off the Earth. Here we are, still snarling and snapping at our neighbors' throats—and we've caught up with you. We have the atomic bomb. What's POSAT been doing all that time? Or have you found that human nature really can't be changed?"
"Come with me," said Crandon.
He led the way along the narrow balcony to another door, then down a steep flight of stairs. He opened a door at the bottom, and Don saw what must have been the world's largest computing machine.
"This is our answer," said Crandon. "Oh, rather, it's the tool by which we find our answer. For two centuries we have been working on the newest of the sciences—that of human motivation. Soon we will be ready to put some of our new knowledge to work. But you are right in one respect, we are working now against time. We must hurry if we are to save our civilization. That's why you are here. We have work for you to do. Will you join us, Don?"
"But why the hocus-pocus?" asked Don. "Why do you hide behind such a weird front as POSAT? Why do you advertise in magazines and invite just anyone to join? Why didn't you approach me directly, if you have work for me to do? And if you really have the answers to our problems, why haven't you gathered together all the scientists in the world to work on this project—before it's too late?"
Crandon took a sighing breath. "How I wish that we could do just that! But you forget that one of the prime purposes of our organization is to maintain the secrecy of our discoveries until they can be safely disclosed. We must be absolutely certain that anyone who enters this building will have joined POSAT before he leaves. What if we approached the wrong scientist? Centuries of accomplishment might be wasted if they attempted either to reveal it or to exploit it!
"Do you recall the questionnaires that you answered before you were invited here? We fed the answers to this machine and, as a result, we know more about how you will react in any given situation than you do yourself. Even if you should fail to join us, our secrets would be safe with you. Of course, we miss a few of the scientists who might be perfect material for our organization. You'd be surprised, though, at how clever our advertisements are at attracting exactly the men we want. With the help of our new science, we have baited our ads well, and we know how to maintain interest. Curiosity is, to the men we want, a powerful motivator."
"But what about the others?" asked Don. "There must be hundreds of applicants who would be of no use to you at all."
"Oh, yes," replied Crandon. "There are the mild religious fanatics. We enroll them as members and keep them interested by sending pamphlets in line with their interests. We even let them contribute to our upkeep, if they seem to want to. They never get beyond the reception room if they come to call on us. But they are additional people through whom we can act when the time finally comes.
"There are also the desperate people who try POSAT as a last resort—lost ones who can't find their direction in life. For them we put into practice some of our newly won knowledge. We rehabilitate them—anonymously, of course. Even find jobs or patch up homes. It's good practice for us.
"I think I've answered most of your questions, Don. But you haven't answered mine. Will you join us?"
Don looked solemnly at the orderly array of the computer before him. He had one more question.
"Will it really work? Can it actually tell you how to motivate the stubborn, quarrelsome, opinionated people one finds on this Earth?"
Crandon smiled. "You're here, aren't you?"
Don nodded, his tense features relaxing.
"Enroll me as a member," he said.
Question:
Why is Mr. Crandon an important character in the story?
Answer:
|
[
"Mr. Crandon is a member of POSAT, and he is also a professor, published author, and researcher. Don admires Mr. Crandon as an intellectual before he realizes that Crandon is also the Grand Chairman of POSAT. When Don finds out that Crandon is a member of the secret society, he is shocked. Don knows that Crandon is a highly intelligent person, and POSAT seems like a scam. When Crandon explains the truth about the ancient society, its history, its goals, and its ability to pick the finest individuals to join its ranks, Don listens carefully because of his prior connection to Crandon. Had the Grand Chairman been a complete stranger to Don, he might have written the entire experience off as a manipulative scheme or a simply impossible endeavor. After one short conversation and a tour of the building, Don is willing to join POSAT as a member. Crandon is a persuasive salesman and a true believer in the organization and its goal to make a more civil society. ",
"Dr. Crandon contributes two major things to this story. The first is that he was Donald Alford's mentor as a research scientist, so he was in no small part responsible for Donald's training, giving him the tools he needed to do the research he was doing at work and could be doing with POSAT. The other major role that he plays is that of Grand Chairman of POSAT. Not only is he in charge of the organization as a whole, but he is the one who explains the history and the goals of the organization to the scientists that are recruited. ",
"Dr. Crandon is a research physicist and former professor of Don Alford. When Don first discovers the POSAT ad, he is reading a research paper by Crandon in The Bulletin of Physical Research. Crandon's instruction grounded Alford in the mastery of and commitment to the scientific process and thereby contributed to his skepticism regarding POSAT's promise of mystical wisdom. Therefore, Don is shocked to discover the Grand Chairman of POSAT is Dr. Crandon himself. Crandon delineates the history of POSAT as a hundreds-of-years-old organization meant to preserve and advance the knowledge and discoveries of its founder. The discoveries run the gamut of technology, mathematics, and physical science and pre-date contemporary discoveries such as atomic reactors by centuries. As Crandon explains, these discoveries have been kept secret because humanity could not be trusted to use them responsibly. In the meantime, POSAT has developed a massive computing machine that can analyze human behavior to determine motivations and predict reactions to certain events and knowledge. Crandon hopes that by joining POSAT, Don can use his knowledge of physics to contribute to their mission and, eventually, peacefully introduce their discoveries to society.",
"Dr. Crandon was a professor at a university that Donald Alford once attended. As a fellow scientist, he wrote several research papers and was even published in scientific journals. Donald Alford was reading his latest scholarly journal article when he came across the advertisement for POSAT. It’s clear that Alford admires Dr. Crandon both as his former student and as a scientist. It is later revealed that Dr. Crandon is in fact the Grand Master of the Perpetual Order of Seekers After Truth. He is not the founder, however, but he serves his organization with pride. Alford’s curiosity, scientific attitude, and admiration for Dr. Crandon were several factors in his admittance to joining POSAT. "
] |
51336
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What is POSAT?
By PHYLLIS STERLING SMITH
Illustrated by ED ALEXANDER
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction September 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Of course coming events cast their shadows before, but this shadow was 400 years long!
The following advertisement appeared in the July 1953 issue of several magazines:
MASTERY OF ALL KNOWLEDGE CAN BE YOURS!
What is the secret source of those profound principles that can solve the problems of life? Send for our FREE booklet of explanation.
Do not be a leaf in the wind! YOU can alter the course of your life!
Tap the treasury of Wisdom through the ages!
The Perpetual Order of Seekers After Truth
POSAT
an ancient secret society
Most readers passed it by with scarcely a glance. It was, after all, similar to the many that had appeared through the years under the name of that same society. Other readers, as their eyes slid over the familiar format of the ad, speculated idly about the persistent and mildly mysterious organization behind it. A few even resolved to clip the attached coupon and send for the booklet—sometime—when a pen or pencil was nearer at hand.
Bill Evans, an unemployed pharmacist, saw the ad in a copy of Your Life and Psychology that had been abandoned on his seat in the bus. He filled out the blanks on the coupon with a scrap of stubby pencil.
"You can alter the course of your life!" he read again. He particularly liked that thought, even though he had long since ceased to believe it. He actually took the trouble to mail the coupon. After all, he had, literally, nothing to lose, and nothing else to occupy his time.
Miss Elizabeth Arnable was one of the few to whom the advertisement was unfamiliar. As a matter of fact, she very seldom read a magazine. The radio in her room took the place of reading matter, and she always liked to think that it amused her cats as well as herself. Reading would be so selfish under the circumstances, wouldn't it? Not but what the cats weren't almost smart enough to read, she always said.
It just so happened, however, that she had bought a copy of the Antivivisectionist Gazette the day before. She pounced upon the POSAT ad as a trout might snap at a particularly attractive fly. Having filled out the coupon with violet ink, she invented an errand that would take her past the neighborhood post office so that she could post it as soon as possible.
Donald Alford, research physicist, came across the POSAT ad tucked at the bottom of a column in The Bulletin of Physical Research . He was engrossed in the latest paper by Dr. Crandon, a man whom he admired from the point of view of both a former student and a fellow research worker. Consequently, he was one of the many who passed over the POSAT ad with the disregard accorded to any common object.
He read with interest to the end of the article before he realized that some component of the advertisement had been noted by a region of his brain just beyond consciousness. It teased at him like a tickle that couldn't be scratched until he turned back to the page.
It was the symbol or emblem of POSAT, he realized, that had caught his attention. The perpendicularly crossed ellipses centered with a small black circle might almost be a conventionalized version of the Bohr atom of helium. He smiled with mild skepticism as he read through the printed matter that accompanied it.
"I wonder what their racket is," he mused. Then, because his typewriter was conveniently at hand, he carefully tore out the coupon and inserted it in the machine. The spacing of the typewriter didn't fit the dotted lines on the coupon, of course, but he didn't bother to correct it. He addressed an envelope, laid it with other mail to be posted, and promptly forgot all about it. Since he was a methodical man, it was entrusted to the U.S. mail early the next morning, together with his other letters.
Three identical forms accompanied the booklet which POSAT sent in response to the three inquiries. The booklet gave no more information than had the original advertisement, but with considerable more volubility. It promised the recipient the secrets of the Cosmos and the key that would unlock the hidden knowledge within himself—if he would merely fill out the enclosed form.
Bill Evans, the unemployed pharmacist, let the paper lie unanswered for several days. To be quite honest, he was disappointed. Although he had mentally disclaimed all belief in anything that POSAT might offer, he had watched the return mails with anticipation. His own resources were almost at an end, and he had reached the point where intervention by something supernatural, or at least superhuman, seemed the only hope.
He had hoped, unreasonably, that POSAT had an answer. But time lay heavily upon him, and he used it one evening to write the requested information—about his employment (ha!), his religious beliefs, his reason for inquiring about POSAT, his financial situation. Without quite knowing that he did so, he communicated in his terse answers some of his desperation and sense of futility.
Miss Arnable was delighted with the opportunity for autobiographical composition. It required five extra sheets of paper to convey all the information that she wished to give—all about her poor, dear father who had been a missionary to China, and the kinship that she felt toward the mystic cults of the East, her belief that her cats were reincarnations of her loved ones (which, she stated, derived from a religion of the Persians; or was it the Egyptians?) and in her complete and absolute acceptance of everything that POSAT had stated in their booklet. And what would the dues be? She wished to join immediately. Fortunately, dear father had left her in a comfortable financial situation.
To Donald Alford, the booklet seemed to confirm his suspicion that POSAT was a racket of some sort. Why else would they be interested in his employment or financial position? It also served to increase his curiosity.
"What do you suppose they're driving at?" he asked his wife Betty, handing her the booklet and questionnaire.
"I don't really know what to say," she answered, squinting a little as she usually did when puzzled. "I know one thing, though, and that's that you won't stop until you find out!"
"The scientific attitude," he acknowledged with a grin.
"Why don't you fill out this questionnaire incognito, though?" she suggested. "Pretend that we're wealthy and see if they try to get our money. Do they have anything yet except your name and address?"
Don was shocked. "If I send this back to them, it will have to be with correct answers!"
"The scientific attitude again," Betty sighed. "Don't you ever let your imagination run away with the facts a bit? What are you going to give for your reasons for asking about POSAT?"
"Curiosity," he replied, and, pulling his fountain pen from his vest pocket, he wrote exactly that, in small, neat script.
It was unfortunate for his curiosity that Don could not see the contents of the three envelopes that were mailed from the offices of POSAT the following week. For this time they differed.
Bill Evans was once again disappointed. The pamphlet that was enclosed gave what apparently meant to be final answers to life's problems. They were couched in vaguely metaphysical terms and offered absolutely no help to him.
His disappointment was tempered, however, by the knowledge that he had unexpectedly found a job. Or, rather, it had fallen into his lap. When he had thought that every avenue of employment had been tried, a position had been offered him in a wholesale pharmacy in the older industrial part of the city. It was not a particularly attractive place to work, located as it was next to a large warehouse, but to him it was hope for the future.
It amused him to discover that the offices of POSAT were located on the other side of the same warehouse, at the end of a blind alley. Blind alley indeed! He felt vaguely ashamed for having placed any confidence in them.
Miss Arnable was thrilled to discover that her envelope contained not only several pamphlets, (she scanned the titles rapidly and found that one of them concerned the sacred cats of ancient Egypt), but that it contained also a small pin with the symbol of POSAT wrought in gold and black enamel. The covering letter said that she had been accepted as an active member of POSAT and that the dues were five dollars per month; please remit by return mail. She wrote a check immediately, and settled contentedly into a chair to peruse the article on sacred cats.
After a while she began to read aloud so that her own cats could enjoy it, too.
Don Alford would not have been surprised if his envelope had shown contents similar to the ones that the others received. The folded sheets of paper that he pulled forth, however, made him stiffen with sharp surprise.
"Come here a minute, Betty," he called, spreading them out carefully on the dining room table. "What do you make of these?"
She came, dish cloth in hand, and thoughtfully examined them, one by one. "Multiple choice questions! It looks like a psychological test of some sort."
"This isn't the kind of thing I expected them to send me," worried Don. "Look at the type of thing they ask. 'If you had discovered a new and virulent poison that could be compounded from common household ingredients, would you (1) publish the information in a daily newspaper, (2) manufacture it secretly and sell it as rodent exterminator, (3) give the information to the armed forces for use as a secret weapon, or (4) withhold the information entirely as too dangerous to be passed on?'"
"Could they be a spy ring?" asked Betty. "Subversive agents? Anxious to find out your scientific secrets like that classified stuff that you're so careful of when you bring it home from the lab?"
Don scanned the papers quickly. "There's nothing here that looks like an attempt to get information. Besides, I've told them nothing about my work except that I do research in physics. They don't even know what company I work for. If this is a psychological test, it measures attitudes, nothing else. Why should they want to know my attitudes?"
"Do you suppose that POSAT is really what it claims to be—a secret society—and that they actually screen their applicants?"
He smiled wryly. "Wouldn't it be interesting if I didn't make the grade after starting out to expose their racket?"
He pulled out his pen and sat down to the task of resolving the dilemmas before him.
His next communication from POSAT came to his business address and, paradoxically, was more personal than its forerunners.
Dear Doctor Alford:
We have examined with interest the information that you have sent to us. We are happy to inform you that, thus far, you have satisfied the requirements for membership in the Perpetual Order of Seekers After Truth. Before accepting new members into this ancient and honorable secret society, we find it desirable that they have a personal interview with the Grand Chairman of POSAT.
Accordingly, you are cordially invited to an audience with our Grand Chairman on Tuesday, July 10, at 2:30 P.M. Please let us know if this arrangement is acceptable to you. If not, we will attempt to make another appointment for you.
The time specified for the appointment was hardly a convenient one for Don. At 2:30 P.M. on most Tuesdays, he would be at work in the laboratory. And while his employers made no complaint if he took his research problems home with him and worried over them half the night, they were not equally enthusiastic when he used working hours for pursuing unrelated interests. Moreover, the headquarters of POSAT was in a town almost a hundred miles distant. Could he afford to take a whole day off for chasing will-o-wisps?
It hardly seemed worth the trouble. He wondered if Betty would be disappointed if he dropped the whole matter. Since the letter had been sent to the laboratory instead of his home, he couldn't consult her about it without telephoning.
Since the letter had been sent to the laboratory instead of his home! But it was impossible!
He searched feverishly through his pile of daily mail for the envelope in which the letter had come. The address stared up at him, unmistakably and fearfully legible. The name of his company. The number of the room he worked in. In short, the address that he had never given them!
"Get hold of yourself," he commanded his frightened mind. "There's some perfectly logical, easy explanation for this. They looked it up in the directory of the Institute of Physics. Or in the alumni directory of the university. Or—or—"
But the more he thought about it, the more sinister it seemed. His laboratory address was available, but why should POSAT take the trouble of looking it up? Some prudent impulse had led him to withhold that particular bit of information, yet now, for some reason of their own, POSAT had unearthed the information.
His wife's words echoed in his mind, "Could they be a spy ring? Subversive agents?"
Don shook his head as though to clear away the confusion. His conservative habit of thought made him reject that explanation as too melodramatic.
At least one decision was easier to reach because of his doubts. Now he knew he had to keep his appointment with the Grand Chairman of POSAT.
He scribbled a memo to the department office stating that he would not be at work on Tuesday.
At first Don Alford had some trouble locating the POSAT headquarters. It seemed to him that the block in which the street number would fall was occupied entirely by a huge sprawling warehouse, of concrete construction, and almost entirely windowless. It was recessed from the street in several places to make room for the small, shabby buildings of a wholesale pharmacy, a printer's plant, an upholstering shop, and was also indented by alleys lined with loading platforms.
It was at the back of one of the alleys that he finally found a door marked with the now familiar emblem of POSAT.
He opened the frosted glass door with a feeling of misgiving, and faced a dark flight of stairs leading to the upper floor. Somewhere above him a buzzer sounded, evidently indicating his arrival. He picked his way up through the murky stairwell.
The reception room was hardly a cheerful place, with its battered desk facing the view of the empty alley, and a film of dust obscuring the pattern of the gray-looking wallpaper and worn rug. But the light of the summer afternoon filtering through the window scattered the gloom somewhat, enough to help Don doubt that he would find the menace here that he had come to expect.
The girl addressing envelopes at the desk looked very ordinary. Not the Mata-Hari type , thought Don, with an inward chuckle at his own suspicions. He handed her the letter.
She smiled. "We've been expecting you, Dr. Alford. If you'll just step into the next room—"
She opened a door opposite the stairwell, and Don stepped through it.
The sight of the luxurious room before him struck his eyes with the shock of a dentist's drill, so great was the contrast between it and the shabby reception room. For a moment Don had difficulty breathing. The rug—Don had seen one like it before, but it had been in a museum. The paintings on the walls, ornately framed in gilt carving, were surely old masters—of the Renaissance period, he guessed. Although he recognized none of the pictures, he felt that he could almost name the artists. That glowing one near the corner would probably be a Titian. Or was it Tintorretto? He regretted for a moment the lost opportunities of his college days, when he had passed up Art History in favor of Operational Circuit Analysis.
The girl opened a filing cabinet, the front of which was set flush with the wall, and, selecting a folder from it, disappeared through another door.
Don sprang to examine the picture near the corner. It was hung at eye level—that is, at the eye level of the average person. Don had to bend over a bit to see it properly. He searched for a signature. Apparently there was none. But did artists sign their pictures back in those days? He wished he knew more about such things.
Each of the paintings was individually lighted by a fluorescent tube held on brackets directly above it. As Don straightened up from his scrutiny of the picture, he inadvertently hit his head against the light. The tube, dislodged from its brackets, fell to the rug with a muffled thud.
Now I've done it! thought Don with dismay. But at least the tube hadn't shattered.
In fact—it was still glowing brightly! His eyes registered the fact, even while his mind refused to believe it. He raised his eyes to the brackets. They were simple pieces of solid hardware designed to support the tube.
There were no wires!
Don picked up the slender, glowing cylinder and held it between trembling fingers. Although it was delivering as much light as a two or three hundred watt bulb, it was cool to the touch. He examined it minutely. There was no possibility of concealed batteries.
The thumping of his heart was caused not by the fact that he had never seen a similar tube before, but because he had. He had never held one in his hands, though. The ones which his company had produced as experimental models had been unsuccessful at converting all of the radioactivity into light, and had, of necessity, been heavily shielded.
Right now, two of his colleagues back in the laboratory would still be searching for the right combination of fluorescent material and radioactive salts with which to make the simple, efficient, self-contained lighting unit that he was holding in his hand at this moment!
But this is impossible! he thought. We're the only company that's working on this, and it's secret. There can't be any in actual production!
And even if one had actually been successfully produced, how would it have fallen into the possession of POSAT, an Ancient Secret Society, The Perpetual Order of Seekers After Truth?
The conviction grew in Don's mind that here was something much deeper and more sinister than he would be able to cope with. He should have asked for help, should have stated his suspicions to the police or the F.B.I. Even now—
With sudden decision, he thrust the lighting tube into his pocket and stepped swiftly to the outer door. He grasped the knob and shook it impatiently when it stuck and refused to turn. He yanked at it. His impatience changed to panic. It was locked!
A soft sound behind him made him whirl about. The secretary had entered again through the inner door. She glanced at the vacant light bracket, then significantly at his bulging pocket. Her gaze was still as bland and innocent as when he had entered, but to Don she no longer seemed ordinary. Her very calmness in the face of his odd actions was distressingly ominous.
"Our Grand Chairman will see you now," she said in a quiet voice.
Don realized that he was half crouched in the position of an animal expecting attack. He straightened up with what dignity he could manage to find.
She opened the inner door again and Don followed her into what he supposed to be the office of the Grand Chairman of POSAT.
Instead he found himself on a balcony along the side of a vast room, which must have been the interior of the warehouse that he had noted outside. The girl motioned him toward the far end of the balcony, where a frosted glass door marked the office of the Grand Chairman.
But Don could not will his legs to move. His heart beat at the sight of the room below him. It was a laboratory, but a laboratory the like of which he had never seen before. Most of the equipment was unfamiliar to him. Whatever he did recognize was of a different design than he had ever used, and there was something about it that convinced him that this was more advanced. The men who bent busily over their instruments did not raise their eyes to the figures on the balcony.
"Good Lord!" Don gasped. "That's an atomic reactor down there!" There could be no doubt about it, even though he could see it only obscurely through the bluish-green plastic shielding it.
His thoughts were so clamorous that he hardly realized that he had spoken aloud, or that the door at the end of the balcony had opened.
He was only dimly aware of the approaching footsteps as he speculated wildly on the nature of the shielding material. What could be so dense that only an inch would provide adequate shielding and yet remain semitransparent?
His scientist's mind applauded the genius who had developed it, even as the alarming conviction grew that he wouldn't—couldn't—be allowed to leave here any more. Surely no man would be allowed to leave this place alive to tell the fantastic story to the world!
"Hello, Don," said a quiet voice beside him. "It's good to see you again."
"Dr. Crandon!" he heard his own voice reply. " You're the Grand Chairman of POSAT?"
He felt betrayed and sick at heart. The very voice with which Crandon had spoken conjured up visions of quiet lecture halls and his own youthful excitement at the masterful and orderly disclosure of scientific facts. To find him here in this mad and treacherous place—didn't anything make sense any longer?
"I think we have rather abused you, Don," Dr. Crandon continued. His voice sounded so gentle that Don found it hard to think there was any evil in it. "I can see that you are suspicious of us, and—yes—afraid."
Don stared at the scene below him. After his initial glance to confirm his identification of Crandon, Don could not bear to look at him.
Crandon's voice suddenly hardened, became abrupt. "You're partly right about us, of course. I hate to think how many laws this organization has broken. Don't condemn us yet, though. You'll be a member yourself before the day is over."
Don was shocked by such confidence in his corruptibility.
"What do you use?" he asked bitterly. "Drugs? Hypnosis?"
Crandon sighed. "I forgot how little you know, Don. I have a long story to tell you. You'll find it hard to believe at first. But try to trust me. Try to believe me, as you once did. When I say that much of what POSAT does is illegal, I do not mean immoral. We're probably the most moral organization in the world. Get over the idea that you have stumbled into a den of thieves."
Crandon paused as though searching for words with which to continue.
"Did you notice the paintings in the waiting room as you entered?"
Don nodded, too bewildered to speak.
"They were donated by the founder of our Organization. They were part of his personal collection—which, incidentally, he bought from the artists themselves. He also designed the atomic reactor we use for power here in the laboratory."
"Then the pictures are modern," said Don, aware that his mouth was hanging open foolishly. "I thought one was a Titian—"
"It is," said Crandon. "We have several original Titians, although I really don't know too much about them."
"But how could a man alive today buy paintings from an artist of the Renaissance?"
"He is not alive today. POSAT is actually what our advertisements claim—an ancient secret society. Our founder has been dead for over four centuries."
"But you said that he designed your atomic reactor."
"Yes. This particular one has been in use for only twenty years, however."
Don's confusion was complete. Crandon looked at him kindly. "Let's start at the beginning," he said, and Don was back again in the classroom with the deep voice of Professor Crandon unfolding the pages of knowledge in clear and logical manner. "Four hundred years ago, in the time of the Italian Renaissance, a man lived who was a super-genius. His was the kind of incredible mentality that appears not in every generation, or even every century, but once in thousands of years.
"Probably the man who invented what we call the phonetic alphabet was one like him. That man lived seven thousand years ago in Mesopotamia, and his discovery was so original, so far from the natural course of man's thinking, that not once in the intervening seven thousand years has that device been rediscovered. It still exists only in the civilizations to which it has been passed on directly.
"The super-genius who was our founder was not a semanticist. He was a physical scientist and mathematician. Starting with the meager heritage that existed in these fields in his time, he began tackling physical puzzles one by one. Sitting in his study, using as his principal tool his own great mind, he invented calculus, developed the quantum theory of light, moved on to electromagnetic radiation and what we call Maxwell's equations—although, of course, he antedated Maxwell by centuries—developed the special and general theories of relativity, the tool of wave mechanics, and finally, toward the end of his life, he mathematically derived the packing fraction that describes the binding energy of nuclei—"
"But it can't be done," Don objected. "It's an observed phenomenon. It hasn't been derived." Every conservative instinct that he possessed cried out against this impossible fantasy. And yet—there sat the reactor, sheathed in its strange shield. Crandon watched the direction of Don's glance.
"Yes, the reactor," said Crandon. "He built one like it. It confirmed his theories. His calculations showed him something else too. He saw the destructive potentialities of an atomic explosion. He himself could not have built an atomic bomb; he didn't have the facilities. But his knowledge would have enabled other men to do so. He looked about him. He saw a political setup of warring principalities, rival states, intrigue, and squabbles over political power. Giving the men of his time atomic energy would have been like handing a baby a firecracker with a lighted fuse.
"What should he have done? Let his secrets die with him? He didn't think so. No one else in his age could have derived the knowledge that he did. But it was an age of brilliant men. Leonardo. Michelangelo. There were men capable of learning his science, even as men can learn it today. He gathered some of them together and founded this society. It served two purposes. It perpetuated his discoveries and at the same time it maintained the greatest secrecy about them. He urged that the secrets be kept until the time when men could use them safely. The other purpose was to make that time come about as soon as possible."
Crandon looked at Don's unbelieving face. "How can I make you see that it is the truth? Think of the eons that man or manlike creatures have walked the Earth. Think what a small fraction of that time is four hundred years. Is it so strange that atomic energy was discovered a little early, by this displacement in time that is so tiny after all?"
"But by one man," Don argued.
Crandon shrugged. "Compared with him, Don, you and I are stupid men. So are the scientists who slowly plodded down the same road he had come, stumbling first on one truth and then the succeeding one. We know that inventions and discoveries do not occur at random. Each is based on the one that preceded it. We are all aware of the phenomenon of simultaneous invention. The path to truth is a straight one. It is only our own stupidity that makes it seem slow and tortuous.
"He merely followed the straight path," Crandon finished simply.
Don's incredulity thawed a little. It was not entirely beyond the realm of possibility.
But if it were true! A vast panorama of possible achievements spread before him.
"Four hundred years!" he murmured with awe. "You've had four hundred years head-start on the rest of the world! What wonders you must have uncovered in that time!"
"Our technical achievements may disappoint you," warned Crandon.
"Oh, they're way beyond anything that you are familiar with. You've undoubtedly noticed the shielding material on the reactor. That's a fairly recent development of our metallurgical department. There are other things in the laboratory that I can't even explain to you until you have caught up on the technical basis for understanding them.
"Our emphasis has not been on physical sciences, however, except as they contribute to our central project. We want to change civilization so that it can use physical science without disaster."
For a moment Don had been fired with enthusiasm. But at these words his heart sank.
"Then you've failed," he said bitterly. "In spite of centuries of advance warning, you've failed to change the rest of us enough to prevent us from trying to blow ourselves off the Earth. Here we are, still snarling and snapping at our neighbors' throats—and we've caught up with you. We have the atomic bomb. What's POSAT been doing all that time? Or have you found that human nature really can't be changed?"
"Come with me," said Crandon.
He led the way along the narrow balcony to another door, then down a steep flight of stairs. He opened a door at the bottom, and Don saw what must have been the world's largest computing machine.
"This is our answer," said Crandon. "Oh, rather, it's the tool by which we find our answer. For two centuries we have been working on the newest of the sciences—that of human motivation. Soon we will be ready to put some of our new knowledge to work. But you are right in one respect, we are working now against time. We must hurry if we are to save our civilization. That's why you are here. We have work for you to do. Will you join us, Don?"
"But why the hocus-pocus?" asked Don. "Why do you hide behind such a weird front as POSAT? Why do you advertise in magazines and invite just anyone to join? Why didn't you approach me directly, if you have work for me to do? And if you really have the answers to our problems, why haven't you gathered together all the scientists in the world to work on this project—before it's too late?"
Crandon took a sighing breath. "How I wish that we could do just that! But you forget that one of the prime purposes of our organization is to maintain the secrecy of our discoveries until they can be safely disclosed. We must be absolutely certain that anyone who enters this building will have joined POSAT before he leaves. What if we approached the wrong scientist? Centuries of accomplishment might be wasted if they attempted either to reveal it or to exploit it!
"Do you recall the questionnaires that you answered before you were invited here? We fed the answers to this machine and, as a result, we know more about how you will react in any given situation than you do yourself. Even if you should fail to join us, our secrets would be safe with you. Of course, we miss a few of the scientists who might be perfect material for our organization. You'd be surprised, though, at how clever our advertisements are at attracting exactly the men we want. With the help of our new science, we have baited our ads well, and we know how to maintain interest. Curiosity is, to the men we want, a powerful motivator."
"But what about the others?" asked Don. "There must be hundreds of applicants who would be of no use to you at all."
"Oh, yes," replied Crandon. "There are the mild religious fanatics. We enroll them as members and keep them interested by sending pamphlets in line with their interests. We even let them contribute to our upkeep, if they seem to want to. They never get beyond the reception room if they come to call on us. But they are additional people through whom we can act when the time finally comes.
"There are also the desperate people who try POSAT as a last resort—lost ones who can't find their direction in life. For them we put into practice some of our newly won knowledge. We rehabilitate them—anonymously, of course. Even find jobs or patch up homes. It's good practice for us.
"I think I've answered most of your questions, Don. But you haven't answered mine. Will you join us?"
Don looked solemnly at the orderly array of the computer before him. He had one more question.
"Will it really work? Can it actually tell you how to motivate the stubborn, quarrelsome, opinionated people one finds on this Earth?"
Crandon smiled. "You're here, aren't you?"
Don nodded, his tense features relaxing.
"Enroll me as a member," he said.
|
What is the significance of the mystery metal from the starship?
|
After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about Captain Midas by Alfred Coppel.
Relevant chunks:
CAPTAIN MIDAS
By ALFRED COPPEL, JR.
The captain of the Martian Maid stared avidly at the torn derelict floating against the velvet void. Here was treasure beyond his wildest dreams! How could he know his dreams should have been nightmares?
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Gold! A magic word, even today, isn't it? Lust and gold ... they go hand in hand. Like the horsemen of the Apocalypse. And, of course, there's another word needed to make up the trilogy. You don't get any thing for nothing. So add this: Cost. Or you might call it pain, sorrow, agony. Call it what you like. It's what you pay for great treasure....
These things were true when fabled Jason sailed the Argo beyond Colchis seeking the Fleece. They were true when men sailed the southern oceans in wooden ships. And the conquest of space hasn't changed us a bit. We're still a greedy lot....
I'm a queer one to be saying these things, but then, who has more right? Look at me. My hair is gray and my face ... my face is a mask. The flesh hangs on my bones like a yellow cloth on a rickety frame. I am old, old. And I wait here on my hospital cot—wait for the weight of years I never lived to drag me under and let me forget the awful things my eyes have seen.
I'm poor, too, or else I wouldn't be here in this place of dying for old spacemen. I haven't a dime except for the pittance the Holcomb Foundation calls a spaceman's pension. Yet I had millions in my hands. Treasure beyond your wildest dreams! Cursed treasure....
You smile. You are thinking that I'm just an old man, beached earthside, spinning tall tales to impress the youngsters. Maybe, thinking about the kind of spacemen my generation produced, you have the idea that if ever we'd so much as laid a hand on anything of value out in space we'd not let go until Hell froze over! Well, you're right about that. We didn't seek the spaceways for the advancement of civilization or any of that Foundation bushwah, you can be certain of that. We did it for us ... for Number One. That's the kind of men we were, and we were proud of it. We hung onto what we found because the risks were high and we were entitled to keep what we could out there. But there are strange things in the sky. Things that don't respond to all of our neat little Laws and Theories. There are things that are no part of the world of men, thick with danger—and horror.
If you doubt that—and I can see you do—just look at me. I suppose you've never heard of the Martian Maid, and so you don't know the story of what happened to her crew or her skipper. I can give you this much of an answer. I was her skipper. And her crew? They ride high in the sky ... dust by this time. And all because they were men, and men are greedy and hasty and full of an unreasoning, unthinking love for gold. They ride a golden ship that they paid for with all the years of their lives. It's all theirs now. Bought and paid for.
It wasn't too long ago that I lifted the Maid off Solis Lacus on that last flight. Not many of you will remember her class of ship, so many advances have been made in the last few years. The Maid was two hundred feet from tip to tail, and as sleek a spacer as ever came out of the Foundation Yards. Chemical fueled, she was nothing at all like the spherical hyperdrives we see today. She was armed, too. The Foundation still thought of space as a possible stamping ground for alien creatures though no evidence of any extra-terrestrial life had ever been found ... then.
My crew was a rough bunch, like all those early crews. I remember them so well. Lean, hungry men with hell in their eyes and a great lust for high pay and hard living. Spinelli, Shelley, Cohn, Marvin, Zaleski. There wasn't a man on board who wouldn't have traded his immortal soul for a few solar dollars, and I don't claim that I was any different. That's the kind of men that opened up the spaceways, too. Don't believe all this talk about the noble pioneering spirit of man. That's tripe. There never has been such a thing as a noble pioneer. Not in space or anywhere else. It is the malcontent and the adventuring mercenary that pushes the frontier outward.
I didn't know, that night as I stood in the valve of the Maid, watching the loading cranes pull away, that I was starting out on my last flight. I don't think any of the others could have guessed, either. It was the sort of night that you only see on Mars. The sort of night that makes a spaceman wonder why in hell he wants to leave the relative security of the Earth-Mars-Venus Triangle to go jetting across the belt into deep space and the drab desolation of the outer System.
I stood there, watching the lights of Canalopolis in the distance. For just a moment I was ... well, touched. It looked beautiful and unreal under the racing moons. The lights of the gin mills and houses made a sparkling filigree pattern on the dark waters of the ancient canal, and the moons cast their shifting shadows across the silted banks. I was too far away to see the space-fevered bums and smell the shanties, and for a little while I felt the wonder of standing on the soil of a world that man had made his own with his rapacity and his sheer guts and gimme.
I thought of our half empty cargo hold and the sweet payload we would pick up on Callisto. And I counted the extra cash my packets of snow would bring from those lonely men up there on the barren moonlets of the outer Systems. There were plenty of cargoes carried on the Maid that the Holcomb Foundation snoopers never heard about, you can be sure of that.
In those days the asteroid belt was the primary danger and menace to astrogation. For a long while it held men back from deep space, but as fuels improved a few ships were sent out over the top. A few million miles up out of the ecliptic plane brings you to a region of space that's pretty thinly strewn with asteroids, and that's the way we used to make the flight between the outer systems and the EMV Triangle. It took a long while for hyperdrives to be developed and of course atomics never panned out because of the weight problem.
So that's the orbit the Maid took on that last trip of mine. High and clear into the supra-solar void. And out there in that primeval blackness is where we found the derelict.
I didn't realize it was a derelict when Spinelli first reported it from the forward scope position. I assumed it was a Foundation ship. The Holcomb Foundation was founded for the purpose of developing spaceflight, and as the years went by it took on the whole responsibility for the building and dispatching of space ships. Never in history had there been any real evidence of extra-terrestrial intelligent life, and when the EMV Triangle proved barren, we all just assumed that the Universe was man's own particular oyster. That kind of unreasoning arrogance is as hard to explain as it is to correct.
There were plenty of ships being lost in space, and immediately that Spinelli's report from up forward got noised about the Maid every one of us started mentally counting up his share of the salvage money. All this before we were within ten thousand miles of the hulk!
All spaceships look pretty much alike, but as I sat at the telescope I saw that there was something different about this one. At such a distance I couldn't get too much detail in our small three inch glass, but I could see that the hulk was big—bigger than any ship I'd ever seen before. I had the radar fixed on her and then I retired with my slide rule to Control. It wasn't long before I discovered that the derelict ship was on a near collision course, but there was something about its orbit that was strange. I called Cohn, the Metering Officer, and showed him my figures.
"Mister Cohn," I said, chart in hand, "do these figures look right to you?"
Cohn's dark eyes lit up as they always did when he worked with figures. It didn't take him long to check me. "The math is quite correct, Captain," he said. I could see that he hadn't missed the inference of those figures on the chart.
"Assemble the ship's company, Mister Cohn," I ordered.
The assembly horn sounded throughout the Maid and I could feel the tug of the automatics taking over as the crew left their stations. Soon they were assembled in Control.
"You have all heard about Mister Spinelli's find," I said, "I have computed the orbit and inspected the object through the glass. It seems to be a spacer ... either abandoned or in distress...." Reaching into the book rack above my desk I took down a copy of the Foundation's Space Regulations and opened it to the section concerning salvage.
"Sections XVIII, Paragraph 8 of the Code Regulating Interplanetary Astrogation and Commerce," I read, "Any vessel or part of vessel found in an abandoned or totally disabled condition in any region of space not subject to the sovereignty of any planet of the Earth-Venus-Mars Triangle shall be considered to be the property of the crew of the vessel locating said abandoned or disabled vessel except in such cases as the ownership of said abandoned or disabled vessel may be readily ascertained...." I looked up and closed the book. "Simply stated, that means that if that thing ahead of us is a derelict we are entitled to claim it as salvage."
"Unless it already belongs to someone?" asked Spinelli.
"That's correct Mister Spinelli, but I don't think there is much danger of that," I replied quietly. "My figures show that hulk out there came in from the direction of Coma Berenices...."
There was a long silence before Zaleski shifted his two hundred pounds uneasily and gave a form to the muted fear inside me. "You think ... you think it came from the stars , Captain?"
"Maybe even from beyond the stars," Cohn said in a low voice.
Looking at that circle of faces I saw the beginnings of greed. The first impact of the Metering Officer's words wore off quickly and soon every man of my crew was thinking that anything from the stars would be worth money ... lots of money.
Spinelli said, "Do we look her over, Captain?"
They all looked at me, waiting for my answer. I knew it would be worth plenty, and money hunger was like a fever inside me.
"Certainly we look it over, Mister Spinelli," I said sharply.
"Certainly!"
The first thing about the derelict that struck us as we drew near was her size. No ship ever built in the Foundation Yards had ever attained such gargantuan proportions. She must have stretched a full thousand feet from bow to stern, a sleek torpedo shape of somehow unspeakable alienness. Against the backdrop of the Milky Way, she gleamed fitfully in the light of the faraway sun, the metal of her flanks grained with something like tiny, glittering whorls. It was as though the stuff were somehow unstable ... seeking balance ... maybe even alive in some strange and alien way.
It was readily apparent to all of us that she had never been built for inter-planetary flight. She was a starship. Origin unknown. An aura of mystery surrounded her like a shroud, protecting the world that gave her birth mutely but effectively. The distance she must have come was unthinkable. And the time it had taken...? Aeons. Millennia. For she was drifting, dead in space, slowly spinning end over end as she swung about Sol in a hyperbolic orbit that would soon take her out and away again into the inter-stellar deeps.
Something had wounded her ... perhaps ten million years ago ... perhaps yesterday. She was gashed deeply from stem to stern with a jagged rip that bared her mangled innards. A wandering asteroid? A meteor? We would never know. It gave me an uncomfortable feeling of things beyond the ken of men as I looked at her through the port. I would never know what killed her, or where she was going, or whence she came. Yet she was mine. It made me feel like an upstart. And it made me afraid ... but of what?
We should have reported her to the nearest EMV base, but that would have meant that we'd lose her. Scientists would be sent out. Men better equipped than we to investigate the first extrasolar artifact found by men. But I didn't report her. She was ours. She was money in the bank. Let the scientists take over after we'd put a prize crew aboard and brought her into Callisto for salvage.... That's the way I had things figured.
The Maid hove to about a hundred yards from her and hung there, dwarfed by the mighty glistening ship. I called for volunteers and we prepared a boarding party. I was thinking that her drives alone would be worth millions. Cohn took charge and he and three of the men suited up and crossed to her.
In an hour they were back, disappointment largely written on their faces.
"There's nothing left of her, Captain," Cohn reported, "Whatever hit her tore up the innards so badly we couldn't even find the drives. She's a mess inside. Nothing left but the hull and a few storage compartments that are still unbroken."
She was never built to carry humanoids he told us, and there was nothing that could give us a hint of where she had come from. The hull alone was left.
He dropped two chunks of metal on my desk. "I brought back some samples of her pressure hull," he said, "The whole thing is made of this stuff...."
"We'll still take her in," I said, hiding my disappointment. "The carcass will be worth money in Callisto. Have Mister Marvin and Zaleski assemble a spare pulse-jet. We'll jury-rig her and bring her down under her own power. You take charge of provisioning her. Check those compartments you found and install oxy-generators aboard. When it's done report to me in my quarters."
I picked up the two samples of gleaming metal and called for a metallurgical testing kit. "I'm going to try and find out if this stuff is worth anything...."
The metal was heavy—too heavy, it seemed to me, for spaceship construction. But then, who was to say what conditions existed on that distant world where this metal was made?
Under the bright fluorescent over my work-table, the chunks of metal torn from a random bulkhead of the starship gleamed like pale silver; those strange little whorls that I had noticed on the outer hull were there too, like tiny magnetic lines of force, making the surface of the metal seem to dance. I held the stuff in my bare hand. It had a yellowish tinge, and it was heavier ....
Even as I watched, the metal grew yellower, and the hand that held it grew bone weary, little tongues of fatigue licking up my forearm. Suddenly terrified, I dropped the chunk as though it were white hot. It struck the table with a dull thud and lay there, a rich yellow lump of metallic lustre.
For a long while I just sat and stared. Then I began testing, trying all the while to quiet the trembling of my hands. I weighed it on a balance. I tested it with acids. It had changed unquestionably. It was no longer the same as when I had carried it into my quarters. The whorls of force were gone. It was no longer alive with a questing vibrancy ... it was inert, stable. From somewhere, somehow, it had drawn the energy necessary for transmutation. The unknown metal—the stuff of which that whole mammoth spaceship from the stars was built—was now....
Gold!
I scarcely dared believe it, but there it was staring at me from my table-top. Gold!
I searched my mind for an explanation. Contra-terrene matter, perhaps, from some distant island universe where matter reacted differently ... drawing energy from somewhere, the energy it needed to find stability in its new environment. Stability as a terrene element—wonderfully, miraculously gold!
And outside, in the void beyond the Maid's ports there were tons of this metal that could be turned into treasure. My laughter must have been a wild sound in those moments of discovery....
A slight sound behind me made me spin around in my chair. Framed in the doorway was the heavy figure of my Third Officer, Spinelli. His black eyes were fastened hungrily on the lump of yellow metal on the table. He needed no explanation to tell him what it was, and it seemed to me that his very soul reached out for the stuff, so sharp and clear was the meaning of the expression on his heavy face.
"Mister Spinelli!" I snapped, "In the future knock before entering my quarters!"
Reluctantly his eyes left the lump of gold and met mine. "From the derelict, Captain?" There was an imperceptible pause between the last two words.
I ignored his question and made a mental note to keep a close hand on the rein with him. Spinelli was big and dangerous.
"Speak your piece, Mister," I ordered sharply.
"Mister Cohn reports the derelict ready to take aboard the prize crew ... sir," he said slowly. "I'd like to volunteer for that detail."
I might have let him go under ordinary circumstances, for he was a first class spaceman and the handling of a jury-rigged hulk would need good men. But the gold-hunger I had seen in his eyes warned me to beware. I shook my head. "You will stay on board the Maid with me, Spinelli. Cohn and Zaleski will handle the starship."
Stark suspicion leaped into his eyes. I could see the wheels turning slowly in his mind. Somehow, he was thinking, I was planning to cheat him of his rightful share of the derelict treasure ship.
"We will say nothing to the rest of the crew about the gold, Mister Spinelli," I said deliberately, "Or you'll go to Callisto in irons. Is that clear?"
"Aye, sir," murmured Spinelli. The black expression had left his face and there was a faintly scornful smile playing about his mouth as he turned away. I began wondering then what he had in mind. It wasn't like him to let it go at that.
Suddenly I became conscious of being very tired. My mind wasn't functioning quite clearly. And my arm and hand ached painfully. I rubbed the fingers to get some life back into them, still wondering about Spinelli.
Spinelli talked. I saw him murmuring something to big Zaleski, and after that there was tension in the air. Distrust.
For a few moments I pondered the advisability of making good my threat to clap Spinelli into irons, but I decided against it. In the first place I couldn't prove he had told Zaleski about the gold and in the second place I needed Spinelli to help run the Maid.
I felt that the Third Officer and Zaleski were planning something, and I was just as sure that Spinelli was watching Zaleski to see to it that there was no double-cross.
I figured that I could handle the Third Officer alone so I assigned the rest, Marvin and Chelly, to accompany Cohn and Zaleski onto the hulk. That way Zaleski would be outnumbered if he tried to skip with the treasure ship. But, of course, I couldn't risk telling them that they were to be handling a vessel practically made of gold.
I was in agony. I didn't want to let anyone get out of my sight with that starship, and at the same time I couldn't leave the Maid. Finally I had to let Cohn take command of the prize crew, but not before I had set the radar finder on the Maid's prow squarely on the derelict.
Together, Spinelli and I watched the Maid's crew vanish into the maw of the alien ship and get her under way. There was a flicker of bluish fire from her jury-rigged tubes astern, and then she was vanishing in a great arc toward the bright gleam of Jupiter, far below us. The Maid followed under a steady one G of acceleration with most of her controls on automatic.
Boats of the Martian Maid's class, you may remember, carried a six inch supersonic projector abaft the astrogation turret. These were nasty weapons for use against organic life only. They would reduce a man to jelly at fifty thousand yards. Let it be said to my credit that it wasn't I who thought of hooking the gun into the radar finder and keeping it aimed dead at the derelict. That was Spinelli's insurance against Zaleski.
When I discovered it I felt the rage mount in me. He was willing to blast every one of his shipmates into pulp should the hulk vary from the orbit we'd laid out for her. He wasn't letting anything come between him and that mountain of gold.
Then I began thinking about it. Suppose now, just suppose, that Zaleski told the rest of the crew about the gold. It wouldn't be too hard for the derelict to break away from the Maid, and there were plenty of places in the EMV Triangle where a renegade crew with a thousand tons of gold would be welcomed with open arms and no questions asked. Suspicion began to eat at me. Could Zaleski and Cohn have dreamed up a little switch to keep the treasure ship for themselves? It hadn't seemed likely before, but now—
The gun-pointer remained as it was.
As the days passed and we reached turn-over with the hulk still well within visual range, I noticed a definite decrease in the number of messages from Cohn. The Aldis Lamps no longer blinked back at the Maid eight or ten times a day, and I began to really regret not having taken the time to equip the starship with UHF radio communicators.
Each night I slept with a hunk of yellow gold under my bunk, and ridiculously I fondled the stuff and dreamed of all the things I would have when the starship was cut up and sold.
My weariness grew. It became almost chronic, and I soon wondered if I hadn't picked up a touch of space-radiation fever. The flesh of my hands seemed paler than it had been. My arms felt heavy. I determined to report myself to the Foundation medics on Callisto. There's no telling what can happen to a man in space....
Two days past turn-over the messages from the derelict came through garbled. Spinelli cursed and said that he couldn't read their signal. Taking the Aldis from him I tried to raise them and failed. Two hours later I was still failing and Spinelli's black eyes glittered with an animal suspicion.
"They're faking!"
"Like hell they are!" I snapped irritably, "Something's gone wrong...."
"Zaleski's gone wrong, that's what!"
I turned to face him, fury snapping inside of me. "Then you did disobey my orders. You told him about the gold!"
"Sure I did," he sneered. "Did you expect me to shut up and let you land the ship yourself and claim Captain's share? I found her, and she's mine!"
I fought to control my temper and said: "Let's see what's going on in her before deciding who gets what, Mister Spinelli."
Spinelli bit his thick lips and did not reply. His eyes were fixed on the image of the starship on the viewplate.
A light blinked erratically within the dark cut of its wounded side.
"Get this down, Spinelli!"
The habit of taking orders was still in him, and he muttered: "Aye ... sir."
The light was winking out a message, but feebly, as though the hand that held the lamp were shaking and the mind conceiving the words were failing.
"CONTROL ... LOST ... CAN'T ... NO ... STRENGTH ... LEFT ... SHIP ... WALLS ... ALL ... ALL GOLD ... GOLD ... SOMETHING ... HAPPENING ... CAN'T ... UNDERSTAND ... WHA...." The light stopped flashing, abruptly, in mid-word.
"What the hell?" demanded Spinelli thickly.
"Order them to heave to, Mister," I ordered.
He clicked the Aldis at them. The only response was a wild swerve in the star-ship's course. She left the orbit we had set for her as though the hands that guided her had fallen away from the control.
Spinelli dropped the Aldis and rushed to the control panel to make the corrections in the Maid's course that were needed to keep the hulk in sight.
"Those skunks! Double crossing rats!" he breathed furiously. "They won't shake loose that easy!" His hands started down for the firing console of the supersonic rifle.
I caught the movement from the corner of my eye.
" Spinelli! "
My shout hung in the still air of the control room as I knocked him away from the panel.
"Get to your quarters!" I cracked.
He didn't say a thing, but his big shoulders hunched angrily and he moved across the deck toward me, his hands opening and closing spasmodically. His eyes were wild with rage and avarice.
"You'll hang for mutiny, Spinelli!" I said.
He spat out a foul name and leaped for me. I side-stepped his charge and brought my joined fists down hard on the back of his neck. He stumbled against the bulkhead and his eyes were glazed. He charged again, roaring. I stepped aside and smashed him in the mouth with my right fist, then crossing with an open-handed left to the throat. He staggered, spun and came for me again. I sank a hard left into his stomach and nailed him on the point of the jaw with a right from my shoe-tops. He straightened up and sprawled heavily to the deck, still trying to get at me. I aimed a hard kick at his temple and let it go. My metal shod boot caught him squarely and he rolled over on his face and lay still.
I nailed him with a right from my shoe-tops.
Breathing heavily, I rolled him back face up. His eyes were open,
glassy with an implacable hate. I knelt at his side and listened for
his breathing. There was none. I knew then that I had killed him. I
felt sick inside, and dizzy.
I wasn't myself as I turned away from Spinelli's body there on the
steel deck. Some of the greed died out of me, and my exertions had
increased my sense of fatigue to an almost numbing weariness. My arms
ached terribly and my hands felt as though they had been sucked dry of
their substance. Like a man in a nightmare, I held them up before my
face and looked at them. They were wrinkled and grey, with the veins
standing out a sickly purple. And I could see that my arms were taking
on that same aged look.
I was suddenly fully aware of my fear. Nothing fought against the
flood of terror that welled through me. I was terrified of that yellow
gold in my cabin, and of that ship of devil's metal out there in space
that held my shipmates. There was something unnatural about that
contra-terrene thing ... something obscene.
I located the hulk in the radar finder and swung the Maid after it,
piling on acceleration until my vision flickered. We caught her, the
Maid and I. But we couldn't stop her short of using the rifle on her,
and I couldn't bring myself to add to my depravity by killing the rest
of my men. It would have been better if I had!
I laid the Maid alongside the thousand foot hull of the derelict and
set the controls on automatic. It was dangerous, but I was beyond
caring. Then I was struggling to get myself into a pressure suit with
my wrinkled, failing hands.... Then I was outside, headed for that dark
hole.
I sank down into the stillness of her interior, my helmet light casting
long, fey shadows across the littered decks. Decks that had a yellowish
cast ... decks that no longer danced with tiny questing force-whorls....
As I approached the airlock of the compartment set aside as living
quarters for the prize crew, the saffron of the walls deepened. Crazy
little thoughts began spinning around in my brain. Words out of the
distant past loomed up with a new and suddenly terrifying
perspective ... alchemy ... transmutation ... energy. I'm a spaceman,
not a scientist. But in those moments I think I was discovering what
had happened to my crew and why the walls were turning into yellow
metal.
The lock was closed, but I swung it open and let the pressure in the
chamber rise. I couldn't wait for it to reach fourteen pounds ...
at eleven, I swung the inner door and stumbled eagerly through. The
brilliant light, reflected from gleaming walls blinded me for a moment.
And then I saw them! They huddled, almost naked in a corner, skeletal
things with skull-like faces that leered at me with the vacuous
obscenity of old age. Even their voices were raw and cracked with the
rusty decay of years. They babbled stupidly, caressing the walls with
claw-like hands. They were old, old!
I understood then. I knew what my wrinkled aged hands meant. That
devil-metal from beyond the stars had drawn the energy it needed
from ... us !
My laughter was a crazy shriek inside my helmet. I looked wildly at the
gleaming walls that had sucked the youth and strength from these men.
The walls were stable, at rest. They were purest gold ... gold ... gold!
I ran from that place still screaming with the horror of it. My hands
burned like fire! Age was in them, creeping like molten lead through my
veins, ghastly and sure....
I reached the Maid and threw every scrap of that alien metal into space
as I streaked madly away from that golden terror in the sky and its
load of ancient evil....
On Callisto I was relieved of my command. The Admiralty Court acquitted
me of the charges of negligence, but the Foundation refused me another
ship. It was my ... illness. It spread from my hands, as you can see.
Slowly, very slowly. So what remains for me? A hospital cot and a
spaceman's pension. Those tons of gold in the sky are cursed, like most
great treasures. Somewhere, out in the deeps between the stars, the
dust of my crew guards that golden derelict. It belongs to them now ...
all of it.
But the price we pay for treasure is this. Look at me. I look eighty!
I'm thirty two. And the bitterest part of the story is that people
laugh at me when I tell what happened. They laugh and call me my
nickname. Have you heard it?
It's ... Captain Midas.
Question:
What is the significance of the mystery metal from the starship?
Answer:
|
[
"The mystery metal is significant because it initially attracted the crew’s interest due to their greed - they had hoped to tear about the derelict starship and sell its pieces for millions. When the Captain tested out the mysterious metal and saw that it turned out to be gold, his greed increased so much that he became suspicious of his crew members that were sent out to investigate the ship. \n\nAlthough the Captain and his crew thought they could take advantage of this metal and benefit from it, it turns out that the opposite is true. Instead, it is this mystery metal that gains its yellow-tint and subsequent gold composition through drawing its energy from them and draining the crew of their youth and strength. The latter named ‘devil-metal’ demonstrates the hastiness of the greed of man, and how it led them to be so enraptured in greed that it blinded them of the wariness of strange objects in space, and hence led to their ultimate demise. \n",
"All the spacemen in this story are greedy and materialistic. When the Maid’s crew finds the derelict, they think of selling its parts. This thought cheers them up. Then Midas finds out the starship’s metal can turn into gold, and Spinelli learns that, too. Eventually, this chunk of gold makes Midas’ hands slowly decay while he sleeps with it every night. Spinelli becomes more and more suspicious and suspects everyone to be a traitor. Eventually, Midas realizes the starship’s metal has some evil in it. When he finds his team almost dead and still trying to climb the golden walls of the room, he understands that the metal takes the energy required for its stability from humans. This gold quite literally kills. Greed ends the lives of almost all crewmates of the Maid and leaves Midas to slowly die in a hospital cot, regretting his lethal hunger for money.",
"The mystery metal from the derelict can draw energy from life and turn itself into gold through the transmutation of the energy. In the story, the crews on Maid, a spaceship, find a large derelict constituted of this mysterious metal and bring it with them. Soon after they find out its property of becoming gold, they start to fight with each other and caress the metal unstoppably, but they do not know where the energy that makes the metal change comes from. After the captain kills one crewmember, finding the lost signals and weirdness of his hand and the metal, he realizes the metal draws the needed energy from humans. The mysterious metal plays a significant role in that it triggers the greed of the crewmembers to cause them to fight, symbolizing the cursed treasure. It is also the leading cause that most crew members die or mutate, except for the captain, showing that any treasure comes with a cost, in which case, the mysterious metal is the treasure, and the life is the cost.",
"The mystery metal, later revealed to be ‘gold’, is significant because it is what drives the crew to want to become rich and leads to their downfall. When the captain first discovers it is gold, he thinks about how wealthy the entire crew will become once they reach Callisto and sell it off. The mystery metal is worth a lot of money, and it is what makes them decide to take the entire ship with them. However, this metal is also deadly because it sucks the energy from the crew. Out of their greed, they fail to realize that the gold drains their lifespan away to continue functioning. The crew has to pay the ultimate price with their lives, and only Captain Midas survives the incident. Even as they are old and skeletal, the rest of the crew do not want to give up the possibility of gold. When the captain goes to Callisto, everybody scorns him and laughs at him despite how terrible his story is about the gold. "
] |
63867
|
CAPTAIN MIDAS
By ALFRED COPPEL, JR.
The captain of the Martian Maid stared avidly at the torn derelict floating against the velvet void. Here was treasure beyond his wildest dreams! How could he know his dreams should have been nightmares?
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Gold! A magic word, even today, isn't it? Lust and gold ... they go hand in hand. Like the horsemen of the Apocalypse. And, of course, there's another word needed to make up the trilogy. You don't get any thing for nothing. So add this: Cost. Or you might call it pain, sorrow, agony. Call it what you like. It's what you pay for great treasure....
These things were true when fabled Jason sailed the Argo beyond Colchis seeking the Fleece. They were true when men sailed the southern oceans in wooden ships. And the conquest of space hasn't changed us a bit. We're still a greedy lot....
I'm a queer one to be saying these things, but then, who has more right? Look at me. My hair is gray and my face ... my face is a mask. The flesh hangs on my bones like a yellow cloth on a rickety frame. I am old, old. And I wait here on my hospital cot—wait for the weight of years I never lived to drag me under and let me forget the awful things my eyes have seen.
I'm poor, too, or else I wouldn't be here in this place of dying for old spacemen. I haven't a dime except for the pittance the Holcomb Foundation calls a spaceman's pension. Yet I had millions in my hands. Treasure beyond your wildest dreams! Cursed treasure....
You smile. You are thinking that I'm just an old man, beached earthside, spinning tall tales to impress the youngsters. Maybe, thinking about the kind of spacemen my generation produced, you have the idea that if ever we'd so much as laid a hand on anything of value out in space we'd not let go until Hell froze over! Well, you're right about that. We didn't seek the spaceways for the advancement of civilization or any of that Foundation bushwah, you can be certain of that. We did it for us ... for Number One. That's the kind of men we were, and we were proud of it. We hung onto what we found because the risks were high and we were entitled to keep what we could out there. But there are strange things in the sky. Things that don't respond to all of our neat little Laws and Theories. There are things that are no part of the world of men, thick with danger—and horror.
If you doubt that—and I can see you do—just look at me. I suppose you've never heard of the Martian Maid, and so you don't know the story of what happened to her crew or her skipper. I can give you this much of an answer. I was her skipper. And her crew? They ride high in the sky ... dust by this time. And all because they were men, and men are greedy and hasty and full of an unreasoning, unthinking love for gold. They ride a golden ship that they paid for with all the years of their lives. It's all theirs now. Bought and paid for.
It wasn't too long ago that I lifted the Maid off Solis Lacus on that last flight. Not many of you will remember her class of ship, so many advances have been made in the last few years. The Maid was two hundred feet from tip to tail, and as sleek a spacer as ever came out of the Foundation Yards. Chemical fueled, she was nothing at all like the spherical hyperdrives we see today. She was armed, too. The Foundation still thought of space as a possible stamping ground for alien creatures though no evidence of any extra-terrestrial life had ever been found ... then.
My crew was a rough bunch, like all those early crews. I remember them so well. Lean, hungry men with hell in their eyes and a great lust for high pay and hard living. Spinelli, Shelley, Cohn, Marvin, Zaleski. There wasn't a man on board who wouldn't have traded his immortal soul for a few solar dollars, and I don't claim that I was any different. That's the kind of men that opened up the spaceways, too. Don't believe all this talk about the noble pioneering spirit of man. That's tripe. There never has been such a thing as a noble pioneer. Not in space or anywhere else. It is the malcontent and the adventuring mercenary that pushes the frontier outward.
I didn't know, that night as I stood in the valve of the Maid, watching the loading cranes pull away, that I was starting out on my last flight. I don't think any of the others could have guessed, either. It was the sort of night that you only see on Mars. The sort of night that makes a spaceman wonder why in hell he wants to leave the relative security of the Earth-Mars-Venus Triangle to go jetting across the belt into deep space and the drab desolation of the outer System.
I stood there, watching the lights of Canalopolis in the distance. For just a moment I was ... well, touched. It looked beautiful and unreal under the racing moons. The lights of the gin mills and houses made a sparkling filigree pattern on the dark waters of the ancient canal, and the moons cast their shifting shadows across the silted banks. I was too far away to see the space-fevered bums and smell the shanties, and for a little while I felt the wonder of standing on the soil of a world that man had made his own with his rapacity and his sheer guts and gimme.
I thought of our half empty cargo hold and the sweet payload we would pick up on Callisto. And I counted the extra cash my packets of snow would bring from those lonely men up there on the barren moonlets of the outer Systems. There were plenty of cargoes carried on the Maid that the Holcomb Foundation snoopers never heard about, you can be sure of that.
In those days the asteroid belt was the primary danger and menace to astrogation. For a long while it held men back from deep space, but as fuels improved a few ships were sent out over the top. A few million miles up out of the ecliptic plane brings you to a region of space that's pretty thinly strewn with asteroids, and that's the way we used to make the flight between the outer systems and the EMV Triangle. It took a long while for hyperdrives to be developed and of course atomics never panned out because of the weight problem.
So that's the orbit the Maid took on that last trip of mine. High and clear into the supra-solar void. And out there in that primeval blackness is where we found the derelict.
I didn't realize it was a derelict when Spinelli first reported it from the forward scope position. I assumed it was a Foundation ship. The Holcomb Foundation was founded for the purpose of developing spaceflight, and as the years went by it took on the whole responsibility for the building and dispatching of space ships. Never in history had there been any real evidence of extra-terrestrial intelligent life, and when the EMV Triangle proved barren, we all just assumed that the Universe was man's own particular oyster. That kind of unreasoning arrogance is as hard to explain as it is to correct.
There were plenty of ships being lost in space, and immediately that Spinelli's report from up forward got noised about the Maid every one of us started mentally counting up his share of the salvage money. All this before we were within ten thousand miles of the hulk!
All spaceships look pretty much alike, but as I sat at the telescope I saw that there was something different about this one. At such a distance I couldn't get too much detail in our small three inch glass, but I could see that the hulk was big—bigger than any ship I'd ever seen before. I had the radar fixed on her and then I retired with my slide rule to Control. It wasn't long before I discovered that the derelict ship was on a near collision course, but there was something about its orbit that was strange. I called Cohn, the Metering Officer, and showed him my figures.
"Mister Cohn," I said, chart in hand, "do these figures look right to you?"
Cohn's dark eyes lit up as they always did when he worked with figures. It didn't take him long to check me. "The math is quite correct, Captain," he said. I could see that he hadn't missed the inference of those figures on the chart.
"Assemble the ship's company, Mister Cohn," I ordered.
The assembly horn sounded throughout the Maid and I could feel the tug of the automatics taking over as the crew left their stations. Soon they were assembled in Control.
"You have all heard about Mister Spinelli's find," I said, "I have computed the orbit and inspected the object through the glass. It seems to be a spacer ... either abandoned or in distress...." Reaching into the book rack above my desk I took down a copy of the Foundation's Space Regulations and opened it to the section concerning salvage.
"Sections XVIII, Paragraph 8 of the Code Regulating Interplanetary Astrogation and Commerce," I read, "Any vessel or part of vessel found in an abandoned or totally disabled condition in any region of space not subject to the sovereignty of any planet of the Earth-Venus-Mars Triangle shall be considered to be the property of the crew of the vessel locating said abandoned or disabled vessel except in such cases as the ownership of said abandoned or disabled vessel may be readily ascertained...." I looked up and closed the book. "Simply stated, that means that if that thing ahead of us is a derelict we are entitled to claim it as salvage."
"Unless it already belongs to someone?" asked Spinelli.
"That's correct Mister Spinelli, but I don't think there is much danger of that," I replied quietly. "My figures show that hulk out there came in from the direction of Coma Berenices...."
There was a long silence before Zaleski shifted his two hundred pounds uneasily and gave a form to the muted fear inside me. "You think ... you think it came from the stars , Captain?"
"Maybe even from beyond the stars," Cohn said in a low voice.
Looking at that circle of faces I saw the beginnings of greed. The first impact of the Metering Officer's words wore off quickly and soon every man of my crew was thinking that anything from the stars would be worth money ... lots of money.
Spinelli said, "Do we look her over, Captain?"
They all looked at me, waiting for my answer. I knew it would be worth plenty, and money hunger was like a fever inside me.
"Certainly we look it over, Mister Spinelli," I said sharply.
"Certainly!"
The first thing about the derelict that struck us as we drew near was her size. No ship ever built in the Foundation Yards had ever attained such gargantuan proportions. She must have stretched a full thousand feet from bow to stern, a sleek torpedo shape of somehow unspeakable alienness. Against the backdrop of the Milky Way, she gleamed fitfully in the light of the faraway sun, the metal of her flanks grained with something like tiny, glittering whorls. It was as though the stuff were somehow unstable ... seeking balance ... maybe even alive in some strange and alien way.
It was readily apparent to all of us that she had never been built for inter-planetary flight. She was a starship. Origin unknown. An aura of mystery surrounded her like a shroud, protecting the world that gave her birth mutely but effectively. The distance she must have come was unthinkable. And the time it had taken...? Aeons. Millennia. For she was drifting, dead in space, slowly spinning end over end as she swung about Sol in a hyperbolic orbit that would soon take her out and away again into the inter-stellar deeps.
Something had wounded her ... perhaps ten million years ago ... perhaps yesterday. She was gashed deeply from stem to stern with a jagged rip that bared her mangled innards. A wandering asteroid? A meteor? We would never know. It gave me an uncomfortable feeling of things beyond the ken of men as I looked at her through the port. I would never know what killed her, or where she was going, or whence she came. Yet she was mine. It made me feel like an upstart. And it made me afraid ... but of what?
We should have reported her to the nearest EMV base, but that would have meant that we'd lose her. Scientists would be sent out. Men better equipped than we to investigate the first extrasolar artifact found by men. But I didn't report her. She was ours. She was money in the bank. Let the scientists take over after we'd put a prize crew aboard and brought her into Callisto for salvage.... That's the way I had things figured.
The Maid hove to about a hundred yards from her and hung there, dwarfed by the mighty glistening ship. I called for volunteers and we prepared a boarding party. I was thinking that her drives alone would be worth millions. Cohn took charge and he and three of the men suited up and crossed to her.
In an hour they were back, disappointment largely written on their faces.
"There's nothing left of her, Captain," Cohn reported, "Whatever hit her tore up the innards so badly we couldn't even find the drives. She's a mess inside. Nothing left but the hull and a few storage compartments that are still unbroken."
She was never built to carry humanoids he told us, and there was nothing that could give us a hint of where she had come from. The hull alone was left.
He dropped two chunks of metal on my desk. "I brought back some samples of her pressure hull," he said, "The whole thing is made of this stuff...."
"We'll still take her in," I said, hiding my disappointment. "The carcass will be worth money in Callisto. Have Mister Marvin and Zaleski assemble a spare pulse-jet. We'll jury-rig her and bring her down under her own power. You take charge of provisioning her. Check those compartments you found and install oxy-generators aboard. When it's done report to me in my quarters."
I picked up the two samples of gleaming metal and called for a metallurgical testing kit. "I'm going to try and find out if this stuff is worth anything...."
The metal was heavy—too heavy, it seemed to me, for spaceship construction. But then, who was to say what conditions existed on that distant world where this metal was made?
Under the bright fluorescent over my work-table, the chunks of metal torn from a random bulkhead of the starship gleamed like pale silver; those strange little whorls that I had noticed on the outer hull were there too, like tiny magnetic lines of force, making the surface of the metal seem to dance. I held the stuff in my bare hand. It had a yellowish tinge, and it was heavier ....
Even as I watched, the metal grew yellower, and the hand that held it grew bone weary, little tongues of fatigue licking up my forearm. Suddenly terrified, I dropped the chunk as though it were white hot. It struck the table with a dull thud and lay there, a rich yellow lump of metallic lustre.
For a long while I just sat and stared. Then I began testing, trying all the while to quiet the trembling of my hands. I weighed it on a balance. I tested it with acids. It had changed unquestionably. It was no longer the same as when I had carried it into my quarters. The whorls of force were gone. It was no longer alive with a questing vibrancy ... it was inert, stable. From somewhere, somehow, it had drawn the energy necessary for transmutation. The unknown metal—the stuff of which that whole mammoth spaceship from the stars was built—was now....
Gold!
I scarcely dared believe it, but there it was staring at me from my table-top. Gold!
I searched my mind for an explanation. Contra-terrene matter, perhaps, from some distant island universe where matter reacted differently ... drawing energy from somewhere, the energy it needed to find stability in its new environment. Stability as a terrene element—wonderfully, miraculously gold!
And outside, in the void beyond the Maid's ports there were tons of this metal that could be turned into treasure. My laughter must have been a wild sound in those moments of discovery....
A slight sound behind me made me spin around in my chair. Framed in the doorway was the heavy figure of my Third Officer, Spinelli. His black eyes were fastened hungrily on the lump of yellow metal on the table. He needed no explanation to tell him what it was, and it seemed to me that his very soul reached out for the stuff, so sharp and clear was the meaning of the expression on his heavy face.
"Mister Spinelli!" I snapped, "In the future knock before entering my quarters!"
Reluctantly his eyes left the lump of gold and met mine. "From the derelict, Captain?" There was an imperceptible pause between the last two words.
I ignored his question and made a mental note to keep a close hand on the rein with him. Spinelli was big and dangerous.
"Speak your piece, Mister," I ordered sharply.
"Mister Cohn reports the derelict ready to take aboard the prize crew ... sir," he said slowly. "I'd like to volunteer for that detail."
I might have let him go under ordinary circumstances, for he was a first class spaceman and the handling of a jury-rigged hulk would need good men. But the gold-hunger I had seen in his eyes warned me to beware. I shook my head. "You will stay on board the Maid with me, Spinelli. Cohn and Zaleski will handle the starship."
Stark suspicion leaped into his eyes. I could see the wheels turning slowly in his mind. Somehow, he was thinking, I was planning to cheat him of his rightful share of the derelict treasure ship.
"We will say nothing to the rest of the crew about the gold, Mister Spinelli," I said deliberately, "Or you'll go to Callisto in irons. Is that clear?"
"Aye, sir," murmured Spinelli. The black expression had left his face and there was a faintly scornful smile playing about his mouth as he turned away. I began wondering then what he had in mind. It wasn't like him to let it go at that.
Suddenly I became conscious of being very tired. My mind wasn't functioning quite clearly. And my arm and hand ached painfully. I rubbed the fingers to get some life back into them, still wondering about Spinelli.
Spinelli talked. I saw him murmuring something to big Zaleski, and after that there was tension in the air. Distrust.
For a few moments I pondered the advisability of making good my threat to clap Spinelli into irons, but I decided against it. In the first place I couldn't prove he had told Zaleski about the gold and in the second place I needed Spinelli to help run the Maid.
I felt that the Third Officer and Zaleski were planning something, and I was just as sure that Spinelli was watching Zaleski to see to it that there was no double-cross.
I figured that I could handle the Third Officer alone so I assigned the rest, Marvin and Chelly, to accompany Cohn and Zaleski onto the hulk. That way Zaleski would be outnumbered if he tried to skip with the treasure ship. But, of course, I couldn't risk telling them that they were to be handling a vessel practically made of gold.
I was in agony. I didn't want to let anyone get out of my sight with that starship, and at the same time I couldn't leave the Maid. Finally I had to let Cohn take command of the prize crew, but not before I had set the radar finder on the Maid's prow squarely on the derelict.
Together, Spinelli and I watched the Maid's crew vanish into the maw of the alien ship and get her under way. There was a flicker of bluish fire from her jury-rigged tubes astern, and then she was vanishing in a great arc toward the bright gleam of Jupiter, far below us. The Maid followed under a steady one G of acceleration with most of her controls on automatic.
Boats of the Martian Maid's class, you may remember, carried a six inch supersonic projector abaft the astrogation turret. These were nasty weapons for use against organic life only. They would reduce a man to jelly at fifty thousand yards. Let it be said to my credit that it wasn't I who thought of hooking the gun into the radar finder and keeping it aimed dead at the derelict. That was Spinelli's insurance against Zaleski.
When I discovered it I felt the rage mount in me. He was willing to blast every one of his shipmates into pulp should the hulk vary from the orbit we'd laid out for her. He wasn't letting anything come between him and that mountain of gold.
Then I began thinking about it. Suppose now, just suppose, that Zaleski told the rest of the crew about the gold. It wouldn't be too hard for the derelict to break away from the Maid, and there were plenty of places in the EMV Triangle where a renegade crew with a thousand tons of gold would be welcomed with open arms and no questions asked. Suspicion began to eat at me. Could Zaleski and Cohn have dreamed up a little switch to keep the treasure ship for themselves? It hadn't seemed likely before, but now—
The gun-pointer remained as it was.
As the days passed and we reached turn-over with the hulk still well within visual range, I noticed a definite decrease in the number of messages from Cohn. The Aldis Lamps no longer blinked back at the Maid eight or ten times a day, and I began to really regret not having taken the time to equip the starship with UHF radio communicators.
Each night I slept with a hunk of yellow gold under my bunk, and ridiculously I fondled the stuff and dreamed of all the things I would have when the starship was cut up and sold.
My weariness grew. It became almost chronic, and I soon wondered if I hadn't picked up a touch of space-radiation fever. The flesh of my hands seemed paler than it had been. My arms felt heavy. I determined to report myself to the Foundation medics on Callisto. There's no telling what can happen to a man in space....
Two days past turn-over the messages from the derelict came through garbled. Spinelli cursed and said that he couldn't read their signal. Taking the Aldis from him I tried to raise them and failed. Two hours later I was still failing and Spinelli's black eyes glittered with an animal suspicion.
"They're faking!"
"Like hell they are!" I snapped irritably, "Something's gone wrong...."
"Zaleski's gone wrong, that's what!"
I turned to face him, fury snapping inside of me. "Then you did disobey my orders. You told him about the gold!"
"Sure I did," he sneered. "Did you expect me to shut up and let you land the ship yourself and claim Captain's share? I found her, and she's mine!"
I fought to control my temper and said: "Let's see what's going on in her before deciding who gets what, Mister Spinelli."
Spinelli bit his thick lips and did not reply. His eyes were fixed on the image of the starship on the viewplate.
A light blinked erratically within the dark cut of its wounded side.
"Get this down, Spinelli!"
The habit of taking orders was still in him, and he muttered: "Aye ... sir."
The light was winking out a message, but feebly, as though the hand that held the lamp were shaking and the mind conceiving the words were failing.
"CONTROL ... LOST ... CAN'T ... NO ... STRENGTH ... LEFT ... SHIP ... WALLS ... ALL ... ALL GOLD ... GOLD ... SOMETHING ... HAPPENING ... CAN'T ... UNDERSTAND ... WHA...." The light stopped flashing, abruptly, in mid-word.
"What the hell?" demanded Spinelli thickly.
"Order them to heave to, Mister," I ordered.
He clicked the Aldis at them. The only response was a wild swerve in the star-ship's course. She left the orbit we had set for her as though the hands that guided her had fallen away from the control.
Spinelli dropped the Aldis and rushed to the control panel to make the corrections in the Maid's course that were needed to keep the hulk in sight.
"Those skunks! Double crossing rats!" he breathed furiously. "They won't shake loose that easy!" His hands started down for the firing console of the supersonic rifle.
I caught the movement from the corner of my eye.
" Spinelli! "
My shout hung in the still air of the control room as I knocked him away from the panel.
"Get to your quarters!" I cracked.
He didn't say a thing, but his big shoulders hunched angrily and he moved across the deck toward me, his hands opening and closing spasmodically. His eyes were wild with rage and avarice.
"You'll hang for mutiny, Spinelli!" I said.
He spat out a foul name and leaped for me. I side-stepped his charge and brought my joined fists down hard on the back of his neck. He stumbled against the bulkhead and his eyes were glazed. He charged again, roaring. I stepped aside and smashed him in the mouth with my right fist, then crossing with an open-handed left to the throat. He staggered, spun and came for me again. I sank a hard left into his stomach and nailed him on the point of the jaw with a right from my shoe-tops. He straightened up and sprawled heavily to the deck, still trying to get at me. I aimed a hard kick at his temple and let it go. My metal shod boot caught him squarely and he rolled over on his face and lay still.
I nailed him with a right from my shoe-tops.
Breathing heavily, I rolled him back face up. His eyes were open,
glassy with an implacable hate. I knelt at his side and listened for
his breathing. There was none. I knew then that I had killed him. I
felt sick inside, and dizzy.
I wasn't myself as I turned away from Spinelli's body there on the
steel deck. Some of the greed died out of me, and my exertions had
increased my sense of fatigue to an almost numbing weariness. My arms
ached terribly and my hands felt as though they had been sucked dry of
their substance. Like a man in a nightmare, I held them up before my
face and looked at them. They were wrinkled and grey, with the veins
standing out a sickly purple. And I could see that my arms were taking
on that same aged look.
I was suddenly fully aware of my fear. Nothing fought against the
flood of terror that welled through me. I was terrified of that yellow
gold in my cabin, and of that ship of devil's metal out there in space
that held my shipmates. There was something unnatural about that
contra-terrene thing ... something obscene.
I located the hulk in the radar finder and swung the Maid after it,
piling on acceleration until my vision flickered. We caught her, the
Maid and I. But we couldn't stop her short of using the rifle on her,
and I couldn't bring myself to add to my depravity by killing the rest
of my men. It would have been better if I had!
I laid the Maid alongside the thousand foot hull of the derelict and
set the controls on automatic. It was dangerous, but I was beyond
caring. Then I was struggling to get myself into a pressure suit with
my wrinkled, failing hands.... Then I was outside, headed for that dark
hole.
I sank down into the stillness of her interior, my helmet light casting
long, fey shadows across the littered decks. Decks that had a yellowish
cast ... decks that no longer danced with tiny questing force-whorls....
As I approached the airlock of the compartment set aside as living
quarters for the prize crew, the saffron of the walls deepened. Crazy
little thoughts began spinning around in my brain. Words out of the
distant past loomed up with a new and suddenly terrifying
perspective ... alchemy ... transmutation ... energy. I'm a spaceman,
not a scientist. But in those moments I think I was discovering what
had happened to my crew and why the walls were turning into yellow
metal.
The lock was closed, but I swung it open and let the pressure in the
chamber rise. I couldn't wait for it to reach fourteen pounds ...
at eleven, I swung the inner door and stumbled eagerly through. The
brilliant light, reflected from gleaming walls blinded me for a moment.
And then I saw them! They huddled, almost naked in a corner, skeletal
things with skull-like faces that leered at me with the vacuous
obscenity of old age. Even their voices were raw and cracked with the
rusty decay of years. They babbled stupidly, caressing the walls with
claw-like hands. They were old, old!
I understood then. I knew what my wrinkled aged hands meant. That
devil-metal from beyond the stars had drawn the energy it needed
from ... us !
My laughter was a crazy shriek inside my helmet. I looked wildly at the
gleaming walls that had sucked the youth and strength from these men.
The walls were stable, at rest. They were purest gold ... gold ... gold!
I ran from that place still screaming with the horror of it. My hands
burned like fire! Age was in them, creeping like molten lead through my
veins, ghastly and sure....
I reached the Maid and threw every scrap of that alien metal into space
as I streaked madly away from that golden terror in the sky and its
load of ancient evil....
On Callisto I was relieved of my command. The Admiralty Court acquitted
me of the charges of negligence, but the Foundation refused me another
ship. It was my ... illness. It spread from my hands, as you can see.
Slowly, very slowly. So what remains for me? A hospital cot and a
spaceman's pension. Those tons of gold in the sky are cursed, like most
great treasures. Somewhere, out in the deeps between the stars, the
dust of my crew guards that golden derelict. It belongs to them now ...
all of it.
But the price we pay for treasure is this. Look at me. I look eighty!
I'm thirty two. And the bitterest part of the story is that people
laugh at me when I tell what happened. They laugh and call me my
nickname. Have you heard it?
It's ... Captain Midas.
|
What is the relationship between George Faircloth and Marge Faircloth?
|
After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about Prime Difference by Alan Edward Nourse.
Relevant chunks:
PRIME DIFFERENCE
By ALAN E. NOURSE
Illustrated by SCHOENHEER
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Being two men rolled out of one would solve my problems—but which one would I be?
I suppose that every guy reaches a point once in his lifetime when he gets one hundred and forty per cent fed up with his wife.
Understand now—I've got nothing against marriage or any thing like that. Marriage is great. It's a good old red-blooded American Institution. Except that it's got one defect in it big enough to throw a cat through, especially when you happen to be married to a woman like Marge—
It's so permanent .
Oh, I'd have divorced Marge in a minute if we'd been living in the Blissful 'Fifties—but with the Family Solidarity Amendment of 1968, and all the divorce taxes we have these days since the women got their teeth into politics, to say nothing of the Aggrieved Spouse Compensation Act, I'd have been a pauper for the rest of my life if I'd tried it. That's aside from the social repercussions involved.
You can't really blame me for looking for another way out. But a man has to be desperate to try to buy himself an Ego Prime.
So, all right, I was desperate. I'd spent eight years trying to keep Marge happy, which was exactly seven and a half years too long.
Marge was a dream to look at, with her tawny hair and her sulky eyes and a shape that could set your teeth chattering—but that was where the dream stopped.
She had a tongue like a #10 wood rasp and a list of grievances long enough to paper the bedroom wall. When she wasn't complaining, she was crying, and when she wasn't crying, she was pointing out in chilling detail exactly where George Faircloth fell short as a model husband, which happened to be everywhere. Half of the time she had a "beastly headache" (for which I was personally responsible) and the other half she was sore about something, so ninety-nine per cent of the time we got along like a couple of tomcats in a packing case.
Maybe we just weren't meant for each other. I don't know. I used to envy guys like Harry Folsom at the office. His wife is no joy to live with either, but at least he could take a spin down to Rio once in a while with one of the stenographers and get away with it.
I knew better than to try. Marge was already so jealous that I couldn't even smile at the company receptionist without a twinge of guilt. Give Marge something real to howl about, and I'd be ready for the Rehab Center in a week.
But I'd underestimated Marge. She didn't need anything real, as I found out when Jeree came along.
Business was booming and the secretaries at the office got shuffled around from time to time. Since I had an executive-type job, I got an executive-type secretary. Her name was Jeree and she was gorgeous. As a matter of fact, she was better than gorgeous. She was the sort of secretary every businessman ought to have in his office. Not to do any work—just to sit there.
Jeree was tall and dark, and she could convey more without saying anything than I ever dreamed was possible. The first day she was there, she conveyed to me very clearly that if I cared to supply the opportunity, she'd be glad to supply the motive.
That night, I could tell that Marge had been thinking something over during the day. She let me get the first bite of dinner halfway to my mouth, and then she said, "I hear you got a new secretary today."
I muttered something into my coffee cup and pretended not to hear.
Marge turned on her Accusing Look #7. "I also hear that she's five-foot-eight and tapes out at 38-25-36 and thinks you're handsome."
Marge had quite a spy system.
"She couldn't be much of a secretary," she added.
"She's a perfectly good secretary," I blurted, and kicked myself mentally. I should have known Marge's traps by then.
Marge exploded. I didn't get any supper, and she was still going strong at midnight. I tried to argue, but when Marge got going, there was no stopping her. I had my ultimatum, as far as Jeree was concerned.
Harry Folsom administered the coup de grace at coffee next morning.
"What you need is an Ego Prime," he said with a grin. "Solve all your problems. I hear they work like a charm."
I set my coffee cup down. Bells were ringing in my ears. "Don't be ridiculous. It's against the law. Anyway, I wouldn't think of such a thing. It's—it's indecent."
Harry shrugged. "Just joking, old man, just joking. Still, it's fun to think about, eh? Freedom from wife. Absolutely safe and harmless. Not even too expensive, if you've got the right contacts. And I've got a friend who knows a guy—"
Just then, Jeree walked past us and flashed me a big smile. I gripped my cup for dear life and still spilled coffee on my tie.
As I said, a guy gets fed up.
And maybe opportunity would only knock once.
And an Ego Prime would solve all my problems, as Harry had told me.
It was completely illegal, of course. The wonder was that Ego Prime, Inc., ever got to put their product on the market at all, once the nation's housewives got wind of just what their product was.
From the first, there was rigid Federal control and laws regulating the use of Primes right down to the local level. You could get a license for a Utility model Prime if you were a big business executive, or a high public official, or a movie star, or something like that; but even then his circuits had to be inspected every two months, and he had to have a thousand built-in Paralyzers, and you had to specify in advance exactly what you wanted your Prime to be able to do when, where, how, why, and under what circumstances.
The law didn't leave a man much leeway.
But everybody knew that if you really wanted a personal Prime with all his circuits open and no questions asked, you could get one. Black market prices were steep and you ran your own risk, but it could be done.
Harry Folsom told his friend who knew a guy, and a few greenbacks got lost somewhere, and I found myself looking at a greasy little man with a black mustache and a bald spot, up in a dingy fourth-story warehouse off lower Broadway.
"Ah, yes," the little man said. "Mr. Faircloth. We've been expecting you."
I didn't like the looks of the guy any more than the looks of the place. "I've been told you can supply me with a—"
He coughed. "Yes, yes. I understand. It might be possible." He fingered his mustache and regarded me from pouchy eyes. "Busy executives often come to us to avoid the—ah—unpleasantness of formal arrangements. Naturally, we only act as agents, you might say. We never see the merchandise ourselves—" He wiped his hands on his trousers. "Now were you interested in the ordinary Utility model, Mr. Faircloth?"
I assumed he was just being polite. You didn't come to the back door for Utility models.
"Or perhaps you'd require one of our Deluxe models. Very careful workmanship. Only a few key Paralyzers in operation and practically complete circuit duplication. Very useful for—ah—close contact work, you know. Social engagements, conferences—"
I was shaking my head. "I want a Super Deluxe model," I told him.
He grinned and winked. "Ah, indeed! You want perfect duplication. Yes, indeed. Domestic situations can be—awkward, shall we say. Very awkward—"
I gave him a cold stare. I couldn't see where my domestic problems were any affairs of his. He got the idea and hurried me back to a storeroom.
"We keep a few blanks here for the basic measurement. You'll go to our laboratory on 14th Street to have the minute impressions taken. But I can assure you you'll be delighted, simply delighted."
The blanks weren't very impressive—clay and putty and steel, faceless, brainless. He went over me like a tailor, checking measurements of all sorts. He was thorough—embarrassingly thorough, in fact—but finally he was finished. I went on to the laboratory.
And that was all there was to it.
Practical androids had been a pipe dream until Hunyadi invented the Neuro-pantograph. Hunyadi had no idea in the world what to do with it once he'd invented it, but a couple of enterprising engineers bought him body and soul, sub-contracted the problems of anatomy, design, artistry, audio and visio circuitry, and so forth, and ended up with the modern Ego Primes we have today.
I spent a busy two hours under the NP microprobes; the artists worked outside while the NP technicians worked inside. I came out of it pretty woozy, but a shot of Happy-O set that straight. Then I waited in the recovery room for another two hours, dreaming up ways to use my Prime when I got him. Finally the door opened and the head technician walked in, followed by a tall, sandy-haired man with worried blue eyes and a tired look on his face.
"Meet George Faircloth Prime," the technician said, grinning at me like a nursing mother.
I shook hands with myself. Good firm handshake, I thought admiringly. Nothing flabby about it.
I slapped George Prime on the shoulder happily. "Come on, Brother," I said. "You've got a job to do."
But, secretly, I was wondering what Jeree was doing that night.
George Prime had remote controls, as well as a completely recorded neurological analogue of his boss, who was me. George Prime thought what I thought about the same things I did in the same way I did. The only difference was that what I told George Prime to do, George Prime did.
If I told him to go to a business conference in San Francisco and make the smallest possible concessions for the largest possible orders, he would go there and do precisely that. His signature would be my signature. It would hold up in court.
And if I told him that my wife Marge was really a sweet, good-hearted girl and that he was to stay home and keep her quiet and happy any time I chose, he'd do that, too.
George Prime was a duplicate of me right down to the sandy hairs on the back of my hands. Our fingerprints were the same. We had the same mannerisms and used the same figures of speech. The only physical difference apparent even to an expert was the tiny finger-depression buried in the hair above his ear. A little pressure there would stop George Prime dead in his tracks.
He was so lifelike, even I kept forgetting that he was basically just a pile of gears.
I'd planned very carefully how I meant to use him, of course.
Every man who's been married eight years has a sanctuary. He builds it up and maintains it against assault in the very teeth of his wife's natural instinct to clean, poke, pry and rearrange things. Sometimes it takes him years of diligent work to establish his hideout and be confident that it will stay inviolate, but if he starts early enough, and sticks with it long enough, and is fierce enough and persistent enough and crafty enough, he'll probably win in the end. The girls hate him for it, but he'll win.
With some men, it's just a box on their dressers, or a desk, or a corner of an unused back room. But I had set my sights high early in the game. With me, it was the whole workshop in the garage.
At first, Marge tried open warfare. She had to clean the place up, she said. I told her I didn't want her to clean it up. She could clean the whole house as often as she chose, but I would clean up the workshop.
After a couple of sharp engagements on that field, Marge staged a strategic withdrawal and reorganized her attack. A little pile of wood shavings would be on the workshop floor one night and be gone the next. A wrench would be back on the rack—upside down, of course. An open paint can would have a cover on it.
I always knew. I screamed loudly and bitterly. I ranted and raved. I swore I'd rig up a booby-trap with a shotgun.
So she quit trying to clean in there and just went in once in a while to take a look around. I fixed that with the old toothpick-in-the-door routine. Every time she so much as set foot in that workshop, she had a battle on her hands for the next week or so. She could count on it. It was that predictable.
She never found out how I knew, and after seven years or so, it wore her down. She didn't go into the workshop any more.
As I said, you've got to be persistent, but you'll win.
Eventually.
If you're really persistent.
Now all my effort paid off. I got Marge out of the house for an hour or two that day and had George Prime delivered and stored in the big closet in the workshop. They hooked his controls up and left me a manual of instructions for running him. When I got home that night, there he was, just waiting to be put to work.
After supper, I went out to the workshop—to get the pipe I'd left there, I said. I pushed George Prime's button, winked at him and switched on the free-behavior circuits.
"Go to it, Brother," I said.
George Prime put my pipe in his mouth, lit it and walked back into the house.
Five minutes later, I heard them fighting.
It sounded so familiar that I laughed out loud. Then I caught a cab on the corner and headed uptown.
We had quite a night, Jeree and I. I got home just about time to start for work, and sure enough, there was George Prime starting my car, business suit on, briefcase under his arm.
I pushed the recall and George Prime got out of the car and walked into the workshop. He stepped into his cradle in the closet. I turned him off and then drove away in the car.
Bless his metallic soul, he'd even kissed Marge good-by for me!
Needless to say, the affairs of George Faircloth took on a new sparkle with George Prime on hand to cover the home front.
For the first week, I was hardly home at all. I must say I felt a little guilty, leaving poor old George Prime to cope with Marge all the time—he looked and acted so human, it was easy to forget that he literally couldn't care less. But I felt apologetic all the same whenever I took him out of his closet.
"She's really a sweet girl underneath it all," I'd say. "You'll learn to like her after a bit."
"Of course I like her," George Prime said. "You told me to, didn't you? Stop worrying. She's really a sweet girl underneath it all."
He sounded convincing enough, but still it bothered me. "You're sure you understand the exchange mechanism?" I asked. I didn't want any foul-ups there, as you can imagine.
"Perfectly," said George Prime. "When you buzz the recall, I wait for the first logical opportunity I can find to come out to the workshop, and you take over."
"But you might get nervous. You might inadvertently tip her off."
George Prime looked pained. "Really, old man! I'm a Super Deluxe model, remember? I don't have fourteen activated Hunyadi tubes up in this cranial vault of mine just for nothing. You're the one that's nervous. I'll take care of everything. Relax."
So I did.
Jeree made good all her tacit promises and then some. She had a very cozy little apartment on 34th Street where we went to relax after a hard day at the office. When we weren't doing the town, that is. As long as Jeree didn't try too much conversation, everything was wonderful.
And then, when Jeree got a little boring, there was Sybil in the accounting department. Or Dorothy in promotion. Or Jane. Or Ingrid.
I could go on at some length, but I won't. I was building quite a reputation for myself around the office.
Of course, it was like buying your first 3-V set. In a week or so, the novelty wears off a little and you start eating on schedule again. It took a little while, but I finally had things down to a reasonable program.
Tuesday and Thursday nights, I was informally "out" while formally
"in." Sometimes I took Sunday nights "out" if things got too sticky around the house over the weekend. The rest of the time, George Prime cooled his heels in his closet. Locked up, of course. Can't completely trust a wife to observe a taboo, no matter how well trained she is.
There, was an irreconcilable amount of risk. George Prime had to quick-step some questions about my work at the office—there was no way to supply him with current data until the time for his regular two-month refill and pattern-accommodation at the laboratory. In the meantime, George Prime had to make do with what he had.
But as he himself pointed out he was a Super Deluxe model.
Marge didn't suspect a thing. In fact, George Prime seemed to be having a remarkable effect on her. I didn't notice anything at first—I was hardly ever home. But one night I found my pipe and slippers laid out for me, and the evening paper neatly folded on my chair, and it brought me up short. Marge had been extremely docile lately. We hadn't had a good fight in days. Weeks, come to think of it.
I thought it over and shrugged. Old age, I figured. She was bound to mellow sometime.
But pretty soon I began to wonder if she wasn't mellowing a little too much.
One night when I got home, she kissed me almost as though she really meant it. There wasn't an unpleasant word all through dinner, which happened to be steak with mushrooms, served in the dining room (!) by candlelight (!!) with dinner music that Marge could never bear, chiefly because I liked it.
We sat over coffee and cigarettes, and it seemed almost like old times. Very old times, in fact I even caught myself looking at Marge again—really looking at her, watching the light catch in her hair, almost admiring the sparkle in her brown eyes. Sparkle, I said, not glint.
As I mentioned before, Marge was always easy to look at. That night, she was practically ravishing.
"What are you doing to her?" I asked George Prime later, out in the workshop.
"Why, nothing," said George Prime, looking innocent. He couldn't fool me with his look, though, because it was exactly the look I use when I'm guilty and pretending to be innocent.
"There must be something ."
George Prime shrugged. "Any woman will warm up if you spend enough time telling her all the things she wants to hear and pay all the attention to her that she wants paid to her. That's elemental psychology. I can give you page references."
I ought to mention that George Prime had a complete set of basic texts run into his circuits, at a slightly additional charge. Never can tell when an odd bit of information will come in useful.
"Well, you must be doing quite a job," I said. I'd never managed to warm Marge up much.
"I try," said George Prime.
"Oh, I'm not complaining," I hastened to add, forgetting that a Prime's feelings can't be hurt and that he was only acting like me because it was in character. "I was just curious."
"Of course, George."
"I'm really delighted that you're doing so well."
"Thank you, George."
But the next night when I was with Dawn, who happens to be a gorgeous redhead who could put Marge to shame on practically any field of battle except maybe brains, I kept thinking about Marge all evening long, and wondering if things weren't getting just a little out of hand.
The next evening I almost tripped over George Prime coming out of a liquor store. I ducked quickly into an alley and flagged him. " What are you doing out on the street? "
He gave me my martyred look. "Just buying some bourbon. You were out."
"But you're not supposed to be off the premises—"
"Marge asked me to come. I couldn't tell her I was sorry, but her husband wouldn't let me, could I?"
"Well, certainly not—"
"You want me to keep her happy, don't you? You don't want her to get suspicious."
"No, but suppose somebody saw us together! If she ever got a hint—"
"I'm sorry," George Prime said contritely. "It seemed the right thing to do. You would have done it. At least that's what my judgment center maintained. We had quite an argument."
"Well, tell your judgment center to use a little sense," I snapped. "I don't want it to happen again."
The next night, I stayed home, even though it was Tuesday night. I was beginning to get worried. Of course, I did have complete control—I could snap George Prime off any time I wanted, or even take him in for a complete recircuiting—but it seemed a pity. He was doing such a nice job.
Marge was docile as a kitten, even more so than before. She sympathized with my hard day at the office and agreed heartily that the boss, despite all appearances, was in reality a jabbering idiot. After dinner, I suggested a movie, but Marge gave me an odd sort of look and said she thought it would be much nicer to spend the evening at home by the fire.
I'd just gotten settled with the paper when she came into the living room and sat down beside me. She was wearing some sort of filmy affair I'd never laid eyes on before, and I caught a whiff of my favorite perfume.
"Georgie?" she said.
"Uh?"
"Do you still love me?"
I set the paper down and stared at her. "How's that? Of course I still—"
"Well, sometimes you don't act much like it."
"Mm. I guess I've—uh—got an awful headache tonight." Damn that perfume!
"Oh," said Marge.
"In fact, I thought I'd turn in early and get some sleep—"
"Sleep," said Marge. There was no mistaking the disappointment in her voice. Now I knew that things were out of hand.
The next evening, I activated George Prime and caught the taxi at the corner, but I called Ruby and broke my date with her. I took in an early movie alone and was back by ten o'clock. I left the cab at the corner and walked quietly up the path toward the garage.
Then I stopped. I could see Marge and George Prime through the living room windows.
George Prime was kissing my wife the way I hadn't kissed her in eight long years. It made my hair stand on end. And Marge wasn't exactly fighting him off, either. She was coming back for more. After a little, the lights went off.
George Prime was a Super Deluxe model, all right.
I dashed into the workshop and punched the recall button as hard as I could, swearing under my breath. How long had this been going on? I punched the button again, viciously, and waited.
George Prime didn't come out.
It was plenty cold out in the workshop that night and I didn't sleep a wink. About dawn, out came George Prime, looking like a man with a four-day hangover.
Our conversation got down to fundamentals. George Prime kept insisting blandly that, according to my own directions, he was to pick the first logical opportunity to come out when I buzzed, and that was exactly what he'd done.
I was furious all the way to work. I'd take care of this nonsense, all right. I'd have George Prime rewired from top to bottom as soon as the laboratory could take him.
But I never phoned the laboratory. The bank was calling me when I got to the office. They wanted to know what I planned to do about that check of mine that had just bounced.
"What check?" I asked.
"The one you wrote to cash yesterday—five hundred dollars—against your regular account, Mr. Faircloth."
The last I'd looked, I'd had about three thousand dollars in that account. I told the man so rather bluntly.
"Oh, no, sir. That is, you did until last week. But all these checks you've been cashing have emptied the account."
He flashed the checks on the desk screen. My signature was on every one of them.
"What about my special account?" I'd learned long before that an account Marge didn't know about was sound rear-guard strategy.
"That's been closed out for two weeks."
I hadn't written a check against that account for over a year! I glared at the ceiling and tried to think things through.
I came up with a horrible thought.
Marge had always had her heart set on a trip to Bermuda. Just to get away from it all, she'd say. A second honeymoon.
I got a list of travel agencies from the business directory and started down them. The third one I tried had a pleasant tenor voice. "No, sir, not Mrs. Faircloth. You bought two tickets. One way. Champagne flight to Bermuda."
"When?" I choked out.
"Why, today, as a matter of fact. It leaves Idlewild at eleven o'clock—"
I let him worry about my amnesia and started home fast. I didn't know what they'd given that Prime for circuits, but there was no question now that he was out of control— way out of control. And poor Marge, all worked up for a second honeymoon—
Then it struck me. Poor Marge? Poor sucker George! No Prime in his right circuits would behave this way without some human guidance and that meant only one thing: Marge had spotted him. It had happened before. Couple of nasty court battles I'd read about. And she'd known all about George Prime.
For how long?
When I got home, the house was empty. George Prime wasn't in his closet. And Marge wasn't in the house.
They were gone.
I started to call the police, but caught myself just in time. I couldn't very well complain to the cops that my wife had run off with an android.
Worse yet, I could get twenty years for having an illegal Prime wandering around.
I sat down and poured myself a stiff drink.
My own wife deserting me for a pile of bearings.
It was indecent.
Then I heard the front door open and there was Marge, her arms full of grocery bundles. "Why, darling! You're home early!"
I just blinked for a moment. Then I said, "You're still here!"
"Of course. Where did you think I'd be?"
"But I thought—I mean the ticket office—"
She set down the bundles and kissed me and looked up into my eyes, almost smiling, half reproachful. "You didn't really think I'd go running off with something out of a lab, did you?"
"Then—you knew?"
"Certainly I knew, silly. You didn't do a very good job of instructing him, either. You gave him far too much latitude. Let him have ideas of his own and all that. And next thing I knew, he was trying to get me to run off with him to Hawaii or someplace."
"Bermuda," I said.
And then Marge was in my arms, kissing me and snuggling her cheek against my chest.
"Even though he looked like you, I knew he couldn't be," she said. "He was like you, but he wasn't you , darling. And all I ever want is you. I just never appreciated you before...."
I held her close and tried to keep my hands from shaking. George Faircloth, Idiot, I thought. She'd never been more beautiful. "But what did you do with him?"
"I sent him back to the factory, naturally. They said they could blot him out and use him over again. But let's not talk about that any more. We've got more interesting things to discuss."
Maybe we had, but we didn't waste a lot of time talking. It was the Marge I'd once known and I was beginning to wonder how I could have been so wrong about her. In fact unless my memory was getting awfully porous, the old Marge was never like this—
I kissed her tenderly and ran my hands through her hair, and felt the depression with my fore-finger, and then I knew what had really happened.
That Marge always had been a sly one.
I wondered how she was liking things in Bermuda.
Marge probably thought she'd really put me where I belonged, but the laugh was on her, after all.
As I said, the old Marge was never like the new one. Marge Prime makes Jeree and Sybil and Dorothy and Dawn and Jane and Ruby all look pretty sad by comparison.
She cooks like a dream and she always brings me my pipe and slippers. As they say, there's nothing a man likes more than to be appreciated.
A hundred per cent appreciated, with a factory guarantee to correct any slippage, which would only be temporary, anyhow.
One of these days, we'll take that second honeymoon. But I think we'll go to Hawaii.
Question:
What is the relationship between George Faircloth and Marge Faircloth?
Answer:
|
[
"George Faircloth and Marge Faircloth are husband and wife. They have married for 8 years. Their relationship is toxic and unsatisfying. George is fed up with Marge’s constant complaints, grievance, and crying. Marge is unsatisfied with George’s inattention to her and his possible affairs with women in his office, so she often spies on George’s office life, which irritates George more. They are constantly in fight. Their way of communicating with each other is to attack and fight, and they haven’t seen each other carefully and sweetly for a long time. Their relationship is to conquer and be conquered repeatedly, fighting all the time.",
"George and Marge Faircloth have been married for eight years. George claims that their life is full of scandals and distrust. They fight ninety percent of the time. Marge is often complaining, crying, or criticizing George. She is jealous, and once when a new secretary started working with George, she threw a tantrum and spoiled the evening. Marge doesn’t get enough attention from him and knows that he can be indecent. They both do not enjoy living together, and George finds it easy to buy the Prime android and spend his evenings with his female colleagues. At the end, Marge and George end up with the android duplicates of their spouse and feel much happier. ",
"The relationship between George and Marge is very tense. It seems as if in the past they had a great relationship, but now they just fight. George states that they fight almost every night, and that it is very hard for them to spend time together without there being something that Marge complains about. It is also clear that George doesn’t try to make Marge happy anymore. Both of them quit the relationship and instead bought prime androids so that they could have more freedom outside of the marriage. ",
"George Faircloth and Marge Faircloth are a couple that have been engaged for eight years. They are trapped in an unhappy marriage where George feels trapped by a wife, who although he finds stunning, does not stop complaining, crying and whining about the most unnecessary issues of their coupled life. The two have tried to make the marriage better but never yet succeeded. They were never able to consider divorce as an option because the Family Solidarity Amendment of 1968 charges incredibly high taxes on the process. Marge is also a jealous wife which makes George feel even more suffocated. Marge finds out that George has an affair with his secretary, Jeree. In the story, George finds a solution to this unhappy marriage by purchasing an Ego Prime, an android clone of himself that looks and behaves like him, so that he can go on about his life as the android deals with the coupled life for him. In the first stage, this android brings him lots of joy as he is able to meet with his secretary and other women as he pleases. Then, as he notices that his wife gets more tender and more caring, he starts appreciating and missing her more. By the end of the story, he finds out that Marge knew his trick all along and that she booked herself a trip to Bermuda with his money. Marge also had a Prime of herself, who is the real person George has in fact fallen for.\n"
] |
51321
|
PRIME DIFFERENCE
By ALAN E. NOURSE
Illustrated by SCHOENHEER
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Being two men rolled out of one would solve my problems—but which one would I be?
I suppose that every guy reaches a point once in his lifetime when he gets one hundred and forty per cent fed up with his wife.
Understand now—I've got nothing against marriage or any thing like that. Marriage is great. It's a good old red-blooded American Institution. Except that it's got one defect in it big enough to throw a cat through, especially when you happen to be married to a woman like Marge—
It's so permanent .
Oh, I'd have divorced Marge in a minute if we'd been living in the Blissful 'Fifties—but with the Family Solidarity Amendment of 1968, and all the divorce taxes we have these days since the women got their teeth into politics, to say nothing of the Aggrieved Spouse Compensation Act, I'd have been a pauper for the rest of my life if I'd tried it. That's aside from the social repercussions involved.
You can't really blame me for looking for another way out. But a man has to be desperate to try to buy himself an Ego Prime.
So, all right, I was desperate. I'd spent eight years trying to keep Marge happy, which was exactly seven and a half years too long.
Marge was a dream to look at, with her tawny hair and her sulky eyes and a shape that could set your teeth chattering—but that was where the dream stopped.
She had a tongue like a #10 wood rasp and a list of grievances long enough to paper the bedroom wall. When she wasn't complaining, she was crying, and when she wasn't crying, she was pointing out in chilling detail exactly where George Faircloth fell short as a model husband, which happened to be everywhere. Half of the time she had a "beastly headache" (for which I was personally responsible) and the other half she was sore about something, so ninety-nine per cent of the time we got along like a couple of tomcats in a packing case.
Maybe we just weren't meant for each other. I don't know. I used to envy guys like Harry Folsom at the office. His wife is no joy to live with either, but at least he could take a spin down to Rio once in a while with one of the stenographers and get away with it.
I knew better than to try. Marge was already so jealous that I couldn't even smile at the company receptionist without a twinge of guilt. Give Marge something real to howl about, and I'd be ready for the Rehab Center in a week.
But I'd underestimated Marge. She didn't need anything real, as I found out when Jeree came along.
Business was booming and the secretaries at the office got shuffled around from time to time. Since I had an executive-type job, I got an executive-type secretary. Her name was Jeree and she was gorgeous. As a matter of fact, she was better than gorgeous. She was the sort of secretary every businessman ought to have in his office. Not to do any work—just to sit there.
Jeree was tall and dark, and she could convey more without saying anything than I ever dreamed was possible. The first day she was there, she conveyed to me very clearly that if I cared to supply the opportunity, she'd be glad to supply the motive.
That night, I could tell that Marge had been thinking something over during the day. She let me get the first bite of dinner halfway to my mouth, and then she said, "I hear you got a new secretary today."
I muttered something into my coffee cup and pretended not to hear.
Marge turned on her Accusing Look #7. "I also hear that she's five-foot-eight and tapes out at 38-25-36 and thinks you're handsome."
Marge had quite a spy system.
"She couldn't be much of a secretary," she added.
"She's a perfectly good secretary," I blurted, and kicked myself mentally. I should have known Marge's traps by then.
Marge exploded. I didn't get any supper, and she was still going strong at midnight. I tried to argue, but when Marge got going, there was no stopping her. I had my ultimatum, as far as Jeree was concerned.
Harry Folsom administered the coup de grace at coffee next morning.
"What you need is an Ego Prime," he said with a grin. "Solve all your problems. I hear they work like a charm."
I set my coffee cup down. Bells were ringing in my ears. "Don't be ridiculous. It's against the law. Anyway, I wouldn't think of such a thing. It's—it's indecent."
Harry shrugged. "Just joking, old man, just joking. Still, it's fun to think about, eh? Freedom from wife. Absolutely safe and harmless. Not even too expensive, if you've got the right contacts. And I've got a friend who knows a guy—"
Just then, Jeree walked past us and flashed me a big smile. I gripped my cup for dear life and still spilled coffee on my tie.
As I said, a guy gets fed up.
And maybe opportunity would only knock once.
And an Ego Prime would solve all my problems, as Harry had told me.
It was completely illegal, of course. The wonder was that Ego Prime, Inc., ever got to put their product on the market at all, once the nation's housewives got wind of just what their product was.
From the first, there was rigid Federal control and laws regulating the use of Primes right down to the local level. You could get a license for a Utility model Prime if you were a big business executive, or a high public official, or a movie star, or something like that; but even then his circuits had to be inspected every two months, and he had to have a thousand built-in Paralyzers, and you had to specify in advance exactly what you wanted your Prime to be able to do when, where, how, why, and under what circumstances.
The law didn't leave a man much leeway.
But everybody knew that if you really wanted a personal Prime with all his circuits open and no questions asked, you could get one. Black market prices were steep and you ran your own risk, but it could be done.
Harry Folsom told his friend who knew a guy, and a few greenbacks got lost somewhere, and I found myself looking at a greasy little man with a black mustache and a bald spot, up in a dingy fourth-story warehouse off lower Broadway.
"Ah, yes," the little man said. "Mr. Faircloth. We've been expecting you."
I didn't like the looks of the guy any more than the looks of the place. "I've been told you can supply me with a—"
He coughed. "Yes, yes. I understand. It might be possible." He fingered his mustache and regarded me from pouchy eyes. "Busy executives often come to us to avoid the—ah—unpleasantness of formal arrangements. Naturally, we only act as agents, you might say. We never see the merchandise ourselves—" He wiped his hands on his trousers. "Now were you interested in the ordinary Utility model, Mr. Faircloth?"
I assumed he was just being polite. You didn't come to the back door for Utility models.
"Or perhaps you'd require one of our Deluxe models. Very careful workmanship. Only a few key Paralyzers in operation and practically complete circuit duplication. Very useful for—ah—close contact work, you know. Social engagements, conferences—"
I was shaking my head. "I want a Super Deluxe model," I told him.
He grinned and winked. "Ah, indeed! You want perfect duplication. Yes, indeed. Domestic situations can be—awkward, shall we say. Very awkward—"
I gave him a cold stare. I couldn't see where my domestic problems were any affairs of his. He got the idea and hurried me back to a storeroom.
"We keep a few blanks here for the basic measurement. You'll go to our laboratory on 14th Street to have the minute impressions taken. But I can assure you you'll be delighted, simply delighted."
The blanks weren't very impressive—clay and putty and steel, faceless, brainless. He went over me like a tailor, checking measurements of all sorts. He was thorough—embarrassingly thorough, in fact—but finally he was finished. I went on to the laboratory.
And that was all there was to it.
Practical androids had been a pipe dream until Hunyadi invented the Neuro-pantograph. Hunyadi had no idea in the world what to do with it once he'd invented it, but a couple of enterprising engineers bought him body and soul, sub-contracted the problems of anatomy, design, artistry, audio and visio circuitry, and so forth, and ended up with the modern Ego Primes we have today.
I spent a busy two hours under the NP microprobes; the artists worked outside while the NP technicians worked inside. I came out of it pretty woozy, but a shot of Happy-O set that straight. Then I waited in the recovery room for another two hours, dreaming up ways to use my Prime when I got him. Finally the door opened and the head technician walked in, followed by a tall, sandy-haired man with worried blue eyes and a tired look on his face.
"Meet George Faircloth Prime," the technician said, grinning at me like a nursing mother.
I shook hands with myself. Good firm handshake, I thought admiringly. Nothing flabby about it.
I slapped George Prime on the shoulder happily. "Come on, Brother," I said. "You've got a job to do."
But, secretly, I was wondering what Jeree was doing that night.
George Prime had remote controls, as well as a completely recorded neurological analogue of his boss, who was me. George Prime thought what I thought about the same things I did in the same way I did. The only difference was that what I told George Prime to do, George Prime did.
If I told him to go to a business conference in San Francisco and make the smallest possible concessions for the largest possible orders, he would go there and do precisely that. His signature would be my signature. It would hold up in court.
And if I told him that my wife Marge was really a sweet, good-hearted girl and that he was to stay home and keep her quiet and happy any time I chose, he'd do that, too.
George Prime was a duplicate of me right down to the sandy hairs on the back of my hands. Our fingerprints were the same. We had the same mannerisms and used the same figures of speech. The only physical difference apparent even to an expert was the tiny finger-depression buried in the hair above his ear. A little pressure there would stop George Prime dead in his tracks.
He was so lifelike, even I kept forgetting that he was basically just a pile of gears.
I'd planned very carefully how I meant to use him, of course.
Every man who's been married eight years has a sanctuary. He builds it up and maintains it against assault in the very teeth of his wife's natural instinct to clean, poke, pry and rearrange things. Sometimes it takes him years of diligent work to establish his hideout and be confident that it will stay inviolate, but if he starts early enough, and sticks with it long enough, and is fierce enough and persistent enough and crafty enough, he'll probably win in the end. The girls hate him for it, but he'll win.
With some men, it's just a box on their dressers, or a desk, or a corner of an unused back room. But I had set my sights high early in the game. With me, it was the whole workshop in the garage.
At first, Marge tried open warfare. She had to clean the place up, she said. I told her I didn't want her to clean it up. She could clean the whole house as often as she chose, but I would clean up the workshop.
After a couple of sharp engagements on that field, Marge staged a strategic withdrawal and reorganized her attack. A little pile of wood shavings would be on the workshop floor one night and be gone the next. A wrench would be back on the rack—upside down, of course. An open paint can would have a cover on it.
I always knew. I screamed loudly and bitterly. I ranted and raved. I swore I'd rig up a booby-trap with a shotgun.
So she quit trying to clean in there and just went in once in a while to take a look around. I fixed that with the old toothpick-in-the-door routine. Every time she so much as set foot in that workshop, she had a battle on her hands for the next week or so. She could count on it. It was that predictable.
She never found out how I knew, and after seven years or so, it wore her down. She didn't go into the workshop any more.
As I said, you've got to be persistent, but you'll win.
Eventually.
If you're really persistent.
Now all my effort paid off. I got Marge out of the house for an hour or two that day and had George Prime delivered and stored in the big closet in the workshop. They hooked his controls up and left me a manual of instructions for running him. When I got home that night, there he was, just waiting to be put to work.
After supper, I went out to the workshop—to get the pipe I'd left there, I said. I pushed George Prime's button, winked at him and switched on the free-behavior circuits.
"Go to it, Brother," I said.
George Prime put my pipe in his mouth, lit it and walked back into the house.
Five minutes later, I heard them fighting.
It sounded so familiar that I laughed out loud. Then I caught a cab on the corner and headed uptown.
We had quite a night, Jeree and I. I got home just about time to start for work, and sure enough, there was George Prime starting my car, business suit on, briefcase under his arm.
I pushed the recall and George Prime got out of the car and walked into the workshop. He stepped into his cradle in the closet. I turned him off and then drove away in the car.
Bless his metallic soul, he'd even kissed Marge good-by for me!
Needless to say, the affairs of George Faircloth took on a new sparkle with George Prime on hand to cover the home front.
For the first week, I was hardly home at all. I must say I felt a little guilty, leaving poor old George Prime to cope with Marge all the time—he looked and acted so human, it was easy to forget that he literally couldn't care less. But I felt apologetic all the same whenever I took him out of his closet.
"She's really a sweet girl underneath it all," I'd say. "You'll learn to like her after a bit."
"Of course I like her," George Prime said. "You told me to, didn't you? Stop worrying. She's really a sweet girl underneath it all."
He sounded convincing enough, but still it bothered me. "You're sure you understand the exchange mechanism?" I asked. I didn't want any foul-ups there, as you can imagine.
"Perfectly," said George Prime. "When you buzz the recall, I wait for the first logical opportunity I can find to come out to the workshop, and you take over."
"But you might get nervous. You might inadvertently tip her off."
George Prime looked pained. "Really, old man! I'm a Super Deluxe model, remember? I don't have fourteen activated Hunyadi tubes up in this cranial vault of mine just for nothing. You're the one that's nervous. I'll take care of everything. Relax."
So I did.
Jeree made good all her tacit promises and then some. She had a very cozy little apartment on 34th Street where we went to relax after a hard day at the office. When we weren't doing the town, that is. As long as Jeree didn't try too much conversation, everything was wonderful.
And then, when Jeree got a little boring, there was Sybil in the accounting department. Or Dorothy in promotion. Or Jane. Or Ingrid.
I could go on at some length, but I won't. I was building quite a reputation for myself around the office.
Of course, it was like buying your first 3-V set. In a week or so, the novelty wears off a little and you start eating on schedule again. It took a little while, but I finally had things down to a reasonable program.
Tuesday and Thursday nights, I was informally "out" while formally
"in." Sometimes I took Sunday nights "out" if things got too sticky around the house over the weekend. The rest of the time, George Prime cooled his heels in his closet. Locked up, of course. Can't completely trust a wife to observe a taboo, no matter how well trained she is.
There, was an irreconcilable amount of risk. George Prime had to quick-step some questions about my work at the office—there was no way to supply him with current data until the time for his regular two-month refill and pattern-accommodation at the laboratory. In the meantime, George Prime had to make do with what he had.
But as he himself pointed out he was a Super Deluxe model.
Marge didn't suspect a thing. In fact, George Prime seemed to be having a remarkable effect on her. I didn't notice anything at first—I was hardly ever home. But one night I found my pipe and slippers laid out for me, and the evening paper neatly folded on my chair, and it brought me up short. Marge had been extremely docile lately. We hadn't had a good fight in days. Weeks, come to think of it.
I thought it over and shrugged. Old age, I figured. She was bound to mellow sometime.
But pretty soon I began to wonder if she wasn't mellowing a little too much.
One night when I got home, she kissed me almost as though she really meant it. There wasn't an unpleasant word all through dinner, which happened to be steak with mushrooms, served in the dining room (!) by candlelight (!!) with dinner music that Marge could never bear, chiefly because I liked it.
We sat over coffee and cigarettes, and it seemed almost like old times. Very old times, in fact I even caught myself looking at Marge again—really looking at her, watching the light catch in her hair, almost admiring the sparkle in her brown eyes. Sparkle, I said, not glint.
As I mentioned before, Marge was always easy to look at. That night, she was practically ravishing.
"What are you doing to her?" I asked George Prime later, out in the workshop.
"Why, nothing," said George Prime, looking innocent. He couldn't fool me with his look, though, because it was exactly the look I use when I'm guilty and pretending to be innocent.
"There must be something ."
George Prime shrugged. "Any woman will warm up if you spend enough time telling her all the things she wants to hear and pay all the attention to her that she wants paid to her. That's elemental psychology. I can give you page references."
I ought to mention that George Prime had a complete set of basic texts run into his circuits, at a slightly additional charge. Never can tell when an odd bit of information will come in useful.
"Well, you must be doing quite a job," I said. I'd never managed to warm Marge up much.
"I try," said George Prime.
"Oh, I'm not complaining," I hastened to add, forgetting that a Prime's feelings can't be hurt and that he was only acting like me because it was in character. "I was just curious."
"Of course, George."
"I'm really delighted that you're doing so well."
"Thank you, George."
But the next night when I was with Dawn, who happens to be a gorgeous redhead who could put Marge to shame on practically any field of battle except maybe brains, I kept thinking about Marge all evening long, and wondering if things weren't getting just a little out of hand.
The next evening I almost tripped over George Prime coming out of a liquor store. I ducked quickly into an alley and flagged him. " What are you doing out on the street? "
He gave me my martyred look. "Just buying some bourbon. You were out."
"But you're not supposed to be off the premises—"
"Marge asked me to come. I couldn't tell her I was sorry, but her husband wouldn't let me, could I?"
"Well, certainly not—"
"You want me to keep her happy, don't you? You don't want her to get suspicious."
"No, but suppose somebody saw us together! If she ever got a hint—"
"I'm sorry," George Prime said contritely. "It seemed the right thing to do. You would have done it. At least that's what my judgment center maintained. We had quite an argument."
"Well, tell your judgment center to use a little sense," I snapped. "I don't want it to happen again."
The next night, I stayed home, even though it was Tuesday night. I was beginning to get worried. Of course, I did have complete control—I could snap George Prime off any time I wanted, or even take him in for a complete recircuiting—but it seemed a pity. He was doing such a nice job.
Marge was docile as a kitten, even more so than before. She sympathized with my hard day at the office and agreed heartily that the boss, despite all appearances, was in reality a jabbering idiot. After dinner, I suggested a movie, but Marge gave me an odd sort of look and said she thought it would be much nicer to spend the evening at home by the fire.
I'd just gotten settled with the paper when she came into the living room and sat down beside me. She was wearing some sort of filmy affair I'd never laid eyes on before, and I caught a whiff of my favorite perfume.
"Georgie?" she said.
"Uh?"
"Do you still love me?"
I set the paper down and stared at her. "How's that? Of course I still—"
"Well, sometimes you don't act much like it."
"Mm. I guess I've—uh—got an awful headache tonight." Damn that perfume!
"Oh," said Marge.
"In fact, I thought I'd turn in early and get some sleep—"
"Sleep," said Marge. There was no mistaking the disappointment in her voice. Now I knew that things were out of hand.
The next evening, I activated George Prime and caught the taxi at the corner, but I called Ruby and broke my date with her. I took in an early movie alone and was back by ten o'clock. I left the cab at the corner and walked quietly up the path toward the garage.
Then I stopped. I could see Marge and George Prime through the living room windows.
George Prime was kissing my wife the way I hadn't kissed her in eight long years. It made my hair stand on end. And Marge wasn't exactly fighting him off, either. She was coming back for more. After a little, the lights went off.
George Prime was a Super Deluxe model, all right.
I dashed into the workshop and punched the recall button as hard as I could, swearing under my breath. How long had this been going on? I punched the button again, viciously, and waited.
George Prime didn't come out.
It was plenty cold out in the workshop that night and I didn't sleep a wink. About dawn, out came George Prime, looking like a man with a four-day hangover.
Our conversation got down to fundamentals. George Prime kept insisting blandly that, according to my own directions, he was to pick the first logical opportunity to come out when I buzzed, and that was exactly what he'd done.
I was furious all the way to work. I'd take care of this nonsense, all right. I'd have George Prime rewired from top to bottom as soon as the laboratory could take him.
But I never phoned the laboratory. The bank was calling me when I got to the office. They wanted to know what I planned to do about that check of mine that had just bounced.
"What check?" I asked.
"The one you wrote to cash yesterday—five hundred dollars—against your regular account, Mr. Faircloth."
The last I'd looked, I'd had about three thousand dollars in that account. I told the man so rather bluntly.
"Oh, no, sir. That is, you did until last week. But all these checks you've been cashing have emptied the account."
He flashed the checks on the desk screen. My signature was on every one of them.
"What about my special account?" I'd learned long before that an account Marge didn't know about was sound rear-guard strategy.
"That's been closed out for two weeks."
I hadn't written a check against that account for over a year! I glared at the ceiling and tried to think things through.
I came up with a horrible thought.
Marge had always had her heart set on a trip to Bermuda. Just to get away from it all, she'd say. A second honeymoon.
I got a list of travel agencies from the business directory and started down them. The third one I tried had a pleasant tenor voice. "No, sir, not Mrs. Faircloth. You bought two tickets. One way. Champagne flight to Bermuda."
"When?" I choked out.
"Why, today, as a matter of fact. It leaves Idlewild at eleven o'clock—"
I let him worry about my amnesia and started home fast. I didn't know what they'd given that Prime for circuits, but there was no question now that he was out of control— way out of control. And poor Marge, all worked up for a second honeymoon—
Then it struck me. Poor Marge? Poor sucker George! No Prime in his right circuits would behave this way without some human guidance and that meant only one thing: Marge had spotted him. It had happened before. Couple of nasty court battles I'd read about. And she'd known all about George Prime.
For how long?
When I got home, the house was empty. George Prime wasn't in his closet. And Marge wasn't in the house.
They were gone.
I started to call the police, but caught myself just in time. I couldn't very well complain to the cops that my wife had run off with an android.
Worse yet, I could get twenty years for having an illegal Prime wandering around.
I sat down and poured myself a stiff drink.
My own wife deserting me for a pile of bearings.
It was indecent.
Then I heard the front door open and there was Marge, her arms full of grocery bundles. "Why, darling! You're home early!"
I just blinked for a moment. Then I said, "You're still here!"
"Of course. Where did you think I'd be?"
"But I thought—I mean the ticket office—"
She set down the bundles and kissed me and looked up into my eyes, almost smiling, half reproachful. "You didn't really think I'd go running off with something out of a lab, did you?"
"Then—you knew?"
"Certainly I knew, silly. You didn't do a very good job of instructing him, either. You gave him far too much latitude. Let him have ideas of his own and all that. And next thing I knew, he was trying to get me to run off with him to Hawaii or someplace."
"Bermuda," I said.
And then Marge was in my arms, kissing me and snuggling her cheek against my chest.
"Even though he looked like you, I knew he couldn't be," she said. "He was like you, but he wasn't you , darling. And all I ever want is you. I just never appreciated you before...."
I held her close and tried to keep my hands from shaking. George Faircloth, Idiot, I thought. She'd never been more beautiful. "But what did you do with him?"
"I sent him back to the factory, naturally. They said they could blot him out and use him over again. But let's not talk about that any more. We've got more interesting things to discuss."
Maybe we had, but we didn't waste a lot of time talking. It was the Marge I'd once known and I was beginning to wonder how I could have been so wrong about her. In fact unless my memory was getting awfully porous, the old Marge was never like this—
I kissed her tenderly and ran my hands through her hair, and felt the depression with my fore-finger, and then I knew what had really happened.
That Marge always had been a sly one.
I wondered how she was liking things in Bermuda.
Marge probably thought she'd really put me where I belonged, but the laugh was on her, after all.
As I said, the old Marge was never like the new one. Marge Prime makes Jeree and Sybil and Dorothy and Dawn and Jane and Ruby all look pretty sad by comparison.
She cooks like a dream and she always brings me my pipe and slippers. As they say, there's nothing a man likes more than to be appreciated.
A hundred per cent appreciated, with a factory guarantee to correct any slippage, which would only be temporary, anyhow.
One of these days, we'll take that second honeymoon. But I think we'll go to Hawaii.
|
What is the relationship between Jon Karyl and his Steel-Blue (the one that he initially meets)?
|
After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about Acid Bath by Bill Garson.
Relevant chunks:
ACID BATH
By VASELEOS GARSON
The starways' Lone Watcher had expected some odd developments
in his singular, nerve-fraught job on the asteroid. But nothing like the
weird twenty-one-day liquid test devised by the invading Steel-Blues.
Jon Karyl
was bolting in a new baffle
plate on the stationary rocket engine.
It was a tedious job and took all his
concentration. So he wasn't paying too much
attention to what was going on in other
parts of the little asteroid.
He didn't see the peculiar blue space
ship, its rockets throttled down, as it drifted
to land only a few hundred yards away from
his plastic igloo.
Nor did he see the half-dozen steel-blue
creatures slide out of the peculiar vessel's
airlock.
It was only as he crawled out of the
depths of the rocket power plant that he
realized something was wrong.
By then it was almost too late. The six
blue figures were only fifty feet away, approaching
him at a lope.
Jon Karyl took one look and went bounding
over the asteroid's rocky slopes in fifty-foot
bounds.
When you're a Lone Watcher, and
strangers catch you unawares, you don't
stand still. You move fast. It's the Watcher's
first rule. Stay alive. An Earthship may depend
upon your life.
As he fled, Jon Karyl cursed softly under
his breath. The automatic alarm should have
shrilled out a warning.
Then he saved as much of his breath as
he could as some sort of power wave tore
up the rocky sward to his left. He twisted
and zig-zagged in his flight, trying to get
out of sight of the strangers.
Once hidden from their eyes, he could cut
back and head for the underground entrance
to the service station.
He glanced back finally.
Two of the steel-blue creatures were jack-rabbiting
after him, and rapidly closing the
distance.
Jon Karyl unsheathed the stubray pistol
at his side, turned the oxygen dial up for
greater exertion, increased the gravity pull
in his space-suit boots as he neared the
ravine he'd been racing for.
The oxygen was just taking hold when
he hit the lip of the ravine and began
sprinting through its man-high bush-strewn
course.
The power ray from behind ripped out
great gobs of the sheltering bushes. But
running naturally, bent close to the bottom
of the ravine, Jon Karyl dodged the bare
spots. The oxygen made the tremendous
exertion easy for his lungs as he sped down
the dim trail, hidden from the two steel-blue
stalkers.
He'd eluded them, temporarily at least,
Jon Karyl decided when he finally edged off
the dim trail and watched for movement
along the route behind him.
He stood up, finally, pushed aside the
leafy overhang of a bush and looked for
landmarks along the edge of the ravine.
He found one, a stubby bush, shaped like
a Maltese cross, clinging to the lip of the
ravine. The hidden entrance to the service
station wasn't far off.
His pistol held ready, he moved quietly
on down the ravine until the old water
course made an abrupt hairpin turn.
Instead of following around the sharp
bend, Jon Karyl moved straight ahead
through the overhanging bushes until he
came to a dense thicket. Dropping to his
hands and knees he worked his way under
the edge of the thicket into a hollowed-out
space in the center.
There
, just ahead of him, was the lock
leading into the service station. Slipping
a key out of a leg pouch on the space suit,
he jabbed it into the center of the lock,
opening the lever housing.
He pulled strongly on the lever. With a
hiss of escaping air, the lock swung open.
Jon Karyl darted inside, the door closing
softly behind.
At the end of the long tunnel he stepped
to the televisor which was fixed on the area
surrounding the station.
Jon Karyl saw none of the steel-blue creatures.
But he saw their ship. It squatted
like a smashed-down kid's top, its lock shut
tight.
He tuned the televisor to its widest range
and finally spotted one of the Steel-Blues.
He was looking into the stationary rocket
engine.
As Karyl watched, a second Steel-Blue
came crawling out of the ship.
The two Steel-Blues moved toward the
center of the televisor range. They're coming
toward the station, Karyl thought grimly.
Karyl examined the two creatures. They
were of the steel-blue color from the crown
of their egg-shaped heads to the tips of
their walking appendages.
They were about the height of Karyl—six
feet. But where he tapered from broad
shoulders to flat hips, they were straight up
and down. They had no legs, just appendages,
many-jointed that stretched and
shrank independent of the other, but keeping
the cylindrical body with its four pairs
of tentacles on a level balance.
Where their eyes would have been was
an elliptical-shaped lens, covering half the
egg-head, with its converging ends curving
around the sides of the head.
Robots! Jon gauged immediately. But
where were their masters?
The Steel-Blues moved out of the range
of the televisor. A minute later Jon heard
a pounding from the station upstairs.
He chuckled. They were like the wolf of
pre-atomic days who huffed and puffed to
blow the house down.
The outer shell of the station was formed
from stelrylite, the toughest metal in the
solar system. With the self-sealing lock of
the same resistant material, a mere pounding
was nothing.
Jon thought he'd have a look-see anyway.
He went up the steel ladder leading to the
station's power plant and the televisor that
could look into every room within the
station.
He heaved a slight sigh when he reached
the power room, for right at his hand were
weapons to blast the ship from the asteroid.
Jon adjusted one televisor to take in the
lock to the station. His teeth suddenly
clamped down on his lower lip.
Those Steel-Blues were pounding holes
into the stelrylite with round-headed metal
clubs. But it was impossible. Stelrylite didn't
break up that easily.
Jon leaped to a row of studs, lining up
the revolving turret which capped the station
so that its thin fin pointed at the
squat ship of the invaders.
Then he went to the atomic cannon's
firing buttons.
He pressed first the yellow, then the blue
button. Finally the red one.
The thin fin—the cannon's sight—split in
half as the turret opened and the coiled nose
of the cannon protruded. There was a
soundless flash. Then a sharp crack.
Jon was dumbfounded when he saw the
bolt ricochet off the ship. This was no ship
of the solar system. There was nothing that
could withstand even the slight jolt of power
given by the station cannon on any of the
Sun's worlds. But what was this? A piece of
the ship had changed. A bubble of metal,
like a huge drop of blue wax, dripped off
the vessel and struck the rocket of the
asteroid. It steamed and ran in rivulets.
He pressed the red button again.
Then abruptly he was on the floor of the
power room, his legs strangely cut out from
under him. He tried to move them. They lay
flaccid. His arms seemed all right and tried
to lever himself to an upright position.
Damn it, he seemed as if he were paralyzed
from the waist down. But it couldn't
happen that suddenly.
He turned his head.
A Steel-Blue stood facing him. A forked
tentacle held a square black box.
Jon could read nothing in that metallic
face. He said, voice muffled by the confines
of the plastic helmet, "Who are you?"
"I am"—there was a rising inflection in
the answer—"a Steel-Blue."
There were no lips on the Steel-Blue's
face to move. "That is what I have named
you," Jon Karyl said. "But what are you?"
"A robot," came the immediate answer.
Jon was quite sure then that the Steel-Blue
was telepathic. "Yes," the Steel-Blue answered.
"We talk in the language of the
mind. Come!" he said peremptorily, motioning
with the square black box.
The paralysis left Karyl's legs. He followed
the Steel-Blue, aware that the lens
he'd seen on the creature's face had a
counterpart on the back of the egg-head.
Eyes in the back of his head, Jon thought.
That's quite an innovation. "Thank you,"
Steel-Blue said.
There wasn't much fear in Jon Karyl's
mind. Psychiatrists had proved that when he
had applied for this high-paying but man-killing
job as a Lone Watcher on the Solar
System's starways.
He had little fear now, only curiosity.
These Steel-Blues didn't seem inimical.
They could have snuffed out my life very
simply. Perhaps they and Solarians can be
friends.
Steel-Blue chuckled.
Jon
followed him through the sundered
lock of the station. Karyl stopped for a
moment to examine the wreckage of the
lock. It had been punched full of holes as
if it had been some soft cheese instead of a
metal which Earthmen had spent nearly a
century perfecting.
"We appreciate your compliment," Steel-Blue
said. "But that metal also is found on
our world. It's probably the softest and most
malleable we have. We were surprised you—earthmen,
is it?—use it as protective
metal."
"Why are you in this system?" Jon asked,
hardly expecting an answer.
It came anyway. "For the same reason you
Earthmen are reaching out farther into your
system. We need living room. You have
strategically placed planets for our use. We
will use them."
Jon sighed. For 400 years scientists had
been preaching preparedness as Earth flung
her ships into the reaches of the solar system,
taking the first long step toward the
conquest of space.
There are other races somewhere, they
argued. As strong and smart as man, many
of them so transcending man in mental and
inventive power that we must be prepared to
strike the minute danger shows.
Now here was the answer to the scientists'
warning. Invasion by extra-terrestrials.
"What did you say?" asked Steel-Blue.
"I couldn't understand."
"Just thinking to myself," Jon answered.
It was a welcome surprise. Apparently his
thoughts had to be directed outward, rather
than inward, in order for the Steel-Blues to
read it.
He followed the Steel-Blue into the gaping
lock of the invaders' space ship wondering
how he could warn Earth. The Space
Patrol cruiser was due in for refueling at
his service station in 21 days. But by that
time he probably would be mouldering in
the rocky dust of the asteroid.
It was pitch dark within the ship but the
Steel-Blue seemed to have no trouble at all
maneuvering through the maze of corridors.
Jon followed him, attached to one tentacle.
Finally Jon and his guide entered a circular
room, bright with light streaming from
a glass-like, bulging skylight. They apparently
were near topside of the vessel.
A Steel-Blue, more massive than his
guide and with four more pair of tentacles,
including two short ones that grew from the
top of its head, spoke out.
"This is the violator?" Jon's Steel-Blue
nodded.
"You know the penalty? Carry it out."
"He also is an inhabitant of this system,"
Jon's guide added.
"Examine him first, then give him the
death."
Jon Karyl shrugged as he was led from
the lighted room through more corridors.
If it got too bad he still had the stubray
pistol.
Anyway, he was curious. He'd taken on
the lonely, nerve-wracking job of service
station attendant just to see what it offered.
Here was a part of it, and it was certainly
something new.
"This is the examination room," his
Steel-Blue said, almost contemptuously.
A green effulgence surrounded him.
There
was a hiss. Simultaneously, as the
tiny microphone on the outside of his
suit picked up the hiss, he felt a chill go
through his body. Then it seemed as if a
half dozen hands were inside him, examining
his internal organs. His stomach contracted.
He felt a squeeze on his heart. His
lungs tickled.
There were several more queer motions
inside his body.
Then another Steel-Blue voice said:
"He is a soft-metal creature, made up of
metals that melt at a very low temperature.
He also contains a liquid whose makeup I
cannot ascertain by ray-probe. Bring him
back when the torture is done."
Jon Karyl grinned a trifle wryly. What
kind of torture could this be?
Would it last 21 days? He glanced at the
chronometer on his wrist.
Jon's Steel-Blue led him out of the alien
ship and halted expectantly just outside the
ship's lock.
Jon Karyl waited, too. He thought of the
stubray pistol holstered at his hip. Shoot my
way out? It'd be fun while it lasted. But he
toted up the disadvantages.
He either would have to find a hiding
place on the asteroid, and if the Steel-Blues
wanted him bad enough they could tear the
whole place to pieces, or somehow get
aboard the little life ship hidden in the
service station.
In that he would be just a sitting duck.
He shrugged off the slight temptation to
use the pistol. He was still curious.
And he was interested in staying alive as
long as possible. There was a remote chance
he might warn the SP ship. Unconsciously,
he glanced toward his belt to see the little
power pack which, if under ideal conditions,
could finger out fifty thousand miles into
space.
If he could somehow stay alive the 21
days he might be able to warn the patrol.
He couldn't do it by attempting to flee, for
his life would be snuffed out immediately.
The Steel-Blue said quietly:
"It might be ironical to let you warn
that SP ship you keep thinking about. But
we know your weapon now. Already our
ship is equipped with a force field designed
especially to deflect your atomic guns."
Jon Karyl covered up his thoughts
quickly. They can delve deeper than the
surface of the mind. Or wasn't I keeping a
leash on my thoughts?
The Steel-Blue chuckled. "You get—absent-minded,
is it?—every once in a
while."
Just then four other Steel-Blues appeared
lugging great sheets of plastic and various
other equipment.
They dumped their loads and began unbundling
them.
Working swiftly, they built a plastic
igloo, smaller than the living room in the
larger service station igloo. They ranged instruments
inside—one of them Jon Karyl
recognized as an air pump from within the
station—and they laid out a pallet.
When they were done Jon saw a miniature
reproduction of the service station, lacking
only the cannon cap and fin, and with clear
plastic walls instead of the opaqueness of the
other.
His Steel-Blue said: "We have reproduced
the atmosphere of your station so that you
be watched while you undergo the torture
under the normal conditions of your life."
"What is this torture?" Jon Karyl asked.
The answer was almost caressing: "It is
a liquid we use to dissolve metals. It causes
joints to harden if even so much as a drop
remains on it long. It eats away the metal,
leaving a scaly residue which crumbles
eventually into dust.
"We will dilute it with a harmless liquid
for you since No. 1 does not wish you to die
instantly.
"Enter your"—the Steel-Blue hesitated—"mausoleum.
You die in your own atmosphere.
However, we took the liberty of purifying
it. There were dangerous elements in
it."
Jon walked into the little igloo. The
Steel-Blues sealed the lock, fingered dials
and switches on the outside. Jon's space suit
deflated. Pressure was building up in the
igloo.
He took a sample of the air, found that
it was good, although quite rich in oxygen
compared with what he'd been using in the
service station and in his suit.
With a sigh of relief he took off his helmet
and gulped huge draughts of the air.
He sat down on the pallet and waited
for the torture to begin.
The Steel Blues crowded about the igloo,
staring at him through elliptical eyes.
Apparently, they too, were waiting for the
torture to begin.
Jon thought the excess of oxygen was
making him light-headed.
He stared at a cylinder which was beginning
to sprout tentacles from the circle.
He rubbed his eyes and looked again. An
opening, like the adjustable eye-piece of a
spacescope, was appearing in the center of
the cylinder.
A square, glass-like tumbler sat in the
opening disclosed in the four-foot cylinder
that had sprouted tentacles. It contained a
yellowish liquid.
One of the tentacles reached into the
opening and clasped the glass. The opening
closed and the cylinder, propelled by locomotor
appendages, moved toward Jon.
He didn't like the looks of the liquid in
the tumbler. It looked like an acid of some
sort. He raised to his feet.
He unsheathed the stubray gun and prepared
to blast the cylinder.
The
cylinder moved so fast Jon felt his
eyes jump in his head. He brought the
stubray gun up—but he was helpless. The
pistol kept on going up. With a deft movement,
one of the tentacles had speared it
from his hand and was holding it out of
his reach.
Jon kicked at the glass in the cylinder's
hand. But he was too slow. Two tentacles
gripped the kicking leg. Another struck him
in the chest, knocking him to the pallet. The
same tentacle, assisted by a new one,
pinioned his shoulders.
Four tentacles held him supine. The cylinder
lifted a glass-like cap from the tumbler
of liquid.
Lying there helplessly, Jon was remembering
an old fairy tale he'd read as a kid.
Something about a fellow named Socrates
who was given a cup of hemlock to drink.
It was the finis for Socrates. But the old
hero had been nonchalant and calm about
the whole thing.
With a sigh, Jon Karyl, who was curious
unto death, relaxed and said, "All right,
bub, you don't have to force-feed me. I'll
take it like a man."
The cylinder apparently understood him,
for it handed him the tumbler. It even reholstered
his stubray pistol.
Jon brought the glass of liquid under his
nose. The fumes of the liquid were pungent.
It brought tears to his eyes.
He looked at the cylinder, then at the
Steel-Blues crowding around the plastic
igloo. He waved the glass at the audience.
"To Earth, ever triumphant," he toasted.
Then he drained the glass at a gulp.
Its taste was bitter, and he felt hot
prickles jab at his scalp. It was like eating
very hot peppers. His eyes filled with tears.
He coughed as the stuff went down.
But he was still alive, he thought in
amazement. He'd drunk the hemlock and
was still alive.
The reaction set in quickly. He hadn't
known until then how tense he'd been. Now
with the torture ordeal over, he relaxed. He
laid down on the pallet and went to sleep.
There was one lone Steel-Blue watching
him when he rubbed the sleep out of his
eyes and sat up.
He vanished almost instantly. He, or another
like him, returned immediately accompanied
by a half-dozen others, including
the multi-tentacled creature known as No. 1.
One said,
"You are alive." The thought registered
amazement. "When you lost consciousness,
we thought you had"—there was a hesitation—"as
you say, died."
"No," Jon Karyl said. "I didn't die. I
was just plain dead-beat so I went to sleep."
The Steel-Blues apparently didn't understand.
"Good it is that you live. The torture
will continue," spoke No. 1 before loping
away.
The cylinder business began again. This
time, Jon drank the bitter liquid slowly, trying
to figure out what it was. It had a
familiar, tantalizing taste but he couldn't
quite put a taste-finger on it.
His belly said he was hungry. He glanced
at his chronometer. Only 20 days left before
the SP ship arrived.
Would this torture—he chuckled—last
until then? But he was growing more and
more conscious that his belly was screaming
for hunger. The liquid had taken the edge
off his thirst.
It was on the fifth day of his torture that
Jon Karyl decided that he was going to get
something to eat or perish in the attempt.
The cylinder sat passively in its niche in
the circle. A dozen Steel-Blues were watching
as Jon put on his helmet and unsheathed
his stubray.
They merely watched as he pressed the
stubray's firing stud. Invisible rays licked
out of the bulbous muzzle of the pistol.
The plastic splintered.
Jon was out of his goldfish bowl and
striding toward his own igloo adjacent to
the service station when a Steel-Blue
accosted him.
"Out of my way," grunted Jon, waving
the stubray. "I'm hungry."
"I'm the first Steel-Blue you met," said
the creature who barred his way. "Go back
to your torture."
"But I'm so hungry I'll chew off one of
your tentacles and eat it without seasoning."
"Eat?" The Steel-Blue sounded puzzled.
"I want to refuel. I've got to have food
to keep my engine going."
Steel-Blue chuckled. "So the hemlock, as
you call it, is beginning to affect you at
last? Back to the torture room."
"Like R-dust," Jon growled. He pressed
the firing stud on the stubray gun. One of
Steel-Blue's tentacles broke off and fell to
the rocky sward.
Steel-Blue jerked out the box he'd used
once before. A tentacle danced over it.
Abruptly Jon found himself standing on
a pinnacle of rock. Steel-Blue had cut a
swath around him 15 feet deep and five feet
wide.
"Back to the room," Steel-Blue commanded.
Jon resheathed the stubray pistol,
shrugged non-committally and leaped the
trench. He walked slowly back and reentered
the torture chamber.
The Steel-Blues rapidly repaired the damage
he'd done.
As he watched them, Jon was still curious,
but he was getting mad underneath at
the cold egoism of the Steel-Blues.
By the shimmering clouds of Earth, by
her green fields, and dark forests, he'd
stay alive to warn the SP ship.
Yes, he'd stay alive till then. And send
the story of the Steel-Blues' corrosive acid
to it. Then hundreds of Earth's ships could
equip themselves with spray guns and squirt
citric acid and watch the Steel-Blues fade
away.
It sounded almost silly to Jon Karyl. The
fruit acid of Earth to repel these invaders—it
doesn't sound possible. That couldn't be
the answer.
Citric acid wasn't the answer, Jon Karyl
discovered a week later.
The Steel-Blue who had captured him in
the power room of the service station came
in to examine him.
"You're still holding out, I see," he observed
after poking Jon in every sensitive
part of his body.
"I'll suggest to No. 1 that we increase
the power of the—ah—hemlock. How do
you feel?"
Between the rich oxygen and the dizziness
of hunger, Jon was a bit delirious. But he
answered honestly enough: "My guts feel as
if they're chewing each other up. My bones
ache. My joints creak. I can't coordinate I'm
so hungry."
"That is the hemlock," Steel-Blue said.
It was when he quaffed the new and
stronger draught that Jon knew that his
hope that it was citric acid was squelched.
The acid taste was weaker which meant
that the citric acid was the diluting liquid.
It was the liquid he couldn't taste beneath
the tang of the citric acid that was the corrosive
acid.
On the fourteenth day, Jon was so weak
he didn't feel much like moving around. He
let the cylinder feed him the hemlock.
No. 1 came again to see him, and went
away chuckling, "Decrease the dilution.
This Earthman at last is beginning to
suffer."
Staying
alive had now become a fetish
with Jon.
On the sixteenth day, the Earthman realized
that the Steel-Blues also were waiting
for the SP ship.
The extra-terrestrials had repaired the
blue ship where the service station atomic
ray had struck. And they were doing a little
target practice with plastic bubbles only a
few miles above the asteroid.
When his chronometer clocked off the
beginning of the twenty-first day, Jon received
a tumbler of the hemlock from the
hands of No. 1 himself.
"It is the hemlock," he chuckled, "undiluted.
Drink it and your torture is over.
You will die before your SP ship is destroyed.
"We have played with you long enough.
Today we begin to toy with your SP ship.
Drink up, Earthman, drink to enslavement."
Weak though he was Jon lunged to his
feet, spilling the tumbler of liquid. It ran
cool along the plastic arm of his space suit.
He changed his mind about throwing the
contents on No. 1.
With a smile he set the glass at his lips
and drank. Then he laughed at No. 1.
"The SP ship will turn your ship into
jelly."
No. 1 swept out, chuckling. "Boast if you
will, Earthman, it's your last chance."
There was an exultation in Jon's heart
that deadened the hunger and washed away
the nausea.
At last he knew what the hemlock was.
He sat on the pallet adjusting the little
power-pack radio. The SP ship should now
be within range of the set. The space patrol
was notorious for its accuracy in keeping to
schedule. Seconds counted like years. They
had to be on the nose, or it meant disaster
or death.
He sent out the call letters.
"AX to SP-101 ... AX to SP-101 ... AX
to SP-101 ..."
Three times he sent the call, then began
sending his message, hoping that his signal
was reaching the ship. He couldn't know if
they answered. Though the power pack
could get out a message over a vast distance,
it could not pick up messages even
when backed by an SP ship's power unless
the ship was only a few hundred miles
away.
The power pack was strictly a distress
signal.
He didn't know how long he'd been
sending, nor how many times his weary
voice had repeated the short but desperate
message.
He kept watching the heavens and hoping.
Abruptly he knew the SP ship was coming,
for the blue ship of the Steel-Blues was
rising silently from the asteroid.
Up and up it rose, then flames flickered
in a circle about its curious shape. The ship
disappeared, suddenly accelerating.
Jon Karyl strained his eyes.
Finally he looked away from the heavens
to the two Steel-Blues who stood negligently
outside the goldfish bowl.
Once more, Jon used the stubray pistol.
He marched out of the plastic igloo and ran
toward the service station.
He didn't know how weak he was until
he stumbled and fell only a few feet from
his prison.
The Steel-Blues just watched him.
He crawled on, around the circular pit in
the sward of the asteroid where one Steel-Blue
had shown him the power of his
weapon.
He'd been crawling through a nightmare
for years when the quiet voice penetrated
his dulled mind.
"Take it easy, Karyl. You're among
friends."
He pried open his eyes with his will. He
saw the blue and gold of a space guard's
uniform. He sighed and drifted into unconsciousness.
He was
still weak days later when
Capt. Ron Small of SP-101 said,
"Yes, Karyl, it's ironical. They fed you
what they thought was sure death, and it's
the only thing that kept you going long
enough to warn us."
"I was dumb for a long time," Karyl said.
"I thought that it was the acid, almost to
the very last. But when I drank that last
glass, I knew they didn't have a chance.
"They were metal monsters. No wonder
they feared that liquid. It would rust their
joints, short their wiring, and kill them.
No wonder they stared when I kept alive
after drinking enough to completely annihilate
a half-dozen of them.
"But what happened when you met the
ship?"
The space captain grinned.
"Not much. Our crew was busy creating
a hollow shell filled with water to be shot
out of a rocket tube converted into a projectile
thrower.
"These Steel-Blues, as you call them, put
traction beams on us and started tugging us
toward the asteroid. We tried a couple of
atomic shots but when they just glanced off,
we gave up.
"They weren't expecting the shell of
water. When it hit that blue ship, you could
almost see it oxidize before your eyes.
"I guess they knew what was wrong right
away. They let go the traction beams and
tried to get away. They forgot about the
force field, so we just poured atomic fire
into the weakening ship. It just melted
away."
Jon Karyl got up from the divan where
he'd been lying. "They thought I was a
metal creature, too. But where do you suppose
they came from?"
The captain shrugged. "Who knows?"
Jon set two glasses on the table.
"Have a drink of the best damn water in
the solar system?" He asked Capt. Small.
"Don't mind if I do."
The water twinkled in the two glasses,
winking as if it knew just what it had
done.
Question:
What is the relationship between Jon Karyl and his Steel-Blue (the one that he initially meets)?
Answer:
|
[
"Jon is initially curious about the Steel-Blue that he first meets in the space station. When he notices that it has eyes on the back of its head, it even says “Thank you” to him. It also tells him that its species can read his mind. The Steel-Blue also explains to him that the metal they use at the station is considered to be the softest one from where the Space Blue’s come from. It is not openly hostile towards him, but it does speak almost contemptuously when they go to the examination room. Although his Steel Blue initially did not show much hostility, it does warn him to not even think about contacting the SP ship or using his weapon. However, it does tease him and say that he gets absent-minded at times. When it tells him about the torture, his Blue Steel speaks in an almost-caressing way as well. When Jon breaks out of his tank to find food, his Steel-Blue tells him that it is the first of the creatures that he has met. It commands him to go back to the tank. Although it seems friendly at first, Jon and the Steel-Blue do not have any sort of positive relationship. The Steel-Blue wishes to see him suffer, while Jon wants to survive and get out of the torture room. ",
"The relationship between Karyl and his Steel-Blue is a tentative friendship, I would say. Both parties are curious about each other and seem more interested in learning about each other, rather than being vindictive like the No.1 Steel-Blue seems to be. For example, his Steel-Blue thanks Karyl when the latter comments on his innovative eyes on the back on his head. \n\nKaryl converses and interacts with his Steel-Blue the most, both in regards to the incoming SP ship as well as Karyl's apparent absent-mindedness. ",
"Jon Karyl, a starways’ Lone Watcher, is in a controlled relationship with the Steel-Blue, an extra-terrestrial robotic creature that he first meets. He is stricken down by the Steel-Blue and taken by it to its spaceship. Jon is the captive and the watched prisoner of the Steel-Blue. When Jon tries to escape from his prison or the torture because of the unbearable hunger, the Steel-Blue forces him to go back and stay in the newly-built smaller igloo. Jon breaks one tentacle of the Steel-Blue by using his stubray pistol when he tries to resist it. The Steel-Blue suppresses Jon by showing the power of its weapon and forces him back to the prison. The relationship between them is superior and inferior, in the sense of being captive. ",
"The relationship between Jon and the first steel-blue is that of capturer-victim. The steel-blue manages to break into Jon’s base and captures Jon. After this, Jon uses the steel-blue to understand what the robots are and how they work. They communicate with each other, and Jon doesn’t seem to be afraid of the steel-blue. Jon was very curious about the species, so he didn’t want the robot in order to learn more about them. When Jon escapes from the torture, the same steel-blue captures him again and takes him back. "
] |
29159
|
ACID BATH
By VASELEOS GARSON
The starways' Lone Watcher had expected some odd developments
in his singular, nerve-fraught job on the asteroid. But nothing like the
weird twenty-one-day liquid test devised by the invading Steel-Blues.
Jon Karyl
was bolting in a new baffle
plate on the stationary rocket engine.
It was a tedious job and took all his
concentration. So he wasn't paying too much
attention to what was going on in other
parts of the little asteroid.
He didn't see the peculiar blue space
ship, its rockets throttled down, as it drifted
to land only a few hundred yards away from
his plastic igloo.
Nor did he see the half-dozen steel-blue
creatures slide out of the peculiar vessel's
airlock.
It was only as he crawled out of the
depths of the rocket power plant that he
realized something was wrong.
By then it was almost too late. The six
blue figures were only fifty feet away, approaching
him at a lope.
Jon Karyl took one look and went bounding
over the asteroid's rocky slopes in fifty-foot
bounds.
When you're a Lone Watcher, and
strangers catch you unawares, you don't
stand still. You move fast. It's the Watcher's
first rule. Stay alive. An Earthship may depend
upon your life.
As he fled, Jon Karyl cursed softly under
his breath. The automatic alarm should have
shrilled out a warning.
Then he saved as much of his breath as
he could as some sort of power wave tore
up the rocky sward to his left. He twisted
and zig-zagged in his flight, trying to get
out of sight of the strangers.
Once hidden from their eyes, he could cut
back and head for the underground entrance
to the service station.
He glanced back finally.
Two of the steel-blue creatures were jack-rabbiting
after him, and rapidly closing the
distance.
Jon Karyl unsheathed the stubray pistol
at his side, turned the oxygen dial up for
greater exertion, increased the gravity pull
in his space-suit boots as he neared the
ravine he'd been racing for.
The oxygen was just taking hold when
he hit the lip of the ravine and began
sprinting through its man-high bush-strewn
course.
The power ray from behind ripped out
great gobs of the sheltering bushes. But
running naturally, bent close to the bottom
of the ravine, Jon Karyl dodged the bare
spots. The oxygen made the tremendous
exertion easy for his lungs as he sped down
the dim trail, hidden from the two steel-blue
stalkers.
He'd eluded them, temporarily at least,
Jon Karyl decided when he finally edged off
the dim trail and watched for movement
along the route behind him.
He stood up, finally, pushed aside the
leafy overhang of a bush and looked for
landmarks along the edge of the ravine.
He found one, a stubby bush, shaped like
a Maltese cross, clinging to the lip of the
ravine. The hidden entrance to the service
station wasn't far off.
His pistol held ready, he moved quietly
on down the ravine until the old water
course made an abrupt hairpin turn.
Instead of following around the sharp
bend, Jon Karyl moved straight ahead
through the overhanging bushes until he
came to a dense thicket. Dropping to his
hands and knees he worked his way under
the edge of the thicket into a hollowed-out
space in the center.
There
, just ahead of him, was the lock
leading into the service station. Slipping
a key out of a leg pouch on the space suit,
he jabbed it into the center of the lock,
opening the lever housing.
He pulled strongly on the lever. With a
hiss of escaping air, the lock swung open.
Jon Karyl darted inside, the door closing
softly behind.
At the end of the long tunnel he stepped
to the televisor which was fixed on the area
surrounding the station.
Jon Karyl saw none of the steel-blue creatures.
But he saw their ship. It squatted
like a smashed-down kid's top, its lock shut
tight.
He tuned the televisor to its widest range
and finally spotted one of the Steel-Blues.
He was looking into the stationary rocket
engine.
As Karyl watched, a second Steel-Blue
came crawling out of the ship.
The two Steel-Blues moved toward the
center of the televisor range. They're coming
toward the station, Karyl thought grimly.
Karyl examined the two creatures. They
were of the steel-blue color from the crown
of their egg-shaped heads to the tips of
their walking appendages.
They were about the height of Karyl—six
feet. But where he tapered from broad
shoulders to flat hips, they were straight up
and down. They had no legs, just appendages,
many-jointed that stretched and
shrank independent of the other, but keeping
the cylindrical body with its four pairs
of tentacles on a level balance.
Where their eyes would have been was
an elliptical-shaped lens, covering half the
egg-head, with its converging ends curving
around the sides of the head.
Robots! Jon gauged immediately. But
where were their masters?
The Steel-Blues moved out of the range
of the televisor. A minute later Jon heard
a pounding from the station upstairs.
He chuckled. They were like the wolf of
pre-atomic days who huffed and puffed to
blow the house down.
The outer shell of the station was formed
from stelrylite, the toughest metal in the
solar system. With the self-sealing lock of
the same resistant material, a mere pounding
was nothing.
Jon thought he'd have a look-see anyway.
He went up the steel ladder leading to the
station's power plant and the televisor that
could look into every room within the
station.
He heaved a slight sigh when he reached
the power room, for right at his hand were
weapons to blast the ship from the asteroid.
Jon adjusted one televisor to take in the
lock to the station. His teeth suddenly
clamped down on his lower lip.
Those Steel-Blues were pounding holes
into the stelrylite with round-headed metal
clubs. But it was impossible. Stelrylite didn't
break up that easily.
Jon leaped to a row of studs, lining up
the revolving turret which capped the station
so that its thin fin pointed at the
squat ship of the invaders.
Then he went to the atomic cannon's
firing buttons.
He pressed first the yellow, then the blue
button. Finally the red one.
The thin fin—the cannon's sight—split in
half as the turret opened and the coiled nose
of the cannon protruded. There was a
soundless flash. Then a sharp crack.
Jon was dumbfounded when he saw the
bolt ricochet off the ship. This was no ship
of the solar system. There was nothing that
could withstand even the slight jolt of power
given by the station cannon on any of the
Sun's worlds. But what was this? A piece of
the ship had changed. A bubble of metal,
like a huge drop of blue wax, dripped off
the vessel and struck the rocket of the
asteroid. It steamed and ran in rivulets.
He pressed the red button again.
Then abruptly he was on the floor of the
power room, his legs strangely cut out from
under him. He tried to move them. They lay
flaccid. His arms seemed all right and tried
to lever himself to an upright position.
Damn it, he seemed as if he were paralyzed
from the waist down. But it couldn't
happen that suddenly.
He turned his head.
A Steel-Blue stood facing him. A forked
tentacle held a square black box.
Jon could read nothing in that metallic
face. He said, voice muffled by the confines
of the plastic helmet, "Who are you?"
"I am"—there was a rising inflection in
the answer—"a Steel-Blue."
There were no lips on the Steel-Blue's
face to move. "That is what I have named
you," Jon Karyl said. "But what are you?"
"A robot," came the immediate answer.
Jon was quite sure then that the Steel-Blue
was telepathic. "Yes," the Steel-Blue answered.
"We talk in the language of the
mind. Come!" he said peremptorily, motioning
with the square black box.
The paralysis left Karyl's legs. He followed
the Steel-Blue, aware that the lens
he'd seen on the creature's face had a
counterpart on the back of the egg-head.
Eyes in the back of his head, Jon thought.
That's quite an innovation. "Thank you,"
Steel-Blue said.
There wasn't much fear in Jon Karyl's
mind. Psychiatrists had proved that when he
had applied for this high-paying but man-killing
job as a Lone Watcher on the Solar
System's starways.
He had little fear now, only curiosity.
These Steel-Blues didn't seem inimical.
They could have snuffed out my life very
simply. Perhaps they and Solarians can be
friends.
Steel-Blue chuckled.
Jon
followed him through the sundered
lock of the station. Karyl stopped for a
moment to examine the wreckage of the
lock. It had been punched full of holes as
if it had been some soft cheese instead of a
metal which Earthmen had spent nearly a
century perfecting.
"We appreciate your compliment," Steel-Blue
said. "But that metal also is found on
our world. It's probably the softest and most
malleable we have. We were surprised you—earthmen,
is it?—use it as protective
metal."
"Why are you in this system?" Jon asked,
hardly expecting an answer.
It came anyway. "For the same reason you
Earthmen are reaching out farther into your
system. We need living room. You have
strategically placed planets for our use. We
will use them."
Jon sighed. For 400 years scientists had
been preaching preparedness as Earth flung
her ships into the reaches of the solar system,
taking the first long step toward the
conquest of space.
There are other races somewhere, they
argued. As strong and smart as man, many
of them so transcending man in mental and
inventive power that we must be prepared to
strike the minute danger shows.
Now here was the answer to the scientists'
warning. Invasion by extra-terrestrials.
"What did you say?" asked Steel-Blue.
"I couldn't understand."
"Just thinking to myself," Jon answered.
It was a welcome surprise. Apparently his
thoughts had to be directed outward, rather
than inward, in order for the Steel-Blues to
read it.
He followed the Steel-Blue into the gaping
lock of the invaders' space ship wondering
how he could warn Earth. The Space
Patrol cruiser was due in for refueling at
his service station in 21 days. But by that
time he probably would be mouldering in
the rocky dust of the asteroid.
It was pitch dark within the ship but the
Steel-Blue seemed to have no trouble at all
maneuvering through the maze of corridors.
Jon followed him, attached to one tentacle.
Finally Jon and his guide entered a circular
room, bright with light streaming from
a glass-like, bulging skylight. They apparently
were near topside of the vessel.
A Steel-Blue, more massive than his
guide and with four more pair of tentacles,
including two short ones that grew from the
top of its head, spoke out.
"This is the violator?" Jon's Steel-Blue
nodded.
"You know the penalty? Carry it out."
"He also is an inhabitant of this system,"
Jon's guide added.
"Examine him first, then give him the
death."
Jon Karyl shrugged as he was led from
the lighted room through more corridors.
If it got too bad he still had the stubray
pistol.
Anyway, he was curious. He'd taken on
the lonely, nerve-wracking job of service
station attendant just to see what it offered.
Here was a part of it, and it was certainly
something new.
"This is the examination room," his
Steel-Blue said, almost contemptuously.
A green effulgence surrounded him.
There
was a hiss. Simultaneously, as the
tiny microphone on the outside of his
suit picked up the hiss, he felt a chill go
through his body. Then it seemed as if a
half dozen hands were inside him, examining
his internal organs. His stomach contracted.
He felt a squeeze on his heart. His
lungs tickled.
There were several more queer motions
inside his body.
Then another Steel-Blue voice said:
"He is a soft-metal creature, made up of
metals that melt at a very low temperature.
He also contains a liquid whose makeup I
cannot ascertain by ray-probe. Bring him
back when the torture is done."
Jon Karyl grinned a trifle wryly. What
kind of torture could this be?
Would it last 21 days? He glanced at the
chronometer on his wrist.
Jon's Steel-Blue led him out of the alien
ship and halted expectantly just outside the
ship's lock.
Jon Karyl waited, too. He thought of the
stubray pistol holstered at his hip. Shoot my
way out? It'd be fun while it lasted. But he
toted up the disadvantages.
He either would have to find a hiding
place on the asteroid, and if the Steel-Blues
wanted him bad enough they could tear the
whole place to pieces, or somehow get
aboard the little life ship hidden in the
service station.
In that he would be just a sitting duck.
He shrugged off the slight temptation to
use the pistol. He was still curious.
And he was interested in staying alive as
long as possible. There was a remote chance
he might warn the SP ship. Unconsciously,
he glanced toward his belt to see the little
power pack which, if under ideal conditions,
could finger out fifty thousand miles into
space.
If he could somehow stay alive the 21
days he might be able to warn the patrol.
He couldn't do it by attempting to flee, for
his life would be snuffed out immediately.
The Steel-Blue said quietly:
"It might be ironical to let you warn
that SP ship you keep thinking about. But
we know your weapon now. Already our
ship is equipped with a force field designed
especially to deflect your atomic guns."
Jon Karyl covered up his thoughts
quickly. They can delve deeper than the
surface of the mind. Or wasn't I keeping a
leash on my thoughts?
The Steel-Blue chuckled. "You get—absent-minded,
is it?—every once in a
while."
Just then four other Steel-Blues appeared
lugging great sheets of plastic and various
other equipment.
They dumped their loads and began unbundling
them.
Working swiftly, they built a plastic
igloo, smaller than the living room in the
larger service station igloo. They ranged instruments
inside—one of them Jon Karyl
recognized as an air pump from within the
station—and they laid out a pallet.
When they were done Jon saw a miniature
reproduction of the service station, lacking
only the cannon cap and fin, and with clear
plastic walls instead of the opaqueness of the
other.
His Steel-Blue said: "We have reproduced
the atmosphere of your station so that you
be watched while you undergo the torture
under the normal conditions of your life."
"What is this torture?" Jon Karyl asked.
The answer was almost caressing: "It is
a liquid we use to dissolve metals. It causes
joints to harden if even so much as a drop
remains on it long. It eats away the metal,
leaving a scaly residue which crumbles
eventually into dust.
"We will dilute it with a harmless liquid
for you since No. 1 does not wish you to die
instantly.
"Enter your"—the Steel-Blue hesitated—"mausoleum.
You die in your own atmosphere.
However, we took the liberty of purifying
it. There were dangerous elements in
it."
Jon walked into the little igloo. The
Steel-Blues sealed the lock, fingered dials
and switches on the outside. Jon's space suit
deflated. Pressure was building up in the
igloo.
He took a sample of the air, found that
it was good, although quite rich in oxygen
compared with what he'd been using in the
service station and in his suit.
With a sigh of relief he took off his helmet
and gulped huge draughts of the air.
He sat down on the pallet and waited
for the torture to begin.
The Steel Blues crowded about the igloo,
staring at him through elliptical eyes.
Apparently, they too, were waiting for the
torture to begin.
Jon thought the excess of oxygen was
making him light-headed.
He stared at a cylinder which was beginning
to sprout tentacles from the circle.
He rubbed his eyes and looked again. An
opening, like the adjustable eye-piece of a
spacescope, was appearing in the center of
the cylinder.
A square, glass-like tumbler sat in the
opening disclosed in the four-foot cylinder
that had sprouted tentacles. It contained a
yellowish liquid.
One of the tentacles reached into the
opening and clasped the glass. The opening
closed and the cylinder, propelled by locomotor
appendages, moved toward Jon.
He didn't like the looks of the liquid in
the tumbler. It looked like an acid of some
sort. He raised to his feet.
He unsheathed the stubray gun and prepared
to blast the cylinder.
The
cylinder moved so fast Jon felt his
eyes jump in his head. He brought the
stubray gun up—but he was helpless. The
pistol kept on going up. With a deft movement,
one of the tentacles had speared it
from his hand and was holding it out of
his reach.
Jon kicked at the glass in the cylinder's
hand. But he was too slow. Two tentacles
gripped the kicking leg. Another struck him
in the chest, knocking him to the pallet. The
same tentacle, assisted by a new one,
pinioned his shoulders.
Four tentacles held him supine. The cylinder
lifted a glass-like cap from the tumbler
of liquid.
Lying there helplessly, Jon was remembering
an old fairy tale he'd read as a kid.
Something about a fellow named Socrates
who was given a cup of hemlock to drink.
It was the finis for Socrates. But the old
hero had been nonchalant and calm about
the whole thing.
With a sigh, Jon Karyl, who was curious
unto death, relaxed and said, "All right,
bub, you don't have to force-feed me. I'll
take it like a man."
The cylinder apparently understood him,
for it handed him the tumbler. It even reholstered
his stubray pistol.
Jon brought the glass of liquid under his
nose. The fumes of the liquid were pungent.
It brought tears to his eyes.
He looked at the cylinder, then at the
Steel-Blues crowding around the plastic
igloo. He waved the glass at the audience.
"To Earth, ever triumphant," he toasted.
Then he drained the glass at a gulp.
Its taste was bitter, and he felt hot
prickles jab at his scalp. It was like eating
very hot peppers. His eyes filled with tears.
He coughed as the stuff went down.
But he was still alive, he thought in
amazement. He'd drunk the hemlock and
was still alive.
The reaction set in quickly. He hadn't
known until then how tense he'd been. Now
with the torture ordeal over, he relaxed. He
laid down on the pallet and went to sleep.
There was one lone Steel-Blue watching
him when he rubbed the sleep out of his
eyes and sat up.
He vanished almost instantly. He, or another
like him, returned immediately accompanied
by a half-dozen others, including
the multi-tentacled creature known as No. 1.
One said,
"You are alive." The thought registered
amazement. "When you lost consciousness,
we thought you had"—there was a hesitation—"as
you say, died."
"No," Jon Karyl said. "I didn't die. I
was just plain dead-beat so I went to sleep."
The Steel-Blues apparently didn't understand.
"Good it is that you live. The torture
will continue," spoke No. 1 before loping
away.
The cylinder business began again. This
time, Jon drank the bitter liquid slowly, trying
to figure out what it was. It had a
familiar, tantalizing taste but he couldn't
quite put a taste-finger on it.
His belly said he was hungry. He glanced
at his chronometer. Only 20 days left before
the SP ship arrived.
Would this torture—he chuckled—last
until then? But he was growing more and
more conscious that his belly was screaming
for hunger. The liquid had taken the edge
off his thirst.
It was on the fifth day of his torture that
Jon Karyl decided that he was going to get
something to eat or perish in the attempt.
The cylinder sat passively in its niche in
the circle. A dozen Steel-Blues were watching
as Jon put on his helmet and unsheathed
his stubray.
They merely watched as he pressed the
stubray's firing stud. Invisible rays licked
out of the bulbous muzzle of the pistol.
The plastic splintered.
Jon was out of his goldfish bowl and
striding toward his own igloo adjacent to
the service station when a Steel-Blue
accosted him.
"Out of my way," grunted Jon, waving
the stubray. "I'm hungry."
"I'm the first Steel-Blue you met," said
the creature who barred his way. "Go back
to your torture."
"But I'm so hungry I'll chew off one of
your tentacles and eat it without seasoning."
"Eat?" The Steel-Blue sounded puzzled.
"I want to refuel. I've got to have food
to keep my engine going."
Steel-Blue chuckled. "So the hemlock, as
you call it, is beginning to affect you at
last? Back to the torture room."
"Like R-dust," Jon growled. He pressed
the firing stud on the stubray gun. One of
Steel-Blue's tentacles broke off and fell to
the rocky sward.
Steel-Blue jerked out the box he'd used
once before. A tentacle danced over it.
Abruptly Jon found himself standing on
a pinnacle of rock. Steel-Blue had cut a
swath around him 15 feet deep and five feet
wide.
"Back to the room," Steel-Blue commanded.
Jon resheathed the stubray pistol,
shrugged non-committally and leaped the
trench. He walked slowly back and reentered
the torture chamber.
The Steel-Blues rapidly repaired the damage
he'd done.
As he watched them, Jon was still curious,
but he was getting mad underneath at
the cold egoism of the Steel-Blues.
By the shimmering clouds of Earth, by
her green fields, and dark forests, he'd
stay alive to warn the SP ship.
Yes, he'd stay alive till then. And send
the story of the Steel-Blues' corrosive acid
to it. Then hundreds of Earth's ships could
equip themselves with spray guns and squirt
citric acid and watch the Steel-Blues fade
away.
It sounded almost silly to Jon Karyl. The
fruit acid of Earth to repel these invaders—it
doesn't sound possible. That couldn't be
the answer.
Citric acid wasn't the answer, Jon Karyl
discovered a week later.
The Steel-Blue who had captured him in
the power room of the service station came
in to examine him.
"You're still holding out, I see," he observed
after poking Jon in every sensitive
part of his body.
"I'll suggest to No. 1 that we increase
the power of the—ah—hemlock. How do
you feel?"
Between the rich oxygen and the dizziness
of hunger, Jon was a bit delirious. But he
answered honestly enough: "My guts feel as
if they're chewing each other up. My bones
ache. My joints creak. I can't coordinate I'm
so hungry."
"That is the hemlock," Steel-Blue said.
It was when he quaffed the new and
stronger draught that Jon knew that his
hope that it was citric acid was squelched.
The acid taste was weaker which meant
that the citric acid was the diluting liquid.
It was the liquid he couldn't taste beneath
the tang of the citric acid that was the corrosive
acid.
On the fourteenth day, Jon was so weak
he didn't feel much like moving around. He
let the cylinder feed him the hemlock.
No. 1 came again to see him, and went
away chuckling, "Decrease the dilution.
This Earthman at last is beginning to
suffer."
Staying
alive had now become a fetish
with Jon.
On the sixteenth day, the Earthman realized
that the Steel-Blues also were waiting
for the SP ship.
The extra-terrestrials had repaired the
blue ship where the service station atomic
ray had struck. And they were doing a little
target practice with plastic bubbles only a
few miles above the asteroid.
When his chronometer clocked off the
beginning of the twenty-first day, Jon received
a tumbler of the hemlock from the
hands of No. 1 himself.
"It is the hemlock," he chuckled, "undiluted.
Drink it and your torture is over.
You will die before your SP ship is destroyed.
"We have played with you long enough.
Today we begin to toy with your SP ship.
Drink up, Earthman, drink to enslavement."
Weak though he was Jon lunged to his
feet, spilling the tumbler of liquid. It ran
cool along the plastic arm of his space suit.
He changed his mind about throwing the
contents on No. 1.
With a smile he set the glass at his lips
and drank. Then he laughed at No. 1.
"The SP ship will turn your ship into
jelly."
No. 1 swept out, chuckling. "Boast if you
will, Earthman, it's your last chance."
There was an exultation in Jon's heart
that deadened the hunger and washed away
the nausea.
At last he knew what the hemlock was.
He sat on the pallet adjusting the little
power-pack radio. The SP ship should now
be within range of the set. The space patrol
was notorious for its accuracy in keeping to
schedule. Seconds counted like years. They
had to be on the nose, or it meant disaster
or death.
He sent out the call letters.
"AX to SP-101 ... AX to SP-101 ... AX
to SP-101 ..."
Three times he sent the call, then began
sending his message, hoping that his signal
was reaching the ship. He couldn't know if
they answered. Though the power pack
could get out a message over a vast distance,
it could not pick up messages even
when backed by an SP ship's power unless
the ship was only a few hundred miles
away.
The power pack was strictly a distress
signal.
He didn't know how long he'd been
sending, nor how many times his weary
voice had repeated the short but desperate
message.
He kept watching the heavens and hoping.
Abruptly he knew the SP ship was coming,
for the blue ship of the Steel-Blues was
rising silently from the asteroid.
Up and up it rose, then flames flickered
in a circle about its curious shape. The ship
disappeared, suddenly accelerating.
Jon Karyl strained his eyes.
Finally he looked away from the heavens
to the two Steel-Blues who stood negligently
outside the goldfish bowl.
Once more, Jon used the stubray pistol.
He marched out of the plastic igloo and ran
toward the service station.
He didn't know how weak he was until
he stumbled and fell only a few feet from
his prison.
The Steel-Blues just watched him.
He crawled on, around the circular pit in
the sward of the asteroid where one Steel-Blue
had shown him the power of his
weapon.
He'd been crawling through a nightmare
for years when the quiet voice penetrated
his dulled mind.
"Take it easy, Karyl. You're among
friends."
He pried open his eyes with his will. He
saw the blue and gold of a space guard's
uniform. He sighed and drifted into unconsciousness.
He was
still weak days later when
Capt. Ron Small of SP-101 said,
"Yes, Karyl, it's ironical. They fed you
what they thought was sure death, and it's
the only thing that kept you going long
enough to warn us."
"I was dumb for a long time," Karyl said.
"I thought that it was the acid, almost to
the very last. But when I drank that last
glass, I knew they didn't have a chance.
"They were metal monsters. No wonder
they feared that liquid. It would rust their
joints, short their wiring, and kill them.
No wonder they stared when I kept alive
after drinking enough to completely annihilate
a half-dozen of them.
"But what happened when you met the
ship?"
The space captain grinned.
"Not much. Our crew was busy creating
a hollow shell filled with water to be shot
out of a rocket tube converted into a projectile
thrower.
"These Steel-Blues, as you call them, put
traction beams on us and started tugging us
toward the asteroid. We tried a couple of
atomic shots but when they just glanced off,
we gave up.
"They weren't expecting the shell of
water. When it hit that blue ship, you could
almost see it oxidize before your eyes.
"I guess they knew what was wrong right
away. They let go the traction beams and
tried to get away. They forgot about the
force field, so we just poured atomic fire
into the weakening ship. It just melted
away."
Jon Karyl got up from the divan where
he'd been lying. "They thought I was a
metal creature, too. But where do you suppose
they came from?"
The captain shrugged. "Who knows?"
Jon set two glasses on the table.
"Have a drink of the best damn water in
the solar system?" He asked Capt. Small.
"Don't mind if I do."
The water twinkled in the two glasses,
winking as if it knew just what it had
done.
|
Describe John Smith and his instrument.
|
After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about The Holes and John Smith by Edward W. Ludwig.
Relevant chunks:
He was something out of a nightmare but his music was straight from heaven. He was a ragged little man out of a hole but he was money in the bank to Stanley's four-piece combo. He was —whoops!...
The Holes and John Smith
By Edward W. Ludwig
Illustration by Kelly Freas
It all began on a Saturday night at The Space Room . If you've seen any recent Martian travel folders, you know the place:
"A picturesque oasis of old Martian charm, situated on the beauteous Grand Canal in the heart of Marsport. Only half a mile from historic Chandler Field, landing site of the first Martian expedition nearly fifty years ago in 1990. A visitor to the hotel, lunch room or cocktail lounge will thrill at the sight of hardy space pioneers mingling side by side with colorful Martian tribesmen. An evening at The Space Room is an amazing, unforgettable experience."
Of course, the folders neglect to add that the most amazing aspect is the scent of the Canal's stagnant water—and that the most unforgettable experience is seeing the "root-of-all-evil" evaporate from your pocketbook like snow from the Great Red Desert.
We were sitting on the bandstand of the candle-lit cocktail lounge. Me—Jimmie Stanley—and my four-piece combo. Maybe you've seen our motto back on Earth:
"The Hottest Music This Side of Mercury."
But there weren't four of us tonight. Only three. Ziggy, our bass fiddle man, had nearly sliced off two fingers while opening a can of Saturnian ice-fish, thus decreasing the number of our personnel by a tragic twenty-five per cent.
Which was why Ke-teeli, our boss, was descending upon us with all the grace of an enraged Venusian vinosaur.
"Where ees museek?" he shrilled in his nasal tenor. He was almost skeleton thin, like most Martians, and so tall that if he fell down he'd be half way home.
I gulped. "Our bass man can't be here, but we've called the Marsport local for another. He'll be here any minute."
Ke-teeli, sometimes referred to as Goon-Face and The Eye, leered coldly down at me from his eight-foot-three. His eyes were like black needle points set deep in a mask of dry, ancient, reddish leather.
"Ees no feedle man, ees no job," he squeaked.
I sighed. This was the week our contract ended. Goon-Face had displayed little enough enthusiasm for our music as it was. His comments were either, "Ees too loud, too fast," or "Ees too slow, too soft." The real cause of his concern being, I suspected, the infrequency with which his cash register tinkled.
"But," I added, "even if the new man doesn't come, we're still here. We'll play for you." I glanced at the conglomeration of uniformed spacemen, white-suited tourists, and loin-clothed natives who sat at ancient stone tables. "You wouldn't want to disappoint your customers, would you?"
Ke-teeli snorted. "Maybe ees better dey be deesappointed. Ees better no museek den bad museek."
Fat Boy, our clarinetist who doubles on Martian horn-harp, made a feeble attempt at optimism. "Don't worry, Mr. Ke-teeli. That new bass man will be here."
"Sure," said Hammer-Head, our red-haired vibro-drummer. "I think I hear him coming now."
Suspiciously, Ke-teeli eyed the entrance. There was only silence. His naked, parchment-like chest swelled as if it were an expanding balloon.
"Five meenutes!" he shrieked.
"Eef no feedle, den you go!" And he whirled away.
We waited.
Fat Boy's two hundred and eighty-odd pounds were drooped over his chair like the blubber of an exhausted, beach-stranded whale.
"Well," he muttered, "there's always the uranium pits of Neptune. Course, you don't live more than five years there—"
"Maybe we could make it back to Lunar City," suggested Hammer-Head.
"Using what for fare?" I asked.
"Your brains?"
Hammer-Head groaned. "No. I guess it'll have to be the black pits of Neptune. The home of washed-up interplanetary musicians. It's too bad. We're so young, too."
The seconds swept by. Ke-teeli was casting his razor-edged glare in our direction. I brushed the chewed finger nails from the keyboard of my electronic piano.
Then it happened.
From the entrance of The Space Room came a thumping and a grating and a banging. Suddenly, sweeping across the dance floor like a cold wind, was a bass fiddle, an enormous black monstrosity, a refugee from a pawnbroker's attic. It was queerly shaped. It was too tall, too wide. It was more like a monstrous, midnight-black hour-glass than a bass.
The fiddle was not unaccompanied as I'd first imagined. Behind it, streaking over the floor in a waltz of agony, was a little guy, an animated matchstick with a flat, broad face that seemed to have been compressed in a vice. His sandcolored mop of hair reminded me of a field of dry grass, the long strands forming loops that flanked the sides of his face.
His pale blue eyes were watery, like twin pools of fog. His tightfitting suit, as black as the bass, was something off a park bench. It was impossible to guess his age. He could have been anywhere between twenty and forty.
The bass thumped down upon the bandstand.
"Hello," he puffed. "I'm John Smith, from the Marsport union." He spoke shrilly and rapidly, as if anxious to conclude the routine of introductions. "I'm sorry I'm late, but I was working on my plan."
A moment's silence.
"Your plan?" I echoed at last.
"How to get back home," he snapped as if I should have known it already.
Hummm, I thought.
My gaze turned to the dance floor. Goon-Face had his eyes on us, and they were as cold as six Indians going South.
"We'll talk about your plan at intermission," I said, shivering.
"Now, we'd better start playing. John, do you know On An Asteroid With You ?"
"I know everything ," said John Smith.
I turned to my piano with a shudder. I didn't dare look at that horrible fiddle again. I didn't dare think what kind of soul-chilling tones might emerge from its ancient depths.
And I didn't dare look again at the second monstrosity, the one named John Smith. I closed my eyes and plunged into a four-bar intro.
Hammer-Head joined in on vibro-drums and Fat Boy on clarinet, and then—
My eyes burst open. A shiver coursed down my spine like gigantic mice feet.
The tones that surged from that monstrous bass were ecstatic. They were out of a jazzman's Heaven. They were great rolling clouds that seemed to envelop the entire universe with their vibrance. They held a depth and a volume and a richness that were astounding, that were like no others I'd ever heard.
First they went Boom-de-boom-de-boom-de-boom , and then, boom-de-de-boom-de-de-boom-de-de-boom , just like the tones of all bass fiddles.
But there was something else, too. There were overtones, so that John wasn't just playing a single note, but a whole chord with each beat. And the fullness, the depth of those incredible chords actually set my blood tingling. I could feel the tingling just as one can feel the vibration of a plucked guitar string.
I glanced at the cash customers. They looked like weary warriors getting their first glimpse of Valhalla. Gap-jawed and wide-eyed, they seemed in a kind of ecstatic hypnosis. Even the silent, bland-faced Martians stopped sipping their wine-syrup and nodded their dark heads in time with the rhythm.
I looked at The Eye. The transformation of his gaunt features was miraculous. Shadows of gloom dissolved and were replaced by a black-toothed, crescent-shaped smile of delight. His eyes shone like those of a kid seeing Santa Claus.
We finished On An Asteroid With You , modulated into Sweet Sally from Saturn and finished with Tighten Your Lips on Titan .
We waited for the applause of the Earth people and the shrilling of the Martians to die down. Then I turned to John and his fiddle.
"If I didn't hear it," I gasped,
"I wouldn't believe it!"
"And the fiddle's so old, too!" added Hammer-Head who, although sober, seemed quite drunk.
"Old?" said John Smith. "Of course it's old. It's over five thousand years old. I was lucky to find it in a pawnshop. Only it's not a fiddle but a Zloomph . This is the only one in existence." He patted the thing tenderly. "I tried the hole in it but it isn't the right one."
I wondered what the hell he was talking about. I studied the black, mirror-like wood. The aperture in the vesonator was like that of any bass fiddle.
"Isn't right for what?" I had to ask.
He turned his sad eyes to me.
"For going home," he said.
Hummm, I thought.
We played. Tune after tune. John knew them all, from the latest pop melodies to a swing version of the classic Rhapsody of The Stars . He was a quiet guy during the next couple of hours, and getting more than a few words from him seemed as hard as extracting a tooth. He'd stand by his fiddle—I mean, his Zloomph —with a dreamy expression in those watery eyes, staring at nothing.
But after one number he studied Fat Boy's clarinet for a moment.
"Nice clarinet," he mused. "Has an unusual hole in the front."
Fat Boy scratched the back of his head. "You—you mean here? Where the music comes out?"
John Smith nodded. "Unusual."
Hummm, I thought again.
Awhile later I caught him eyeing my piano keyboard. "What's the matter, John?"
He pointed.
"Oh, there," I said. "A cigarette fell out of my ashtray, burnt a hole in the key. If The Eye sees it, he'll swear at me in seven languages."
"Even there," he said softly,
"even there...."
There was no doubt about it. John Smith was peculiar, but he was the best bass man this side of a musician's Nirvana.
It didn't take a genius to figure out our situation. Item one: Goon-Face's countenance had evidenced an excellent imitation of Mephistopheles before John began to play. Item two: Goon-Face had beamed like a kitten with a quart of cream after John began to play.
Conclusion: If we wanted to keep eating, we'd have to persuade John Smith to join our combo.
At intermission I said, "How about a drink, John? Maybe a shot of wine-syrup?"
He shook his head.
"Then maybe a Venusian fizz?"
His grunt was negative.
"Then some old-fashioned beer?"
He smiled. "Yes, I like beer."
I escorted him to the bar and assisted him in his arduous climb onto a stool.
"John," I ventured after he'd taken an experimental sip, "where have you been hiding? A guy like you should be playing every night."
John yawned. "Just got here. Figured I might need some money so I went to the union. Then I worked on my plan."
"Then you need a job. How about playing with us steady? We like your style a lot."
He made a long, low humming sound which I interpreted as an expression of intense concentration.
"I don't know," he finally drawled.
"It'd be a steady job, John." Inspiration struck me. "And listen, I have an apartment. It's got everything, solar shower, automatic chef,
'copter landing—if we ever get a
'copter. Plenty of room there for two people. You can stay with me and it won't cost you a cent. And we'll even pay you over union wages."
His watery gaze wandered lazily to the bar mirror, down to the glittering array of bottles and then out to the dance floor.
He yawned again and spoke slowly, as if each word were a leaden weight cast reluctantly from his tongue:
"No, I don't ... care much ... about playing."
"What do you like to do, John?"
His string-bean of a body stiffened.
"I like to study ancient history ... and I must work on my plan."
Oh Lord, that plan again!
I took a deep breath. "Tell me about it, John. It must be interesting."
He made queer clicking noises with his mouth that reminded me of a mechanical toy being wound into motion. "The whole foundation of this or any other culture is based on the history of all the time dimensions, each interwoven with the other, throughout the ages. And the holes provide a means of studying all of it first hand."
Oh, oh , I thought. But you still have to eat. Remember, you still have to eat.
"Trouble is," he went on, "there are so many holes in this universe."
"Holes?" I kept a straight face.
"Certainly. Look around you. All you see is holes. These beer bottles are just holes surrounded by glass. The doors and windows—they're holes in walls. The mine tunnels make a network of holes under the desert. Caves are holes, animals live in holes, our faces have holes, clothes have holes—millions and millions of holes!"
I winced and thought, humor him because you gotta eat, you gotta eat.
His voice trembled with emotion.
"Why, they're everywhere. They're in pots and pans, in pipes, in rocket jets, in bumpy roads. There are buttonholes and well holes, and shoelace holes. There are doughnut holes and stocking holes and woodpecker holes and cheese holes. Oceans lie in holes in the earth, and rivers and canals and valleys. The craters of the Moon are holes. Everything is—"
"But, John," I said as patiently as possible, "what have these holes got to do with you?"
He glowered at me as if I were unworthy of such a confidence.
"What have they to do with me?" he shrilled. "I can't find the right one—that's what!"
I closed my eyes. "Which particular hole are you looking for, John?"
He was speaking rapidly again now.
"I was hurrying back to the University with the Zloomph to prove a point of ancient history to those fools. They don't believe that instruments which make music actually existed before the tapes! It was dark—and some fool researcher had forgotten to set a force-field over the hole—I fell through."
I closed my eyes. "Now wait a minute. Did you drop something, lose it in the hole—is that why you have to find it?"
"Oh I didn't lose anything important," he snapped, " just my own time dimension. And if I don't get back they will think I couldn't prove my theory, that I'm ashamed to come back, and I'll be discredited."
His chest sagged for an instant. Then he straightened. "But there's still time for my plan to work out—with the relative difference taken into account. Only I get so tired just thinking about it."
"Yes, I can see where thinking about it would tire any one."
He nodded. "But it can't be too far away."
"I'd like to hear more about it," I said. "But if you're not going to play with us—"
"Oh, I'll play with you," he beamed. "I can talk to you . You understand."
Thank heaven!
Heaven lasted for just three days. During those seventy-two golden hours the melodious tinkling of The Eye's cash register was as constant as that of Santa's sleigh bells.
John became the hero of tourists, spacemen, and Martians, but nevertheless he remained stubbornly aloof. He was quiet, moody, playing his Zloomph automatically. He'd reveal definite indications of belonging to Homo Sapiens only when drinking beer and talking about his holes.
Goon-Face was still cautious.
"Contract?" he wheezed. "Maybe. We see. Eef feedleman stay, we have contract. He stay, yes?"
"Oh, sure," I said. "He'll stay—just as long as you want him."
"Den he sign contract, too. No beeg feedle, no contract."
"Sure. We'll get him to sign it." I laughed hollowly. "Don't worry, Mr. Ke-teeli."
Just a few minutes later tragedy struck.
A reporter from the Marsport Times ambled into interview the Man of The Hour. The interview, unfortunately, was conducted over the bar and accompanied by a generous guzzling of beer. Fat Boy, Hammer-Head and I watched from a table. Knowing John as we did, a silent prayer was in our eyes.
"This is the first time he's talked to anybody," Fat Boy breathed.
"I—I'm scared.
"Nothing can happen," I said, optimistically. "This'll be good publicity."
We watched.
John murmured something. The reporter, a paunchy, balding man, scribbled furiously in his notebook.
John yawned, muttered something else. The reporter continued to scribble.
John sipped beer. His eyes brightened, and he began to talk more rapidly.
The reporter frowned, stopped writing, and studied John curiously.
John finished his first beer, started on his second. His eyes were wild, and he was talking more and more rapidly.
"He's doing it," Hammer-Head groaned. "He's telling him!"
I rose swiftly. "We better get over there. We should have known better—"
We were too late. The reporter had already slapped on his hat and was striding to the exit. John turned to us, dazed, his enthusiasm vanishing like air from a punctured balloon.
"He wouldn't listen," he said, weakly. "I tried to tell him, but he said he'd come back when I'm sober. I'm sober now. So I quit. I've got to find my hole."
I patted him on the back. "No, John, we'll help you. Don't quit. We'll—well, we'll help you."
"We're working on a plan, too," said Fat Boy in a burst of inspiration.
"We're going to make a more scientific approach."
"How?" John asked.
Fat Boy gulped.
"Just wait another day," I said.
"We'll have it worked out. Just be patient another day. You can't leave now, not after all your work."
"No, I guess not," he sighed. "I'll stay—until tomorrow."
All night the thought crept through my brain like a teasing spider: What can we do to make him stay? What can we tell him? What, what, what?
Unable to sleep the next morning, I left John to his snoring and went for an aspirin and black coffee. All the possible schemes were drumming through my mind: finding an Earth blonde to capture John's interest, having him electro-hypnotized, breaking his leg, forging a letter from this mythical university telling him his theory was proved valid and for him to take a nice long vacation now. He was a screwball about holes and force fields and dimensional worlds but for that music of his I'd baby him the rest of his life.
It was early afternoon when I trudged back to my apartment.
John was squatting on the living room floor, surrounded by a forest of empty beer bottles. His eyes were bulging, his hair was even wilder than usual, and he was swaying.
"John!" I cried. "You're drunk!"
His watery eyes squinted at me.
"No, not drunk. Just scared. I'm awful scared!"
"But you mustn't be scared. That reporter was just stupid. We'll help you with your theory."
His body trembled. "No, it isn't that. It isn't the reporter."
"Then what is it, John?"
"It's my body. It's—"
"Yes, what about your body? Are you sick?"
His face was white with terror.
"No, my— my body's full of holes . Suppose it's one of those holes! How will I get back if it is?"
He rose and staggered to his Zloomph , clutching it as though it were somehow a source of strength and consolation.
I patted him gingerly on the arm.
"Now John. You've just had too much beer, that's all. Let's go out and get some air and some strong black coffee. C'mon now."
We staggered out into the morning darkness, the three of us. John, the Zloomph , and I.
I was hanging on to him trying to see around and over and even under the Zloomph —steering by a sort of radar-like sixth sense. The street lights on Marsport are pretty dim compared to Earthside. I didn't see the open manhole that the workmen had figured would be all right at that time of night. It gets pretty damned cold around 4: A.M. of a Martian morning, and I guess the men were warming up with a little nip at the bar across the street.
Then—he was gone.
John just slipped out of my grasp— Zloomph and all—and was gone—completely and irrevocably gone. I even risked a broken neck and jumped in the manhole after him. Nothing—nothing but the smell of ozone and an echo bouncing crazily off the walls of the conduit.
"—is it.—is it.—is it.—is it."
John Smith was gone, so utterly and completely and tragically gone it was as if he'd never existed....
Tonight is our last night at The Space Room . Goon-Face is scowling again with the icy fury of a Plutonian monsoon. As Goon-Face has said, "No beeg feedle, no contract."
Without John, we're notes in a lost chord.
We've searched everything, in hospitals, morgues, jails, night clubs, hotels. We've hounded spaceports and 'copter terminals. Nowhere, nowhere is John Smith.
Ziggy, whose two fingers have healed, has already bowed to what seems inevitable. He's signed up for that trip to Neptune's uranium pits. There's plenty of room for more volunteers, he tells us. But I spend my time cussing the guy who forgot to set the force field at the other end of the hole and let John and his Zloomph back into his own time dimension. I cuss harder when I think how we were robbed of the best bass player in the galaxy.
And without a corpus delecti we can't even sue the city.
... THE END
Question:
Describe John Smith and his instrument.
Answer:
|
[
"John Smith is a human from Earth that is described as a very shot guy with a broad face and light blue eyes. He works with the Marsport union. When he enters the Space Room establishment, he is dressed in a tight black suit and is carrying his instrument, the Zloomph. John states that the Zloomph that he carries is an instrument that is over five thousand years old. He excitedly states that he found it in a pawn shop and that it’s the only one in existence. \n\nThe Zloomph itself is described as being incredibly large, and very black. The tones that emitted from it were jazz-like and received well by the band, the audience, and The Goon. \n",
"John’s instrument is large, black, and old. It is taller and wider than a normal bass fiddle. It’s shape is odd, looking like a black hour-glass. It has black, mirror-like wood. The music coming out of this instrument is beautiful. It is heavenly with depth, volume and richness. John calls it a Zloomph and mentions its uniqueness. John Smith is a little man, he is described as a matchstick. His face is flat and broad. He has sandcolored hair that is quite messy, long and dry. His blue eyes are watery. He wears a black color tightfitting suit. He is between twenty and forty. He speaks quickly. He does not like Venusian fizz and wine-syrup, but enjoys beer. He has a dreamy expression when playing music on his instrument. John is always noticing holes that seems common to everyone else. He does not care much about playing music, instead he likes to study ancient history and he needs to finish his plan, which is finding the correct hole. Because he needs to go back to his world to prove a theory. ",
"John Smith is a bass fiddle, he is huge and looks like a monster, he looks disgusting. His instrument is over five thousand years, it's a Zloomph with a matchstick as old. The man has pale blue eyes and his age is indeterminable. He is silent almost all the time, but he loves beer, and it makes him talk. He mostly talks about the holes, as he is desperately seeking for the trans-dimensional one to get back to his time dimension. All the time he makes plans about it, also he is interested in history and proving theories about it. He is a great player, who makes everyone around listen with admiration and full attention, but music isn't his main passion. ",
"John Smith is physically described as a little guy similar to an animated matchstick. He has a flat, broad face that seems to have been compressed in a vice. His mop of hair is sand-colored, and Jimmie is reminded of a field of dry grass with strands that form loops to the side of his face. He also has pale, watery blue eyes and wears a tight-fitting black suit. Jimmie says it is impossible to guess his age as he could be anywhere between twenty and forty. When John speaks, it is shrill and rapid. However, when he talks about the holes and his ancient history theories, he becomes much more enthusiastic and lights up. Other than those times, he is quite silent and has sad eyes. The others find him eccentric, but they want to keep him around because of his bass-playing abilities. His instrument is called a Zloomph. It is an enormous black monstrosity, and Jimmie thinks it came from a pawnbroker’s attic. It is a queerly-shaped bass fiddle. It is also too tall and too wide. John says the Zloomph is over five thousand years old and is the only one in existence. It can play any song, and the sound that comes out of it is the whole chord instead of just a single note. When Jimmie listens to it, he feels his blood tingling with each plucked note. "
] |
32667
|
He was something out of a nightmare but his music was straight from heaven. He was a ragged little man out of a hole but he was money in the bank to Stanley's four-piece combo. He was —whoops!...
The Holes and John Smith
By Edward W. Ludwig
Illustration by Kelly Freas
It all began on a Saturday night at The Space Room . If you've seen any recent Martian travel folders, you know the place:
"A picturesque oasis of old Martian charm, situated on the beauteous Grand Canal in the heart of Marsport. Only half a mile from historic Chandler Field, landing site of the first Martian expedition nearly fifty years ago in 1990. A visitor to the hotel, lunch room or cocktail lounge will thrill at the sight of hardy space pioneers mingling side by side with colorful Martian tribesmen. An evening at The Space Room is an amazing, unforgettable experience."
Of course, the folders neglect to add that the most amazing aspect is the scent of the Canal's stagnant water—and that the most unforgettable experience is seeing the "root-of-all-evil" evaporate from your pocketbook like snow from the Great Red Desert.
We were sitting on the bandstand of the candle-lit cocktail lounge. Me—Jimmie Stanley—and my four-piece combo. Maybe you've seen our motto back on Earth:
"The Hottest Music This Side of Mercury."
But there weren't four of us tonight. Only three. Ziggy, our bass fiddle man, had nearly sliced off two fingers while opening a can of Saturnian ice-fish, thus decreasing the number of our personnel by a tragic twenty-five per cent.
Which was why Ke-teeli, our boss, was descending upon us with all the grace of an enraged Venusian vinosaur.
"Where ees museek?" he shrilled in his nasal tenor. He was almost skeleton thin, like most Martians, and so tall that if he fell down he'd be half way home.
I gulped. "Our bass man can't be here, but we've called the Marsport local for another. He'll be here any minute."
Ke-teeli, sometimes referred to as Goon-Face and The Eye, leered coldly down at me from his eight-foot-three. His eyes were like black needle points set deep in a mask of dry, ancient, reddish leather.
"Ees no feedle man, ees no job," he squeaked.
I sighed. This was the week our contract ended. Goon-Face had displayed little enough enthusiasm for our music as it was. His comments were either, "Ees too loud, too fast," or "Ees too slow, too soft." The real cause of his concern being, I suspected, the infrequency with which his cash register tinkled.
"But," I added, "even if the new man doesn't come, we're still here. We'll play for you." I glanced at the conglomeration of uniformed spacemen, white-suited tourists, and loin-clothed natives who sat at ancient stone tables. "You wouldn't want to disappoint your customers, would you?"
Ke-teeli snorted. "Maybe ees better dey be deesappointed. Ees better no museek den bad museek."
Fat Boy, our clarinetist who doubles on Martian horn-harp, made a feeble attempt at optimism. "Don't worry, Mr. Ke-teeli. That new bass man will be here."
"Sure," said Hammer-Head, our red-haired vibro-drummer. "I think I hear him coming now."
Suspiciously, Ke-teeli eyed the entrance. There was only silence. His naked, parchment-like chest swelled as if it were an expanding balloon.
"Five meenutes!" he shrieked.
"Eef no feedle, den you go!" And he whirled away.
We waited.
Fat Boy's two hundred and eighty-odd pounds were drooped over his chair like the blubber of an exhausted, beach-stranded whale.
"Well," he muttered, "there's always the uranium pits of Neptune. Course, you don't live more than five years there—"
"Maybe we could make it back to Lunar City," suggested Hammer-Head.
"Using what for fare?" I asked.
"Your brains?"
Hammer-Head groaned. "No. I guess it'll have to be the black pits of Neptune. The home of washed-up interplanetary musicians. It's too bad. We're so young, too."
The seconds swept by. Ke-teeli was casting his razor-edged glare in our direction. I brushed the chewed finger nails from the keyboard of my electronic piano.
Then it happened.
From the entrance of The Space Room came a thumping and a grating and a banging. Suddenly, sweeping across the dance floor like a cold wind, was a bass fiddle, an enormous black monstrosity, a refugee from a pawnbroker's attic. It was queerly shaped. It was too tall, too wide. It was more like a monstrous, midnight-black hour-glass than a bass.
The fiddle was not unaccompanied as I'd first imagined. Behind it, streaking over the floor in a waltz of agony, was a little guy, an animated matchstick with a flat, broad face that seemed to have been compressed in a vice. His sandcolored mop of hair reminded me of a field of dry grass, the long strands forming loops that flanked the sides of his face.
His pale blue eyes were watery, like twin pools of fog. His tightfitting suit, as black as the bass, was something off a park bench. It was impossible to guess his age. He could have been anywhere between twenty and forty.
The bass thumped down upon the bandstand.
"Hello," he puffed. "I'm John Smith, from the Marsport union." He spoke shrilly and rapidly, as if anxious to conclude the routine of introductions. "I'm sorry I'm late, but I was working on my plan."
A moment's silence.
"Your plan?" I echoed at last.
"How to get back home," he snapped as if I should have known it already.
Hummm, I thought.
My gaze turned to the dance floor. Goon-Face had his eyes on us, and they were as cold as six Indians going South.
"We'll talk about your plan at intermission," I said, shivering.
"Now, we'd better start playing. John, do you know On An Asteroid With You ?"
"I know everything ," said John Smith.
I turned to my piano with a shudder. I didn't dare look at that horrible fiddle again. I didn't dare think what kind of soul-chilling tones might emerge from its ancient depths.
And I didn't dare look again at the second monstrosity, the one named John Smith. I closed my eyes and plunged into a four-bar intro.
Hammer-Head joined in on vibro-drums and Fat Boy on clarinet, and then—
My eyes burst open. A shiver coursed down my spine like gigantic mice feet.
The tones that surged from that monstrous bass were ecstatic. They were out of a jazzman's Heaven. They were great rolling clouds that seemed to envelop the entire universe with their vibrance. They held a depth and a volume and a richness that were astounding, that were like no others I'd ever heard.
First they went Boom-de-boom-de-boom-de-boom , and then, boom-de-de-boom-de-de-boom-de-de-boom , just like the tones of all bass fiddles.
But there was something else, too. There were overtones, so that John wasn't just playing a single note, but a whole chord with each beat. And the fullness, the depth of those incredible chords actually set my blood tingling. I could feel the tingling just as one can feel the vibration of a plucked guitar string.
I glanced at the cash customers. They looked like weary warriors getting their first glimpse of Valhalla. Gap-jawed and wide-eyed, they seemed in a kind of ecstatic hypnosis. Even the silent, bland-faced Martians stopped sipping their wine-syrup and nodded their dark heads in time with the rhythm.
I looked at The Eye. The transformation of his gaunt features was miraculous. Shadows of gloom dissolved and were replaced by a black-toothed, crescent-shaped smile of delight. His eyes shone like those of a kid seeing Santa Claus.
We finished On An Asteroid With You , modulated into Sweet Sally from Saturn and finished with Tighten Your Lips on Titan .
We waited for the applause of the Earth people and the shrilling of the Martians to die down. Then I turned to John and his fiddle.
"If I didn't hear it," I gasped,
"I wouldn't believe it!"
"And the fiddle's so old, too!" added Hammer-Head who, although sober, seemed quite drunk.
"Old?" said John Smith. "Of course it's old. It's over five thousand years old. I was lucky to find it in a pawnshop. Only it's not a fiddle but a Zloomph . This is the only one in existence." He patted the thing tenderly. "I tried the hole in it but it isn't the right one."
I wondered what the hell he was talking about. I studied the black, mirror-like wood. The aperture in the vesonator was like that of any bass fiddle.
"Isn't right for what?" I had to ask.
He turned his sad eyes to me.
"For going home," he said.
Hummm, I thought.
We played. Tune after tune. John knew them all, from the latest pop melodies to a swing version of the classic Rhapsody of The Stars . He was a quiet guy during the next couple of hours, and getting more than a few words from him seemed as hard as extracting a tooth. He'd stand by his fiddle—I mean, his Zloomph —with a dreamy expression in those watery eyes, staring at nothing.
But after one number he studied Fat Boy's clarinet for a moment.
"Nice clarinet," he mused. "Has an unusual hole in the front."
Fat Boy scratched the back of his head. "You—you mean here? Where the music comes out?"
John Smith nodded. "Unusual."
Hummm, I thought again.
Awhile later I caught him eyeing my piano keyboard. "What's the matter, John?"
He pointed.
"Oh, there," I said. "A cigarette fell out of my ashtray, burnt a hole in the key. If The Eye sees it, he'll swear at me in seven languages."
"Even there," he said softly,
"even there...."
There was no doubt about it. John Smith was peculiar, but he was the best bass man this side of a musician's Nirvana.
It didn't take a genius to figure out our situation. Item one: Goon-Face's countenance had evidenced an excellent imitation of Mephistopheles before John began to play. Item two: Goon-Face had beamed like a kitten with a quart of cream after John began to play.
Conclusion: If we wanted to keep eating, we'd have to persuade John Smith to join our combo.
At intermission I said, "How about a drink, John? Maybe a shot of wine-syrup?"
He shook his head.
"Then maybe a Venusian fizz?"
His grunt was negative.
"Then some old-fashioned beer?"
He smiled. "Yes, I like beer."
I escorted him to the bar and assisted him in his arduous climb onto a stool.
"John," I ventured after he'd taken an experimental sip, "where have you been hiding? A guy like you should be playing every night."
John yawned. "Just got here. Figured I might need some money so I went to the union. Then I worked on my plan."
"Then you need a job. How about playing with us steady? We like your style a lot."
He made a long, low humming sound which I interpreted as an expression of intense concentration.
"I don't know," he finally drawled.
"It'd be a steady job, John." Inspiration struck me. "And listen, I have an apartment. It's got everything, solar shower, automatic chef,
'copter landing—if we ever get a
'copter. Plenty of room there for two people. You can stay with me and it won't cost you a cent. And we'll even pay you over union wages."
His watery gaze wandered lazily to the bar mirror, down to the glittering array of bottles and then out to the dance floor.
He yawned again and spoke slowly, as if each word were a leaden weight cast reluctantly from his tongue:
"No, I don't ... care much ... about playing."
"What do you like to do, John?"
His string-bean of a body stiffened.
"I like to study ancient history ... and I must work on my plan."
Oh Lord, that plan again!
I took a deep breath. "Tell me about it, John. It must be interesting."
He made queer clicking noises with his mouth that reminded me of a mechanical toy being wound into motion. "The whole foundation of this or any other culture is based on the history of all the time dimensions, each interwoven with the other, throughout the ages. And the holes provide a means of studying all of it first hand."
Oh, oh , I thought. But you still have to eat. Remember, you still have to eat.
"Trouble is," he went on, "there are so many holes in this universe."
"Holes?" I kept a straight face.
"Certainly. Look around you. All you see is holes. These beer bottles are just holes surrounded by glass. The doors and windows—they're holes in walls. The mine tunnels make a network of holes under the desert. Caves are holes, animals live in holes, our faces have holes, clothes have holes—millions and millions of holes!"
I winced and thought, humor him because you gotta eat, you gotta eat.
His voice trembled with emotion.
"Why, they're everywhere. They're in pots and pans, in pipes, in rocket jets, in bumpy roads. There are buttonholes and well holes, and shoelace holes. There are doughnut holes and stocking holes and woodpecker holes and cheese holes. Oceans lie in holes in the earth, and rivers and canals and valleys. The craters of the Moon are holes. Everything is—"
"But, John," I said as patiently as possible, "what have these holes got to do with you?"
He glowered at me as if I were unworthy of such a confidence.
"What have they to do with me?" he shrilled. "I can't find the right one—that's what!"
I closed my eyes. "Which particular hole are you looking for, John?"
He was speaking rapidly again now.
"I was hurrying back to the University with the Zloomph to prove a point of ancient history to those fools. They don't believe that instruments which make music actually existed before the tapes! It was dark—and some fool researcher had forgotten to set a force-field over the hole—I fell through."
I closed my eyes. "Now wait a minute. Did you drop something, lose it in the hole—is that why you have to find it?"
"Oh I didn't lose anything important," he snapped, " just my own time dimension. And if I don't get back they will think I couldn't prove my theory, that I'm ashamed to come back, and I'll be discredited."
His chest sagged for an instant. Then he straightened. "But there's still time for my plan to work out—with the relative difference taken into account. Only I get so tired just thinking about it."
"Yes, I can see where thinking about it would tire any one."
He nodded. "But it can't be too far away."
"I'd like to hear more about it," I said. "But if you're not going to play with us—"
"Oh, I'll play with you," he beamed. "I can talk to you . You understand."
Thank heaven!
Heaven lasted for just three days. During those seventy-two golden hours the melodious tinkling of The Eye's cash register was as constant as that of Santa's sleigh bells.
John became the hero of tourists, spacemen, and Martians, but nevertheless he remained stubbornly aloof. He was quiet, moody, playing his Zloomph automatically. He'd reveal definite indications of belonging to Homo Sapiens only when drinking beer and talking about his holes.
Goon-Face was still cautious.
"Contract?" he wheezed. "Maybe. We see. Eef feedleman stay, we have contract. He stay, yes?"
"Oh, sure," I said. "He'll stay—just as long as you want him."
"Den he sign contract, too. No beeg feedle, no contract."
"Sure. We'll get him to sign it." I laughed hollowly. "Don't worry, Mr. Ke-teeli."
Just a few minutes later tragedy struck.
A reporter from the Marsport Times ambled into interview the Man of The Hour. The interview, unfortunately, was conducted over the bar and accompanied by a generous guzzling of beer. Fat Boy, Hammer-Head and I watched from a table. Knowing John as we did, a silent prayer was in our eyes.
"This is the first time he's talked to anybody," Fat Boy breathed.
"I—I'm scared.
"Nothing can happen," I said, optimistically. "This'll be good publicity."
We watched.
John murmured something. The reporter, a paunchy, balding man, scribbled furiously in his notebook.
John yawned, muttered something else. The reporter continued to scribble.
John sipped beer. His eyes brightened, and he began to talk more rapidly.
The reporter frowned, stopped writing, and studied John curiously.
John finished his first beer, started on his second. His eyes were wild, and he was talking more and more rapidly.
"He's doing it," Hammer-Head groaned. "He's telling him!"
I rose swiftly. "We better get over there. We should have known better—"
We were too late. The reporter had already slapped on his hat and was striding to the exit. John turned to us, dazed, his enthusiasm vanishing like air from a punctured balloon.
"He wouldn't listen," he said, weakly. "I tried to tell him, but he said he'd come back when I'm sober. I'm sober now. So I quit. I've got to find my hole."
I patted him on the back. "No, John, we'll help you. Don't quit. We'll—well, we'll help you."
"We're working on a plan, too," said Fat Boy in a burst of inspiration.
"We're going to make a more scientific approach."
"How?" John asked.
Fat Boy gulped.
"Just wait another day," I said.
"We'll have it worked out. Just be patient another day. You can't leave now, not after all your work."
"No, I guess not," he sighed. "I'll stay—until tomorrow."
All night the thought crept through my brain like a teasing spider: What can we do to make him stay? What can we tell him? What, what, what?
Unable to sleep the next morning, I left John to his snoring and went for an aspirin and black coffee. All the possible schemes were drumming through my mind: finding an Earth blonde to capture John's interest, having him electro-hypnotized, breaking his leg, forging a letter from this mythical university telling him his theory was proved valid and for him to take a nice long vacation now. He was a screwball about holes and force fields and dimensional worlds but for that music of his I'd baby him the rest of his life.
It was early afternoon when I trudged back to my apartment.
John was squatting on the living room floor, surrounded by a forest of empty beer bottles. His eyes were bulging, his hair was even wilder than usual, and he was swaying.
"John!" I cried. "You're drunk!"
His watery eyes squinted at me.
"No, not drunk. Just scared. I'm awful scared!"
"But you mustn't be scared. That reporter was just stupid. We'll help you with your theory."
His body trembled. "No, it isn't that. It isn't the reporter."
"Then what is it, John?"
"It's my body. It's—"
"Yes, what about your body? Are you sick?"
His face was white with terror.
"No, my— my body's full of holes . Suppose it's one of those holes! How will I get back if it is?"
He rose and staggered to his Zloomph , clutching it as though it were somehow a source of strength and consolation.
I patted him gingerly on the arm.
"Now John. You've just had too much beer, that's all. Let's go out and get some air and some strong black coffee. C'mon now."
We staggered out into the morning darkness, the three of us. John, the Zloomph , and I.
I was hanging on to him trying to see around and over and even under the Zloomph —steering by a sort of radar-like sixth sense. The street lights on Marsport are pretty dim compared to Earthside. I didn't see the open manhole that the workmen had figured would be all right at that time of night. It gets pretty damned cold around 4: A.M. of a Martian morning, and I guess the men were warming up with a little nip at the bar across the street.
Then—he was gone.
John just slipped out of my grasp— Zloomph and all—and was gone—completely and irrevocably gone. I even risked a broken neck and jumped in the manhole after him. Nothing—nothing but the smell of ozone and an echo bouncing crazily off the walls of the conduit.
"—is it.—is it.—is it.—is it."
John Smith was gone, so utterly and completely and tragically gone it was as if he'd never existed....
Tonight is our last night at The Space Room . Goon-Face is scowling again with the icy fury of a Plutonian monsoon. As Goon-Face has said, "No beeg feedle, no contract."
Without John, we're notes in a lost chord.
We've searched everything, in hospitals, morgues, jails, night clubs, hotels. We've hounded spaceports and 'copter terminals. Nowhere, nowhere is John Smith.
Ziggy, whose two fingers have healed, has already bowed to what seems inevitable. He's signed up for that trip to Neptune's uranium pits. There's plenty of room for more volunteers, he tells us. But I spend my time cussing the guy who forgot to set the force field at the other end of the hole and let John and his Zloomph back into his own time dimension. I cuss harder when I think how we were robbed of the best bass player in the galaxy.
And without a corpus delecti we can't even sue the city.
... THE END
|
What is the plot of the story?
|
After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about Soldier Boy by Michael Shaara.
Relevant chunks:
SOLDIER BOY
By MICHAEL SHAARA
Illustrated by EMSH
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction July 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
It's one thing to laugh at a man because his job is useless and outdated—another to depend on him when it suddenly isn't.
In the northland, deep, and in a great cave, by an everburning fire the Warrior sleeps. For this is the resting time, the time of peace, and so shall it be for a thousand years. And yet we shall summon him again, my children, when we are sore in need, and out of the north he will come, and again and again, each time we call, out of the dark and the cold, with the fire in his hands, he will come.
— Scandinavian legend
Throughout the night, thick clouds had been piling in the north; in the morning, it was misty and cold. By eight o'clock a wet, heavy, snow-smelling breeze had begun to set in, and because the crops were all down and the winter planting done, the colonists brewed hot coffee and remained inside. The wind blew steadily, icily from the north. It was well below freezing when, some time after nine, an army ship landed in a field near the settlement.
There was still time. There were some last brief moments in which the colonists could act and feel as they had always done. They therefore grumbled in annoyance. They wanted no soldiers here. The few who had convenient windows stared out with distaste and a mild curiosity, but no one went out to greet them.
After a while a rather tall, frail-looking man came out of the ship and stood upon the hard ground looking toward the village. He remained there, waiting stiffly, his face turned from the wind. It was a silly thing to do. He was obviously not coming in, either out of pride or just plain orneriness.
"Well, I never," a nice lady said.
"What's he just standing there for?" another lady said.
And all of them thought: well, God knows what's in the mind of a soldier, and right away many people concluded that he must be drunk. The seed of peace was deeply planted in these people, in the children and the women, very, very deep. And because they had been taught, oh so carefully, to hate war they had also been taught, quite incidentally, to despise soldiers.
The lone man kept standing in the freezing wind.
Eventually, because even a soldier can look small and cold and pathetic, Bob Rossel had to get up out of a nice, warm bed and go out in that miserable cold to meet him.
The soldier saluted. Like most soldiers, he was not too neat and not too clean and the salute was sloppy. Although he was bigger than Rossel he did not seem bigger. And, because of the cold, there were tears gathering in the ends of his eyes.
"Captain Dylan, sir." His voice was low and did not carry. "I have a message from Fleet Headquarters. Are you in charge here?"
Rossel, a small sober man, grunted. "Nobody's in charge here. If you want a spokesman I guess I'll do. What's up?"
The captain regarded him briefly out of pale blue, expressionless eyes. Then he pulled an envelope from an inside pocket, handed it to Rossel. It was a thick, official-looking thing and Rossel hefted it idly. He was about to ask again what was it all about when the airlock of the hovering ship swung open creakily. A beefy, black-haired young man appeared unsteadily in the doorway, called to Dylan.
"C'n I go now, Jim?"
Dylan turned and nodded.
"Be back for you tonight," the young man called, and then, grinning, he yelled "Catch" and tossed down a bottle. The captain caught it and put it unconcernedly into his pocket while Rossel stared in disgust. A moment later the airlock closed and the ship prepared to lift.
"Was he drunk ?" Rossel began angrily. "Was that a bottle of liquor ?"
The soldier was looking at him calmly, coldly. He indicated the envelope in Rossel's hand. "You'd better read that and get moving. We haven't much time."
He turned and walked toward the buildings and Rossel had to follow. As Rossel drew near the walls the watchers could see his lips moving but could not hear him. Just then the ship lifted and they turned to watch that, and followed it upward, red spark-tailed, into the gray spongy clouds and the cold.
After a while the ship went out of sight, and nobody ever saw it again.
The first contact Man had ever had with an intelligent alien race occurred out on the perimeter in a small quiet place a long way from home. Late in the year 2360—the exact date remains unknown—an alien force attacked and destroyed the colony at Lupus V. The wreckage and the dead were found by a mailship which flashed off screaming for the army.
When the army came it found this: Of the seventy registered colonists, thirty-one were dead. The rest, including some women and children, were missing. All technical equipment, all radios, guns, machines, even books, were also missing. The buildings had been burned, so were the bodies. Apparently the aliens had a heat ray. What else they had, nobody knew. After a few days of walking around in the ash, one soldier finally stumbled on something.
For security reasons, there was a detonator in one of the main buildings. In case of enemy attack, Security had provided a bomb to be buried in the center of each colony, because it was important to blow a whole village to hell and gone rather than let a hostile alien learn vital facts about human technology and body chemistry. There was a bomb at Lupus V too, and though it had been detonated it had not blown. The detonating wire had been cut.
In the heart of the camp, hidden from view under twelve inches of earth, the wire had been dug up and cut.
The army could not understand it and had no time to try. After five hundred years of peace and anti-war conditioning the army was small, weak and without respect. Therefore, the army did nothing but spread the news, and Man began to fall back.
In a thickening, hastening stream he came back from the hard-won stars, blowing up his homes behind him, stunned and cursing. Most of the colonists got out in time. A few, the farthest and loneliest, died in fire before the army ships could reach them. And the men in those ships, drinkers and gamblers and veterans of nothing, the dregs of a society which had grown beyond them, were for a long while the only defense Earth had.
This was the message Captain Dylan had brought, come out from Earth with a bottle on his hip.
An obscenely cheerful expression upon his gaunt, not too well shaven face, Captain Dylan perched himself upon the edge of a table and listened, one long booted leg swinging idly. One by one the colonists were beginning to understand. War is huge and comes with great suddenness and always without reason, and there is inevitably a wait, between acts, between the news and the motion, the fear and the rage.
Dylan waited. These people were taking it well, much better than those in the cities had taken it. But then, these were pioneers. Dylan grinned. Pioneers. Before you settle a planet you boil it and bake it and purge it of all possible disease. Then you step down gingerly and inflate your plastic houses, which harden and become warm and impregnable; and send your machines out to plant and harvest; and set up automatic factories to transmute dirt into coffee; and, without ever having lifted a finger, you have braved the wilderness, hewed a home out of the living rock and become a pioneer. Dylan grinned again. But at least this was better than the wailing of the cities.
This Dylan thought, although he was himself no fighter, no man at all by any standards. This he thought because he was a soldier and an outcast; to every drunken man the fall of the sober is a happy thing. He stirred restlessly.
By this time the colonists had begun to realize that there wasn't much to say, and a tall, handsome woman was murmuring distractedly: "Lupus, Lupus—doesn't that mean wolves or something?"
Dylan began to wish they would get moving, these pioneers. It was very possible that the aliens would be here soon, and there was no need for discussion. There was only one thing to do and that was to clear the hell out, quickly and without argument. They began to see it.
But, when the fear had died down, the resentment came. A number of women began to cluster around Dylan and complain, working up their anger. Dylan said nothing. Then the man Rossel pushed forward and confronted him, speaking with a vast annoyance.
"See here, soldier, this is our planet. I mean to say, this is our home . We demand some protection from the fleet. By God, we've been paying the freight for you boys all these years and it's high time you earned your keep. We demand...."
It went on and on while Dylan looked at the clock and waited. He hoped that he could end this quickly. A big gloomy man was in front of him now and giving him that name of ancient contempt, "soldier boy." The gloomy man wanted to know where the fleet was.
"There is no fleet. There are a few hundred half-shot old tubs that were obsolete before you were born. There are four or five new jobs for the brass and the government. That's all the fleet there is."
Dylan wanted to go on about that, to remind them that nobody had wanted the army, that the fleet had grown smaller and smaller ... but this was not the time. It was ten-thirty already and the damned aliens might be coming in right now for all he knew, and all they did was talk. He had realized a long time ago that no peace-loving nation in the history of Earth had ever kept itself strong, and although peace was a noble dream, it was ended now and it was time to move.
"We'd better get going," he finally said, and there was quiet.
"Lieutenant Bossio has gone on to your sister colony at Planet Three of this system. He'll return to pick me up by nightfall and I'm instructed to have you gone by then."
For a long moment they waited, and then one man abruptly walked off and the rest followed quickly; in a moment they were all gone. One or two stopped long enough to complain about the fleet, and the big gloomy man said he wanted guns, that's all, and there wouldn't nobody get him off his planet. When he left, Dylan breathed with relief and went out to check the bomb, grateful for the action.
Most of it had to be done in the open. He found a metal bar in the radio shack and began chopping at the frozen ground, following the wire. It was the first thing he had done with his hands in weeks, and it felt fine.
Dylan had been called up out of a bar—he and Bossio—and told what had happened, and in three weeks now they had cleared four colonies. This would be the last, and the tension here was beginning to get to him. After thirty years of hanging around and playing like the town drunk, a man could not be expected to rush out and plug the breach, just like that. It would take time.
He rested, sweating, took a pull from the bottle on his hip.
Before they sent him out on this trip they had made him a captain. Well, that was nice. After thirty years he was a captain. For thirty years he had bummed all over the west end of space, had scraped his way along the outer edges of Mankind, had waited and dozed and patrolled and got drunk, waiting always for something to happen. There were a lot of ways to pass the time while you waited for something to happen, and he had done them all.
Once he had even studied military tactics.
He could not help smiling at that, even now. Damn it, he'd been green. But he'd been only nineteen when his father died—of a hernia, of a crazy fool thing like a hernia that killed him just because he'd worked too long on a heavy planet—and in those days the anti-war conditioning out on the Rim was not very strong. They talked a lot about guardians of the frontier, and they got him and some other kids and a broken-down doctor. And ... now he was a captain.
He bent his back savagely, digging at the ground. You wait and you wait and the edge goes off. This thing he had waited for all those damn days was upon him now and there was nothing he could do but say the hell with it and go home. Somewhere along the line, in some dark corner of the bars or the jails, in one of the million soul-murdering insults which are reserved especially for peacetime soldiers, he had lost the core of himself, and it didn't particularly matter. That was the point: it made no particular difference if he never got it back. He owed nobody. He was tugging at the wire and trying to think of something pleasant from the old days, when the wire came loose in his hands.
Although he had been, in his cynical way, expecting it, for a moment it threw him and he just stared. The end was clean and bright. The wire had just been cut.
Dylan sat for a long while by the radio shack, holding the ends in his hands. He reached almost automatically for the bottle on his hip and then, for the first time he could remember, let it go. This was real, there was no time for that.
When Rossel came up, Dylan was still sitting. Rossel was so excited he did not notice the wire.
"Listen, soldier, how many people can your ship take?"
Dylan looked at him vaguely. "She sleeps two and won't take off with more'n ten. Why?"
His eyes bright and worried, Rossel leaned heavily against the shack.
"We're overloaded. There are sixty of us and our ship will only take forty. We came out in groups, we never thought...."
Dylan dropped his eyes, swearing silently. "You're sure? No baggage, no iron rations; you couldn't get ten more on?"
"Not a chance. She's only a little ship with one deck—she's all we could afford."
Dylan whistled. He had begun to feel light-headed. "It 'pears that somebody's gonna find out first hand what them aliens look like."
It was the wrong thing to say and he knew it. "All right," he said quickly, still staring at the clear-sliced wire, "we'll do what we can. Maybe the colony on Three has room. I'll call Bossio and ask."
The colonist had begun to look quite pitifully at the buildings around him and the scurrying people.
"Aren't there any fleet ships within radio distance?"
Dylan shook his head. "The fleet's spread out kind of thin nowadays." Because the other was leaning on him he felt a great irritation, but he said, as kindly as he could, "We'll get 'em all out. One way or another, we won't leave anybody."
It was then that Rossel saw the wire. Thickly, he asked what had happened.
Dylan showed him the two clean ends. "Somebody dug it up, cut it, then buried it again and packed it down real nice."
"The damn fool!" Rossel exploded.
"Who?"
"Why, one of ... of us, of course. I know nobody ever liked sitting on a live bomb like this, but I never...."
"You think one of your people did it?"
Rossel stared at him. "Isn't that obvious?"
"Why?"
"Well, they probably thought it was too dangerous, and silly too, like most government rules. Or maybe one of the kids...."
It was then that Dylan told him about the wire on Lupus V. Rossel was silent. Involuntarily, he glanced at the sky, then he said shakily,
"Maybe an animal?"
Dylan shook his head. "No animal did that. Wouldn't have buried it, or found it in the first place. Heck of a coincidence, don't you think? The wire at Lupus was cut just before an alien attack, and now this one is cut too—newly cut."
The colonist put one hand to his mouth, his eyes wide and white.
"So something," said Dylan, "knew enough about this camp to know that a bomb was buried here and also to know why it was here. And that something didn't want the camp destroyed and so came right into the center of the camp, traced the wire, dug it up and cut it. And then walked right out again."
"Listen," said Rossel, "I'd better go ask."
He started away but Dylan caught his arm.
"Tell them to arm," he said, "and try not to scare hell out of them. I'll be with you as soon as I've spliced this wire."
Rossel nodded and went off, running. Dylan knelt with the metal in his hands.
He began to feel that, by God, he was getting cold. He realized that he'd better go inside soon, but the wire had to be spliced. That was perhaps the most important thing he could do now, splice the wire.
All right, he asked himself for the thousandth time, who cut it? How? Telepathy? Could they somehow control one of us?
No. If they controlled one, then they could control all, and then there would be no need for an attack. But you don't know, you don't really know.
Were they small? Little animals?
Unlikely. Biology said that really intelligent life required a sizable brain and you would have to expect an alien to be at least as large as a dog. And every form of life on this planet had been screened long before a colony had been allowed in. If any new animals had suddenly shown up, Rossel would certainly know about it.
He would ask Rossel. He would damn sure have to ask Rossel.
He finished splicing the wire and tucked it into the ground. Then he straightened up and, before he went into the radio shack, he pulled out his pistol. He checked it, primed it, and tried to remember the last time he had fired it. He never had—he never had fired a gun.
The snow began falling near noon. There was nothing anybody could do but stand in the silence and watch it come down in a white rushing wall, and watch the trees and the hills drown in the whiteness, until there was nothing on the planet but the buildings and a few warm lights and the snow.
By one o'clock the visibility was down to zero and Dylan decided to try to contact Bossio again and tell him to hurry. But Bossio still didn't answer. Dylan stared long and thoughtfully out the window through the snow at the gray shrouded shapes of bushes and trees which were beginning to become horrifying. It must be that Bossio was still drunk—maybe sleeping it off before making planetfall on Three. Dylan held no grudge. Bossio was a kid and alone. It took a special kind of guts to take a ship out into space alone, when Things could be waiting....
A young girl, pink and lovely in a thick fur jacket, came into the shack and told him breathlessly that her father, Mr. Rush, would like to know if he wanted sentries posted. Dylan hadn't thought about it but he said yes right away, beginning to feel both pleased and irritated at the same time, because now they were coming to him.
He pushed out into the cold and went to find Rossel. With the snow it was bad enough, but if they were still here when the sun went down they wouldn't have a chance. Most of the men were out stripping down their ship and that would take a while. He wondered why Rossel hadn't yet put a call through to Three, asking about room on the ship there. The only answer he could find was that Rossel knew that there was no room, and he wanted to put off the answer as long as possible. And, in a way, you could not blame him.
Rossel was in his cabin with the big, gloomy man—who turned out to be Rush, the one who had asked about sentries. Rush was methodically cleaning an old hunting rifle. Rossel was surprisingly full of hope.
"Listen, there's a mail ship due in, been due since yesterday. We might get the rest of the folks out on that."
Dylan shrugged. "Don't count on it."
"But they have a contract!"
The soldier grinned.
The big man, Rush, was paying no attention. Quite suddenly he said:
"Who cut that wire, Cap?"
Dylan swung slowly to look at him. "As far as I can figure, an alien cut it."
Rush shook his head. "No. Ain't been no aliens near this camp, and no peculiar animals either. We got a planet-wide radar, and ain't no unidentified ships come near, not since we first landed more'n a year ago." He lifted the rifle and peered through the bore. "Uh-uh. One of us did it."
The man had been thinking. And he knew the planet.
"Telepathy?" asked Dylan.
"Might be."
"Can't see it. You people live too close, you'd notice right away if one of you wasn't ... himself. And, if they've got one, why not all?"
Rush calmly—at least outwardly calmly—lit his pipe. There was a strength in this man that Dylan had missed before.
"Don't know," he said gruffly. "But these are aliens, mister. And until I know different I'm keepin' an eye on my neighbor."
He gave Rossel a sour look and Rossel stared back, uncomprehending.
Then Rossel jumped. "My God!"
Dylan moved to quiet him. "Look, is there any animal at all that ever comes near here that's as large as a dog?"
After a pause, Rush answered. "Yep, there's one. The viggle. It's like a reg'lar monkey but with four legs. Biology cleared 'em before we landed. We shoot one now and then when they get pesky." He rose slowly, the rifle held under his arm. "I b'lieve we might just as well go post them sentries."
Dylan wanted to go on with this but there was nothing much else to say. Rossel went with them as far as the radio shack, with a strained expression on his face, to put through that call to Three.
When he was gone Rush asked Dylan, "Where you want them sentries? I got Walt Halloran and Web Eggers and six others lined up."
Dylan stopped and looked around grimly at the circling wall of snow.
"You know the site better than I do. Post 'em in a ring, on rises, within calling distance. Have 'em check with each other every five minutes. I'll go help your people at the ship."
The gloomy man nodded and fluffed up his collar. "Nice day for huntin'," he said, and then he was gone with the snow quickly covering his footprints.
The Alien lay wrapped in a thick electric cocoon, buried in a wide warm room beneath the base of a tree. The tree served him as antennae; curiously he gazed into a small view-screen and watched the humans come. He saw them fan out, eight of them, and sink down in the snow. He saw that they were armed.
He pulsed thoughtfully, extending a part of himself to absorb a spiced lizard. Since the morning, when the new ship had come, he had been watching steadily, and now it was apparent that the humans were aware of their danger. Undoubtedly they were preparing to leave.
That was unfortunate. The attack was not scheduled until late that night and he could not, of course, press the assault by day. But flexibility , he reminded himself sternly, is the first principle of absorption , and therefore he moved to alter his plans. A projection reached out to dial several knobs on a large box before him, and the hour of assault was moved forward to dusk. A glance at the chronometer told him that it was already well into the night on Planet Three, and that the attack there had probably begun.
The Alien felt the first tenuous pulsing of anticipation. He lay quietly, watching the small square lights of windows against the snow, thanking the Unexplainable that matters had been so devised that he would not have to venture out into that miserable cold.
Presently an alarming thought struck him. These humans moved with uncommon speed for intelligent creatures. Even without devices, it was distinctly possible that they could be gone before nightfall. He could take no chance, of course. He spun more dials and pressed a single button, and lay back again comfortably, warmly, to watch the disabling of the colonists' ship.
When Three did not answer, Rossel was nervously gazing at the snow, thinking of other things, and he called again. Several moments later the realization of what was happening struck him like a blow. Three had never once failed to answer. All they had to do when they heard the signal buzz was go into the radio shack and say hello. That was all they had to do. He called again and again, but nobody answered. There was no static and no interference and he didn't hear a thing. He checked frenziedly through his own apparatus and tried again, but the air was as dead as deep space. He raced out to tell Dylan.
Dylan accepted it. He had known none of the people on Three and what he felt now was a much greater urgency to be out of here. He said hopeful things to Rossel, and then went out to the ship and joined the men in lightening her. About the ship at least, he knew something and he was able to tell them what partitions and frames could go and what would have to stay or the ship would never get off the planet. But even stripped down, it couldn't take them all. When he knew that, he realized that he himself would have to stay here, for it was only then that he thought of Bossio.
Three was dead. Bossio had gone down there some time ago and, if Three was dead and Bossio had not called, then the fact was that Bossio was gone too. For a long, long moment Dylan stood rooted in the snow. More than the fact that he would have to stay here was the unspoken, unalterable, heart-numbing knowledge that Bossio was dead—the one thing that Dylan could not accept. Bossio was the only friend he had. In all this dog-eared, aimless, ape-run Universe Bossio was all his friendship and his trust.
He left the ship blindly and went back to the settlement. Now the people were quiet and really frightened, and some of the women were beginning to cry. He noticed now that they had begun to look at him with hope as he passed, and in his own grief, humanly, he swore.
Bossio—a big-grinning kid with no parents, no enemies, no grudges—Bossio was already dead because he had come out here and tried to help these people. People who had kicked or ignored him all the days of his life. And, in a short while, Dylan would also stay behind and die to save the life of somebody he never knew and who, twenty-four hours earlier, would have been ashamed to be found in his company. Now, when it was far, far too late, they were coming to the army for help.
But in the end, damn it, he could not hate these people. All they had ever wanted was peace, and even though they had never understood that the Universe is unknowable and that you must always have big shoulders, still they had always sought only for peace. If peace leads to no conflict at all and then decay, well, that was something that had to be learned. So he could not hate these people.
But he could not help them either. He turned from their eyes and went into the radio shack. It had begun to dawn on the women that they might be leaving without their husbands or sons, and he did not want to see the fierce struggle that he was sure would take place. He sat alone and tried, for the last time, to call Bossio.
After a while, an old woman found him and offered him coffee. It was a very decent thing to do, to think of him at a time like this, and he was so suddenly grateful he could only nod. The woman said that he must be cold in that thin army thing and that she had brought along a mackinaw for him. She poured the coffee and left him alone.
They were thinking of him now, he knew, because they were thinking of everyone who had to stay. Throw the dog a bone. Dammit, don't be like that, he told himself. He had not had anything to eat all day and the coffee was warm and strong. He decided he might be of some help at the ship.
It was stripped down now and they were loading. He was startled to see a great group of them standing in the snow, removing their clothes. Then he understood. The clothes of forty people would change the weight by enough to get a few more aboard. There was no fighting. Some of the women were almost hysterical and a few had refused to go and were still in their cabins, but the process was orderly. Children went automatically, as did the youngest husbands and all the women. The elders were shuffling around in the snow, waving their arms to keep themselves warm. Some of them were laughing to keep their spirits up.
In the end, the ship took forty-six people.
Rossel was one of the ones that would not be going. Dylan saw him standing by the airlock holding his wife in his arms, his face buried in her soft brown hair. A sense of great sympathy, totally unexpected, rose up in Dylan, and a little of the lostness of thirty years went slipping away. These were his people. It was a thing he had never understood before, because he had never once been among men in great trouble. He waited and watched, learning, trying to digest this while there was still time. Then the semi-naked colonists were inside and the airlock closed. But when the ship tried to lift, there was a sharp burning smell—she couldn't get off the ground.
Question:
What is the plot of the story?
Answer:
|
[
"An army ship lands near a settlement, and people look out their windows, grumbling about its presence because they want no contact with the army. A soldier disembarks and stands at attention facing the settlement, and the people assume he must be proud, ornery, or drunk. Eventually, a resident named Bob Rossel goes out to see what the soldier wants. The soldier identifies himself as Captain Dylan, explaining that he has a message from Fleet Headquarters for the person in charge. Rossel takes the envelope since they don’t have anyone in charge. A young man inside the ship tosses Dylan a bottle, asks if he can leave, and tells him he’ll be back that night. Rossel is appalled that the younger soldier appears drunk and throws Dylan a bottle of liquor. Dylan tells Rossel to read the message because they don’t have much time and starts walking toward the settlement as the ship takes off.\n\tMan’s first contact with aliens had occurred at the Lupus V Colony in 2360, which aliens destroyed. When the army came to investigate, it found 31 of the 70 colonists dead, with the rest, including women and children, missing. Buildings had burned, and all technical equipment was missing. The security bomb, one of which was planted in each colony to be detonated in such an emergency, had failed to go off—the detonating wire had been dug up where it was buried 12 inches deep and cut. Because there had been 500 years of peace and people were conditioned to be anti-war, the army was small and lacked respect. So the army couldn’t take the time to find out exactly what had happened but just spread the news to other colonies, most of which evacuated before they were attacked.\n\tThe message Dylan delivers is that the aliens are attacking again; this settlement needs to evacuate. A big gloomy man named Rush demands help from the army fleet, but Dylan informs him that the army is too weak to help. Dylan tells them that Lt. Bossio is warning Planet Three and returning that night to pick him up. Everyone must be gone by then. Dylan digs up the detonator wire and finds it has been cut. Rossel tells him their ship will only hold 60 of their 40 colonists and asks Dylan to take the rest on the army ship. Dylan offers to ask Bossio and then shows Rossel the cut wire. They discuss whether a colonist or an animal could have cut it. Dylan splices the wire as Rossel leaves.\n\tMeanwhile, an alien is hiding nearby, watching the humans prepare to leave. He presses a button that disables their ship. Rossel has been trying to reach Planet Three and can’t get an answer; Dylan realizes the colony there is dead, so Bossio is, too. People strip their clothes to reduce their weight and take on more people. Forty-six are able to board. When the ship tries to lift off, it can’t get off the ground.\n\t\n",
"Captain Dylan arrives on this newly pioneered planet--only 100 years at that point--to tell the colonists there that they were in grave danger. After hundreds of years of peace and a practically obsolete army, an alien life form was attacking. He emerges from his small ship, flown by his best friend Lieutenant Bossio, and waits in the cold. Finally, Bob Rossel meets him and hears his message. Fleet Headquarters sent Captain Dylan to hand off the letter informing them that Lupus V had been massacred. In 2360, 31 of the 70 colonists died, while the rest were captured. All of their belongings were taken too, and that which remained was burned. After the army arrived, one soldier discovered that the detonator wire was cut. On each planet, there is a bomb placed in the center. So if any aliens were to attack, the colonists could detonate to prevent human secrets from escaping. Only this time, they couldn’t, because the wire was cut. \nSince then, Captain Dylan had evacuated several cities and colonies. With his bottle of booze, Dylan informs the whole colony about the situation at hand and the need to evacuate. They protest at first and call him “soldier boy,” but after he tells them their sister colony, Planet Three, is also being evacuated, they run to pack their things. They are to leave by nightfall. Dylan digs into the ground in search of the detonator but finds the wire cleanly cut. Rossel returns to ask how many his ship can take, since their ship can only take 40, leaving 20 behind. Dylan knows that his ship can only take 10, so they decide to call Planet Three and ask if they have room. \nThey discuss the cut wire and who or what could have done it. Rossel leaves to ask if any of the colonists cut it and ask them to arm themselves in case of battle. After considering telepathy, Dylan leaves and walks out into the snowfall to try and contact Bossio who had yet to reply. A young woman asks him if he wants sentries posted on behalf of her father, and he follows her back to the group. Mr. Rush, her father, is a strong, wise man, and he tries to uncover who cut the wire. Although there is an animal on this planet, the viggle, it was already cleared. Eight sentries rushed out, and the Alien watched them from inside of the tree. Realizing that the humans knew they were in danger, the Alien changed his plans and disabled their ship. Planet Three was already under attack, so the Alien only had to wait till dusk to absorb.\nPlanet Three did not respond to Rossel’s calls, he knew something was off. Dylan realizes he’ll have to stay behind since Bossio was not coming back. The colonists strip and manage to squeeze an extra six people on the ship, thanks to the lessened weight. Rossel stays behind as well. However, the ship doesn’t take off. \n",
"On a distant planet from Earth, Bob Rossel gets out of his warm bed on a cold night to greet a soldier (Captain Dylan) standing in a nearby field after landing his spaceship there. Captain Dylan was there to deliver a message from Fleet Headquarters to the person in charge of the colony of about 60 people, of which Bob claimed there was no one in charge so it might as well be him. The general consensus of the colonists is that peace must be achieved at all costs, and the Fleet army was counterproductive to achieving peace. So, it was quite a stir that a Fleet soldier would show up unexpectedly to deliver a message. The spaceship left with Lieutenant Bossio at the helm, promising to pick the Captain up later.\nThe Captain’s message was that aliens had attacked another colony on Lupus V, killing about half of seventy colonists with the rest missing. All colonies were required to have bombs installed in a central building that would obliterate all the people there should aliens attack them to prevent aliens from gaining any knowledge of human technology or biology. At this colony, the wire from the detonator to the bomb was cut, inexplicably.\nThe Captain quickly hustles the colony on Bob’s planet to evacuate, and they ready a ship that is capable of holding 40 people. It is somber for the 60 people there because not everyone will escape. Only the children, women, and youngest men are going to be loaded. Others in the colony begin pitching in and asking the Captain how to help, like Mr. Rush, who inquires about organizing sentries to post at their perimeter. During all of this, the Captain digs up the underground wire from the detonator to the bomb of this colony and finds it has also been cut very recently and reburied.\nThere is speculation as to who cut this wire, with the Captain thinking it must have been an alien and Bob thinking it must have been a colonist. There is an aside in the story, describing the culprit which is an alien hiding underground amongst the roots of a nearby tree and commanding the alien attack remotely. The alien moves up the attack from nightfall to dusk after seeing how quickly the colonists are mobilizing to escape. \nThe Captain is unable to check in with Lieutenant Bossio, who had gone to planet Three to evacuate the colonists there. It is already nightfall on planet Three, and the alien attack has most likely already killed Bossio. At the close of the story, the colonists have a tear-filled departure loading their ship. The Captain feels kinship with Bob, who is saying goodbye to his wife for the last time as she boards. The people aboard the ship leave their clothes behind to reduce weight - fitting 46 people on a ship that should have only held 40. As the ship doors close and it goes to take off, it is unable to move off the ground.\n",
"Captain Jim Dylan arrives in an army ship at an unnamed colony in the midst of winter to warn the colonists of an impending attack by an alien species. Due to hundreds of years of anti-war conditioning, the army has had little to do and their resources have dwindled, so Dylan has spent the last thirty years of his life doing little else other than drinking, getting into trouble, and studying a little bit about military tactics. The colonists are not pleased with his arrival, and Dylan sends his fellow armyman Lieutenant Bossio to nearby Planet Three to begin the process of clearing their colony as well. A man named Rossel leads Dylan into town, where he relays the story of Lupus V and its decimation by alien attackers to a group of colonists. The aliens had killed half the population of Lupus V with a heat ray and the rest of the colonists had gone missing. Prior to the attack, a wire meant to detonate a bomb buried at the center of the colony in case of alien attack had been dug up and cut inexplicably. As a result, the army had been deployed to travel to each remaining colony to warn them. The colonists demand army protection, but Dylan informs them that the army fleet is too under-resourced and short-staffed to do anything other than warn of the attacks. As Dylan goes to investigate the state of the wire buried in this colony, he recalls joining the army back when people admired soldiers and how over time that admiration morphed into disgust because of anti-war conditioning. When he discovers the wire has also been cut, Dylan goes back to the radio shack. Rossel finds him there and they discuss how many people they can fit between the colonists' ship and the army ship. Because of insufficient space, they have to come up with a plan to fit the rest of the colonists. Meanwhile, Rossel asks about the cut wire, and he wonders if one of his people might have cut it out of spite for the government rules. Dylan wonders if it might be animals, or perhaps the aliens using telepathy. With Bossio still not answering his calls, Dylan meets with Rossel and a colonist named Rush, who provides Dylan with sentries and agrees with his theory that aliens are responsible for the cut wires. Meanwhile, an alien observes the action from a control center located underground; this is where he uses a box to schedule the attack on the village and disable the colonists' ship. When Planet Three doesn’t answer, Dylan realizes Bossio must be dead. He returns to the radio shack alone, but an old woman brings him coffee and a mackinaw to keep him warm. This encourages him to go outside to help with the evacuation. When Dylan sees Rossel saying goodbye to his wife, he feels human connection again. Then he sees that the colonists' ship cannot fly."
] |
50848
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SOLDIER BOY
By MICHAEL SHAARA
Illustrated by EMSH
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction July 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
It's one thing to laugh at a man because his job is useless and outdated—another to depend on him when it suddenly isn't.
In the northland, deep, and in a great cave, by an everburning fire the Warrior sleeps. For this is the resting time, the time of peace, and so shall it be for a thousand years. And yet we shall summon him again, my children, when we are sore in need, and out of the north he will come, and again and again, each time we call, out of the dark and the cold, with the fire in his hands, he will come.
— Scandinavian legend
Throughout the night, thick clouds had been piling in the north; in the morning, it was misty and cold. By eight o'clock a wet, heavy, snow-smelling breeze had begun to set in, and because the crops were all down and the winter planting done, the colonists brewed hot coffee and remained inside. The wind blew steadily, icily from the north. It was well below freezing when, some time after nine, an army ship landed in a field near the settlement.
There was still time. There were some last brief moments in which the colonists could act and feel as they had always done. They therefore grumbled in annoyance. They wanted no soldiers here. The few who had convenient windows stared out with distaste and a mild curiosity, but no one went out to greet them.
After a while a rather tall, frail-looking man came out of the ship and stood upon the hard ground looking toward the village. He remained there, waiting stiffly, his face turned from the wind. It was a silly thing to do. He was obviously not coming in, either out of pride or just plain orneriness.
"Well, I never," a nice lady said.
"What's he just standing there for?" another lady said.
And all of them thought: well, God knows what's in the mind of a soldier, and right away many people concluded that he must be drunk. The seed of peace was deeply planted in these people, in the children and the women, very, very deep. And because they had been taught, oh so carefully, to hate war they had also been taught, quite incidentally, to despise soldiers.
The lone man kept standing in the freezing wind.
Eventually, because even a soldier can look small and cold and pathetic, Bob Rossel had to get up out of a nice, warm bed and go out in that miserable cold to meet him.
The soldier saluted. Like most soldiers, he was not too neat and not too clean and the salute was sloppy. Although he was bigger than Rossel he did not seem bigger. And, because of the cold, there were tears gathering in the ends of his eyes.
"Captain Dylan, sir." His voice was low and did not carry. "I have a message from Fleet Headquarters. Are you in charge here?"
Rossel, a small sober man, grunted. "Nobody's in charge here. If you want a spokesman I guess I'll do. What's up?"
The captain regarded him briefly out of pale blue, expressionless eyes. Then he pulled an envelope from an inside pocket, handed it to Rossel. It was a thick, official-looking thing and Rossel hefted it idly. He was about to ask again what was it all about when the airlock of the hovering ship swung open creakily. A beefy, black-haired young man appeared unsteadily in the doorway, called to Dylan.
"C'n I go now, Jim?"
Dylan turned and nodded.
"Be back for you tonight," the young man called, and then, grinning, he yelled "Catch" and tossed down a bottle. The captain caught it and put it unconcernedly into his pocket while Rossel stared in disgust. A moment later the airlock closed and the ship prepared to lift.
"Was he drunk ?" Rossel began angrily. "Was that a bottle of liquor ?"
The soldier was looking at him calmly, coldly. He indicated the envelope in Rossel's hand. "You'd better read that and get moving. We haven't much time."
He turned and walked toward the buildings and Rossel had to follow. As Rossel drew near the walls the watchers could see his lips moving but could not hear him. Just then the ship lifted and they turned to watch that, and followed it upward, red spark-tailed, into the gray spongy clouds and the cold.
After a while the ship went out of sight, and nobody ever saw it again.
The first contact Man had ever had with an intelligent alien race occurred out on the perimeter in a small quiet place a long way from home. Late in the year 2360—the exact date remains unknown—an alien force attacked and destroyed the colony at Lupus V. The wreckage and the dead were found by a mailship which flashed off screaming for the army.
When the army came it found this: Of the seventy registered colonists, thirty-one were dead. The rest, including some women and children, were missing. All technical equipment, all radios, guns, machines, even books, were also missing. The buildings had been burned, so were the bodies. Apparently the aliens had a heat ray. What else they had, nobody knew. After a few days of walking around in the ash, one soldier finally stumbled on something.
For security reasons, there was a detonator in one of the main buildings. In case of enemy attack, Security had provided a bomb to be buried in the center of each colony, because it was important to blow a whole village to hell and gone rather than let a hostile alien learn vital facts about human technology and body chemistry. There was a bomb at Lupus V too, and though it had been detonated it had not blown. The detonating wire had been cut.
In the heart of the camp, hidden from view under twelve inches of earth, the wire had been dug up and cut.
The army could not understand it and had no time to try. After five hundred years of peace and anti-war conditioning the army was small, weak and without respect. Therefore, the army did nothing but spread the news, and Man began to fall back.
In a thickening, hastening stream he came back from the hard-won stars, blowing up his homes behind him, stunned and cursing. Most of the colonists got out in time. A few, the farthest and loneliest, died in fire before the army ships could reach them. And the men in those ships, drinkers and gamblers and veterans of nothing, the dregs of a society which had grown beyond them, were for a long while the only defense Earth had.
This was the message Captain Dylan had brought, come out from Earth with a bottle on his hip.
An obscenely cheerful expression upon his gaunt, not too well shaven face, Captain Dylan perched himself upon the edge of a table and listened, one long booted leg swinging idly. One by one the colonists were beginning to understand. War is huge and comes with great suddenness and always without reason, and there is inevitably a wait, between acts, between the news and the motion, the fear and the rage.
Dylan waited. These people were taking it well, much better than those in the cities had taken it. But then, these were pioneers. Dylan grinned. Pioneers. Before you settle a planet you boil it and bake it and purge it of all possible disease. Then you step down gingerly and inflate your plastic houses, which harden and become warm and impregnable; and send your machines out to plant and harvest; and set up automatic factories to transmute dirt into coffee; and, without ever having lifted a finger, you have braved the wilderness, hewed a home out of the living rock and become a pioneer. Dylan grinned again. But at least this was better than the wailing of the cities.
This Dylan thought, although he was himself no fighter, no man at all by any standards. This he thought because he was a soldier and an outcast; to every drunken man the fall of the sober is a happy thing. He stirred restlessly.
By this time the colonists had begun to realize that there wasn't much to say, and a tall, handsome woman was murmuring distractedly: "Lupus, Lupus—doesn't that mean wolves or something?"
Dylan began to wish they would get moving, these pioneers. It was very possible that the aliens would be here soon, and there was no need for discussion. There was only one thing to do and that was to clear the hell out, quickly and without argument. They began to see it.
But, when the fear had died down, the resentment came. A number of women began to cluster around Dylan and complain, working up their anger. Dylan said nothing. Then the man Rossel pushed forward and confronted him, speaking with a vast annoyance.
"See here, soldier, this is our planet. I mean to say, this is our home . We demand some protection from the fleet. By God, we've been paying the freight for you boys all these years and it's high time you earned your keep. We demand...."
It went on and on while Dylan looked at the clock and waited. He hoped that he could end this quickly. A big gloomy man was in front of him now and giving him that name of ancient contempt, "soldier boy." The gloomy man wanted to know where the fleet was.
"There is no fleet. There are a few hundred half-shot old tubs that were obsolete before you were born. There are four or five new jobs for the brass and the government. That's all the fleet there is."
Dylan wanted to go on about that, to remind them that nobody had wanted the army, that the fleet had grown smaller and smaller ... but this was not the time. It was ten-thirty already and the damned aliens might be coming in right now for all he knew, and all they did was talk. He had realized a long time ago that no peace-loving nation in the history of Earth had ever kept itself strong, and although peace was a noble dream, it was ended now and it was time to move.
"We'd better get going," he finally said, and there was quiet.
"Lieutenant Bossio has gone on to your sister colony at Planet Three of this system. He'll return to pick me up by nightfall and I'm instructed to have you gone by then."
For a long moment they waited, and then one man abruptly walked off and the rest followed quickly; in a moment they were all gone. One or two stopped long enough to complain about the fleet, and the big gloomy man said he wanted guns, that's all, and there wouldn't nobody get him off his planet. When he left, Dylan breathed with relief and went out to check the bomb, grateful for the action.
Most of it had to be done in the open. He found a metal bar in the radio shack and began chopping at the frozen ground, following the wire. It was the first thing he had done with his hands in weeks, and it felt fine.
Dylan had been called up out of a bar—he and Bossio—and told what had happened, and in three weeks now they had cleared four colonies. This would be the last, and the tension here was beginning to get to him. After thirty years of hanging around and playing like the town drunk, a man could not be expected to rush out and plug the breach, just like that. It would take time.
He rested, sweating, took a pull from the bottle on his hip.
Before they sent him out on this trip they had made him a captain. Well, that was nice. After thirty years he was a captain. For thirty years he had bummed all over the west end of space, had scraped his way along the outer edges of Mankind, had waited and dozed and patrolled and got drunk, waiting always for something to happen. There were a lot of ways to pass the time while you waited for something to happen, and he had done them all.
Once he had even studied military tactics.
He could not help smiling at that, even now. Damn it, he'd been green. But he'd been only nineteen when his father died—of a hernia, of a crazy fool thing like a hernia that killed him just because he'd worked too long on a heavy planet—and in those days the anti-war conditioning out on the Rim was not very strong. They talked a lot about guardians of the frontier, and they got him and some other kids and a broken-down doctor. And ... now he was a captain.
He bent his back savagely, digging at the ground. You wait and you wait and the edge goes off. This thing he had waited for all those damn days was upon him now and there was nothing he could do but say the hell with it and go home. Somewhere along the line, in some dark corner of the bars or the jails, in one of the million soul-murdering insults which are reserved especially for peacetime soldiers, he had lost the core of himself, and it didn't particularly matter. That was the point: it made no particular difference if he never got it back. He owed nobody. He was tugging at the wire and trying to think of something pleasant from the old days, when the wire came loose in his hands.
Although he had been, in his cynical way, expecting it, for a moment it threw him and he just stared. The end was clean and bright. The wire had just been cut.
Dylan sat for a long while by the radio shack, holding the ends in his hands. He reached almost automatically for the bottle on his hip and then, for the first time he could remember, let it go. This was real, there was no time for that.
When Rossel came up, Dylan was still sitting. Rossel was so excited he did not notice the wire.
"Listen, soldier, how many people can your ship take?"
Dylan looked at him vaguely. "She sleeps two and won't take off with more'n ten. Why?"
His eyes bright and worried, Rossel leaned heavily against the shack.
"We're overloaded. There are sixty of us and our ship will only take forty. We came out in groups, we never thought...."
Dylan dropped his eyes, swearing silently. "You're sure? No baggage, no iron rations; you couldn't get ten more on?"
"Not a chance. She's only a little ship with one deck—she's all we could afford."
Dylan whistled. He had begun to feel light-headed. "It 'pears that somebody's gonna find out first hand what them aliens look like."
It was the wrong thing to say and he knew it. "All right," he said quickly, still staring at the clear-sliced wire, "we'll do what we can. Maybe the colony on Three has room. I'll call Bossio and ask."
The colonist had begun to look quite pitifully at the buildings around him and the scurrying people.
"Aren't there any fleet ships within radio distance?"
Dylan shook his head. "The fleet's spread out kind of thin nowadays." Because the other was leaning on him he felt a great irritation, but he said, as kindly as he could, "We'll get 'em all out. One way or another, we won't leave anybody."
It was then that Rossel saw the wire. Thickly, he asked what had happened.
Dylan showed him the two clean ends. "Somebody dug it up, cut it, then buried it again and packed it down real nice."
"The damn fool!" Rossel exploded.
"Who?"
"Why, one of ... of us, of course. I know nobody ever liked sitting on a live bomb like this, but I never...."
"You think one of your people did it?"
Rossel stared at him. "Isn't that obvious?"
"Why?"
"Well, they probably thought it was too dangerous, and silly too, like most government rules. Or maybe one of the kids...."
It was then that Dylan told him about the wire on Lupus V. Rossel was silent. Involuntarily, he glanced at the sky, then he said shakily,
"Maybe an animal?"
Dylan shook his head. "No animal did that. Wouldn't have buried it, or found it in the first place. Heck of a coincidence, don't you think? The wire at Lupus was cut just before an alien attack, and now this one is cut too—newly cut."
The colonist put one hand to his mouth, his eyes wide and white.
"So something," said Dylan, "knew enough about this camp to know that a bomb was buried here and also to know why it was here. And that something didn't want the camp destroyed and so came right into the center of the camp, traced the wire, dug it up and cut it. And then walked right out again."
"Listen," said Rossel, "I'd better go ask."
He started away but Dylan caught his arm.
"Tell them to arm," he said, "and try not to scare hell out of them. I'll be with you as soon as I've spliced this wire."
Rossel nodded and went off, running. Dylan knelt with the metal in his hands.
He began to feel that, by God, he was getting cold. He realized that he'd better go inside soon, but the wire had to be spliced. That was perhaps the most important thing he could do now, splice the wire.
All right, he asked himself for the thousandth time, who cut it? How? Telepathy? Could they somehow control one of us?
No. If they controlled one, then they could control all, and then there would be no need for an attack. But you don't know, you don't really know.
Were they small? Little animals?
Unlikely. Biology said that really intelligent life required a sizable brain and you would have to expect an alien to be at least as large as a dog. And every form of life on this planet had been screened long before a colony had been allowed in. If any new animals had suddenly shown up, Rossel would certainly know about it.
He would ask Rossel. He would damn sure have to ask Rossel.
He finished splicing the wire and tucked it into the ground. Then he straightened up and, before he went into the radio shack, he pulled out his pistol. He checked it, primed it, and tried to remember the last time he had fired it. He never had—he never had fired a gun.
The snow began falling near noon. There was nothing anybody could do but stand in the silence and watch it come down in a white rushing wall, and watch the trees and the hills drown in the whiteness, until there was nothing on the planet but the buildings and a few warm lights and the snow.
By one o'clock the visibility was down to zero and Dylan decided to try to contact Bossio again and tell him to hurry. But Bossio still didn't answer. Dylan stared long and thoughtfully out the window through the snow at the gray shrouded shapes of bushes and trees which were beginning to become horrifying. It must be that Bossio was still drunk—maybe sleeping it off before making planetfall on Three. Dylan held no grudge. Bossio was a kid and alone. It took a special kind of guts to take a ship out into space alone, when Things could be waiting....
A young girl, pink and lovely in a thick fur jacket, came into the shack and told him breathlessly that her father, Mr. Rush, would like to know if he wanted sentries posted. Dylan hadn't thought about it but he said yes right away, beginning to feel both pleased and irritated at the same time, because now they were coming to him.
He pushed out into the cold and went to find Rossel. With the snow it was bad enough, but if they were still here when the sun went down they wouldn't have a chance. Most of the men were out stripping down their ship and that would take a while. He wondered why Rossel hadn't yet put a call through to Three, asking about room on the ship there. The only answer he could find was that Rossel knew that there was no room, and he wanted to put off the answer as long as possible. And, in a way, you could not blame him.
Rossel was in his cabin with the big, gloomy man—who turned out to be Rush, the one who had asked about sentries. Rush was methodically cleaning an old hunting rifle. Rossel was surprisingly full of hope.
"Listen, there's a mail ship due in, been due since yesterday. We might get the rest of the folks out on that."
Dylan shrugged. "Don't count on it."
"But they have a contract!"
The soldier grinned.
The big man, Rush, was paying no attention. Quite suddenly he said:
"Who cut that wire, Cap?"
Dylan swung slowly to look at him. "As far as I can figure, an alien cut it."
Rush shook his head. "No. Ain't been no aliens near this camp, and no peculiar animals either. We got a planet-wide radar, and ain't no unidentified ships come near, not since we first landed more'n a year ago." He lifted the rifle and peered through the bore. "Uh-uh. One of us did it."
The man had been thinking. And he knew the planet.
"Telepathy?" asked Dylan.
"Might be."
"Can't see it. You people live too close, you'd notice right away if one of you wasn't ... himself. And, if they've got one, why not all?"
Rush calmly—at least outwardly calmly—lit his pipe. There was a strength in this man that Dylan had missed before.
"Don't know," he said gruffly. "But these are aliens, mister. And until I know different I'm keepin' an eye on my neighbor."
He gave Rossel a sour look and Rossel stared back, uncomprehending.
Then Rossel jumped. "My God!"
Dylan moved to quiet him. "Look, is there any animal at all that ever comes near here that's as large as a dog?"
After a pause, Rush answered. "Yep, there's one. The viggle. It's like a reg'lar monkey but with four legs. Biology cleared 'em before we landed. We shoot one now and then when they get pesky." He rose slowly, the rifle held under his arm. "I b'lieve we might just as well go post them sentries."
Dylan wanted to go on with this but there was nothing much else to say. Rossel went with them as far as the radio shack, with a strained expression on his face, to put through that call to Three.
When he was gone Rush asked Dylan, "Where you want them sentries? I got Walt Halloran and Web Eggers and six others lined up."
Dylan stopped and looked around grimly at the circling wall of snow.
"You know the site better than I do. Post 'em in a ring, on rises, within calling distance. Have 'em check with each other every five minutes. I'll go help your people at the ship."
The gloomy man nodded and fluffed up his collar. "Nice day for huntin'," he said, and then he was gone with the snow quickly covering his footprints.
The Alien lay wrapped in a thick electric cocoon, buried in a wide warm room beneath the base of a tree. The tree served him as antennae; curiously he gazed into a small view-screen and watched the humans come. He saw them fan out, eight of them, and sink down in the snow. He saw that they were armed.
He pulsed thoughtfully, extending a part of himself to absorb a spiced lizard. Since the morning, when the new ship had come, he had been watching steadily, and now it was apparent that the humans were aware of their danger. Undoubtedly they were preparing to leave.
That was unfortunate. The attack was not scheduled until late that night and he could not, of course, press the assault by day. But flexibility , he reminded himself sternly, is the first principle of absorption , and therefore he moved to alter his plans. A projection reached out to dial several knobs on a large box before him, and the hour of assault was moved forward to dusk. A glance at the chronometer told him that it was already well into the night on Planet Three, and that the attack there had probably begun.
The Alien felt the first tenuous pulsing of anticipation. He lay quietly, watching the small square lights of windows against the snow, thanking the Unexplainable that matters had been so devised that he would not have to venture out into that miserable cold.
Presently an alarming thought struck him. These humans moved with uncommon speed for intelligent creatures. Even without devices, it was distinctly possible that they could be gone before nightfall. He could take no chance, of course. He spun more dials and pressed a single button, and lay back again comfortably, warmly, to watch the disabling of the colonists' ship.
When Three did not answer, Rossel was nervously gazing at the snow, thinking of other things, and he called again. Several moments later the realization of what was happening struck him like a blow. Three had never once failed to answer. All they had to do when they heard the signal buzz was go into the radio shack and say hello. That was all they had to do. He called again and again, but nobody answered. There was no static and no interference and he didn't hear a thing. He checked frenziedly through his own apparatus and tried again, but the air was as dead as deep space. He raced out to tell Dylan.
Dylan accepted it. He had known none of the people on Three and what he felt now was a much greater urgency to be out of here. He said hopeful things to Rossel, and then went out to the ship and joined the men in lightening her. About the ship at least, he knew something and he was able to tell them what partitions and frames could go and what would have to stay or the ship would never get off the planet. But even stripped down, it couldn't take them all. When he knew that, he realized that he himself would have to stay here, for it was only then that he thought of Bossio.
Three was dead. Bossio had gone down there some time ago and, if Three was dead and Bossio had not called, then the fact was that Bossio was gone too. For a long, long moment Dylan stood rooted in the snow. More than the fact that he would have to stay here was the unspoken, unalterable, heart-numbing knowledge that Bossio was dead—the one thing that Dylan could not accept. Bossio was the only friend he had. In all this dog-eared, aimless, ape-run Universe Bossio was all his friendship and his trust.
He left the ship blindly and went back to the settlement. Now the people were quiet and really frightened, and some of the women were beginning to cry. He noticed now that they had begun to look at him with hope as he passed, and in his own grief, humanly, he swore.
Bossio—a big-grinning kid with no parents, no enemies, no grudges—Bossio was already dead because he had come out here and tried to help these people. People who had kicked or ignored him all the days of his life. And, in a short while, Dylan would also stay behind and die to save the life of somebody he never knew and who, twenty-four hours earlier, would have been ashamed to be found in his company. Now, when it was far, far too late, they were coming to the army for help.
But in the end, damn it, he could not hate these people. All they had ever wanted was peace, and even though they had never understood that the Universe is unknowable and that you must always have big shoulders, still they had always sought only for peace. If peace leads to no conflict at all and then decay, well, that was something that had to be learned. So he could not hate these people.
But he could not help them either. He turned from their eyes and went into the radio shack. It had begun to dawn on the women that they might be leaving without their husbands or sons, and he did not want to see the fierce struggle that he was sure would take place. He sat alone and tried, for the last time, to call Bossio.
After a while, an old woman found him and offered him coffee. It was a very decent thing to do, to think of him at a time like this, and he was so suddenly grateful he could only nod. The woman said that he must be cold in that thin army thing and that she had brought along a mackinaw for him. She poured the coffee and left him alone.
They were thinking of him now, he knew, because they were thinking of everyone who had to stay. Throw the dog a bone. Dammit, don't be like that, he told himself. He had not had anything to eat all day and the coffee was warm and strong. He decided he might be of some help at the ship.
It was stripped down now and they were loading. He was startled to see a great group of them standing in the snow, removing their clothes. Then he understood. The clothes of forty people would change the weight by enough to get a few more aboard. There was no fighting. Some of the women were almost hysterical and a few had refused to go and were still in their cabins, but the process was orderly. Children went automatically, as did the youngest husbands and all the women. The elders were shuffling around in the snow, waving their arms to keep themselves warm. Some of them were laughing to keep their spirits up.
In the end, the ship took forty-six people.
Rossel was one of the ones that would not be going. Dylan saw him standing by the airlock holding his wife in his arms, his face buried in her soft brown hair. A sense of great sympathy, totally unexpected, rose up in Dylan, and a little of the lostness of thirty years went slipping away. These were his people. It was a thing he had never understood before, because he had never once been among men in great trouble. He waited and watched, learning, trying to digest this while there was still time. Then the semi-naked colonists were inside and the airlock closed. But when the ship tried to lift, there was a sharp burning smell—she couldn't get off the ground.
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What is the significance of the Misty Ones in the story?
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After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about Raiders of the Second Moon by Basil Wells.
Relevant chunks:
Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
Raiders of the Second Moon
By GENE ELLERMAN
A strange destiny had erased Noork's memory,
and had brought him to this tiny world—to
write an end to his first existence.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Summer 1945.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Beyond earth swings that airless pocked mass of fused rock and gray
volcanic dust that we know as Luna. Of this our naked eyes assure us.
But of the smaller satellite, hidden forever from the mundane view by
Luna's bulk, we know little.
Small is Sekk, that second moon, less than five hundred miles in
diameter, but the period of its revolution is thirty two hours, and its
meaner mass retains a breathable atmosphere. There is life on Sekk,
life that centers around the sunken star-shaped cavity where an oval
lake gleams softly in the depths. And the eleven radiating tips of the
starry abyss are valleys green with jungle growth.
In one of those green valleys the white savage that the Vasads called
Noork squatted in the ample crotch of a jungle giant and watched the
trail forty feet below. For down there moved alertly a golden skinned
girl, her only weapons a puny polished bow of yellow wood and a
sheathed dagger.
Sight of the girl's flowing brown hair and the graceful feminine
contours of her smooth-limbed body beneath its skin-halter and the
insignificant breech-clout, made his brow wrinkle with concentration.
Not forever had he lived in this jungle world of valleys and ragged
cliffs. Since he had learned the tongue of the hairy Vasads of forest,
and the tongue of their gold-skinned leader, Gurn, the renegade, he had
confirmed that belief.
For a huge gleaming bird had carried him in its talons to the top of
the cliff above their valley and from the rock fire had risen to devour
the great bird. Somehow he had been flung clear and escaped the death
of the mysterious bird-thing. And in his delirium he had babbled the
words that caused the apish Vasads to name him Noork. Now he repeated
them aloud.
"New York," he said, "good ol' New York."
The girl heard. She looked upward fearfully, her rounded bare arm going
back to the bow slung across her shoulder. Swiftly she fitted an arrow
and stepped back against the friendly bole of a shaggy barked jungle
giant. Noork grinned.
"Tako, woman," he greeted her.
"Tako," she replied fearfully. "Who speaks to Tholon Sarna? Be you
hunter or escaped slave?"
"A friend," said Noork simply. "It was I who killed the spotted
narl
last night when it attacked you."
Doubtfully the girl put away her bow. Her fingers, however, were never
far from the hilt of her hunting dagger.
Noork swung outward from his perch, and then downward along the ladder
of limbs to her side. The girl exclaimed at his brown skin.
"Your hair is the color of the sun!" she said. "Your garb is Vasad, yet
you speak the language of the true men." Her violet oddly slanting eyes
opened yet wider. "Who are you?"
"I am Noork," the man told her. "For many days have I dwelt among the
wild Vasads of the jungle with their golden-skinned chief, Gurn, for
my friend."
The girl impulsively took a step nearer. "Gurn!" she cried. "Is he tall
and strong? Has he a bracelet of golden discs linked together with
human hair? Does he talk with his own shadow when he thinks?"
"That is Gurn," admitted Noork shortly. "He is also an exile from the
walled city of Grath. The city rulers call him a traitor. He has told
me the reason. Perhaps you know it as well?"
"Indeed I do," cried Sarna. "My brother said that we should no longer
make slaves of the captured Zurans from the other valleys."
Noork smiled. "I am glad he is your brother," he said simply.
The girl's eyes fell before his admiring gaze and warm blood flooded
into her rounded neck and lovely cheeks.
"Brown-skinned one!" she cried with a stamp of her shapely little
sandalled foot. "I am displeased with the noises of your tongue. I will
listen to it no more."
But her eyes gave the provocative lie to her words. This brown-skinned
giant with the sunlit hair was very attractive....
The girl was still talking much later, as they walked together along
the game-trail. "When my captors were but one day's march from their
foul city of Bis the warriors of the city of Konto, through whose
fertile valley we had journeyed by night, fell upon the slavers.
"And in the confusion of the attack five of us escaped. We returned
toward the valley of Grath, but to avoid the intervening valley where
our enemies, the men of Konto, lived, we swung close to the Lake of
Uzdon. And the Misty Ones from the Temple of the Skull trailed us. I
alone escaped."
Noork lifted the short, broad-bladed sword that swung in its sheath
at his belt and let it drop back into place with a satisfying whisper
of flexible leather on steel. He looked toward the east where lay the
mysterious long lake of the Misty Ones.
"Some day," he said reflectively, "I am going to visit the island of
the unseen evil beings who stole away your friends. Perhaps after I
have taken you to your brother's hidden village, and from there to
your city of Grath...." He smiled.
The girl did not answer. His keen ears, now that he was no longer
speaking, caught the scuffing of feet into the jungle behind him. He
turned quickly to find the girl had vanished, and with an instinctive
reflex of motion he flung himself to one side into the dense wall of
the jungle. As it was the unseen club thudded down along his right arm,
numbing it so he felt nothing for some time.
One armed as he was temporarily, and with an unseen foe to reckon with,
Noork awkwardly swung up into the comparative safety of the trees. Once
there, perched in the crotch of a mighty jungle monarch, he peered down
at the apparently empty stretch of sunken trail beneath.
Noork
At first he saw nothing out of the ordinary. Apparently there was no
stir of life along that leaf-shadowed way. And then he caught a glimpse
of blurring shadowy shapes, blotches of cottony mist that blended all
too well with the foliage. One of the things from the island in the
Lake of Uzdon moved, and he saw briefly the bottom of a foot dirtied
with the mud of the trail.
Noork squinted. So the Misty Ones were not entirely invisible. Pain
was growing in his numbed arm now, but as it came so came strength. He
climbed further out on the great branch to where sticky and overripe
fruit hung heavy. With a grin he locked his legs upon the forking of
the great limb and filled his arms with fruit.
A barrage of the juicy fruit blanketed the misty shapes. Stains spread
and grew. Patchy outlines took on a new color and sharpness. Noork
found that he was pelting a half-dozen hooded and robed creatures whose
arms and legs numbered the same as his own, and the last remnant of
superstitious fear instilled in his bruised brain by the shaggy Vasads
vanished.
These Misty Ones were living breathing creatures like himself! They
were not gods, or demons, or even the ghostly servants of demons. He
strung his bow quickly, the short powerful bow that Gurn had given him,
and rained arrows down upon the cowering robed creatures.
And the monsters fled. They fled down the trail or faded away into the
jungle. All but one of them. The arrow had pierced a vital portion of
this Misty One's body. He fell and moved no more.
A moment later Noork was ripping the stained cloak and hood from the
fallen creature, curious to learn what ghastly brute-thing hid beneath
them. His lip curled at what he saw.
The Misty One was almost like himself. His skin was not so golden as
that of the other men of Zuran, and his forehead was low and retreating
in a bestial fashion. Upon his body there was more hair, and his face
was made hideous with swollen colored scars that formed an irregular
design. He wore a sleeveless tunic of light green and his only weapons
were two long knives and a club.
"So," said Noork, "the men of the island prey upon their own kind. And
the Temple of Uzdon in the lake is guarded by cowardly warriors like
this."
Noork shrugged his shoulders and set off at a mile-devouring pace down
the game trail toward the lake where the Temple of the Skull and its
unseen guardians lay. Once he stopped at a leaf-choked pool to wash the
stains from the dead man's foggy robe.
The jungle was thinning out. Noork's teeth flashed as he lifted the
drying fabric of the mantle and donned it.
Ud tasted the scent of a man and sluggishly rolled his bullet head from
shoulder to shoulder as he tried to catch sight of his ages-old enemy.
For between the hairy quarter-ton beast men of the jungles of Sekk and
the golden men of the valley cities who enslaved them there was eternal
war.
A growl rumbled deep in the hairy half-man's chest. He could see no
enemy and yet the scent grew stronger with every breath.
"You hunt too near the lake," called a voice. "The demons of the water
will trap you."
Ud's great nostrils quivered. He tasted the odor of a friend mingled
with that of a strange Zuran. He squatted.
"It's Noork," he grunted. "Why do I not see you?"
"I have stolen the skin of a demon," answered the invisible man. "Go to
Gurn. Tell him to fear the demons no longer. Tell him the Misty Ones
can be trapped and skinned."
"Why you want their skins?" Ud scratched his hairy gray skull.
"Go to save Gurn's ..." and here Noork was stumped for words. "To save
his father's woman woman," he managed at last. "Father's woman woman
called Sarna."
And the misty blob of nothingness was gone again, its goal now the
marshy lowlands that extended upward perhaps a thousand feet from the
jungle's ragged fringe to end at last in the muddy shallows of the Lake
of Uzdon.
To Noork it seemed that all the world must be like these savage jungle
fastnesses of the twelve valleys and their central lake. He knew that
the giant bird had carried him from some other place that his battered
brain could not remember, but to him it seemed incredible that men
could live elsewhere than in a jungle valley.
But Noork was wrong. The giant bird that he had ridden into the depths
of Sekk's fertile valleys had come from a far different world. And the
other bird, for which Noork had been searching when he came upon the
golden-skinned girl, was from another world also.
The other bird had come from space several days before that of Noork,
the Vasads had told him, and it had landed somewhere within the land
of sunken valleys. Perhaps, thought Noork, the bird had come from the
same valley that had once been his home. He would find the bird and
perhaps then he could remember better who he had been.
So it was, ironically enough, that Stephen Dietrich—whose memory was
gone completely—again took up the trail of Doctor Karl Von Mark, last
of the Axis criminals at large. The trail that had led the red-haired
young American flier from rebuilding Greece into Africa and the hidden
valley where Doctor Von Mark worked feverishly to restore the crumbled
structure of Nazidom, and then had sent him hurtling spaceward in the
second of the Doctor's crude space-ships was now drawing to an end.
The Doctor and the young American pilot were both trapped here on this
little blob of cosmic matter that hides beyond the Moon's cratered bulk.
The Doctor's ship had landed safely on Sekk, the wily scientist
preferring the lesser gravity of this fertile world to that of the
lifeless Moon in the event that he returned again to Earth, but
Dietrich's spacer had crashed.
Two words linked Noork with the past, the two words that the Vasads
had slurred into his name: New York. And the battered wrist watch, its
crystal and hands gone, were all that remained of his Earthly garb.
Noork paddled the long flat dugout strongly away from the twilight
shore toward the shadowy loom of the central island. Though he could
not remember ever having held a paddle before he handled the ungainly
blade well.
After a time the clumsy prow of the craft rammed into a yielding
cushion of mud, and Noork pulled the dugout out of the water into the
roofing shelter of a clump of drooping trees growing at the water's
edge.
Sword in hand he pushed inward from the shore and ended with a
smothered exclamation against an unseen wall. Trees grew close up to
the wall and a moment later he had climbed out along a horizontal
branch beyond the wall's top, and was lowering his body with the aid of
a braided leather rope to the ground beyond.
He was in a cultivated field his feet and hands told him. And perhaps
half a mile away, faintly illumined by torches and red clots of
bonfires, towered a huge weathered white skull!
Secure in the knowledge that he wore the invisible robes of a Misty
One he found a solitary tree growing within the wall and climbed to a
comfortable crotch. In less than a minute he was asleep.
"The new slave," a rough voice cut across his slumber abruptly, "is the
daughter of Tholon Dist the merchant."
Noork was fully awake now. They were speaking of Sarna. Her father's
name was Tholon Dist. It was early morning in the fields of the Misty
Ones and he could see the two golden-skinned slaves who talked together
beneath his tree.
"That matters not to the priests of Uzdon," the slighter of the
two slaves, his hair almost white, said. "If she be chosen for the
sacrifice to great Uzdon her blood will stain the altar no redder than
another's."
"But it is always the youngest and most beautiful," complained the
younger slave, "that the priests chose. I wish to mate with a beautiful
woman. Tholon Sarna is such a one."
The old man chuckled dryly. "If your wife be plain," he said, "neither
master nor fellow slave will steal her love. A slave should choose a
good woman—and ugly, my son."
"Some night," snarled the slave, "I'm going over the wall. Even the
Misty Ones will not catch me once I have crossed the lake."
"Silence," hissed the white-haired man. "Such talk is madness. We are
safe here from wild animals. There are no spotted narls on the island
of Manak. The priests of most holy Uzdon, and their invisible minions,
are not unkind.
"Get at your weeding of the field, Rold," he finished, "and I will
complete my checking of the gardens."
Noork waited until the old man was gone before he descended from the
tree. He walked along the row until he reached the slave's bent back,
and he knew by the sudden tightening of the man's shoulder muscles
that his presence was known. He looked down and saw that his feet made
clear-cut depressions in the soft rich soil of the field.
"Continue to work," he said to the young man. "Do not be too surprised
at what I am about to tell you, Rold." He paused and watched the golden
man's rather stupid face intently.
"I am not a Misty One," Noork said. "I killed the owner of this strange
garment I wear yesterday on the mainland. I have come to rescue the
girl, Tholon Sarna, of whom you spoke."
Rold's mouth hung open but his hard blunt fingers continued to work.
"The Misty Ones, then," he said slowly, "are not immortal demons!" He
nodded his long-haired head. "They are but men. They too can die."
"If you will help me, Rold," said Noork, "to rescue the girl and escape
from the island I will take you along."
Rold was slow in answering. He had been born on the island and yet his
people were from the valley city of Konto. He knew that they would
welcome the news that the Misty Ones were not demons. And the girl from
the enemy city of Grath was beautiful. Perhaps she would love him for
helping to rescue her and come willingly with him to Konto.
"I will help you, stranger," he agreed.
"Then tell me of the Skull, and of the priests, and of the prison where
Tholon Sarna is held."
The slave's fingers flew. "All the young female slaves are caged
together in the pit beneath the Skull. When the sun is directly
overhead the High Priest will choose one of them for sacrifice to
mighty Uzdon, most potent of all gods. And with the dawning of the
next day the chosen one will be bound across the altar before great
Uzdon's image and her heart torn from her living breast." The slave's
mismatched eyes, one blue and the other brown, lifted from his work.
"Tholon Sarna is in the pit beneath the Temple with the other female
slaves. And the Misty Ones stand guard over the entrance to the temple
pits."
"It is enough," said Noork. "I will go to rescue her now. Be prepared
to join us as we return. I will have a robe for you if all goes well."
"If you are captured," cried Rold nervously, "you will not tell them I
talked with you?"
Noork laughed. "You never saw me," he told the slave.
The skull was a gigantic dome of shaped white stone. Where the
eye-sockets and gaping nose-hole should have been, black squares of
rock gave the illusion of vacancy. Slitted apertures that served for
windows circled the grisly whiteness of the temple's curving walls at
three distinct levels.
Noork drifted slowly up the huge series of long bench-like steps
that led up to the gaping jaws of the Skull. He saw red and
purple-robed priests with nodding head-dresses of painted plumes and
feathers climbing and descending the stairs. Among them moved the
squatty gnarled shapes of burdened Vasads, their shaggy bowed legs
fettered together with heavy copper or bronze chains, and cringing
golden-skinned slaves slipped furtively through the press of the
brilliant-robed ones. The stale sweaty odor of the slaves and the beast
men mingled with the musky stench of the incense from the temple.
Other misty blobs, the invisible guards of the ghastly temple, were
stationed at regular intervals across the great entrance into the
Skull's interior, but they paid Noork no heed. To them he was another
of their number.
He moved swiftly to cross the wide stone-slabbed entry within the
jaws, and a moment later was looking down into a sunken bowl whose
rocky floor was a score of feet below where he stood. Now he saw the
central raised altar where the gleam of precious stones and cunningly
worked metal—gold, silver and brass—vied with the faded garish
colors of the draperies beneath it. And on the same dais there loomed
two beast-headed stone images, the lion-headed god a male and the
wolf-headed shape a female.
These then were the two blood hungry deities that the men of Zura
worshipped—mighty Uzdon and his mate, Lornu!
Noork joined the descending throng that walked slowly down the central
ramp toward the altar. As he searched for the entrance to the lower
pits his eyes took in the stone steps that led upward into the two
upper levels. Only priests and the vague shapelessness of the Misty
Ones climbed those steps. The upper levels, then, were forbidden to
the slaves and common citizens of the island.
As he circled the curving inner wall a foul dank odor reached his
sensitive nostrils, and his eyes searched for its origin. He found it
there just before him, the opening that gave way to a descending flight
of clammy stone steps. He darted toward the door and from nowhere two
short swords rose to bar his way.
"None are to pass save the priests," spoke a voice from nowhere
gruffly. "The High Priest knows that we of the temple guards covet the
most beautiful of the slave women, but we are not to see them until the
sacrifice is chosen."
Noork moved backward a pace. He grumbled something inaudible and drew
his sword. Before him the two swords slowly drew aside.
In that instant Noork attacked. His keen sword, whetted to razor
sharpness on abrasive bits of rock, bit through the hidden neck and
shoulder of the guard on his right hand, and with the same forward
impetus of attack he smashed into the body of the startled guard on his
left.
His sword had wrenched from his hand as it jammed into the bony
structure of the decapitated Misty One's shoulder, and now both his
hands sought the throat of the guard. The unseen man's cry of warning
gurgled and died in his throat as Noork clamped his fingers shut upon
it, and his shortened sword stabbed at Noork's back.
The struggle overbalanced them. They rolled over and over down the
shadowy stair, the stone smashing at their softer flesh unmercifully.
For a moment the battling men brought up with a jolt as the obstruction
of the first guard's corpse arrested their downward course, and then
they jolted and jarred onward again from blood-slippery step to
blood-slippery step.
The sword clattered from the guardian Misty One's clutch and in the
same instant Noork's steel fingers snapped the neck of the other man
with a pistol-like report. The limp body beneath him struggled no more.
He sprang to his feet and became aware of a torch-lighted doorway but a
half-dozen paces further down along the descending shaft of steps.
In a moment, he thought, the fellows of this guard would come charging
out, swords in hand. They could not have failed to hear the struggle
on the stairs of stone, he reasoned, for here the noise and confusion
of the upper temple was muted to a murmur.
So it was that he ran quickly to the door, in his hand the sword that
had dropped from the dead man's fingers, and sprang inside, prepared to
battle there the Misty Ones, lest one escape to give the alarm.
He looked about the narrow stone-walled room with puzzled eyes. Two
warriors lay on a pallet of straw, one of them emitting hideous
gurgling sounds that filled the little room with unpleasing echoes.
Noork grinned.
From the floor beside the fatter of the two men, the guard who did not
snore, he took a club. Twice he struck and the gurgling sound changed
to a steady deep breathing. Noork knew that now the two guards would
not give the alarm for several hours. Thoughtfully he looked about the
room. There were several of the hooded cloaks hanging from pegs wedged
into the crevices of the chamber's wall, their outlines much plainer
here in the artificial light of the flickering torch.
Noork shed his own blood-stained robe quickly and donned one of the
others. The cloaks were rather bulky and so he could carry but two
others, rolled up, beneath his own protective covering.
The matter of his disguise thus taken care of he dragged the two bodies
from the stairway and hid them beneath their own fouled robes in the
chamber of the sleeping guards. Not until then did he hurry on down the
stone steps toward the prison pit where Tholon Sarna, the golden girl,
was held prisoner.
The steps opened into a dimly lit cavern. Pools of foul black water
dotted the uneven floor and reflected back faintly the light of the two
sputtering torches beside the entrance. One corner of the cavern was
walled off, save for a narrow door of interlocking brass strips, and
toward this Noork made his way.
He stood beside the door. "Sarna," he called softly, "Tholon Sarna."
There were a score of young women, lately captured from the mainland
by the Misty Ones, sitting dejectedly upon the foul dampness of the
rotting grass that was their bed. Most of them were clad in the simple
skirt and brief jacket, reaching but to the lower ribs, that is the
mark of the golden people who dwell in the city-states of Zura's
valleys, but a few wore a simple band of cloth about their hips and
confined their breasts with a strip of well-cured leopard or antelope
hide.
One of the women now came to her feet and as she neared the
metal-barred entrance Noork saw that she was indeed Sarna. He examined
the outer lock of the door and found it to be barred with a massive
timber and the timber locked in place with a metal spike slipped into a
prepared cavity in the prison's rocky wall.
"It is Noork," he said softly as she came closer. He saw her eyes go
wide with fear and sudden hope, and then reached for the spike.
"The priest," hissed the girl.
Noork had already heard the sound of approaching feet. He dropped the
spike and whirled. His sword was in his hand as though by magic, as he
faced the burly priest of the Skull.
Across the forehead and upper half of the priest's face a curved shield
of transparent tinted material was fastened. Noork's eyes narrowed as
he saw the sword and shield of the gigantic holy man.
"So," he said, "to the priests of Uzdon we are not invisible. You do
not trust your guards, then."
The priest laughed. "We also have robes of invisibility," he said, "and
the sacred window of Uzdon before our eyes." He snarled suddenly at the
silent figure of the white man. "Down on your knees, guard, and show me
your face before I kill you!"
Noork raised his sword. "Take my hood off if you dare, priest," he
offered.
The burly priest's answer was a bellow of rage and a lunge forward of
his sword arm. Their swords clicked together and slid apart with the
velvety smoothness of bronze on bronze. Noork's blade bit a chunk from
the priest's conical shield, and in return received a slashing cut that
drew blood from left shoulder to elbow.
The fighting grew more furious as the priest pressed the attack. He
was a skilled swordsman and only the superior agility of the white
man's legs kept Noork away from that darting priestly blade. Even so
his robe was slashed in a dozen places and blood reddened his bronzed
body. Once he slipped in a puddle of foul cavern water and only by the
slightest of margins did he escape death by the priest's weapon.
The priest was tiring rapidly, however. The soft living of the temple,
and the rich wines and over-cooked meats that served to pad his paunch
so well with fat, now served to rob him of breath. He opened his
mouth to bawl for assistance from the guard, although it is doubtful
whether any sound could have penetrated up into the madhouse of the
main temple's floor, and in that instant Noork flipped his sword at his
enemy.
Between the shield and the transparent bit of curving material the
sword drove, and buried itself deep in the priest's thick neck. Noork
leaped forward; he snatched the tinted face shield and his sword, and a
moment later he had torn the great wooden timber from its sockets.
Tholon Sarna stumbled through the door and he caught her in his arms.
Hurriedly he loosed one of the two robes fastened about his waist and
slipped it around her slim shivering shoulders.
"Are there other priests hidden here in the pits?" Noork asked tensely.
"No," came the girl's low voice, "I do not think so. I did not know
that this priest was here until he appeared behind you." A slow smile
crossed Noork's hidden features. "His robe must be close by," he told
the girl. "He must have been stationed here because the priests feared
the guards might spirit away some of the prisoners."
Slowly he angled back and forth across the floor until his foot touched
the soft material of the priest's discarded robe near the stairway
entrance. He slipped the thongs of the transparent mask, called by the
priest "Uzdon's window" over his hood, and then proceeded to don the
new robe.
"My own robe is slit in a dozen places," he explained to the girl's
curious violet eyes—-all that was visible through the narrow vision
slot of her hood. He finished adjusting the outer robe and took the
girl's hand.
"Come," he said, "let us escape over the wall before the alarm is
given."
Without incident they reached the field where Rold toiled among the
rows of vegetables. Another slave was working in a nearby field,
his crude wooden plow pulled by two sweating Vasads, but he was not
watching when Rold abruptly faded from view.
Noork was sweating with the weight of two cloaks and the airlessness of
the vision shield as they crossed the field toward his rope, but he had
no wish to discard them yet. The tinted shield had revealed that dozens
of the Misty Ones were stationed about the wall to guard against the
escape of the slaves.
They came to the wall and to Noork's great joy found the rope hanging
as he had left it. He climbed the wall first and then with Rold helping
from below, drew Sarna to his side. A moment later saw the three of
them climbing along the limb to the bole of the tree and so to the
jungle matted ground outside the wall.
"Will we hide here in the trees until night?" asked the girl's full
voice.
Noork held aside a mossy creeper until the girl had passed. "I think
not," he said. "The Misty Ones are continually passing from the island
to the shore. We are Misty Ones to any that watch from the wall. So we
will paddle boldly across the water."
"That is good," agreed the slave, "unless they see us put out from the
shore. Their two landing stages are further along the beach, opposite
the Temple of Uzdon."
"Then we must hug to the shore until we pass the tip of the island,"
said Noork thoughtfully. "In that way even if they detect us we will
have put a safe distance between us."
Shortly after midday Noork felt the oozy slime of the marshy lowlands
of the mainland beneath his paddle and the dugout ran ashore in the
grassy inlet for which they had been heading. His palms were blistered
and the heavy robes he yet wore were soaked with sweat.
"Once we reach the jungle," he told the girl, "off come these robes. I
am broiled alive."
Suddenly Noork froze in his tracks. He thrust the girl behind him.
"Misty Ones!" he hissed to Rold. "They crouch among the reeds. They
carry nets and clubs to trap us."
Rold turned back toward the boat with Noork and Sarna close at his
heels. But the Misty Ones were upon them and by sheer numbers they bore
them to the ground. Noork's mightier muscles smashed more than one
hooded face but in the end he too lay smothered beneath the nets and
bodies of the enemy.
A misty shape came to stand beside these three new captives as they
were stripped of their robes. His foot nudged at Noork's head curiously
and a guttural voice commanded the shield be removed. Then his voice
changed—thickened—as he saw the features of Noork.
"So," he barked in a tongue that should have been strange to Noork but
was not, "it is the trapper's turn to be trapped, eh Captain Dietrich?"
A fat, square-jawed face, harsh lines paralleling the ugly blob of a
nose, showed through the opened robe of the leader. The face was that
of Doctor Von Mark the treacherous Nazi scientist that Stephen Dietrich
had trailed across space to Sekk! But Noork knew nothing of that chase.
The man's face seemed familiar, and hateful, but that was all he
remembered.
"I see you have come from the island," said the Doctor. "Perhaps you
can tell me the secret of this invisible material I wear. With the
secret of invisibility I, Karl Von Mark, can again conquer Earth and
make the Fatherland invincible."
"I do not understand too well," said Noork hesitantly. "Are we enemies?
There is so much I have forgotten." He regarded the brutal face
thoughtfully.
"Perhaps you know from what valley the great bird brought me," he said.
"Or perhaps the other bird brought you here."
Von Mark's blue eyes widened and then he roared with a great noise
that was intended to be mirth. His foot slammed harder into Noork's
defenseless ribs.
"Perhaps you have forgotten, swine of an American," he roared suddenly,
and in his hand was an ugly looking automatic. He flung back his robe
and Noork saw the dress uniform of a general. "Perhaps," the scientist
repeated, "but I will take no chances. The amnesia is often but a
pretense."
His lip curled. "This is something for you to remember, Captain
Dietrich," he said as the ugly black muzzle of the gun centered on
Noork's bronzed chest.
And then Doctor Von Mark cursed as the gun dropped from his nerveless
fingers and his hands clawed weakly at the arrow buried in his wide
belly. He stumbled backward.
Arrows rained from the mistiness that had closed in about Von Mark and
his men. The men from Wari, their faces unshielded, fell like flies.
In a moment those yet alive had taken to their heels, and Noork felt
invisible fingers tearing at the nets that bound him.
As he rose to his feet the robed figure let its misty covering drop
aside. A handsome golden-skinned warrior stood revealed.
"Gurn!" cried Noork.
A glad cry came from the throat of Tholon Sarna as she saw her brother.
And then she crept closer to Noork's side as the invisible mantles
of Gurn's loyal Vasads opened to reveal the hairy beast men they
concealed. Rold whimpered fearfully.
"The message that Ud carried to me was good," laughed Gurn. "The Misty
Ones skin easily. We were trapping the Misty Ones as they came across
the lake," he looked at the dying Von Mark, "as were these others. Soon
we would have come to your rescue, Noork, my friend."
"Lucky I escaped first," Noork told him. "The priests of Uzdon would
have trapped you. To them the Misty Ones are visible."
He picked up the fallen vision shield that lay beside their feet. His
chest expanded proudly.
"No longer," he told Gurn, "am I a man without a name. I am Captain
Dietrich from a distant valley called America. I was hunting this evil
man when my bird died."
He smiled and his brown arm tightened around Sarna's golden body. "The
evil man is dead. My native valley is safe. Now I can live in peace
with you, Gurn, and with your sister, here in the jungle."
"It is good, Noork," smiled Tholon Sarna.
End of Project Gutenberg's Raiders of the Second Moon, by Gene Ellerman
Question:
What is the significance of the Misty Ones in the story?
Answer:
|
[
"The Misty Ones are a group of highly feared beings, thought to be supernatural in some way at the beginning of the story because of their ability to remain unseen. Noork, however, is able to catch a glimpse of the bottom of one of their feet from his vantage point high in a tree and begins to pelt the area where he believes they are with fruit. After this, he can see their outlines and that they are wearing robes with hoods, and he ceases to be afraid and attacks with arrows, killing one of the Misty Ones. He disrobes this man, who is described as heavily scarred on his face, having a low forehead, with more hair on his body and less golden skin than other men of Zuran. Once Noork is sure that the Misty Ones are not supernatural, he decides to pursue them in an attempt to rescue Sarna, sister of his friend Gurn, who has been kidnapped by them.\n\nNoork spreads the word to his friend Ud that the Misty Ones are not demons and can be trapped and skinned and lets Ud know of his rescue mission for Sarna. He also tells Rold, an enslaved man on the island of the Misty Ones and the priests of Uzdon (the god who demands sacrifice of young women). Rold decides he will help Noork with his rescue mission in exchange for Noork's promise to rescue him as well--realizing that he is imprisoned by men and not demons has allowed him to dream that he can kill his captors and be free.\n\nWhen Noork fights a priest of Uzdon in order to free Sarna, he learns that the priests not only have the robes of concealment the Misty Ones have, they also have transparent masks that allow them to see through that concealment. It allows him to anticipate their ambush at the end of the story, though not quite soon enough to stop it. Gurn, though, has received his message and acted on it. He has been capturing and \"skinning\" Misty Ones who have crossed the lake and he and his warriors ambush the Misty Ones and priests in return, freeing Noork and his friends. With the realization that the Misty Ones are men with special cloaks rather than demons with supernatural powers, their mystique evaporates and everyone they have terrorized is willing to attack them. Characters unwilling to battle demons are unafraid to attack men.",
"The Misty Ones are significant for several reasons. They are creatures that come from the island in the lake of Uzdon, and they look like mist and are therefore nearly invisible to most (other than the priests). They are thought to be demons and perhaps invincible, but Noork discovers otherwise when he gets close enough to see that they look like him. He passes a message along to Gurn that they can be trapped and skinned. Noork’s discovery of this allows him to rescue Sarna and allows Gurn and the other warriors to rescue them from Doctor Von Mark. \n",
"The Misty Ones are mysterious beings who are invisible and cause problems for others. With so little is known about them other than their devious acts, they are considered demons. They live on an island in the Lake of Uzdon and have a giant skull known as the Temple of the Skull that represents their god, Uzdon, to whom they over living female sacrifices. The Misty Ones wear cloaks that make them invisible, and until Noork shoots and kills one with an arrow, no one knows that they are flesh and bone beings underneath their robes. Noork discovers they look very much like he does but with a low, sloping forehead and more body hair. When the Misty Ones kidnap Tholon, Noork notices he can see a foot of one of them because it was covered with mud. He throws overripe fruit at the group, and the fruit stains their cloaks, enabling Noork to see them. The Misty Ones capture girls to be slave sacrifices to their god, but they also capture men who work for them in their fields and gardens and others who move through the skull all chained together. They are led by priests who also wear cloaks that make them invisible and colorful feathers along with a face shield that enables them to see the other Misty Ones in their cloaks. Once Noork discovers that the Misty Ones are like everyone else, the Misty Ones lose the advantage of the fear they engender in others and risk death at their hands.\n",
"The Misty Ones are a group of people who mostly dwell on the island of Manak. They control a group of slaves on the island and manage the sacrificial rituals for the gods they worship, Uzdon and Lornu. To complete these sacrifices, they habitually capture and imprison young women from around the land of Zura, and they choose the youngest and most beautiful to sacrifice. The Misty Ones inspire fear in the hearts of the Vasads and other peoples of Zura due to their mysterious nature and their ability to move about invisibly. However, their weakness is revealed when Noork discovers they are not completely invisible after all, and their “skin” (an invisibility robe) can be easily removed. Noork has his friend Ud pass this message along to Gurn and his Vasads to encourage them to no longer fear the Misty Ones. This tactic works, and the Vasads show up just in time to save the day."
] |
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Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
Raiders of the Second Moon
By GENE ELLERMAN
A strange destiny had erased Noork's memory,
and had brought him to this tiny world—to
write an end to his first existence.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Summer 1945.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Beyond earth swings that airless pocked mass of fused rock and gray
volcanic dust that we know as Luna. Of this our naked eyes assure us.
But of the smaller satellite, hidden forever from the mundane view by
Luna's bulk, we know little.
Small is Sekk, that second moon, less than five hundred miles in
diameter, but the period of its revolution is thirty two hours, and its
meaner mass retains a breathable atmosphere. There is life on Sekk,
life that centers around the sunken star-shaped cavity where an oval
lake gleams softly in the depths. And the eleven radiating tips of the
starry abyss are valleys green with jungle growth.
In one of those green valleys the white savage that the Vasads called
Noork squatted in the ample crotch of a jungle giant and watched the
trail forty feet below. For down there moved alertly a golden skinned
girl, her only weapons a puny polished bow of yellow wood and a
sheathed dagger.
Sight of the girl's flowing brown hair and the graceful feminine
contours of her smooth-limbed body beneath its skin-halter and the
insignificant breech-clout, made his brow wrinkle with concentration.
Not forever had he lived in this jungle world of valleys and ragged
cliffs. Since he had learned the tongue of the hairy Vasads of forest,
and the tongue of their gold-skinned leader, Gurn, the renegade, he had
confirmed that belief.
For a huge gleaming bird had carried him in its talons to the top of
the cliff above their valley and from the rock fire had risen to devour
the great bird. Somehow he had been flung clear and escaped the death
of the mysterious bird-thing. And in his delirium he had babbled the
words that caused the apish Vasads to name him Noork. Now he repeated
them aloud.
"New York," he said, "good ol' New York."
The girl heard. She looked upward fearfully, her rounded bare arm going
back to the bow slung across her shoulder. Swiftly she fitted an arrow
and stepped back against the friendly bole of a shaggy barked jungle
giant. Noork grinned.
"Tako, woman," he greeted her.
"Tako," she replied fearfully. "Who speaks to Tholon Sarna? Be you
hunter or escaped slave?"
"A friend," said Noork simply. "It was I who killed the spotted
narl
last night when it attacked you."
Doubtfully the girl put away her bow. Her fingers, however, were never
far from the hilt of her hunting dagger.
Noork swung outward from his perch, and then downward along the ladder
of limbs to her side. The girl exclaimed at his brown skin.
"Your hair is the color of the sun!" she said. "Your garb is Vasad, yet
you speak the language of the true men." Her violet oddly slanting eyes
opened yet wider. "Who are you?"
"I am Noork," the man told her. "For many days have I dwelt among the
wild Vasads of the jungle with their golden-skinned chief, Gurn, for
my friend."
The girl impulsively took a step nearer. "Gurn!" she cried. "Is he tall
and strong? Has he a bracelet of golden discs linked together with
human hair? Does he talk with his own shadow when he thinks?"
"That is Gurn," admitted Noork shortly. "He is also an exile from the
walled city of Grath. The city rulers call him a traitor. He has told
me the reason. Perhaps you know it as well?"
"Indeed I do," cried Sarna. "My brother said that we should no longer
make slaves of the captured Zurans from the other valleys."
Noork smiled. "I am glad he is your brother," he said simply.
The girl's eyes fell before his admiring gaze and warm blood flooded
into her rounded neck and lovely cheeks.
"Brown-skinned one!" she cried with a stamp of her shapely little
sandalled foot. "I am displeased with the noises of your tongue. I will
listen to it no more."
But her eyes gave the provocative lie to her words. This brown-skinned
giant with the sunlit hair was very attractive....
The girl was still talking much later, as they walked together along
the game-trail. "When my captors were but one day's march from their
foul city of Bis the warriors of the city of Konto, through whose
fertile valley we had journeyed by night, fell upon the slavers.
"And in the confusion of the attack five of us escaped. We returned
toward the valley of Grath, but to avoid the intervening valley where
our enemies, the men of Konto, lived, we swung close to the Lake of
Uzdon. And the Misty Ones from the Temple of the Skull trailed us. I
alone escaped."
Noork lifted the short, broad-bladed sword that swung in its sheath
at his belt and let it drop back into place with a satisfying whisper
of flexible leather on steel. He looked toward the east where lay the
mysterious long lake of the Misty Ones.
"Some day," he said reflectively, "I am going to visit the island of
the unseen evil beings who stole away your friends. Perhaps after I
have taken you to your brother's hidden village, and from there to
your city of Grath...." He smiled.
The girl did not answer. His keen ears, now that he was no longer
speaking, caught the scuffing of feet into the jungle behind him. He
turned quickly to find the girl had vanished, and with an instinctive
reflex of motion he flung himself to one side into the dense wall of
the jungle. As it was the unseen club thudded down along his right arm,
numbing it so he felt nothing for some time.
One armed as he was temporarily, and with an unseen foe to reckon with,
Noork awkwardly swung up into the comparative safety of the trees. Once
there, perched in the crotch of a mighty jungle monarch, he peered down
at the apparently empty stretch of sunken trail beneath.
Noork
At first he saw nothing out of the ordinary. Apparently there was no
stir of life along that leaf-shadowed way. And then he caught a glimpse
of blurring shadowy shapes, blotches of cottony mist that blended all
too well with the foliage. One of the things from the island in the
Lake of Uzdon moved, and he saw briefly the bottom of a foot dirtied
with the mud of the trail.
Noork squinted. So the Misty Ones were not entirely invisible. Pain
was growing in his numbed arm now, but as it came so came strength. He
climbed further out on the great branch to where sticky and overripe
fruit hung heavy. With a grin he locked his legs upon the forking of
the great limb and filled his arms with fruit.
A barrage of the juicy fruit blanketed the misty shapes. Stains spread
and grew. Patchy outlines took on a new color and sharpness. Noork
found that he was pelting a half-dozen hooded and robed creatures whose
arms and legs numbered the same as his own, and the last remnant of
superstitious fear instilled in his bruised brain by the shaggy Vasads
vanished.
These Misty Ones were living breathing creatures like himself! They
were not gods, or demons, or even the ghostly servants of demons. He
strung his bow quickly, the short powerful bow that Gurn had given him,
and rained arrows down upon the cowering robed creatures.
And the monsters fled. They fled down the trail or faded away into the
jungle. All but one of them. The arrow had pierced a vital portion of
this Misty One's body. He fell and moved no more.
A moment later Noork was ripping the stained cloak and hood from the
fallen creature, curious to learn what ghastly brute-thing hid beneath
them. His lip curled at what he saw.
The Misty One was almost like himself. His skin was not so golden as
that of the other men of Zuran, and his forehead was low and retreating
in a bestial fashion. Upon his body there was more hair, and his face
was made hideous with swollen colored scars that formed an irregular
design. He wore a sleeveless tunic of light green and his only weapons
were two long knives and a club.
"So," said Noork, "the men of the island prey upon their own kind. And
the Temple of Uzdon in the lake is guarded by cowardly warriors like
this."
Noork shrugged his shoulders and set off at a mile-devouring pace down
the game trail toward the lake where the Temple of the Skull and its
unseen guardians lay. Once he stopped at a leaf-choked pool to wash the
stains from the dead man's foggy robe.
The jungle was thinning out. Noork's teeth flashed as he lifted the
drying fabric of the mantle and donned it.
Ud tasted the scent of a man and sluggishly rolled his bullet head from
shoulder to shoulder as he tried to catch sight of his ages-old enemy.
For between the hairy quarter-ton beast men of the jungles of Sekk and
the golden men of the valley cities who enslaved them there was eternal
war.
A growl rumbled deep in the hairy half-man's chest. He could see no
enemy and yet the scent grew stronger with every breath.
"You hunt too near the lake," called a voice. "The demons of the water
will trap you."
Ud's great nostrils quivered. He tasted the odor of a friend mingled
with that of a strange Zuran. He squatted.
"It's Noork," he grunted. "Why do I not see you?"
"I have stolen the skin of a demon," answered the invisible man. "Go to
Gurn. Tell him to fear the demons no longer. Tell him the Misty Ones
can be trapped and skinned."
"Why you want their skins?" Ud scratched his hairy gray skull.
"Go to save Gurn's ..." and here Noork was stumped for words. "To save
his father's woman woman," he managed at last. "Father's woman woman
called Sarna."
And the misty blob of nothingness was gone again, its goal now the
marshy lowlands that extended upward perhaps a thousand feet from the
jungle's ragged fringe to end at last in the muddy shallows of the Lake
of Uzdon.
To Noork it seemed that all the world must be like these savage jungle
fastnesses of the twelve valleys and their central lake. He knew that
the giant bird had carried him from some other place that his battered
brain could not remember, but to him it seemed incredible that men
could live elsewhere than in a jungle valley.
But Noork was wrong. The giant bird that he had ridden into the depths
of Sekk's fertile valleys had come from a far different world. And the
other bird, for which Noork had been searching when he came upon the
golden-skinned girl, was from another world also.
The other bird had come from space several days before that of Noork,
the Vasads had told him, and it had landed somewhere within the land
of sunken valleys. Perhaps, thought Noork, the bird had come from the
same valley that had once been his home. He would find the bird and
perhaps then he could remember better who he had been.
So it was, ironically enough, that Stephen Dietrich—whose memory was
gone completely—again took up the trail of Doctor Karl Von Mark, last
of the Axis criminals at large. The trail that had led the red-haired
young American flier from rebuilding Greece into Africa and the hidden
valley where Doctor Von Mark worked feverishly to restore the crumbled
structure of Nazidom, and then had sent him hurtling spaceward in the
second of the Doctor's crude space-ships was now drawing to an end.
The Doctor and the young American pilot were both trapped here on this
little blob of cosmic matter that hides beyond the Moon's cratered bulk.
The Doctor's ship had landed safely on Sekk, the wily scientist
preferring the lesser gravity of this fertile world to that of the
lifeless Moon in the event that he returned again to Earth, but
Dietrich's spacer had crashed.
Two words linked Noork with the past, the two words that the Vasads
had slurred into his name: New York. And the battered wrist watch, its
crystal and hands gone, were all that remained of his Earthly garb.
Noork paddled the long flat dugout strongly away from the twilight
shore toward the shadowy loom of the central island. Though he could
not remember ever having held a paddle before he handled the ungainly
blade well.
After a time the clumsy prow of the craft rammed into a yielding
cushion of mud, and Noork pulled the dugout out of the water into the
roofing shelter of a clump of drooping trees growing at the water's
edge.
Sword in hand he pushed inward from the shore and ended with a
smothered exclamation against an unseen wall. Trees grew close up to
the wall and a moment later he had climbed out along a horizontal
branch beyond the wall's top, and was lowering his body with the aid of
a braided leather rope to the ground beyond.
He was in a cultivated field his feet and hands told him. And perhaps
half a mile away, faintly illumined by torches and red clots of
bonfires, towered a huge weathered white skull!
Secure in the knowledge that he wore the invisible robes of a Misty
One he found a solitary tree growing within the wall and climbed to a
comfortable crotch. In less than a minute he was asleep.
"The new slave," a rough voice cut across his slumber abruptly, "is the
daughter of Tholon Dist the merchant."
Noork was fully awake now. They were speaking of Sarna. Her father's
name was Tholon Dist. It was early morning in the fields of the Misty
Ones and he could see the two golden-skinned slaves who talked together
beneath his tree.
"That matters not to the priests of Uzdon," the slighter of the
two slaves, his hair almost white, said. "If she be chosen for the
sacrifice to great Uzdon her blood will stain the altar no redder than
another's."
"But it is always the youngest and most beautiful," complained the
younger slave, "that the priests chose. I wish to mate with a beautiful
woman. Tholon Sarna is such a one."
The old man chuckled dryly. "If your wife be plain," he said, "neither
master nor fellow slave will steal her love. A slave should choose a
good woman—and ugly, my son."
"Some night," snarled the slave, "I'm going over the wall. Even the
Misty Ones will not catch me once I have crossed the lake."
"Silence," hissed the white-haired man. "Such talk is madness. We are
safe here from wild animals. There are no spotted narls on the island
of Manak. The priests of most holy Uzdon, and their invisible minions,
are not unkind.
"Get at your weeding of the field, Rold," he finished, "and I will
complete my checking of the gardens."
Noork waited until the old man was gone before he descended from the
tree. He walked along the row until he reached the slave's bent back,
and he knew by the sudden tightening of the man's shoulder muscles
that his presence was known. He looked down and saw that his feet made
clear-cut depressions in the soft rich soil of the field.
"Continue to work," he said to the young man. "Do not be too surprised
at what I am about to tell you, Rold." He paused and watched the golden
man's rather stupid face intently.
"I am not a Misty One," Noork said. "I killed the owner of this strange
garment I wear yesterday on the mainland. I have come to rescue the
girl, Tholon Sarna, of whom you spoke."
Rold's mouth hung open but his hard blunt fingers continued to work.
"The Misty Ones, then," he said slowly, "are not immortal demons!" He
nodded his long-haired head. "They are but men. They too can die."
"If you will help me, Rold," said Noork, "to rescue the girl and escape
from the island I will take you along."
Rold was slow in answering. He had been born on the island and yet his
people were from the valley city of Konto. He knew that they would
welcome the news that the Misty Ones were not demons. And the girl from
the enemy city of Grath was beautiful. Perhaps she would love him for
helping to rescue her and come willingly with him to Konto.
"I will help you, stranger," he agreed.
"Then tell me of the Skull, and of the priests, and of the prison where
Tholon Sarna is held."
The slave's fingers flew. "All the young female slaves are caged
together in the pit beneath the Skull. When the sun is directly
overhead the High Priest will choose one of them for sacrifice to
mighty Uzdon, most potent of all gods. And with the dawning of the
next day the chosen one will be bound across the altar before great
Uzdon's image and her heart torn from her living breast." The slave's
mismatched eyes, one blue and the other brown, lifted from his work.
"Tholon Sarna is in the pit beneath the Temple with the other female
slaves. And the Misty Ones stand guard over the entrance to the temple
pits."
"It is enough," said Noork. "I will go to rescue her now. Be prepared
to join us as we return. I will have a robe for you if all goes well."
"If you are captured," cried Rold nervously, "you will not tell them I
talked with you?"
Noork laughed. "You never saw me," he told the slave.
The skull was a gigantic dome of shaped white stone. Where the
eye-sockets and gaping nose-hole should have been, black squares of
rock gave the illusion of vacancy. Slitted apertures that served for
windows circled the grisly whiteness of the temple's curving walls at
three distinct levels.
Noork drifted slowly up the huge series of long bench-like steps
that led up to the gaping jaws of the Skull. He saw red and
purple-robed priests with nodding head-dresses of painted plumes and
feathers climbing and descending the stairs. Among them moved the
squatty gnarled shapes of burdened Vasads, their shaggy bowed legs
fettered together with heavy copper or bronze chains, and cringing
golden-skinned slaves slipped furtively through the press of the
brilliant-robed ones. The stale sweaty odor of the slaves and the beast
men mingled with the musky stench of the incense from the temple.
Other misty blobs, the invisible guards of the ghastly temple, were
stationed at regular intervals across the great entrance into the
Skull's interior, but they paid Noork no heed. To them he was another
of their number.
He moved swiftly to cross the wide stone-slabbed entry within the
jaws, and a moment later was looking down into a sunken bowl whose
rocky floor was a score of feet below where he stood. Now he saw the
central raised altar where the gleam of precious stones and cunningly
worked metal—gold, silver and brass—vied with the faded garish
colors of the draperies beneath it. And on the same dais there loomed
two beast-headed stone images, the lion-headed god a male and the
wolf-headed shape a female.
These then were the two blood hungry deities that the men of Zura
worshipped—mighty Uzdon and his mate, Lornu!
Noork joined the descending throng that walked slowly down the central
ramp toward the altar. As he searched for the entrance to the lower
pits his eyes took in the stone steps that led upward into the two
upper levels. Only priests and the vague shapelessness of the Misty
Ones climbed those steps. The upper levels, then, were forbidden to
the slaves and common citizens of the island.
As he circled the curving inner wall a foul dank odor reached his
sensitive nostrils, and his eyes searched for its origin. He found it
there just before him, the opening that gave way to a descending flight
of clammy stone steps. He darted toward the door and from nowhere two
short swords rose to bar his way.
"None are to pass save the priests," spoke a voice from nowhere
gruffly. "The High Priest knows that we of the temple guards covet the
most beautiful of the slave women, but we are not to see them until the
sacrifice is chosen."
Noork moved backward a pace. He grumbled something inaudible and drew
his sword. Before him the two swords slowly drew aside.
In that instant Noork attacked. His keen sword, whetted to razor
sharpness on abrasive bits of rock, bit through the hidden neck and
shoulder of the guard on his right hand, and with the same forward
impetus of attack he smashed into the body of the startled guard on his
left.
His sword had wrenched from his hand as it jammed into the bony
structure of the decapitated Misty One's shoulder, and now both his
hands sought the throat of the guard. The unseen man's cry of warning
gurgled and died in his throat as Noork clamped his fingers shut upon
it, and his shortened sword stabbed at Noork's back.
The struggle overbalanced them. They rolled over and over down the
shadowy stair, the stone smashing at their softer flesh unmercifully.
For a moment the battling men brought up with a jolt as the obstruction
of the first guard's corpse arrested their downward course, and then
they jolted and jarred onward again from blood-slippery step to
blood-slippery step.
The sword clattered from the guardian Misty One's clutch and in the
same instant Noork's steel fingers snapped the neck of the other man
with a pistol-like report. The limp body beneath him struggled no more.
He sprang to his feet and became aware of a torch-lighted doorway but a
half-dozen paces further down along the descending shaft of steps.
In a moment, he thought, the fellows of this guard would come charging
out, swords in hand. They could not have failed to hear the struggle
on the stairs of stone, he reasoned, for here the noise and confusion
of the upper temple was muted to a murmur.
So it was that he ran quickly to the door, in his hand the sword that
had dropped from the dead man's fingers, and sprang inside, prepared to
battle there the Misty Ones, lest one escape to give the alarm.
He looked about the narrow stone-walled room with puzzled eyes. Two
warriors lay on a pallet of straw, one of them emitting hideous
gurgling sounds that filled the little room with unpleasing echoes.
Noork grinned.
From the floor beside the fatter of the two men, the guard who did not
snore, he took a club. Twice he struck and the gurgling sound changed
to a steady deep breathing. Noork knew that now the two guards would
not give the alarm for several hours. Thoughtfully he looked about the
room. There were several of the hooded cloaks hanging from pegs wedged
into the crevices of the chamber's wall, their outlines much plainer
here in the artificial light of the flickering torch.
Noork shed his own blood-stained robe quickly and donned one of the
others. The cloaks were rather bulky and so he could carry but two
others, rolled up, beneath his own protective covering.
The matter of his disguise thus taken care of he dragged the two bodies
from the stairway and hid them beneath their own fouled robes in the
chamber of the sleeping guards. Not until then did he hurry on down the
stone steps toward the prison pit where Tholon Sarna, the golden girl,
was held prisoner.
The steps opened into a dimly lit cavern. Pools of foul black water
dotted the uneven floor and reflected back faintly the light of the two
sputtering torches beside the entrance. One corner of the cavern was
walled off, save for a narrow door of interlocking brass strips, and
toward this Noork made his way.
He stood beside the door. "Sarna," he called softly, "Tholon Sarna."
There were a score of young women, lately captured from the mainland
by the Misty Ones, sitting dejectedly upon the foul dampness of the
rotting grass that was their bed. Most of them were clad in the simple
skirt and brief jacket, reaching but to the lower ribs, that is the
mark of the golden people who dwell in the city-states of Zura's
valleys, but a few wore a simple band of cloth about their hips and
confined their breasts with a strip of well-cured leopard or antelope
hide.
One of the women now came to her feet and as she neared the
metal-barred entrance Noork saw that she was indeed Sarna. He examined
the outer lock of the door and found it to be barred with a massive
timber and the timber locked in place with a metal spike slipped into a
prepared cavity in the prison's rocky wall.
"It is Noork," he said softly as she came closer. He saw her eyes go
wide with fear and sudden hope, and then reached for the spike.
"The priest," hissed the girl.
Noork had already heard the sound of approaching feet. He dropped the
spike and whirled. His sword was in his hand as though by magic, as he
faced the burly priest of the Skull.
Across the forehead and upper half of the priest's face a curved shield
of transparent tinted material was fastened. Noork's eyes narrowed as
he saw the sword and shield of the gigantic holy man.
"So," he said, "to the priests of Uzdon we are not invisible. You do
not trust your guards, then."
The priest laughed. "We also have robes of invisibility," he said, "and
the sacred window of Uzdon before our eyes." He snarled suddenly at the
silent figure of the white man. "Down on your knees, guard, and show me
your face before I kill you!"
Noork raised his sword. "Take my hood off if you dare, priest," he
offered.
The burly priest's answer was a bellow of rage and a lunge forward of
his sword arm. Their swords clicked together and slid apart with the
velvety smoothness of bronze on bronze. Noork's blade bit a chunk from
the priest's conical shield, and in return received a slashing cut that
drew blood from left shoulder to elbow.
The fighting grew more furious as the priest pressed the attack. He
was a skilled swordsman and only the superior agility of the white
man's legs kept Noork away from that darting priestly blade. Even so
his robe was slashed in a dozen places and blood reddened his bronzed
body. Once he slipped in a puddle of foul cavern water and only by the
slightest of margins did he escape death by the priest's weapon.
The priest was tiring rapidly, however. The soft living of the temple,
and the rich wines and over-cooked meats that served to pad his paunch
so well with fat, now served to rob him of breath. He opened his
mouth to bawl for assistance from the guard, although it is doubtful
whether any sound could have penetrated up into the madhouse of the
main temple's floor, and in that instant Noork flipped his sword at his
enemy.
Between the shield and the transparent bit of curving material the
sword drove, and buried itself deep in the priest's thick neck. Noork
leaped forward; he snatched the tinted face shield and his sword, and a
moment later he had torn the great wooden timber from its sockets.
Tholon Sarna stumbled through the door and he caught her in his arms.
Hurriedly he loosed one of the two robes fastened about his waist and
slipped it around her slim shivering shoulders.
"Are there other priests hidden here in the pits?" Noork asked tensely.
"No," came the girl's low voice, "I do not think so. I did not know
that this priest was here until he appeared behind you." A slow smile
crossed Noork's hidden features. "His robe must be close by," he told
the girl. "He must have been stationed here because the priests feared
the guards might spirit away some of the prisoners."
Slowly he angled back and forth across the floor until his foot touched
the soft material of the priest's discarded robe near the stairway
entrance. He slipped the thongs of the transparent mask, called by the
priest "Uzdon's window" over his hood, and then proceeded to don the
new robe.
"My own robe is slit in a dozen places," he explained to the girl's
curious violet eyes—-all that was visible through the narrow vision
slot of her hood. He finished adjusting the outer robe and took the
girl's hand.
"Come," he said, "let us escape over the wall before the alarm is
given."
Without incident they reached the field where Rold toiled among the
rows of vegetables. Another slave was working in a nearby field,
his crude wooden plow pulled by two sweating Vasads, but he was not
watching when Rold abruptly faded from view.
Noork was sweating with the weight of two cloaks and the airlessness of
the vision shield as they crossed the field toward his rope, but he had
no wish to discard them yet. The tinted shield had revealed that dozens
of the Misty Ones were stationed about the wall to guard against the
escape of the slaves.
They came to the wall and to Noork's great joy found the rope hanging
as he had left it. He climbed the wall first and then with Rold helping
from below, drew Sarna to his side. A moment later saw the three of
them climbing along the limb to the bole of the tree and so to the
jungle matted ground outside the wall.
"Will we hide here in the trees until night?" asked the girl's full
voice.
Noork held aside a mossy creeper until the girl had passed. "I think
not," he said. "The Misty Ones are continually passing from the island
to the shore. We are Misty Ones to any that watch from the wall. So we
will paddle boldly across the water."
"That is good," agreed the slave, "unless they see us put out from the
shore. Their two landing stages are further along the beach, opposite
the Temple of Uzdon."
"Then we must hug to the shore until we pass the tip of the island,"
said Noork thoughtfully. "In that way even if they detect us we will
have put a safe distance between us."
Shortly after midday Noork felt the oozy slime of the marshy lowlands
of the mainland beneath his paddle and the dugout ran ashore in the
grassy inlet for which they had been heading. His palms were blistered
and the heavy robes he yet wore were soaked with sweat.
"Once we reach the jungle," he told the girl, "off come these robes. I
am broiled alive."
Suddenly Noork froze in his tracks. He thrust the girl behind him.
"Misty Ones!" he hissed to Rold. "They crouch among the reeds. They
carry nets and clubs to trap us."
Rold turned back toward the boat with Noork and Sarna close at his
heels. But the Misty Ones were upon them and by sheer numbers they bore
them to the ground. Noork's mightier muscles smashed more than one
hooded face but in the end he too lay smothered beneath the nets and
bodies of the enemy.
A misty shape came to stand beside these three new captives as they
were stripped of their robes. His foot nudged at Noork's head curiously
and a guttural voice commanded the shield be removed. Then his voice
changed—thickened—as he saw the features of Noork.
"So," he barked in a tongue that should have been strange to Noork but
was not, "it is the trapper's turn to be trapped, eh Captain Dietrich?"
A fat, square-jawed face, harsh lines paralleling the ugly blob of a
nose, showed through the opened robe of the leader. The face was that
of Doctor Von Mark the treacherous Nazi scientist that Stephen Dietrich
had trailed across space to Sekk! But Noork knew nothing of that chase.
The man's face seemed familiar, and hateful, but that was all he
remembered.
"I see you have come from the island," said the Doctor. "Perhaps you
can tell me the secret of this invisible material I wear. With the
secret of invisibility I, Karl Von Mark, can again conquer Earth and
make the Fatherland invincible."
"I do not understand too well," said Noork hesitantly. "Are we enemies?
There is so much I have forgotten." He regarded the brutal face
thoughtfully.
"Perhaps you know from what valley the great bird brought me," he said.
"Or perhaps the other bird brought you here."
Von Mark's blue eyes widened and then he roared with a great noise
that was intended to be mirth. His foot slammed harder into Noork's
defenseless ribs.
"Perhaps you have forgotten, swine of an American," he roared suddenly,
and in his hand was an ugly looking automatic. He flung back his robe
and Noork saw the dress uniform of a general. "Perhaps," the scientist
repeated, "but I will take no chances. The amnesia is often but a
pretense."
His lip curled. "This is something for you to remember, Captain
Dietrich," he said as the ugly black muzzle of the gun centered on
Noork's bronzed chest.
And then Doctor Von Mark cursed as the gun dropped from his nerveless
fingers and his hands clawed weakly at the arrow buried in his wide
belly. He stumbled backward.
Arrows rained from the mistiness that had closed in about Von Mark and
his men. The men from Wari, their faces unshielded, fell like flies.
In a moment those yet alive had taken to their heels, and Noork felt
invisible fingers tearing at the nets that bound him.
As he rose to his feet the robed figure let its misty covering drop
aside. A handsome golden-skinned warrior stood revealed.
"Gurn!" cried Noork.
A glad cry came from the throat of Tholon Sarna as she saw her brother.
And then she crept closer to Noork's side as the invisible mantles
of Gurn's loyal Vasads opened to reveal the hairy beast men they
concealed. Rold whimpered fearfully.
"The message that Ud carried to me was good," laughed Gurn. "The Misty
Ones skin easily. We were trapping the Misty Ones as they came across
the lake," he looked at the dying Von Mark, "as were these others. Soon
we would have come to your rescue, Noork, my friend."
"Lucky I escaped first," Noork told him. "The priests of Uzdon would
have trapped you. To them the Misty Ones are visible."
He picked up the fallen vision shield that lay beside their feet. His
chest expanded proudly.
"No longer," he told Gurn, "am I a man without a name. I am Captain
Dietrich from a distant valley called America. I was hunting this evil
man when my bird died."
He smiled and his brown arm tightened around Sarna's golden body. "The
evil man is dead. My native valley is safe. Now I can live in peace
with you, Gurn, and with your sister, here in the jungle."
"It is good, Noork," smiled Tholon Sarna.
End of Project Gutenberg's Raiders of the Second Moon, by Gene Ellerman
|
What is the relationship between Malcolm and Breadon?
|
After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about Wanderers of the Wolf Moon by NELSON S. BOND.
Relevant chunks:
Wanderers of the Wolf Moon
By NELSON S. BOND
They were marooned on Titan, their ship wrecked, the radio smashed. Yet they had to exist, had to build a new life on a hostile world. And the man who assumed command was Gregory Malcolm, the bespectacled secretary—whose only adventures had come through the pages of a book.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Sparks snapped off the switches and followed him to the door of the radio turret. Sparks was a stunted, usually-grinning, little redhead named Hannigan. But he wasn't grinning now. He laid an anxious hand on Greg's arm. "If I was you," he said, "if I was you, Malcolm, I don't think I'd say nothing to the boss about this. Not just yet, anyhow."
Greg said, "Why not?"
Sparks spluttered and fussed and made heavy weather of answering.
"Well, for one thing, it ain't important. It would only worry him. And then there's the womenfolks, they scare easy. Which of course they ain't no cause to. Atmospherics don't mean nothing. I've rode out worse storms than this—plenty of times. And in worse crates than the Carefree ."
Greg studied him carefully from behind trim plasta-rimmed spectacles. He drew a deep breath. He said levelly, "So it's that bad, eh, Sparks?"
"What bad? I just told you—"
"I know. Sparks, I'm not a professional spaceman. But I've studied astrogation as few Earthlubbers have. It's been my hobby for years. And I think I know what we're up against.
"We hit a warp-eddy last night. We've been trapped in a vortex for more than eight hours. Lord only knows how many hundreds of thousands of miles we've been borne off our course. And now we've blasted into a super-ionized belt of atmospherics. Your radio signals are blanketed. You can't get signals in or out. We're a deaf-mute speck of metal being whirled headlong through space. Isn't that it?"
"I don't know what—" began Sparks hotly. Then he stopped, studied his companion thoughtfully, nodded. "O.Q.," he confessed, "that's it. But we ain't licked yet. We got three good men on the bridge. Townsend ... Graves ... Langhorn. They'll pull out of this if anybody can. And they ain't no sense in scaring the Old Man and his family."
"I won't tell them," said Greg. "I won't tell them unless I have to. But between you and me, what are the odds against us, Sparks?"
The radioman shrugged.
"Who knows? Vortices are unpredictable. Maybe the damn thing will toss us out on the very spot it picked us up. Maybe it will give us the old chuckeroo a million miles the other side of Pluto. Maybe it will crack us up on an asteroid or satellite. No way of telling till it happens."
"And the controls?"
"As useless," said Sparks, "as a cow in a cyclone."
"So?"
"We sit tight," said Sparks succinctly, "and hope."
Malcolm nodded quietly. He took off his spectacles, breathed on them, wiped them, replaced them. He was tall and fair; in his neat, crisply pressed business suit he appeared even slimmer than he was. But there was no nervousness in his movements. He moved measuredly. "Well," he said, "that appears to be that. I'm going up to the dining dome."
Sparks stared at him querulously.
"You're a queer duck, Malcolm. I don't think you've got a nerve in your body."
"Nerves are a luxury I can't afford," replied Greg. "If anything happens—and if there's time to do so—let me know." He paused at the door. "Good luck," he said.
"Clear ether!" said Sparks mechanically. He stared after the other man wonderingly for a long moment, then went back to his control banks, shaking his head and muttering.
Gregory Malcolm climbed down the Jacob's-ladder and strode briskly through the labyrinthine corridors that were the entrails of the space yacht Carefree . He paused once to peer through a perilens set into the ship's port plates. It was a weird sight that met his gaze. Not space, ebony-black and bejewelled with a myriad flaming splotches of color; not the old, familiar constellations treading their ever-lasting, inexorable paths about the perimeter of Sol's tiny universe, but a shimmering webwork of light, so tortured-violet that the eyes ached to look upon it. This was the mad typhoon of space-atmospherics through which the Carefree was now being twisted, topsy-turvy, toward a nameless goal.
He moved on, approaching at last the quartzite-paned observation rotunda which was the dining dome of the ship.
His footsteps slowed as he composed himself to face those within. As he hesitated in the dimly-lighted passage, a trick of lights on glass mirrored to him the room beyond. He could see the others while they were as yet unaware of his presence. Their voices reached him clearly.
J. Foster Andrews, his employer and the employer of the ten thousand or more men and women who worked for Galactic Metals Corporation, dominated the head of the table. He was a plump, impatient little Napoleon. Opposite him, calm, graceful, serene, tastefully garbed and elaborately coiffured even here in deep space, three weeks from the nearest beauty shop, sat his wife, Enid.
On Andrews' right sat his sister, Maud. Not young, features plain as a mud fence, but charming despite her age and homeliness simply because of her eyes; puckish, shrewdly intelligent eyes, constantly aglint with suppressed humor at—guessed Greg—the amusing foibles and frailties of those about her.
She gave her breakfast the enthusiastic attention of one too old and shapeless to be concerned with such folderol as calories and dietetics, pausing only from time to time to share smidgeons of food with a watery-eyed scrap of white, curly fluff beside her chair. Her pet poodle, whom she called by the opprobrious title of "Cuddles."
On J. Foster's left sat his daughter, Crystal. She it was who caused Gregory Malcolm's staid, respectable heart to give a little lurch as he glimpsed her reflected vision—all gold and crimson and cream—in the glistening walls. If Crystal was her name, so, too, was crystal her loveliness.
But—Greg shook his head—but she was not for him. She was already pledged to the young man seated beside her. Ralph Breadon. He turned to murmur something to her as Greg watched; Greg saw and admired and disliked his rangy height, his sturdy, well-knit strength, the rich brownness of his skin, his hair, his eyes.
The sound of his own name startled Greg.
"Malcolm!" called the man at the head of the table. "Malcolm! Now where in blazes is he, anyhow?" he demanded of no one in particular, everyone in general. He spooned a dab of liquid gold from a Limoges preserve jar, tongued it suspiciously, frowned. "Bitter!" he complained.
"It's the very best Martian honey," said his wife.
"Drylands clover," added Crystal.
"It's still bitter," said J. Foster petulantly.
His sister sniffed. "Nonsense! It's delightful."
"I say it's bitter," repeated Andrews sulkily. And lifted his voice again. " Malcolm! Where are you?"
"You called me, sir?" said Malcolm, moving into the room. He nodded politely to the others. "Good morning, Mrs. Andrews ... Miss Andrews ... Mr. Breadon...."
"Oh, sit down!" snapped J. Foster. "Sit down here and stop bobbing your head like a teetotum! Had your breakfast? The honey's no good; it's bitter." He glared at his sister challengingly. "Where have you been, anyway? What kind of secretary are you? Have you been up to the radio turret? How's the market today? Is Galactic up or down?"
Malcolm said, "I don't know, sir."
"Fine! Fine!" Andrews rattled on automatically before the words registered. Then he started, his face turning red. "Eh? What's that? Don't know! What do you mean, you don't know? I pay you to—"
"There's no transmission, sir," said Greg quietly.
"No trans—nonsense! Of course there's transmission! I put a million credits into this ship. Finest space-yacht ever built. Latest equipment throughout. Sparks is drunk, that's what you mean! Well, you hop right up there and—"
Maud Andrews put down her fork with a clatter. "Oh, for goodness sakes, Jonathan, shut up and give the boy time to explain! He's standing there with his mouth gaping like a rain-spout, trying to get a word in edgewise! What's the trouble, Gregory?" She turned to Greg, as Jonathan Foster Andrews wheezed into startled silence. " That? "
She glanced at the quartzite dome, beyond which the veil of iridescence wove and cross-wove and shimmered like a pallid aurora.
Greg nodded. "Yes, Miss Andrews."
Enid Andrews spoke languidly from the other end of the table.
"But what is it, Gregory? A local phenomenon?"
"You might call it that," said Greg, selecting his words cautiously.
"It's an ionized field into which we've blasted. It—it—shouldn't stay with us long. But while it persists, our radio will be blanketed out."
Breadon's chestnut head came up suddenly, sharply.
"Ionization! That means atmosphere!"
Greg said, "Yes."
"And an atmosphere means a body in space somewhere near—" Breadon stopped, bit his lip before the appeal in Malcolm's eyes, tried to pass it off easily. "Oh, well—a change of scenery, what?"
But the moment of alarm in his voice had not passed unnoticed. Crystal Andrews spoke for all of them, her voice preternaturally quiet.
"You're hiding something, Malcolm. What is it? Is there—danger?"
But Greg didn't have to answer that question. From the doorway a harsh, defiantly strident voice answered for him. The voice of Bert Andrews, Crystal's older brother.
"Danger? You're damn right there's danger! What's the matter with you folks—are you all deaf, dumb and blind? We've been caught in a space-vortex for hours. Now we're in the H-layer of a planet we can't even see—and in fifteen minutes or fifteen seconds we may all be smashed as flat as pancakes!"
The proclamation brought them out of their chairs. Greg's heart sank; his vain plea, "Mr. Andrews—" was lost in the medley of Crystal's sudden gasp, Enid Andrews' short, choking scream, J. Foster's bellowing roar at his only son.
"Bert—you're drunk!"
Bert weaved precariously from the doorway, laughed in his father's face.
"Sure I'm drunk! Why not? If you're smart you'll get drunk, too. The whole damn lot of you!" He flicked a derisive hand toward Greg. "You too, Boy Scout! What were you trying to do—hide the bad news from them? Well, it's no use. Everybody might as well know the worst. We're gone gooses ... geeses ... aw, what the hell! Dead ducks!" He fell into a chair, sprawled there laughing mirthlessly with fear riding the too-high notes of his laughter.
J. Foster turned to his secretary slowly. His ire had faded; there was only deep concern in his voice.
"Is he telling the truth, Malcolm?"
Greg said soberly, "Partly, sir. He's overstating the danger—but there is danger. We are caught in a space-vortex, and as Mr. Breadon realized, the presence of these ionics means we're in the Heaviside-layer of some heavenly body. But we may not crack up."
Maud Andrews glanced at him shrewdly.
"Is there anything we can do?"
"Not a thing. The officers on the bridge are doing everything possible."
"In that case," said the older woman, "we might as well finish our breakfast. Here, Cuddles! Come to momsy!" She sat down again. Greg looked at her admiringly. Ralph Breadon stroked his brown jaw. He said,
"The life-skiffs?"
"A last resort," said Greg. "Sparks promised he'd let me know if it were necessary. We'll hope it's not—"
But it was a vain hope, vainly spoken in the last, vain moment. For even as he phrased the hopeful words, came the sound of swift, racing footsteps up the corridor. Into the dining dome burst Hannigan, eyes hot with excitement. And his cry dispelled Greg's final hopes for safety.
"Everybody—the Number Four life-skiff— quick ! We've been caught in a grav-drag and we're going to crash!"
II
Those next hectic moments were never afterward very clear in Greg Malcolm's memory. He had a confused recollection of hearing Sparks' warning punctuated by a loud, shrill scream which he vaguely identified as emanating from Mrs. Andrews' throat ... he was conscious of feeling, suddenly, beneath his feet the sickening, quickening lurch of a ship out of control, gripped by gravitational forces beyond its power to allay ... he recalled his own voice dinning in his ears as, incredibly, with Sparks, he took command of the hasty flight from the dining dome down the corridor to the aft ramp, up the ramp, across girdered beams in the super-structure to the small, independently motored rocket-skiff cradled there.
He was aware, too, of strangely disconnected incidents happening around him, he being a part of them but seeming to be only a disinterested spectator to their strangeness. Of his forcing Maud Andrews toward the door of the dome ... of her pushing back against him with all the weight of her body ... of her irate voice, "Cuddles! I forgot him!" Then the shrill excited yapping of the poodle cradled against her as they charged on down the corridor.
J. Foster waddling beside him, tugging at his arm, panting, "The officers?" and his own unfelt assurance. "They can take care of themselves. It's a general 'bandon ship." Enid Andrews stumbling over the hem of a filmy peignoir ... himself bending to lift her boldly and bodily, sweating palms feeling the warm animal heat of her excited body hot beneath them ... Crystal Andrews stopping suddenly, crying,
"'Tina!" ... and Hannigan's reply, "Your maid? I woke her. She's in the life-skiff." Bert Andrews stopping suddenly, being sick in the middle of the corridor, his drunkenness losing itself in the thick, sure nausea of the ever-increasing unsteadiness beneath their feet.
Then the life-skiff, the clang of metal as Hannigan slammed the port behind the last of them, the fumbling for a lock-stud, the quick, grateful pant of the miniature hypos, and a weird feeling of weightlessness, rushingness, hurtlingness as his eardrums throbbed and his mouth tasted brassy and bloody with the fierce velocity of their escape.
Sense and meaning returned only when all this ended. As one waking from a nightmare dream, Greg Malcolm returned to a world he could recognize. A tiny world, encased within the walls of a forty-foot life-skiff. A world peopled too scantily. Andrews, his wife and sister, his son and daughter; 'Tina Laney, the maid; Breadon, Hannigan, young Tommy O'Doul, the cabin-boy (though where he had come from, or when, Greg did not know). And himself. In a life-skiff. In space.
Somewhere in space. He looked through the perilens . What he saw then he might better never have seen. For that shimmering pink-ochre veil had wisped away, now, and in the clean, cold, bitter-clear light of a distant sun he watched the death-dive of the yacht Carefree .
Like a vast silver top, spinning heedlessly, wildly, it streaked toward a mottled gray and green, brown and dun, hard and crushing-brutal terrain below. Still at its helm stood someone, for even in that last dreadful moment burst from its nose-jets a ruddy mushroom of flame that tried to, but could not, brake the dizzy fall.
For an instant Greg's eyes, stingingly blinded and wet, thought they glimpsed a wee black mote dancing from the bowels of the Carefree ; a mote that might be another skiff like their own. But he could not be sure, and then the Carefree was accelerating with such violence and speed that the eye could see it only as a flaming silver lance against the ugly earth-carcase beneath, and then it struck and a carmine bud of flame burst and flowered for an instant, and that was all....
And Greg Malcolm turned from the perilens , shaken.
Hannigan said, "It's over?" and Greg nodded.
Hannigan said, "The other skiffs? Did they break free, or were they caught?"
"I don't know. I couldn't see for sure."
"You must have seen. Are we the only ones?"
"I couldn't see for sure. Maybe. Maybe not."
Then a body scrambled forward, pressing through the tightness of other huddled bodies, and there was a hand upon his elbow. "I'll take over now, Malcolm."
It was Ralph Breadon. Gregory looked at him slowly, uncomprehendingly at first. His hand was reluctant to leave the guiding-gear of the small ship which was, now, all that remained to them of civilization and civilization's wondrous accomplishments. He had not realized until this moment that for a while ... for a short, eager, pulse-quickening while ... on his alertness, in his hands, had depended the destinies of ten men and women. But he knew, suddenly and completely, that it was for this single moment his whole lifetime had waited. It was for this brief moment of command that some intuition, some instinct greater than knowledge, had prepared him. This was why he, an Earthlubber, had studied astrogation, made a hobby of the empire of the stars. That he might be fitted to command when all others failed. And now—
And now the moment was past, and he was once again Gregory Malcolm, mild, lean, pale, bespectacled secretary to J. Foster Andrews. And the man at his side was Ralph Breadon, socialite and gentleman sportsman, trained pilot. And in Malcolm the habit of obedience was strong....
"Very well, sir," he said. And he turned over the controls.
What happened then was unfortunate. It might just as well have happened to Malcolm, though afterward no one could ever say with certainty. However that was, either by carelessness or malfortune or inefficiency, once-thwarted disaster struck again at the little party on the life-skiff. At the instant Breadon's hand seized the controls the skiff jerked suddenly as though struck with a ponderous fist, its throbbing motors choked and snarled in a high, rising crescendo of torment that lost itself in supersonic heights, and the ship that had been drifting easily and under control to the planet beneath now dipped viciously.
The misfortune was that too many huddled in the tiny space understood the operation of the life-skiff, and what must be done instantly. And that neither pilot was as yet in control of the ship. Breadon's hand leaped for the Dixie rod, so, too, did Malcolm's—and across both their bodies came the arm of Sparks Hannigan, searching the controls.
In the scramble someone's sleeve brushed the banks of control-keys. The motors, killed, soughed into silence. The ship rocked into a spin. Greg cried out, his voice a strange harshness in his ears; Breadon cursed; one of the women bleated fearfully.
Then Breadon, still cursing, fought all hands from the controls but his own. And the man was not without courage. For all could see plainly, in the illumined perilens , how near to swift death that moment of uncertainty had led them. The skiff, which an instant before had been high in the stratosphere of this unknown planet ... or satellite or whatever it might be ... was now flashing toward hard ground at lightning speed.
Only a miracle, Greg knew, could save them now. An impulse spun his head, he looked at Crystal Andrews. There was no fear in her eyes. Just a hotness and an inexplicable anger. Beside her was the other girl, the maid, 'Tina; she was frankly afraid. Her teeth were clenched in her nether lip, and her eyes were wide and anxious, but she did not cry out.
Only a miracle could save them now. But Breadon's hands performed that miracle; his quick, nerveless, trained hands. A stud here ... a lever there ... a swift wrenching toss of the shoulders. His face twisted back over his shoulder, and his straining lips pulled taut and bloodless away from his teeth. "Hold tight, folks! We're going to bounce—"
Then they struck!
But they struck glancingly, as Breadon had hoped, and planned for, and gambled on. They struck and bounced. The frail craft shivered and groaned in metal agony, jarred across harsh soil, bounced again, settled, nosed over and rocked to a standstill. Somewhere forward something snapped with a shrill, high ping! of stress; somewhere aft was the metallic flap-clanging of broken gear trailing behind them. But they were safe.
Breath, held so long that he could not remember its inhalation, escaped Greg's lungs in a long sigh. "Nice work, Mr. Breadon!" he cried. "Oh, nice work!"
But surprisingly, savagely, Breadon turned on him.
"It would have been better work, Malcolm, if you'd kept your damned hands off the controls! Now see what you've done? Smashed up our skiff! Our only—"
"He didn't do it!" piped the shrill voice of Tommy O'Doul. "You done it yourself, Mr. Breadon. Your sleeve. It caught the switch."
"Quiet!" Breadon, cheeks flushed, reached out smartly, stilled the youngster's defense with a swift, ungentle slap. "And you, Malcolm—after this, do as you're told, and don't try to assume responsibilities too great for you. All right, everybody. Let's get out and see how bad the damage is."
Instinctively Greg had surged a half step forward as Breadon silenced the cabin boy. Now old habit and common-sense halted him. He's overwrought, he reasoned. We're all excited and on edge. We've been to Bedlam. Our nerves are shot. In a little while we'll all be back to normal.
He said quietly, "Very well, Mr. Breadon." And he climbed from the broken skiff.
Hannigan said, "Looks bad, don't it?"
"Very," said Malcolm. He fingered a shard of loose metal flapping like a fin from the stern of the skiff. "Not hopeless, though. There should be an acetylene torch in the tool locker. With that—"
"You ought to of poked him," said Hannigan.
"What? Oh, you mean—?"
"Yeah. The kid was right, you know. He done it."
"His sleeve, you mean. Well, it was an accident," said Greg. "It could have happened to anyone. And he made a good landing. Considering everything. Anyhow—" Again he was Gregory Malcolm, serious-faced, efficient secretary. "Anyhow, we have been thrust into an extremely precarious circumstance. It would be silly to take umbrage at a man's nervous anger. We must have no quarreling, no bickering—"
"Umbrage!" snorted Sparks. "Bickering! They're big words. I ain't sure I know what they mean. I ain't exactly sure they mean anything ." He glanced at Greg oddly. "You're a queer jasper, Malcolm. Back there on the ship, I figured you for a sort of a stuffed-shirt. Yes-man to the boss. And then in the show-down, you come through like a movie hero—for a little while. Then you let that Breadon guy give you the spur without a squawk—"
Malcolm adjusted his plasta-rimmed spectacles. He said, almost stubbornly, "Our situation is grave. There must be no bickering."
"Bickering your Aunt Jenny! What do you call that?"
Sparks jerked a contemptuous thumb toward the group from which they were separated. Upon disembarking, only Greg and Sparks had moved to make a careful examination of their damaged craft. The others, more or less under the direction of Breadon, were making gestures toward removing certain necessaries from the skiff. Their efforts, slight and uncertain as they were, had already embroiled them in argument.
The gist of their argument, so far as Greg Malcolm could determine, was that everyone wanted "something" to be done, but no two could agree as to just what that something was, and no one seemed to have any bursting desire to participate in actual physical labor.
J. Foster Andrews, all traces of his former panic and confusion fled, was planted firmly, Napoleonically, some few yards from the open port of the life-skiff, barking impatient orders at little Tommy O'Doul who—as Greg watched—stumbled from the port bearing a huge armload of edibles.
'Tina, the maid, was in a frenzy of motion, trying to administer to the complaints and demands of Mrs. Andrews (whose immaculate hair-do had suffered in the frenetic minutes of their flight) and Crystal Andrews
(who knew perfectly well there were sweaters in the life-skiff) and Miss Maud (who wanted a can of prepared dog-food and a can-opener immediately, and look at poor Cuddles, momsy's 'ittle pet was so hungry)!
Bert Andrews was sulkily insisting that it was nonsense to leave the warmth and security of the skiff anyway, and he wished he had a drink, while the harassed, self-appointed commander of the refugee corps was shouting at whomever happened, at any given moment, to capture his divided and completely frantic attention. His orders were masterpieces of confusion, developing around one premise that the castaway crew should immediately set up a camp. Where, how, or with what nonexistent equipment, Breadon did not venture to say.
"You see what I mean?" demanded Sparks disgustedly.
Greg Malcolm saw. He also saw other things. That their landing-spot, while excellent for its purpose, was not by any manner of means an ideal campsite. It was a small, flat basin of sandy soil, rimmed by shallow mountains. His gaze sought these hills, looked approvingly on their greenness, upon the multitude of dark pock-marks dotting them. These caves, were they not the habitations of potential enemies, might well become the sanctuaries of spacewrecked men.
He saw, also, a thin ribbon of silver sheering the face of the northern hills. His gaze, rising still skyward, saw other things—
He nodded. He knew, now, where they were. Or approximately. There was but one planet in the solar system which boasted such a phenomenon. The apparent distance of the Sun, judged by its diminished disc, argued his judgment to be correct. The fact that they had surged through an atmospheric belt for some length of time before finally meeting with disaster.
"Titan," he said. "Hyperion possibly. But probably Titan."
Sparks' gaze, following Greg's upward, contracted in an expression of dismay.
"Dirty cow! You mean that's where we are?"
"I believe so. There's Saturn, our mother planet, looming above us as large as a dinner plate. And the grav-drag here is almost Earth norm. Titan has a 3,000 mile diameter. That, combined with the Saturnian tractile constant, would give us a strong pull."
Sparks wailed, "But Titan! Great morning, Malcolm, nobody ever comes to Titan! There ain't no mines here, no colonies, no—" He stopped suddenly, his eyes widening yet farther. "And, hey—this place is dangerous ! There are—"
"I know it," said Greg swiftly, quietly. "Shut up, Sparks. No use telling the others. If they don't guess it themselves, what they don't know won't alarm them. We've got to do something, though. Get ourselves organized into a defensive community. That's the only way—"
Ralph Breadon's sharp, dictatorial voice interrupted him. "Well, Malcolm, stop soldiering and make yourself useful!"
And J. Foster, not to have his authority usurped, supplemented the order. "Yes, Malcolm, let's get going! No time for day-dreaming, my man. We want action!"
Sparks said, "Maybe you'll get it now, fatty!" under his breath, and looked at Malcolm hopefully. But his companion merely nodded, moved forward toward the others, quietly obedient to the command.
"Yes, sir," he said.
Hannigan groaned and followed him.
III
Breadon said, "All right, Tommy, dump them here. I have a few words to say." He glanced about him pompously. "Now, folks, naturally we want to get away from here as soon as possible. Therefore I delegate you, Sparks, to immediately get a message off. An SOS to the nearest space cruiser."
Hannigan grinned. It was not a pleasant grin. He took his time answering. He spat thoughtfully on the ground before him, lifted his head. He said, "A message, huh?"
"That's what I said."
"And what'll I send it with?" drawled Sparks. "Tom-toms?"
Breadon flushed darkly.
"I believe the life-skiff was equipped with a radio? And theoretically you are a radio operator?"
"Finest radio money can buy!" interpolated J. Foster Andrews proudly.
"Put a million credits into the Carefree . Best equipment throughout."
Sparks looked from one to another of them, grinned insolently. "You're both right. I am a radio operator, and there was a radio. But we crashed, remember? On account of some dope's sleeve got caught in the master switch—"
"That will do!" snapped Breadon angrily. He stared at the bandy-legged little redhead. "You mean the radio was broken?"
"It wasn't helped none. The tubes was made out of glass, and glass don't bounce so good."
Greg Malcolm said thoughtfully, "Sparks, can't you fix it?"
"Well, mebbe. But not in five minutes. Maybe not in five years. I won't know till I get going on it."
Breadon frowned.
"I'll handle this, Malcolm," he crisped. Again to the radioman, "Well, you get to work on it immediately. And as soon as you get it fixed, send out an SOS advising the patrol where we are—"
"Speaking of which," insinuated Sparks, "where are we?"
Breadon glared at him wrathfully.
"Why—why on one of the satellites of Saturn, of course. Any fool can see that!"
"O.Q. But does any fool know which one? Or shall I tell you it's Titan? And when you know that, then what? Titan wasn't named that on account of it was a pimple. It's a big place. What'll I tell the Patrol? SOS. Stranded in the middle of we-don't-know-where, somewhere on Titan, maybe. They'll be hunting for us till we've got whiskers down to our knees."
Breadon's irate look vanished. He looked stricken. He said, "I—I don't know. We have a compass—"
Once again it was Gregory Malcolm who entered into the conversation. He had been toying, almost absentmindedly, with a funnel taken from the skiff's stores. Into this he had poured a small portion of water; his right forefinger was pressed to the bottom of the tube, closing it. He said, "I can answer part of that question now. Enough to cut the search in half, anyway. We're in the northern hemisphere of the satellite."
Maud Andrews looked at him sharply as if noticing him for the first time in her life.
"How," she asked, "did you know that, Malcolm?"
Question:
What is the relationship between Malcolm and Breadon?
Answer:
|
[
"Gregory Malcolm is a secretary to J. Foster Andrews, father of Crystal Andrews, who is promised to Ralph Breadon. Malcolm is attracted to Crystal, and dislikes Breadon’s appearance, though he admires it as well. In the life skiff, Breadon behaves in a domineering manner towards Malcolm, suggesting that he hand over the controls of the skiff. During the transfer of controls, however, Breadon’s sleeve is caught on a switch and causes the skiff to crash towards Titan. During their descent, Malcolm attempts to control their trajectory but is dismissed by Breadon, who successfully lands the skiff on the moon of Saturn. Malcolm quickly congratulates Breadon, but is berated for interfering. Despite this, however, Malcolm later rationalizes Breadon’s arrogant behaviour and maintains to Sparks, the radio engineer, that he holds no grudge against him, seemingly hiding his anger behind his job as a secretary. \n\n",
"Malcolm and Breadon have a tense relationship. Malcolm is enamored of Crystal, and admires her beauty and loveliness. However, Ralph Breadon is Crystal's lover, which sets a competitive tone between the two. Malcolm is jealous of Breadon, not only because of his relationship to Crystal but is also threatened by him and his appearance. Their competitive nature is seen in the story, particularly when Breadon overtakes Malcolm's control of the life skiff; the two bicker and fumble over the control of the aircraft, and the life skiff ends up crashing onto Titan. Malcolm commends Breadon for keeping the members alive, but Breadon blames him for the crash, though it was his own sleeve being caught on the control that caused it. Though Malcolm and Breadon have problems with each other, Malcolm is more obedient and tries to avoid additional conflict. ",
"We learn from the beginning of the story, Crystal, J. Foster Andrews’ daughter, is engaged to Breadon. However, Malcolm seems to like her as well, but there’s nothing he can do. Later when Malcolm is talking about the phenomenon of the vortex, Breadon is the first that realizes what Malcolm is implying with the ionized filed. Then, when Hannigan tells them to board the life-skiff, both of them are able to get on it. Malcolm has the control of the life-skiff at first, but then Breadon asks to take over. Just as he is doing that, his sleeve catches the control key and turns the engine off. The ship begins to lose control, and Breadon grabs everyone’s hand off the control except for his. With his skills and training, finally, he is able to land without injuring anyone. Greg is surprised, since he did not believe they could actually be saved. He complements Breadon “nice work,” but Breadon blames him for crashing the ship. So then Hannigan decides to stand up for Malcolm where he asks Breadon if he know which part of what planet they are on. Breadon stuttered, and then Malcolm simply stated that they are on the northern hemisphere of Titan, one of Saturn’s satellite.",
"Gregory Malcolm is described as tall and neat, wearing a business suit. He is the secretary of J. Foster Andrews. Ralph Breadon is a socialite and sportsman with previous training as a pilot. He is described as a sturdy man with eyes, hair, and skin the color of chestnuts. Crystal, Andrew’s daughter is pledged to Ralph Breadon. Malcolm is attracted and has feelings towards Crystal, the girl that is meant to be with Breadon. Breadon belittles Malcolm throughout the story. Malcolm does not respond with disdain or anger towards Breadon, instead, he remains calm and obedient. He acknowledges that Breadon has some competencies and skills related to piloting. Malcolm eventually proves to the group that he has more knowledge than Breadon when he is able to approximate their location on Titan. "
] |
63048
|
Wanderers of the Wolf Moon
By NELSON S. BOND
They were marooned on Titan, their ship wrecked, the radio smashed. Yet they had to exist, had to build a new life on a hostile world. And the man who assumed command was Gregory Malcolm, the bespectacled secretary—whose only adventures had come through the pages of a book.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Sparks snapped off the switches and followed him to the door of the radio turret. Sparks was a stunted, usually-grinning, little redhead named Hannigan. But he wasn't grinning now. He laid an anxious hand on Greg's arm. "If I was you," he said, "if I was you, Malcolm, I don't think I'd say nothing to the boss about this. Not just yet, anyhow."
Greg said, "Why not?"
Sparks spluttered and fussed and made heavy weather of answering.
"Well, for one thing, it ain't important. It would only worry him. And then there's the womenfolks, they scare easy. Which of course they ain't no cause to. Atmospherics don't mean nothing. I've rode out worse storms than this—plenty of times. And in worse crates than the Carefree ."
Greg studied him carefully from behind trim plasta-rimmed spectacles. He drew a deep breath. He said levelly, "So it's that bad, eh, Sparks?"
"What bad? I just told you—"
"I know. Sparks, I'm not a professional spaceman. But I've studied astrogation as few Earthlubbers have. It's been my hobby for years. And I think I know what we're up against.
"We hit a warp-eddy last night. We've been trapped in a vortex for more than eight hours. Lord only knows how many hundreds of thousands of miles we've been borne off our course. And now we've blasted into a super-ionized belt of atmospherics. Your radio signals are blanketed. You can't get signals in or out. We're a deaf-mute speck of metal being whirled headlong through space. Isn't that it?"
"I don't know what—" began Sparks hotly. Then he stopped, studied his companion thoughtfully, nodded. "O.Q.," he confessed, "that's it. But we ain't licked yet. We got three good men on the bridge. Townsend ... Graves ... Langhorn. They'll pull out of this if anybody can. And they ain't no sense in scaring the Old Man and his family."
"I won't tell them," said Greg. "I won't tell them unless I have to. But between you and me, what are the odds against us, Sparks?"
The radioman shrugged.
"Who knows? Vortices are unpredictable. Maybe the damn thing will toss us out on the very spot it picked us up. Maybe it will give us the old chuckeroo a million miles the other side of Pluto. Maybe it will crack us up on an asteroid or satellite. No way of telling till it happens."
"And the controls?"
"As useless," said Sparks, "as a cow in a cyclone."
"So?"
"We sit tight," said Sparks succinctly, "and hope."
Malcolm nodded quietly. He took off his spectacles, breathed on them, wiped them, replaced them. He was tall and fair; in his neat, crisply pressed business suit he appeared even slimmer than he was. But there was no nervousness in his movements. He moved measuredly. "Well," he said, "that appears to be that. I'm going up to the dining dome."
Sparks stared at him querulously.
"You're a queer duck, Malcolm. I don't think you've got a nerve in your body."
"Nerves are a luxury I can't afford," replied Greg. "If anything happens—and if there's time to do so—let me know." He paused at the door. "Good luck," he said.
"Clear ether!" said Sparks mechanically. He stared after the other man wonderingly for a long moment, then went back to his control banks, shaking his head and muttering.
Gregory Malcolm climbed down the Jacob's-ladder and strode briskly through the labyrinthine corridors that were the entrails of the space yacht Carefree . He paused once to peer through a perilens set into the ship's port plates. It was a weird sight that met his gaze. Not space, ebony-black and bejewelled with a myriad flaming splotches of color; not the old, familiar constellations treading their ever-lasting, inexorable paths about the perimeter of Sol's tiny universe, but a shimmering webwork of light, so tortured-violet that the eyes ached to look upon it. This was the mad typhoon of space-atmospherics through which the Carefree was now being twisted, topsy-turvy, toward a nameless goal.
He moved on, approaching at last the quartzite-paned observation rotunda which was the dining dome of the ship.
His footsteps slowed as he composed himself to face those within. As he hesitated in the dimly-lighted passage, a trick of lights on glass mirrored to him the room beyond. He could see the others while they were as yet unaware of his presence. Their voices reached him clearly.
J. Foster Andrews, his employer and the employer of the ten thousand or more men and women who worked for Galactic Metals Corporation, dominated the head of the table. He was a plump, impatient little Napoleon. Opposite him, calm, graceful, serene, tastefully garbed and elaborately coiffured even here in deep space, three weeks from the nearest beauty shop, sat his wife, Enid.
On Andrews' right sat his sister, Maud. Not young, features plain as a mud fence, but charming despite her age and homeliness simply because of her eyes; puckish, shrewdly intelligent eyes, constantly aglint with suppressed humor at—guessed Greg—the amusing foibles and frailties of those about her.
She gave her breakfast the enthusiastic attention of one too old and shapeless to be concerned with such folderol as calories and dietetics, pausing only from time to time to share smidgeons of food with a watery-eyed scrap of white, curly fluff beside her chair. Her pet poodle, whom she called by the opprobrious title of "Cuddles."
On J. Foster's left sat his daughter, Crystal. She it was who caused Gregory Malcolm's staid, respectable heart to give a little lurch as he glimpsed her reflected vision—all gold and crimson and cream—in the glistening walls. If Crystal was her name, so, too, was crystal her loveliness.
But—Greg shook his head—but she was not for him. She was already pledged to the young man seated beside her. Ralph Breadon. He turned to murmur something to her as Greg watched; Greg saw and admired and disliked his rangy height, his sturdy, well-knit strength, the rich brownness of his skin, his hair, his eyes.
The sound of his own name startled Greg.
"Malcolm!" called the man at the head of the table. "Malcolm! Now where in blazes is he, anyhow?" he demanded of no one in particular, everyone in general. He spooned a dab of liquid gold from a Limoges preserve jar, tongued it suspiciously, frowned. "Bitter!" he complained.
"It's the very best Martian honey," said his wife.
"Drylands clover," added Crystal.
"It's still bitter," said J. Foster petulantly.
His sister sniffed. "Nonsense! It's delightful."
"I say it's bitter," repeated Andrews sulkily. And lifted his voice again. " Malcolm! Where are you?"
"You called me, sir?" said Malcolm, moving into the room. He nodded politely to the others. "Good morning, Mrs. Andrews ... Miss Andrews ... Mr. Breadon...."
"Oh, sit down!" snapped J. Foster. "Sit down here and stop bobbing your head like a teetotum! Had your breakfast? The honey's no good; it's bitter." He glared at his sister challengingly. "Where have you been, anyway? What kind of secretary are you? Have you been up to the radio turret? How's the market today? Is Galactic up or down?"
Malcolm said, "I don't know, sir."
"Fine! Fine!" Andrews rattled on automatically before the words registered. Then he started, his face turning red. "Eh? What's that? Don't know! What do you mean, you don't know? I pay you to—"
"There's no transmission, sir," said Greg quietly.
"No trans—nonsense! Of course there's transmission! I put a million credits into this ship. Finest space-yacht ever built. Latest equipment throughout. Sparks is drunk, that's what you mean! Well, you hop right up there and—"
Maud Andrews put down her fork with a clatter. "Oh, for goodness sakes, Jonathan, shut up and give the boy time to explain! He's standing there with his mouth gaping like a rain-spout, trying to get a word in edgewise! What's the trouble, Gregory?" She turned to Greg, as Jonathan Foster Andrews wheezed into startled silence. " That? "
She glanced at the quartzite dome, beyond which the veil of iridescence wove and cross-wove and shimmered like a pallid aurora.
Greg nodded. "Yes, Miss Andrews."
Enid Andrews spoke languidly from the other end of the table.
"But what is it, Gregory? A local phenomenon?"
"You might call it that," said Greg, selecting his words cautiously.
"It's an ionized field into which we've blasted. It—it—shouldn't stay with us long. But while it persists, our radio will be blanketed out."
Breadon's chestnut head came up suddenly, sharply.
"Ionization! That means atmosphere!"
Greg said, "Yes."
"And an atmosphere means a body in space somewhere near—" Breadon stopped, bit his lip before the appeal in Malcolm's eyes, tried to pass it off easily. "Oh, well—a change of scenery, what?"
But the moment of alarm in his voice had not passed unnoticed. Crystal Andrews spoke for all of them, her voice preternaturally quiet.
"You're hiding something, Malcolm. What is it? Is there—danger?"
But Greg didn't have to answer that question. From the doorway a harsh, defiantly strident voice answered for him. The voice of Bert Andrews, Crystal's older brother.
"Danger? You're damn right there's danger! What's the matter with you folks—are you all deaf, dumb and blind? We've been caught in a space-vortex for hours. Now we're in the H-layer of a planet we can't even see—and in fifteen minutes or fifteen seconds we may all be smashed as flat as pancakes!"
The proclamation brought them out of their chairs. Greg's heart sank; his vain plea, "Mr. Andrews—" was lost in the medley of Crystal's sudden gasp, Enid Andrews' short, choking scream, J. Foster's bellowing roar at his only son.
"Bert—you're drunk!"
Bert weaved precariously from the doorway, laughed in his father's face.
"Sure I'm drunk! Why not? If you're smart you'll get drunk, too. The whole damn lot of you!" He flicked a derisive hand toward Greg. "You too, Boy Scout! What were you trying to do—hide the bad news from them? Well, it's no use. Everybody might as well know the worst. We're gone gooses ... geeses ... aw, what the hell! Dead ducks!" He fell into a chair, sprawled there laughing mirthlessly with fear riding the too-high notes of his laughter.
J. Foster turned to his secretary slowly. His ire had faded; there was only deep concern in his voice.
"Is he telling the truth, Malcolm?"
Greg said soberly, "Partly, sir. He's overstating the danger—but there is danger. We are caught in a space-vortex, and as Mr. Breadon realized, the presence of these ionics means we're in the Heaviside-layer of some heavenly body. But we may not crack up."
Maud Andrews glanced at him shrewdly.
"Is there anything we can do?"
"Not a thing. The officers on the bridge are doing everything possible."
"In that case," said the older woman, "we might as well finish our breakfast. Here, Cuddles! Come to momsy!" She sat down again. Greg looked at her admiringly. Ralph Breadon stroked his brown jaw. He said,
"The life-skiffs?"
"A last resort," said Greg. "Sparks promised he'd let me know if it were necessary. We'll hope it's not—"
But it was a vain hope, vainly spoken in the last, vain moment. For even as he phrased the hopeful words, came the sound of swift, racing footsteps up the corridor. Into the dining dome burst Hannigan, eyes hot with excitement. And his cry dispelled Greg's final hopes for safety.
"Everybody—the Number Four life-skiff— quick ! We've been caught in a grav-drag and we're going to crash!"
II
Those next hectic moments were never afterward very clear in Greg Malcolm's memory. He had a confused recollection of hearing Sparks' warning punctuated by a loud, shrill scream which he vaguely identified as emanating from Mrs. Andrews' throat ... he was conscious of feeling, suddenly, beneath his feet the sickening, quickening lurch of a ship out of control, gripped by gravitational forces beyond its power to allay ... he recalled his own voice dinning in his ears as, incredibly, with Sparks, he took command of the hasty flight from the dining dome down the corridor to the aft ramp, up the ramp, across girdered beams in the super-structure to the small, independently motored rocket-skiff cradled there.
He was aware, too, of strangely disconnected incidents happening around him, he being a part of them but seeming to be only a disinterested spectator to their strangeness. Of his forcing Maud Andrews toward the door of the dome ... of her pushing back against him with all the weight of her body ... of her irate voice, "Cuddles! I forgot him!" Then the shrill excited yapping of the poodle cradled against her as they charged on down the corridor.
J. Foster waddling beside him, tugging at his arm, panting, "The officers?" and his own unfelt assurance. "They can take care of themselves. It's a general 'bandon ship." Enid Andrews stumbling over the hem of a filmy peignoir ... himself bending to lift her boldly and bodily, sweating palms feeling the warm animal heat of her excited body hot beneath them ... Crystal Andrews stopping suddenly, crying,
"'Tina!" ... and Hannigan's reply, "Your maid? I woke her. She's in the life-skiff." Bert Andrews stopping suddenly, being sick in the middle of the corridor, his drunkenness losing itself in the thick, sure nausea of the ever-increasing unsteadiness beneath their feet.
Then the life-skiff, the clang of metal as Hannigan slammed the port behind the last of them, the fumbling for a lock-stud, the quick, grateful pant of the miniature hypos, and a weird feeling of weightlessness, rushingness, hurtlingness as his eardrums throbbed and his mouth tasted brassy and bloody with the fierce velocity of their escape.
Sense and meaning returned only when all this ended. As one waking from a nightmare dream, Greg Malcolm returned to a world he could recognize. A tiny world, encased within the walls of a forty-foot life-skiff. A world peopled too scantily. Andrews, his wife and sister, his son and daughter; 'Tina Laney, the maid; Breadon, Hannigan, young Tommy O'Doul, the cabin-boy (though where he had come from, or when, Greg did not know). And himself. In a life-skiff. In space.
Somewhere in space. He looked through the perilens . What he saw then he might better never have seen. For that shimmering pink-ochre veil had wisped away, now, and in the clean, cold, bitter-clear light of a distant sun he watched the death-dive of the yacht Carefree .
Like a vast silver top, spinning heedlessly, wildly, it streaked toward a mottled gray and green, brown and dun, hard and crushing-brutal terrain below. Still at its helm stood someone, for even in that last dreadful moment burst from its nose-jets a ruddy mushroom of flame that tried to, but could not, brake the dizzy fall.
For an instant Greg's eyes, stingingly blinded and wet, thought they glimpsed a wee black mote dancing from the bowels of the Carefree ; a mote that might be another skiff like their own. But he could not be sure, and then the Carefree was accelerating with such violence and speed that the eye could see it only as a flaming silver lance against the ugly earth-carcase beneath, and then it struck and a carmine bud of flame burst and flowered for an instant, and that was all....
And Greg Malcolm turned from the perilens , shaken.
Hannigan said, "It's over?" and Greg nodded.
Hannigan said, "The other skiffs? Did they break free, or were they caught?"
"I don't know. I couldn't see for sure."
"You must have seen. Are we the only ones?"
"I couldn't see for sure. Maybe. Maybe not."
Then a body scrambled forward, pressing through the tightness of other huddled bodies, and there was a hand upon his elbow. "I'll take over now, Malcolm."
It was Ralph Breadon. Gregory looked at him slowly, uncomprehendingly at first. His hand was reluctant to leave the guiding-gear of the small ship which was, now, all that remained to them of civilization and civilization's wondrous accomplishments. He had not realized until this moment that for a while ... for a short, eager, pulse-quickening while ... on his alertness, in his hands, had depended the destinies of ten men and women. But he knew, suddenly and completely, that it was for this single moment his whole lifetime had waited. It was for this brief moment of command that some intuition, some instinct greater than knowledge, had prepared him. This was why he, an Earthlubber, had studied astrogation, made a hobby of the empire of the stars. That he might be fitted to command when all others failed. And now—
And now the moment was past, and he was once again Gregory Malcolm, mild, lean, pale, bespectacled secretary to J. Foster Andrews. And the man at his side was Ralph Breadon, socialite and gentleman sportsman, trained pilot. And in Malcolm the habit of obedience was strong....
"Very well, sir," he said. And he turned over the controls.
What happened then was unfortunate. It might just as well have happened to Malcolm, though afterward no one could ever say with certainty. However that was, either by carelessness or malfortune or inefficiency, once-thwarted disaster struck again at the little party on the life-skiff. At the instant Breadon's hand seized the controls the skiff jerked suddenly as though struck with a ponderous fist, its throbbing motors choked and snarled in a high, rising crescendo of torment that lost itself in supersonic heights, and the ship that had been drifting easily and under control to the planet beneath now dipped viciously.
The misfortune was that too many huddled in the tiny space understood the operation of the life-skiff, and what must be done instantly. And that neither pilot was as yet in control of the ship. Breadon's hand leaped for the Dixie rod, so, too, did Malcolm's—and across both their bodies came the arm of Sparks Hannigan, searching the controls.
In the scramble someone's sleeve brushed the banks of control-keys. The motors, killed, soughed into silence. The ship rocked into a spin. Greg cried out, his voice a strange harshness in his ears; Breadon cursed; one of the women bleated fearfully.
Then Breadon, still cursing, fought all hands from the controls but his own. And the man was not without courage. For all could see plainly, in the illumined perilens , how near to swift death that moment of uncertainty had led them. The skiff, which an instant before had been high in the stratosphere of this unknown planet ... or satellite or whatever it might be ... was now flashing toward hard ground at lightning speed.
Only a miracle, Greg knew, could save them now. An impulse spun his head, he looked at Crystal Andrews. There was no fear in her eyes. Just a hotness and an inexplicable anger. Beside her was the other girl, the maid, 'Tina; she was frankly afraid. Her teeth were clenched in her nether lip, and her eyes were wide and anxious, but she did not cry out.
Only a miracle could save them now. But Breadon's hands performed that miracle; his quick, nerveless, trained hands. A stud here ... a lever there ... a swift wrenching toss of the shoulders. His face twisted back over his shoulder, and his straining lips pulled taut and bloodless away from his teeth. "Hold tight, folks! We're going to bounce—"
Then they struck!
But they struck glancingly, as Breadon had hoped, and planned for, and gambled on. They struck and bounced. The frail craft shivered and groaned in metal agony, jarred across harsh soil, bounced again, settled, nosed over and rocked to a standstill. Somewhere forward something snapped with a shrill, high ping! of stress; somewhere aft was the metallic flap-clanging of broken gear trailing behind them. But they were safe.
Breath, held so long that he could not remember its inhalation, escaped Greg's lungs in a long sigh. "Nice work, Mr. Breadon!" he cried. "Oh, nice work!"
But surprisingly, savagely, Breadon turned on him.
"It would have been better work, Malcolm, if you'd kept your damned hands off the controls! Now see what you've done? Smashed up our skiff! Our only—"
"He didn't do it!" piped the shrill voice of Tommy O'Doul. "You done it yourself, Mr. Breadon. Your sleeve. It caught the switch."
"Quiet!" Breadon, cheeks flushed, reached out smartly, stilled the youngster's defense with a swift, ungentle slap. "And you, Malcolm—after this, do as you're told, and don't try to assume responsibilities too great for you. All right, everybody. Let's get out and see how bad the damage is."
Instinctively Greg had surged a half step forward as Breadon silenced the cabin boy. Now old habit and common-sense halted him. He's overwrought, he reasoned. We're all excited and on edge. We've been to Bedlam. Our nerves are shot. In a little while we'll all be back to normal.
He said quietly, "Very well, Mr. Breadon." And he climbed from the broken skiff.
Hannigan said, "Looks bad, don't it?"
"Very," said Malcolm. He fingered a shard of loose metal flapping like a fin from the stern of the skiff. "Not hopeless, though. There should be an acetylene torch in the tool locker. With that—"
"You ought to of poked him," said Hannigan.
"What? Oh, you mean—?"
"Yeah. The kid was right, you know. He done it."
"His sleeve, you mean. Well, it was an accident," said Greg. "It could have happened to anyone. And he made a good landing. Considering everything. Anyhow—" Again he was Gregory Malcolm, serious-faced, efficient secretary. "Anyhow, we have been thrust into an extremely precarious circumstance. It would be silly to take umbrage at a man's nervous anger. We must have no quarreling, no bickering—"
"Umbrage!" snorted Sparks. "Bickering! They're big words. I ain't sure I know what they mean. I ain't exactly sure they mean anything ." He glanced at Greg oddly. "You're a queer jasper, Malcolm. Back there on the ship, I figured you for a sort of a stuffed-shirt. Yes-man to the boss. And then in the show-down, you come through like a movie hero—for a little while. Then you let that Breadon guy give you the spur without a squawk—"
Malcolm adjusted his plasta-rimmed spectacles. He said, almost stubbornly, "Our situation is grave. There must be no bickering."
"Bickering your Aunt Jenny! What do you call that?"
Sparks jerked a contemptuous thumb toward the group from which they were separated. Upon disembarking, only Greg and Sparks had moved to make a careful examination of their damaged craft. The others, more or less under the direction of Breadon, were making gestures toward removing certain necessaries from the skiff. Their efforts, slight and uncertain as they were, had already embroiled them in argument.
The gist of their argument, so far as Greg Malcolm could determine, was that everyone wanted "something" to be done, but no two could agree as to just what that something was, and no one seemed to have any bursting desire to participate in actual physical labor.
J. Foster Andrews, all traces of his former panic and confusion fled, was planted firmly, Napoleonically, some few yards from the open port of the life-skiff, barking impatient orders at little Tommy O'Doul who—as Greg watched—stumbled from the port bearing a huge armload of edibles.
'Tina, the maid, was in a frenzy of motion, trying to administer to the complaints and demands of Mrs. Andrews (whose immaculate hair-do had suffered in the frenetic minutes of their flight) and Crystal Andrews
(who knew perfectly well there were sweaters in the life-skiff) and Miss Maud (who wanted a can of prepared dog-food and a can-opener immediately, and look at poor Cuddles, momsy's 'ittle pet was so hungry)!
Bert Andrews was sulkily insisting that it was nonsense to leave the warmth and security of the skiff anyway, and he wished he had a drink, while the harassed, self-appointed commander of the refugee corps was shouting at whomever happened, at any given moment, to capture his divided and completely frantic attention. His orders were masterpieces of confusion, developing around one premise that the castaway crew should immediately set up a camp. Where, how, or with what nonexistent equipment, Breadon did not venture to say.
"You see what I mean?" demanded Sparks disgustedly.
Greg Malcolm saw. He also saw other things. That their landing-spot, while excellent for its purpose, was not by any manner of means an ideal campsite. It was a small, flat basin of sandy soil, rimmed by shallow mountains. His gaze sought these hills, looked approvingly on their greenness, upon the multitude of dark pock-marks dotting them. These caves, were they not the habitations of potential enemies, might well become the sanctuaries of spacewrecked men.
He saw, also, a thin ribbon of silver sheering the face of the northern hills. His gaze, rising still skyward, saw other things—
He nodded. He knew, now, where they were. Or approximately. There was but one planet in the solar system which boasted such a phenomenon. The apparent distance of the Sun, judged by its diminished disc, argued his judgment to be correct. The fact that they had surged through an atmospheric belt for some length of time before finally meeting with disaster.
"Titan," he said. "Hyperion possibly. But probably Titan."
Sparks' gaze, following Greg's upward, contracted in an expression of dismay.
"Dirty cow! You mean that's where we are?"
"I believe so. There's Saturn, our mother planet, looming above us as large as a dinner plate. And the grav-drag here is almost Earth norm. Titan has a 3,000 mile diameter. That, combined with the Saturnian tractile constant, would give us a strong pull."
Sparks wailed, "But Titan! Great morning, Malcolm, nobody ever comes to Titan! There ain't no mines here, no colonies, no—" He stopped suddenly, his eyes widening yet farther. "And, hey—this place is dangerous ! There are—"
"I know it," said Greg swiftly, quietly. "Shut up, Sparks. No use telling the others. If they don't guess it themselves, what they don't know won't alarm them. We've got to do something, though. Get ourselves organized into a defensive community. That's the only way—"
Ralph Breadon's sharp, dictatorial voice interrupted him. "Well, Malcolm, stop soldiering and make yourself useful!"
And J. Foster, not to have his authority usurped, supplemented the order. "Yes, Malcolm, let's get going! No time for day-dreaming, my man. We want action!"
Sparks said, "Maybe you'll get it now, fatty!" under his breath, and looked at Malcolm hopefully. But his companion merely nodded, moved forward toward the others, quietly obedient to the command.
"Yes, sir," he said.
Hannigan groaned and followed him.
III
Breadon said, "All right, Tommy, dump them here. I have a few words to say." He glanced about him pompously. "Now, folks, naturally we want to get away from here as soon as possible. Therefore I delegate you, Sparks, to immediately get a message off. An SOS to the nearest space cruiser."
Hannigan grinned. It was not a pleasant grin. He took his time answering. He spat thoughtfully on the ground before him, lifted his head. He said, "A message, huh?"
"That's what I said."
"And what'll I send it with?" drawled Sparks. "Tom-toms?"
Breadon flushed darkly.
"I believe the life-skiff was equipped with a radio? And theoretically you are a radio operator?"
"Finest radio money can buy!" interpolated J. Foster Andrews proudly.
"Put a million credits into the Carefree . Best equipment throughout."
Sparks looked from one to another of them, grinned insolently. "You're both right. I am a radio operator, and there was a radio. But we crashed, remember? On account of some dope's sleeve got caught in the master switch—"
"That will do!" snapped Breadon angrily. He stared at the bandy-legged little redhead. "You mean the radio was broken?"
"It wasn't helped none. The tubes was made out of glass, and glass don't bounce so good."
Greg Malcolm said thoughtfully, "Sparks, can't you fix it?"
"Well, mebbe. But not in five minutes. Maybe not in five years. I won't know till I get going on it."
Breadon frowned.
"I'll handle this, Malcolm," he crisped. Again to the radioman, "Well, you get to work on it immediately. And as soon as you get it fixed, send out an SOS advising the patrol where we are—"
"Speaking of which," insinuated Sparks, "where are we?"
Breadon glared at him wrathfully.
"Why—why on one of the satellites of Saturn, of course. Any fool can see that!"
"O.Q. But does any fool know which one? Or shall I tell you it's Titan? And when you know that, then what? Titan wasn't named that on account of it was a pimple. It's a big place. What'll I tell the Patrol? SOS. Stranded in the middle of we-don't-know-where, somewhere on Titan, maybe. They'll be hunting for us till we've got whiskers down to our knees."
Breadon's irate look vanished. He looked stricken. He said, "I—I don't know. We have a compass—"
Once again it was Gregory Malcolm who entered into the conversation. He had been toying, almost absentmindedly, with a funnel taken from the skiff's stores. Into this he had poured a small portion of water; his right forefinger was pressed to the bottom of the tube, closing it. He said, "I can answer part of that question now. Enough to cut the search in half, anyway. We're in the northern hemisphere of the satellite."
Maud Andrews looked at him sharply as if noticing him for the first time in her life.
"How," she asked, "did you know that, Malcolm?"
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What did Garrett do to make the girl believe that he is Star and Star is Garrett?
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After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about DEATH STAR by TOM PACE.
Relevant chunks:
DEATH STAR
By TOM PACE
Trapped by the most feared of space pirates Devil Garrett, Starrett Blade was fighting for his life. Weaponless, his ship gone, he was pinning his hopes on a girl—who wanted him dead.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1945. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Starrett Blade crouched in the rocks by the tiny Centaurian lake. It was only about two or three hundred feet across, but probably thousands of feet deep. This lake, and hundreds of others like it, were the only things to break the monotony of the flat, rocky surface of Alpha Centauri III—called the most barren planet in space.
Ten minutes ago, Star Blade's ship had spun into the stagnant waters before him. An emergency release had flung the air-lock doors open, and the air pressure had flung Star out. And now he was waiting for Devil Garrett to come down to the water's edge to search for him.
For eight years, Devil Garrett had been the top space pirate in the void. For a year, Star himself had personally been hunting him. And on a tour over Alpha III, a Barden energy-beam had stabbed up at Blade's ship, and Star Blade had crashed into the lake.
That Barden Beam had Star worried and puzzled. It took a million volts of power for a split-second flash of the beam. Garrett didn't have an atomics plant on Alpha III—if he had, escaping rays would point it out, no matter how well it was camouflaged. There was no water power, for there was no running water. There were only the lakes ... and tidal power was out, for Alpha III had no moon.
However, that could wait. Star slid the electron knife from his water-proof sheath, gripped it firmly. He could hear quick footsteps as a man came down the trail that led directly past his hiding place.
It wasn't Garrett, which was disappointing. But it was one of his men, and he was heavily armed. That didn't worry Star.
His fighting had earned Starrett Blade the nickname of "Death Star."
The man walked to the water's edge, and peered out over the pool. He saw the bubbles that were coming up from the sinking ship, and he nodded, grunted in satisfaction, and started to turn back.
Star landed on him, knocking him sprawling on the rock. The pirate jerked up an arm, holding the jet-gun.
The stabbing lance of blue fire cracked from the electron knife, dug into the man's heart.
Star tossed the dead pirate's cloak over his shoulders, and thrust both electron blade and jet-gun into his belt. He straightened, and saw the leveled gun from the corner of his eye.
He got the jet in his right hand, the knife in his left, and went into a dive that flipped him behind a rock. The three actions took only a split-second, and the blast from the jet-gun flaked rock where he had been standing.
While a jet-gun is the most deadly weapon known, you have to press a loading stud to slide another blast-capsule into place. Death Star knew this very well. So he knew he was safe in coming up from behind the spur of stone to fire his own gun.
If his reflexes hadn't been as quick as they were, he would have blasted the girl.
He stopped, and stood for a second, staring at the girl. She was something to invite stares, too. In the moment that lasted between her next move, he had time to register that she was about five feet five tall, black-haired—the kind of black hair that looks like silken spun darkness—dark-eyed, and possessing both a face and a form that would make anyone stop and gulp.
Then the moment of half-awed survey was over, and she leveled the jet on him, and said in a trembling voice, "Drop those weapons, or I'll blast you ... pirate !"
Death Star said, "That jet-gun is empty. I can see the register on the magazine. And I'm not a pirate. I'm Starrett Blade."
The useless jet-gun slid out of the girl's hand, and she gave a half-gasp. "Starrett Blade! I—I don't believe ..." she broke off abruptly. "So you're Death Star! A fine story for a hired killer, a pirate."
Star reddened. "Look," he snapped, "I don't know who's been talking to you, but ..." he whirled, and his hand whipped the jet-gun from his belt. As he did so, the girl jerked up the jet-gun she had dropped, and flung it with all her strength. The blow landed on his arm and side, and paralyzed him long enough for the man who had leaped out behind him to land a stunning blow against his head. As Star went down, he dizzily cursed himself for becoming interested in the argument with the girl, so that he did not heed his reflexes in time ... and dimly, he wondered why it had seemed so important to convince the lovely dark-haired girl.
Then a bit of the cosmos seemed to fall on Star's head, and he was hurled into blackness.
An eternity seemed to pass.
Deep in the blackness, a light was born. It leaped toward him, a far-away comet rocketing along, coming from some far, unknown corner of the galaxy. It became a flaming sun in a gray-green space, and strangely, there seemed to be several odd planets circling about the sun. Some of them were vast pieces of queer electronic machinery. Some were vague, villainous-looking men. One was the dark-haired girl, and there was lovely contempt in her dark-star pools of eyes.
Then into the midst of this queer universe, there swam a new planet. It was the face of a man, and the man was Devil Garrett.
That brought Star up, out of his daze, onto his feet as though he had been doused with cold water. He stood there, not staring, just looking at Garrett.
The most famous killer in the void was big. He was six feet three, and twice as strong as he looked. He wore a huge high-velocity jet-gun, and a set of electron knives, all of the finest workmanship. He was sitting on a laboratory chair of steel, and the chair bent slightly under his great weight.
He smiled at Star, and there was a touch of hell in the smile. He said,
"Ah, Mr. Garrett."
Star's jaw dropped. "Garrett? What do you—" he broke off. A glance at the girl told him what the purpose was.
"Look, Mr. Devil Garrett," said the pirate, still smiling softly, "Miss Hinton is aware of your identity. There is no need to attempt to fool us.... I've known it was you ever since I flashed that beam at your ship. And you needn't flatter yourself that the Devil's luck is going to hold out as far as you are concerned. For in a very short while, I'm going to have you executed ... before a stellar vision screen, connected with Section Void Headquarters! I wish the authorities to see Devil Garrett die, so that I might collect the reward that is offered on you!"
Star stood quiet, and looked straight into Garrett's eyes. After a minute of silence, Garrett's lips twisted into a smile, and he said mockingly, "Well, pirate? What are you thinking of?"
Star said, in a low, cold voice, "I'm thinking of putting an electron fire-blade into your face, Devil Garrett!"
Garrett laughed ... huge, rather evil, bluff laughter. The mirth of a person who is both powerful and dangerous. And then the girl leaped forward, shaking with rage.
"You beast! Murderer! To accuse this man ... you fool, you might have been able to complete any scheme of escape you had, if you hadn't called yourself Starrett Blade! Mr. Blade...." She gestured toward Garrett, who made a mocking, sardonic bow. "... has given me ample proof that he is who he says! And this long before you came. He's shown me papers giving a description and showing a tri-dimension picture of you...."
Fire leaped in Star's eyes. "Listen ..." he snapped furiously, as he started to step forward. Then Garrett made a signal with his hand, and someone drove a fist against the base of Star's skull.
When Star came to, he was in a cell of sorts. A man standing by the door told him that he was to be executed, "... after Mr. Blade and the lady have eaten." Starrett swore at him, and the man went out, with a mocking "Goodbye, Mr. Garrett!"
Star got up. His head spun, and he almost fell at first, but the daze left in his head from the two blows quickly cleared away. He felt for various weapons which he had hidden about him ... and found them gone. Garrett's men had searched carefully.
Star sat down, his head spinning more now from mystery than from physical pain. He had to keep himself in a whole skin, of course. That was most important right now. But other things were bothering him, tugging at his mind like waves slapping around a swamped ship, each trying to shove it in a different direction.
There was the girl. Star wondered why she always leaped into his mind first. And there was the way Garrett was trying to leave the impression that he was Blade, so that he could kill Blade as Garrett.
Obviously, the reason for that was the girl, Miss Hinton, Garrett had called her. She had been shown faked papers by Garrett, papers proving that the two were ... were whatever Garrett had twisted the story into!
Star clutched at his head. He was in a mess. He was going to be killed, and he was going to die without knowing the score. And he didn't like that. Nor did he like dying as Star Blade shouldn't die; executed as a "wolf's-head" pirate. The girl would be watching, and he felt as if that would make it far worse.
His head came up, and he smiled flintily. He still had an ace card! One hand felt for it, and he shook his head slowly. It was a gamble ... but all the others had been found.
Blade looked up quickly, as the door opened. Two men came into the cell, carrying jet-guns. They motioned Blade to his feet. "Come on, Blade." One began, when the other hit him across the mouth.
"You fool!" he hissed. "You better not call him that; suppose that girl was to hear it? Until the boss gets what he wants on Earth, that girl has got to think that he's Blade! We're killing this guy as Devil Garrett! And a loud-mouthed fool like you ... look out!"
Blade had landed on the bickering men, and was grappling with the one who had called him by name. As the other leaped forward, swinging a clubbing blow with a jet-gun, Star tripped one man into the corner, and ducked under the gun. He hit the man in the stomach, drove a shoulder up under his arms, and smashed the man's face in with a series of sharp blows. The man went reeling backward across the room, and Star's hand leaped toward that "ace card" which he still held.
Devil Garrett stepped in the door, and made a mock out of a courteous bow. As he did so, Star snarled in rage, but stood very still, for the electron knife in Garrett's hand did not waver.
Garrett gestured silently toward the door, and Star, equally silent, walked over and out, at the point of the weapon.
Star Blade stood before a transmitter, and thought about death.
He was very close to it. Garrett stood five yards away, a gun in his hand, and the muzzle trained on Blade's chest. The gun was the universally used weapon of execution, an old projectile-firing weapon.
Star did not doubt that Devil Garrett was an excellent shot with it.
The girl, very round-eyed and nervous, sat by Garrett. He had explained to her that Garrett was the type of pirate that it is law to kill, or have executed, by anyone. Which was very true.
A man stepped away from the transmitter, and nodded to Garrett. Star felt a surge of hope, as he saw that it was a two-way transmitter. If the image of an Interstellar Command headquarters was tuned in—Garrett would undoubtedly do it, if only to show the police that he had killed Starrett Blade—then Garrett could not kill him and cut the beam in time to prevent one of the police from giving a cry that would echo over the sub-space beam arriving almost instantly in this room, and let the girl know that she had been tricked. And Garrett would not want that. Not that it would matter to Starrett Blade.
Then Star saw what kind of a transmitter it was, and he groaned. It was not a Hineson Sub-space beamer ... it was an old-style transmitter which had different wave speeds, because of the different space-bridger units in it.
The visual image would arrive many seconds before the sound did. Thus the girl would not hear Garrett revealed, but would see only Blade's death. And then ... whatever Garrett had planned, Blade wished heartily that he could have the chance to interfere.
The beam was coming in. Star saw the mists swimming on the screen change, solidify into a figure ... the figure of District Commander Weddel seated at a desk. He saw Weddel's eyebrows rise, saw his lips move—then Garrett stepped over a pace, and Weddel saw him, saw the gun in his hand....
The police officer yelled, silently, and came to his feet, an expression of shocked surprise on his face—surprise, Blade thought desperately, that the girl might interpret as shock at seeing Devil Garrett.
Which was right, in a way.
Then, as Commander Weddel leapt to his feet, as Devil Garrett's finger tightened on the trigger, as the girl sucked in her breath involuntarily, Star Blade scooped up a bit of metal—a fork—and flung it at the vision transmitter.
Not at the screen. But at the equipment behind the dial-board. At a certain small unit, which was almost covered by wires and braces for the large tubes. And the fork struck it, bit deep, and caused result.
Result in the form of a burned-out set. If television equipment can curse, that set cursed them. Its spitting of sparks and blue electric flame mingled with a strange, high-pitched whine.
It was the diversion that caused Garrett to miss Star, which gave him time to pull three or four of Garrett's men onto the floor with him. One of the men drove the butt of a jet-gun into the side of Star's head, and for the third time, he went very limp. The last thing he saw was the girl.
Somehow, the expression on her face was different from what it had been. He was searching for the difference, when the blow struck him. Somewhere in the space that lies between consciousness and unconsciousness, he reflected bitterly that if he kept staring at the girl when he should be fighting, he might not recover some day. This was the third time that he had been knocked out that way. It was not getting monotonous. He still felt it a novelty.
Star awoke in the same prison cell, facing the wall away from the door. He wondered if he were still alive, tried to move his head, and decided that he wasn't. He didn't even get up or look around when he dimly heard the door being opened.
But when he heard the girl's voice, he came up and around very swiftly, despite his head.
It was the girl all right. Even through the tumbled mists of his brain, he could see that she was not a dream. And as he reeled and fell against the wall, she was beside him in a flash, her arm supporting him.
At first he tried to push himself erect, his head whirling with sick dizziness, and bewilderment. Through a twisting haze, he peered up at the girl's face. It reflected a look that, amazingly, was one of—with no other phrase to do—compassion. Star half-sighed, and laid his head on the girl's breast, and closed his eyes.
In a minute or two, she said tensely, "Are you all right?" Star looked up at her.
"I guess so. Here—give a hand while I get my balance." She held him as he tried a step or two, and then he straightened. "I guess I'll be all right, now," he smiled. "My head feels like—say! How come you're doing this? What made you change your mind? And who are you?"
She said quickly, breathlessly, "I know you're Star Blade, now. That transmission set.... I can read lips! I knew what that officer was saying! It was just as if I had heard him say that ... that you were Starrett Blade and that man out there is Devil Garrett!" she made a choking sound. "And I've been here, alone, for a month! For a month!"
"A month? Huh—please—you...?"
Star took a breath, and started over. "You.... Who are you? What are you doing here?"
She said, "I'm Anne Hinton. My father is Old John Hinton. Have you heard of him?"
"Of course!" said Star. "He manufactures most of the equipment ' Blade Cosmian ' uses. Weapons, Hineson Sub-Spacers, Star-Traveler craft ... the ship I was in when Garrett brought me down was a Hinton craft. I should have recognized the name. But go on. What—"
"Garrett communicated with dad, secretly. He posed as Starrett Blade, as you, and told dad that he was developing certain new power processes. And he is! He has a new—or maybe it isn't so new—way of electrolyzing water to liberate hydrogen and oxygen."
"I think I understand," said Star quickly. "When the oxygen and hydrogen are allowed to combine, and produce an explosion which drive a turbine-generator. Then that could be hitched up to a cyclotron, and even the most barren of Alpha's lake-rock planets could be...."
"No," she shook her head puzzledly. "It's just electric power. He said that atomics would release stray rays that would attract pirates."
"I know," Star nodded, abstractedly. "I was thinking of another application of it ... hmm. But say! What was Garrett after? I know that he wouldn't do this just to get a secret process sold. He must have had another plan behind it. Got any idea?"
Anne shook her head slowly. "I don't know. I can't see...."
"Perhaps I could help you?" Devil Garrett asked smoothly from the door.
Star whirled, thrust Anne behind him, but there was no way out. Garrett stood in the door, and there were men behind him. The jet in his hand could kill both of the two at one shot. And they had no weapons to resist with.
Devil Garrett stepped them out of the room, and down the corridor, through a large door Star had noticed at the end of the passage, and into a huge room.
It must have been a thousand feet long, and half that wide. It was at least a hundred yards deep. And it was almost filled with gigantic machines.
Between the machinery, the spaces were almost filled with steel ladders and cat-walks. Crews of men swarmed over them. It was the largest mass of equipment Starrett had ever seen.
His eyes began to pick out details. Those huge vat-like things down at the far end, with the large cables running into them, and the mighty pumps connected to them ... they were probably the electrolysis chambers.
And those great pipes, they must carry the hydrogen and oxygen from the electro chambers to the large replicas of engines, which could be nothing else but the explosion chambers, where the gases were allowed to re-unite, and explode. And there by the giant engines, those must be turbines, which in turn connected with the vast-sized generators just under the platforms on which they stood.
Star Blade whistled softly through his teeth. A huge enterprise! It could be ... but for a moment he had forgotten Devil Garrett.
The girl standing by his side, Star turned toward Garrett. "Well?"
Garrett smiled his mocking grin. "You grasp the principle, of course. But let me show you ... you see those pipes that run from the turbines after the wheels?"
"Yes. They carry the gases off. Where do they lead?"
"Into giant subterranean caverns beneath the surface!" Garrett said.
"Now look over there, on the platforms across from us. Can you recognize a Barden energy-beamer, Blade? Run by power from my little plant here, which is run by water from a thousand lakes!
"Just imagine, if you can, hundreds of those plants all over Alpha III. And each one with dozens of high-powered Barden beams to protect it! And Hinton ray screens to protect us from radio-controlled rocket shells from space, or Barden Rays, or any other weapon of offence, or to warn if anyone lands on this planet!" Garrett leaned forward, his eyes aglow.
"Blade, I'll take over the few governing posts on this little planet, and I'll rule an entire world, a whole planet to myself! It'll be the first time in history! And it won't be the last. With the Hinton secret patents, the plans of all John Hinton's inventions and processes...."
Star twisted, and got his "ace card" out of its hiding place.
It was a jet weapon, little more than a jet-blast capsule for a jet-gun. The sides were thicker and stronger, and there was a device fixed on it so it could be fired. Altogether, it was somewhat smaller than an old-style fountain pen.
He twisted up from the floor, and moved faster than he had moved ever before. Star was famous for his speed and the quickness and alertness of his reflexes. He earned his fame a score of times over in that one instant.
And Devil Garrett died.
There was perhaps an eighth of a second between the staff of blue white fire from the tiny jet in Star's hand and the huge broadsword of fire from Garrett's gun. But in the split-second Star's fire knifed into Garrett's vitals, and Garrett gave a convulsive jerk, and fired even as his muscles started the jerking movement.
And the flame went over Star's head, singeing his scalp.
Of the four men with Garrett, one let go of the struggling Anne, and swore as he snatched at an electron knife in his belt. Anne's hand had already whipped the knife out, and without bothering to press the electron stud, she buried the knife in his back.
Two of the remaining men whirled, and went for the door as though a devil was after them. The other tried to get a jet-gun out. It was his final mistake. A blue lance from Anne's knife whipped close enough to him to make him dodge, and then Star got his hand on Garrett's jet.
The other two men had, in their flight, taken a door which led, not into the large corridor, but into a small room at one side, a room filled with instruments and recording devices for the machinery in the room below. Star leaped to the side of the door, and called, "Are you going to come out, or am I coming in to get you?"
There was a short silence, in which Anne heard one say hoarsely, "He can't get us ... we could get him if he came in the door."
"Oh, yes?" was the answer. "Do you know who that guy is? He's the one they call 'Death Star.' I'm not facing Starrett Blade in a gun fight. You can do what you like, but I'm leaving." Then he lifted his voice.
"Hey, Blade! I'm coming out. Don't shoot."
"Okay," threw back Star and the man appeared in the doorway, empty hands held high. After a second, the other joined him.
Anne turned to Star. "Now I know why they call you 'Death Star' Blade," she said, and gestured toward the men who had surrendered, and the two whom Starrett had shot down.
He mused there for a minute. Then Anne broke the silence with, "Star, what are we going to do now? Garrett's men will be up here in a little while. We can't get to a sub-space beam. What are we going to do when they come up to investigate?"
Starrett Blade laughed. "Do? Well, we could turn them over to Commander Weddel!"
" What? "
Grinning broadly, Star pointed, with a flourish, at the door. Anne spun about, and found Commander Weddel grinning in the door from the corridor.
"Very simple," said Star across the lounge to Anne. "When I smashed the vision set with that dinner fork, I broke a small unit which is included in all sets. You know, a direction finder doesn't work, except in the liner-beam principle, in space, because of the diffusing effect of unrestricted cosmic rays."
"Yes, I knew that," said Anne. "But how—"
Starrett grinned again. "A type of beam has been found which it is impossible for cosmics to disturb. But you can't send messages on it, so it is made in a little unit on every set. If that unit is broken, the set automatically releases a signal beam. This is a distress signal, and the location of the set that sent out the signal is recorded at the Section Headquarters. When Commander Weddel saw me throw something at the set, and it went dead, he looked at the automatic record, and found out that a signal had been sent in from a location on Alpha Cen's third planet. Then he had a high-velocity cruiser brought out and dropped in, in time to pick up some pieces." He stopped, and idly toyed with a sheaf of papers, then held them up. "See these papers?"
"Uh-huh. What are they, Star?"
"They are the main plans of Devil Garrett's power plant, and they're the one good thing he's ever done. These plans are going to bring the barren, rocky Centauri planets to life!"
He got up, and paced to the window, and stood there, looking out, and up through the plastic port. "The planets of Centauri!" he murmured softly. "Seven circling Alpha alone. And all seven are barren, rocky, level except for the thousands of lakes ... lakes that are going to be the life of Centauri!"
He turned back to the window. "And all because a pirate named Devil Garrett built a vast power plant to use to garner more power!"
"You know, Anne, as a mockery, and a warning, I think I'll propose that this planet be officially named ... 'Garrett'!"
She looked up at him, and there was laughter bright in her eyes, and tugging at her mouth. "Yes, there ought to be a reason," she murmured. Star wavered. She was so darn close.
After a minute, she turned her head, and looked up at him. "Star, how soon will there be those gardens and woods you described? I mean, how long before Garrett can be turned into that kind of world you described?"
"Why ... under pressure, we can do it in six months. Why?"
"Not half quick enough," she murmured happily, "but it'll have to do, Star." Laughing, she turned her face up to his. "Have you ever thought that planet Garrett will be wonderful for a honeymoon?"
Question:
What did Garrett do to make the girl believe that he is Star and Star is Garrett?
Answer:
|
[
"Firstly, a month ago, Garrett pretends to be Star and successfully deceived the girl’s father and was communicating with him about his development on some power processes. And according to the girl, she was captured by Garrett and brought to the craft around a month ago. Note that no one knows what he is really hoping to accomplish by pretending to be Star. Secondly, for the past month, he has been using 3-dimensional images and detailed description of Star as Garrett to make the girl believe his made-up identity. This also finishes successfully and the girl was sure that Star was Garrett, Garret as Star. Thirdly, during the execution, Garrett uses the delay in voice from the visual images to make sure that the girl will not be able to hear anything that the Section Void Headquarters would say when they see Garrett murdering Star. But he lets her see the images so that when their faces are filled with surprises to see Star being captured, the visual images will lead the girl to believe that they are shocked because they see Garret. However, this part of the plan failed. The girl is able to read lips, thus from the visuals, she knows exactly what the headquarters are saying. Hence she learns the truth of Garrett and Star’s identity. She also learns that he has been lying to him and her father. ",
"Prior to meeting the girl, Anne Hinton, Devil Garrett, the top space pirate, had contacted Anne’s father Old John Hinton while posing as Starrett Blade. Garrett’s deception of Anne is furthered by his forgery of certain documents, including papers describing Garrett as having Star’s description, and a three-dimensional picture. \nHis deception, however, is foiled during a transmission between the pirate and Police Commander Weddel which was meant to broadcast Star’s execution. During the silent broadcast, Weddel’s mouth moves and Anne is able to read his lips, coming to believe that Star is who he claims to be. \n",
"To make Anne believe that Garrett is Star and Star is Garrett, Garrett communicated with her father, posing as Star and claiming that he was interested in working with him to develop power plants. John Hinton, who supplies Star with much of his equipment, agreed to work with Garrett. Anne has been staying with Garrett for a month, during which he showed her fake papers and photos that supported his lie. Once Anne met Star for the first time, she was under the belief that Garrett was actually Star. Because of this, she immediately thought that Star was lying when he shared his name, and was able to help bring him to Garrett. ",
"Garrett made the girl believe that he was Star and that Star was Garrett because he provided her with papers that he claimed showed a picture of Garrett with a description. The picture was in fact one of Star Blade. In addition, he had his guards pretend that he was Star Blade too. However, unlike the girl, the guards knew that he was actually Garrett. He made the girl fear Star Blade (pretending Star was actually Garrett) by telling the girl that Star was a horrible pirate that killed many people and had to be executed. In addition, the girl’s father communicated with Garrett while he was pretending to be Star. This is another reason she thought she could trust him. "
] |
63419
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DEATH STAR
By TOM PACE
Trapped by the most feared of space pirates Devil Garrett, Starrett Blade was fighting for his life. Weaponless, his ship gone, he was pinning his hopes on a girl—who wanted him dead.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1945. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Starrett Blade crouched in the rocks by the tiny Centaurian lake. It was only about two or three hundred feet across, but probably thousands of feet deep. This lake, and hundreds of others like it, were the only things to break the monotony of the flat, rocky surface of Alpha Centauri III—called the most barren planet in space.
Ten minutes ago, Star Blade's ship had spun into the stagnant waters before him. An emergency release had flung the air-lock doors open, and the air pressure had flung Star out. And now he was waiting for Devil Garrett to come down to the water's edge to search for him.
For eight years, Devil Garrett had been the top space pirate in the void. For a year, Star himself had personally been hunting him. And on a tour over Alpha III, a Barden energy-beam had stabbed up at Blade's ship, and Star Blade had crashed into the lake.
That Barden Beam had Star worried and puzzled. It took a million volts of power for a split-second flash of the beam. Garrett didn't have an atomics plant on Alpha III—if he had, escaping rays would point it out, no matter how well it was camouflaged. There was no water power, for there was no running water. There were only the lakes ... and tidal power was out, for Alpha III had no moon.
However, that could wait. Star slid the electron knife from his water-proof sheath, gripped it firmly. He could hear quick footsteps as a man came down the trail that led directly past his hiding place.
It wasn't Garrett, which was disappointing. But it was one of his men, and he was heavily armed. That didn't worry Star.
His fighting had earned Starrett Blade the nickname of "Death Star."
The man walked to the water's edge, and peered out over the pool. He saw the bubbles that were coming up from the sinking ship, and he nodded, grunted in satisfaction, and started to turn back.
Star landed on him, knocking him sprawling on the rock. The pirate jerked up an arm, holding the jet-gun.
The stabbing lance of blue fire cracked from the electron knife, dug into the man's heart.
Star tossed the dead pirate's cloak over his shoulders, and thrust both electron blade and jet-gun into his belt. He straightened, and saw the leveled gun from the corner of his eye.
He got the jet in his right hand, the knife in his left, and went into a dive that flipped him behind a rock. The three actions took only a split-second, and the blast from the jet-gun flaked rock where he had been standing.
While a jet-gun is the most deadly weapon known, you have to press a loading stud to slide another blast-capsule into place. Death Star knew this very well. So he knew he was safe in coming up from behind the spur of stone to fire his own gun.
If his reflexes hadn't been as quick as they were, he would have blasted the girl.
He stopped, and stood for a second, staring at the girl. She was something to invite stares, too. In the moment that lasted between her next move, he had time to register that she was about five feet five tall, black-haired—the kind of black hair that looks like silken spun darkness—dark-eyed, and possessing both a face and a form that would make anyone stop and gulp.
Then the moment of half-awed survey was over, and she leveled the jet on him, and said in a trembling voice, "Drop those weapons, or I'll blast you ... pirate !"
Death Star said, "That jet-gun is empty. I can see the register on the magazine. And I'm not a pirate. I'm Starrett Blade."
The useless jet-gun slid out of the girl's hand, and she gave a half-gasp. "Starrett Blade! I—I don't believe ..." she broke off abruptly. "So you're Death Star! A fine story for a hired killer, a pirate."
Star reddened. "Look," he snapped, "I don't know who's been talking to you, but ..." he whirled, and his hand whipped the jet-gun from his belt. As he did so, the girl jerked up the jet-gun she had dropped, and flung it with all her strength. The blow landed on his arm and side, and paralyzed him long enough for the man who had leaped out behind him to land a stunning blow against his head. As Star went down, he dizzily cursed himself for becoming interested in the argument with the girl, so that he did not heed his reflexes in time ... and dimly, he wondered why it had seemed so important to convince the lovely dark-haired girl.
Then a bit of the cosmos seemed to fall on Star's head, and he was hurled into blackness.
An eternity seemed to pass.
Deep in the blackness, a light was born. It leaped toward him, a far-away comet rocketing along, coming from some far, unknown corner of the galaxy. It became a flaming sun in a gray-green space, and strangely, there seemed to be several odd planets circling about the sun. Some of them were vast pieces of queer electronic machinery. Some were vague, villainous-looking men. One was the dark-haired girl, and there was lovely contempt in her dark-star pools of eyes.
Then into the midst of this queer universe, there swam a new planet. It was the face of a man, and the man was Devil Garrett.
That brought Star up, out of his daze, onto his feet as though he had been doused with cold water. He stood there, not staring, just looking at Garrett.
The most famous killer in the void was big. He was six feet three, and twice as strong as he looked. He wore a huge high-velocity jet-gun, and a set of electron knives, all of the finest workmanship. He was sitting on a laboratory chair of steel, and the chair bent slightly under his great weight.
He smiled at Star, and there was a touch of hell in the smile. He said,
"Ah, Mr. Garrett."
Star's jaw dropped. "Garrett? What do you—" he broke off. A glance at the girl told him what the purpose was.
"Look, Mr. Devil Garrett," said the pirate, still smiling softly, "Miss Hinton is aware of your identity. There is no need to attempt to fool us.... I've known it was you ever since I flashed that beam at your ship. And you needn't flatter yourself that the Devil's luck is going to hold out as far as you are concerned. For in a very short while, I'm going to have you executed ... before a stellar vision screen, connected with Section Void Headquarters! I wish the authorities to see Devil Garrett die, so that I might collect the reward that is offered on you!"
Star stood quiet, and looked straight into Garrett's eyes. After a minute of silence, Garrett's lips twisted into a smile, and he said mockingly, "Well, pirate? What are you thinking of?"
Star said, in a low, cold voice, "I'm thinking of putting an electron fire-blade into your face, Devil Garrett!"
Garrett laughed ... huge, rather evil, bluff laughter. The mirth of a person who is both powerful and dangerous. And then the girl leaped forward, shaking with rage.
"You beast! Murderer! To accuse this man ... you fool, you might have been able to complete any scheme of escape you had, if you hadn't called yourself Starrett Blade! Mr. Blade...." She gestured toward Garrett, who made a mocking, sardonic bow. "... has given me ample proof that he is who he says! And this long before you came. He's shown me papers giving a description and showing a tri-dimension picture of you...."
Fire leaped in Star's eyes. "Listen ..." he snapped furiously, as he started to step forward. Then Garrett made a signal with his hand, and someone drove a fist against the base of Star's skull.
When Star came to, he was in a cell of sorts. A man standing by the door told him that he was to be executed, "... after Mr. Blade and the lady have eaten." Starrett swore at him, and the man went out, with a mocking "Goodbye, Mr. Garrett!"
Star got up. His head spun, and he almost fell at first, but the daze left in his head from the two blows quickly cleared away. He felt for various weapons which he had hidden about him ... and found them gone. Garrett's men had searched carefully.
Star sat down, his head spinning more now from mystery than from physical pain. He had to keep himself in a whole skin, of course. That was most important right now. But other things were bothering him, tugging at his mind like waves slapping around a swamped ship, each trying to shove it in a different direction.
There was the girl. Star wondered why she always leaped into his mind first. And there was the way Garrett was trying to leave the impression that he was Blade, so that he could kill Blade as Garrett.
Obviously, the reason for that was the girl, Miss Hinton, Garrett had called her. She had been shown faked papers by Garrett, papers proving that the two were ... were whatever Garrett had twisted the story into!
Star clutched at his head. He was in a mess. He was going to be killed, and he was going to die without knowing the score. And he didn't like that. Nor did he like dying as Star Blade shouldn't die; executed as a "wolf's-head" pirate. The girl would be watching, and he felt as if that would make it far worse.
His head came up, and he smiled flintily. He still had an ace card! One hand felt for it, and he shook his head slowly. It was a gamble ... but all the others had been found.
Blade looked up quickly, as the door opened. Two men came into the cell, carrying jet-guns. They motioned Blade to his feet. "Come on, Blade." One began, when the other hit him across the mouth.
"You fool!" he hissed. "You better not call him that; suppose that girl was to hear it? Until the boss gets what he wants on Earth, that girl has got to think that he's Blade! We're killing this guy as Devil Garrett! And a loud-mouthed fool like you ... look out!"
Blade had landed on the bickering men, and was grappling with the one who had called him by name. As the other leaped forward, swinging a clubbing blow with a jet-gun, Star tripped one man into the corner, and ducked under the gun. He hit the man in the stomach, drove a shoulder up under his arms, and smashed the man's face in with a series of sharp blows. The man went reeling backward across the room, and Star's hand leaped toward that "ace card" which he still held.
Devil Garrett stepped in the door, and made a mock out of a courteous bow. As he did so, Star snarled in rage, but stood very still, for the electron knife in Garrett's hand did not waver.
Garrett gestured silently toward the door, and Star, equally silent, walked over and out, at the point of the weapon.
Star Blade stood before a transmitter, and thought about death.
He was very close to it. Garrett stood five yards away, a gun in his hand, and the muzzle trained on Blade's chest. The gun was the universally used weapon of execution, an old projectile-firing weapon.
Star did not doubt that Devil Garrett was an excellent shot with it.
The girl, very round-eyed and nervous, sat by Garrett. He had explained to her that Garrett was the type of pirate that it is law to kill, or have executed, by anyone. Which was very true.
A man stepped away from the transmitter, and nodded to Garrett. Star felt a surge of hope, as he saw that it was a two-way transmitter. If the image of an Interstellar Command headquarters was tuned in—Garrett would undoubtedly do it, if only to show the police that he had killed Starrett Blade—then Garrett could not kill him and cut the beam in time to prevent one of the police from giving a cry that would echo over the sub-space beam arriving almost instantly in this room, and let the girl know that she had been tricked. And Garrett would not want that. Not that it would matter to Starrett Blade.
Then Star saw what kind of a transmitter it was, and he groaned. It was not a Hineson Sub-space beamer ... it was an old-style transmitter which had different wave speeds, because of the different space-bridger units in it.
The visual image would arrive many seconds before the sound did. Thus the girl would not hear Garrett revealed, but would see only Blade's death. And then ... whatever Garrett had planned, Blade wished heartily that he could have the chance to interfere.
The beam was coming in. Star saw the mists swimming on the screen change, solidify into a figure ... the figure of District Commander Weddel seated at a desk. He saw Weddel's eyebrows rise, saw his lips move—then Garrett stepped over a pace, and Weddel saw him, saw the gun in his hand....
The police officer yelled, silently, and came to his feet, an expression of shocked surprise on his face—surprise, Blade thought desperately, that the girl might interpret as shock at seeing Devil Garrett.
Which was right, in a way.
Then, as Commander Weddel leapt to his feet, as Devil Garrett's finger tightened on the trigger, as the girl sucked in her breath involuntarily, Star Blade scooped up a bit of metal—a fork—and flung it at the vision transmitter.
Not at the screen. But at the equipment behind the dial-board. At a certain small unit, which was almost covered by wires and braces for the large tubes. And the fork struck it, bit deep, and caused result.
Result in the form of a burned-out set. If television equipment can curse, that set cursed them. Its spitting of sparks and blue electric flame mingled with a strange, high-pitched whine.
It was the diversion that caused Garrett to miss Star, which gave him time to pull three or four of Garrett's men onto the floor with him. One of the men drove the butt of a jet-gun into the side of Star's head, and for the third time, he went very limp. The last thing he saw was the girl.
Somehow, the expression on her face was different from what it had been. He was searching for the difference, when the blow struck him. Somewhere in the space that lies between consciousness and unconsciousness, he reflected bitterly that if he kept staring at the girl when he should be fighting, he might not recover some day. This was the third time that he had been knocked out that way. It was not getting monotonous. He still felt it a novelty.
Star awoke in the same prison cell, facing the wall away from the door. He wondered if he were still alive, tried to move his head, and decided that he wasn't. He didn't even get up or look around when he dimly heard the door being opened.
But when he heard the girl's voice, he came up and around very swiftly, despite his head.
It was the girl all right. Even through the tumbled mists of his brain, he could see that she was not a dream. And as he reeled and fell against the wall, she was beside him in a flash, her arm supporting him.
At first he tried to push himself erect, his head whirling with sick dizziness, and bewilderment. Through a twisting haze, he peered up at the girl's face. It reflected a look that, amazingly, was one of—with no other phrase to do—compassion. Star half-sighed, and laid his head on the girl's breast, and closed his eyes.
In a minute or two, she said tensely, "Are you all right?" Star looked up at her.
"I guess so. Here—give a hand while I get my balance." She held him as he tried a step or two, and then he straightened. "I guess I'll be all right, now," he smiled. "My head feels like—say! How come you're doing this? What made you change your mind? And who are you?"
She said quickly, breathlessly, "I know you're Star Blade, now. That transmission set.... I can read lips! I knew what that officer was saying! It was just as if I had heard him say that ... that you were Starrett Blade and that man out there is Devil Garrett!" she made a choking sound. "And I've been here, alone, for a month! For a month!"
"A month? Huh—please—you...?"
Star took a breath, and started over. "You.... Who are you? What are you doing here?"
She said, "I'm Anne Hinton. My father is Old John Hinton. Have you heard of him?"
"Of course!" said Star. "He manufactures most of the equipment ' Blade Cosmian ' uses. Weapons, Hineson Sub-Spacers, Star-Traveler craft ... the ship I was in when Garrett brought me down was a Hinton craft. I should have recognized the name. But go on. What—"
"Garrett communicated with dad, secretly. He posed as Starrett Blade, as you, and told dad that he was developing certain new power processes. And he is! He has a new—or maybe it isn't so new—way of electrolyzing water to liberate hydrogen and oxygen."
"I think I understand," said Star quickly. "When the oxygen and hydrogen are allowed to combine, and produce an explosion which drive a turbine-generator. Then that could be hitched up to a cyclotron, and even the most barren of Alpha's lake-rock planets could be...."
"No," she shook her head puzzledly. "It's just electric power. He said that atomics would release stray rays that would attract pirates."
"I know," Star nodded, abstractedly. "I was thinking of another application of it ... hmm. But say! What was Garrett after? I know that he wouldn't do this just to get a secret process sold. He must have had another plan behind it. Got any idea?"
Anne shook her head slowly. "I don't know. I can't see...."
"Perhaps I could help you?" Devil Garrett asked smoothly from the door.
Star whirled, thrust Anne behind him, but there was no way out. Garrett stood in the door, and there were men behind him. The jet in his hand could kill both of the two at one shot. And they had no weapons to resist with.
Devil Garrett stepped them out of the room, and down the corridor, through a large door Star had noticed at the end of the passage, and into a huge room.
It must have been a thousand feet long, and half that wide. It was at least a hundred yards deep. And it was almost filled with gigantic machines.
Between the machinery, the spaces were almost filled with steel ladders and cat-walks. Crews of men swarmed over them. It was the largest mass of equipment Starrett had ever seen.
His eyes began to pick out details. Those huge vat-like things down at the far end, with the large cables running into them, and the mighty pumps connected to them ... they were probably the electrolysis chambers.
And those great pipes, they must carry the hydrogen and oxygen from the electro chambers to the large replicas of engines, which could be nothing else but the explosion chambers, where the gases were allowed to re-unite, and explode. And there by the giant engines, those must be turbines, which in turn connected with the vast-sized generators just under the platforms on which they stood.
Star Blade whistled softly through his teeth. A huge enterprise! It could be ... but for a moment he had forgotten Devil Garrett.
The girl standing by his side, Star turned toward Garrett. "Well?"
Garrett smiled his mocking grin. "You grasp the principle, of course. But let me show you ... you see those pipes that run from the turbines after the wheels?"
"Yes. They carry the gases off. Where do they lead?"
"Into giant subterranean caverns beneath the surface!" Garrett said.
"Now look over there, on the platforms across from us. Can you recognize a Barden energy-beamer, Blade? Run by power from my little plant here, which is run by water from a thousand lakes!
"Just imagine, if you can, hundreds of those plants all over Alpha III. And each one with dozens of high-powered Barden beams to protect it! And Hinton ray screens to protect us from radio-controlled rocket shells from space, or Barden Rays, or any other weapon of offence, or to warn if anyone lands on this planet!" Garrett leaned forward, his eyes aglow.
"Blade, I'll take over the few governing posts on this little planet, and I'll rule an entire world, a whole planet to myself! It'll be the first time in history! And it won't be the last. With the Hinton secret patents, the plans of all John Hinton's inventions and processes...."
Star twisted, and got his "ace card" out of its hiding place.
It was a jet weapon, little more than a jet-blast capsule for a jet-gun. The sides were thicker and stronger, and there was a device fixed on it so it could be fired. Altogether, it was somewhat smaller than an old-style fountain pen.
He twisted up from the floor, and moved faster than he had moved ever before. Star was famous for his speed and the quickness and alertness of his reflexes. He earned his fame a score of times over in that one instant.
And Devil Garrett died.
There was perhaps an eighth of a second between the staff of blue white fire from the tiny jet in Star's hand and the huge broadsword of fire from Garrett's gun. But in the split-second Star's fire knifed into Garrett's vitals, and Garrett gave a convulsive jerk, and fired even as his muscles started the jerking movement.
And the flame went over Star's head, singeing his scalp.
Of the four men with Garrett, one let go of the struggling Anne, and swore as he snatched at an electron knife in his belt. Anne's hand had already whipped the knife out, and without bothering to press the electron stud, she buried the knife in his back.
Two of the remaining men whirled, and went for the door as though a devil was after them. The other tried to get a jet-gun out. It was his final mistake. A blue lance from Anne's knife whipped close enough to him to make him dodge, and then Star got his hand on Garrett's jet.
The other two men had, in their flight, taken a door which led, not into the large corridor, but into a small room at one side, a room filled with instruments and recording devices for the machinery in the room below. Star leaped to the side of the door, and called, "Are you going to come out, or am I coming in to get you?"
There was a short silence, in which Anne heard one say hoarsely, "He can't get us ... we could get him if he came in the door."
"Oh, yes?" was the answer. "Do you know who that guy is? He's the one they call 'Death Star.' I'm not facing Starrett Blade in a gun fight. You can do what you like, but I'm leaving." Then he lifted his voice.
"Hey, Blade! I'm coming out. Don't shoot."
"Okay," threw back Star and the man appeared in the doorway, empty hands held high. After a second, the other joined him.
Anne turned to Star. "Now I know why they call you 'Death Star' Blade," she said, and gestured toward the men who had surrendered, and the two whom Starrett had shot down.
He mused there for a minute. Then Anne broke the silence with, "Star, what are we going to do now? Garrett's men will be up here in a little while. We can't get to a sub-space beam. What are we going to do when they come up to investigate?"
Starrett Blade laughed. "Do? Well, we could turn them over to Commander Weddel!"
" What? "
Grinning broadly, Star pointed, with a flourish, at the door. Anne spun about, and found Commander Weddel grinning in the door from the corridor.
"Very simple," said Star across the lounge to Anne. "When I smashed the vision set with that dinner fork, I broke a small unit which is included in all sets. You know, a direction finder doesn't work, except in the liner-beam principle, in space, because of the diffusing effect of unrestricted cosmic rays."
"Yes, I knew that," said Anne. "But how—"
Starrett grinned again. "A type of beam has been found which it is impossible for cosmics to disturb. But you can't send messages on it, so it is made in a little unit on every set. If that unit is broken, the set automatically releases a signal beam. This is a distress signal, and the location of the set that sent out the signal is recorded at the Section Headquarters. When Commander Weddel saw me throw something at the set, and it went dead, he looked at the automatic record, and found out that a signal had been sent in from a location on Alpha Cen's third planet. Then he had a high-velocity cruiser brought out and dropped in, in time to pick up some pieces." He stopped, and idly toyed with a sheaf of papers, then held them up. "See these papers?"
"Uh-huh. What are they, Star?"
"They are the main plans of Devil Garrett's power plant, and they're the one good thing he's ever done. These plans are going to bring the barren, rocky Centauri planets to life!"
He got up, and paced to the window, and stood there, looking out, and up through the plastic port. "The planets of Centauri!" he murmured softly. "Seven circling Alpha alone. And all seven are barren, rocky, level except for the thousands of lakes ... lakes that are going to be the life of Centauri!"
He turned back to the window. "And all because a pirate named Devil Garrett built a vast power plant to use to garner more power!"
"You know, Anne, as a mockery, and a warning, I think I'll propose that this planet be officially named ... 'Garrett'!"
She looked up at him, and there was laughter bright in her eyes, and tugging at her mouth. "Yes, there ought to be a reason," she murmured. Star wavered. She was so darn close.
After a minute, she turned her head, and looked up at him. "Star, how soon will there be those gardens and woods you described? I mean, how long before Garrett can be turned into that kind of world you described?"
"Why ... under pressure, we can do it in six months. Why?"
"Not half quick enough," she murmured happily, "but it'll have to do, Star." Laughing, she turned her face up to his. "Have you ever thought that planet Garrett will be wonderful for a honeymoon?"
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What is the plot of the story?
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After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about His Master's Voice by Randall Garrett.
Relevant chunks:
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from Analog March 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
ILLUSTRATED BY KRENKEL
HIS MASTER'S VOICE ANALOG SCIENCE FACT · SCIENCE FICTION
Spaceship McGuire had lots of knowledge—but no wisdom. He was smart—but incredibly foolish. And, as a natural consequence, tended to ask questions too profound for any philosopher—questions like "Who are you?"
By RANDALL GARRETT
I'd been in Ravenhurst's office on the mountain-sized planetoid called Raven's Rest only twice before. The third time was no better; Shalimar Ravenhurst was one of the smartest operators in the Belt, but when it came to personal relationships, he was utterly incompetent. He could make anyone dislike him without trying.
When I entered the office, he was
[3]
sitting behind his mahogany desk, his eyes focused on the operation he was going through with a wineglass and a decanter. He didn't look up at me as he said:
"Sit down, Mr. Oak. Will you have some Madeira?"
I decided I might as well observe the pleasantries. There was no point in my getting nasty until he did. "Thank you, Mr. Ravenhurst, I will."
He kept his eyes focused on his work: It isn't easy to pour wine on a planetoid where the gee-pull is measured in fractions of a centimeter per second squared. It moves slowly, like ropy molasses, but you have to be careful not to be fooled by that. The viscosity is just as low as ever, and if you pour it from any great height, it will go scooting right out of the glass
[4]
again. The momentum it builds up is enough to make it splash right out again in a slow-motion gush which gets it all over the place.
Besides which, even if it didn't splash, it would take it so long to fall a few inches that you'd die of thirst waiting for it.
Ravenhurst had evolved a technique from long years of practice. He tilted the glass and the bottle toward each other, their edges touching, like you do when you're trying to pour beer without putting a head on it. As soon as the wine wet the glass, the adhesive forces at work would pull more wine into the wine glass. To get capillary action on a low-gee asteroid, you don't need a capillary, by any means. The negative meniscus on the wine was something to see; the first time you see it, you get the eerie feeling that the glass is spinning and throwing the wine up against the walls by centrifugal force.
I took the glass he offered me (Careful! Don't slosh!) and sipped at it. Using squirt tubes would have been a hell of a lot easier and neater, but Ravenhurst liked to do things his way.
He put the stopper back in the decanter, picked up his own glass and sipped appreciatively. Not until he put it back down on the desk again did he raise his eyes and look at me for the first time since I'd come in.
"Mr. Oak, you have caused me considerable trouble."
"I thought we'd hashed all that out, Mr. Ravenhurst," I said, keeping my voice level.
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"So had I. But it appears that there were more ramifications to your action than we had at first supposed." His voice had the texture of heavy linseed oil.
He waited, as if he expected me to make some reply to that. When I didn't, he sighed slightly and went on. "I fear that you have inadvertently sabotaged McGuire. You were commissioned to prevent sabotage, Mr. Oak, and I'm afraid that you abrogated your contract."
I just continued to keep my voice calm. "If you are trying to get back the fee you gave me, we can always take it to court. I don't think you'd win."
"Mr. Oak," he said heavily, "I am not a fool, regardless of what your own impression may be. If I were trying to get back that fee, I would hardly offer to pay you another one."
I didn't think he was a fool. You don't get into the managerial business and climb to the top and stay there unless you have brains. Ravenhurst was smart, all right; it was just that, when it came to personal relationships, he wasn't very wise.
"Then stop all this yak about an abrogated contract and get to the point," I told him.
"I shall. I was merely trying to point out to you that it is through your own actions that I find myself in a very trying position, and that your sense of honor and ethics should induce you to rectify the damage."
"My honor and ethics are in fine shape," I said, "but my interpretation of the concepts might not be quite
[6]
the same as yours. Get to the point."
He took another sip of Madeira. "The robotocists at Viking tell me that, in order to prevent any further ... ah ... sabotage by unauthorized persons, the MGYR-7 was constructed so that, after activation, the first man who addressed orders to it would thenceforth be considered its ... ah ... master.
"As I understand it, the problem of defining the term 'human being' unambiguously to a robot is still unsolved. The robotocists felt that it would be much easier to define a single individual. That would prevent the issuing of conflicting orders to a robot, provided the single individual were careful in giving orders himself.
"Now, it appears that you , Mr. Oak, were the first man to speak to McGuire after he had been activated. Is that correct?"
"Is that question purely rhetorical," I asked him, putting on my best expression of innocent interest. "Or are you losing your memory?" I had explained all that to him two weeks before, when I'd brought McGuire and the girl here, so that Ravenhurst would have a chance to cover up what had really happened.
My sarcasm didn't faze him in the least. "Rhetorical. It follows that you are the only man whose orders McGuire will obey."
"Your robotocists can change that," I said. This time, I was giving him my version of "genuine" innocence.
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A man has to be a good actor to be a competent double agent, and I didn't want Ravenhurst to know that I knew a great deal more about the problem than he did.
He shook his head, making his jowls wobble. "No, they cannot. They realize now that there should be some way of making that change, but they failed to see that it would be necessary. Only by completely draining McGuire's memory banks and refilling them with new data can this bias be eliminated."
"Then why don't they do that?"
"There are two very good reasons," he said. And there was a shade of anger in his tone. "In the first place, that sort of operation takes time, and it costs money. If we do that, we might as well go ahead and make the slight changes in structure necessary to incorporate some of the improvements that the robotocists now feel are necessary. In other words, they might as well go ahead and build the MGYR-8, which is precisely the thing I hired you to prevent."
"It seems you have a point there, Mr. Ravenhurst." He'd hired me because things were shaky at Viking. If he lost too much more money on the McGuire experiment, he stood a good chance of losing his position as manager. If that happened some of his other managerial contracts might be canceled, too. Things like that can begin to snowball, and Ravenhurst might find himself out of the managerial business entirely.
"But," I went on, "hasn't the additional wasted time already cost you
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money?"
"It has. I was reluctant to call you in again—understandably enough, I think."
"Perfectly. It's mutual."
He ignored me. "I even considered going through with the rebuilding work, now that we have traced down the source of failure of the first six models. Unfortunately, that isn't feasible, either." He scowled at me.
"It seems," he went on, "that McGuire refuses to allow his brain to be tampered with. The self-preservation 'instinct' has come to the fore. He has refused to let the technicians and robotocists enter his hull, and he has threatened to take off and leave Ceres if any further attempts are made to ... ah ... disrupt his thinking processes."
"I can't say that I blame him," I said. "What do you want me to do? Go to Ceres and tell him to submit like a good boy?"
"It is too late for that, Mr. Oak. Viking cannot stand any more of that kind of drain on its financial resources. I have been banking on the McGuire-type ships to put Viking Spacecraft ahead of every other spacecraft company in the System." He looked suddenly very grim and very determined. "Mr. Oak, I am certain that the robot ship is the answer to the transportation problems in the Solar System. For the sake of every human being in the Solar System, we must get the bugs out of McGuire!"
What's good for General Bull-moose is good for everybody , I quoted to myself. I'd have said it out loud,
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but I was fairly certain that Shalimar Ravenhurst was not a student of the classics.
"Mr. Oak, I would like you to go to Ceres and co-operate with the robotocists at Viking. When the MGYR-8 is finally built, I want it to be the prototype for a fast, safe, functional robot spaceship that can be turned out commercially. You can be of great service, Mr. Oak."
"In other words, I've got you over a barrel."
"I don't deny it."
"You know what my fees are, Mr. Ravenhurst. That's what you'll be charged. I'll expect to be paid weekly; if Viking goes broke, I don't want to lose more than a week's pay. On the other hand, if the MGYR-8 is successful, I will expect a substantial bonus."
"How much?"
"Exactly half of the cost of rebuilding. Half what it would take to build a Model 8 right now, and taking a chance on there being no bugs in it."
He considered that, looking grimmer than ever. Then he said: "I will do it on the condition that the bonus be paid off in installments, one each six months for three years after the first successful commercial ship is built by Viking."
"My lawyer will nail you down on that wording," I said, "but it's a deal. Is there anything else?"
"No."
"Then I think I'll leave for Ceres before you break a blood vessel."
"You continue to amaze me, Mr. Oak," he said. And the soft oiliness
[10]
of his voice was the oil of vitriol. "Your compassion for your fellowman is a facet of your personality that I had not seen before. I shall welcome the opportunity to relax and allow my blood pressure to subside."
I could almost see Shalimar Ravenhurst suddenly exploding and adding his own touch of color to the room.
And, on that gladsome thought, I left. I let him have his small verbal triumph; if he'd known that I'd have taken on the job for almost nothing, he'd really have blown up.
Ten minutes later, I was in my vacuum suit, walking across the glaring, rough-polished rectangle of metal that was the landing field of Raven's Rest. The sun was near the zenith in the black, diamond-dusted sky, and the shadow of my flitterboat stood out like an inkblot on a bridal gown. I climbed in, started the engine, and released the magnetic anchor that held the little boat to the surface of the nickel-iron planetoid. I lifted her gently, worked her around until I was stationary in relation to the spinning planetoid, oriented myself against the stellar background, and headed toward the first blinker beacon on my way to Ceres.
For obvious economical reasons, it it impracticable to use full-sized spaceships in the Belt. A flitterboat, with a single gravitoinertial engine and the few necessities of life—air, some water, and a very little food—still costs more than a Rolls-Royce
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automobile does on Earth, but there has to be some sort of individual transportation in the Belt.
They can't be used for any great distances because a man can't stay in a vac suit very long without getting uncomfortable. You have to hop from beacon to beacon, which means that your average velocity doesn't amount to much, since you spend too much time accelerating and decelerating. But a flitterboat is enough to get around the neighborhood in, and that's all that's needed.
I got the GM-187 blinker in my sights, eased the acceleration up to one gee, relaxed to watch the radar screen while I thought over my coming ordeal with McGuire.
Testing spaceships, robotic or any other kind, is strictly not my business. The sign on the door of my office in New York says: DANIEL OAK, Confidential Expediter ; I'm hired to help other people Get Things Done. Usually, if someone came to me with the problem of getting a spaceship test-piloted, I'd simply dig up the best test pilot in the business, hire him for my client, and forget about everything but collecting my fee. But I couldn't have refused this case if I'd wanted to. I'd already been assigned to it by someone a lot more important than Shalimar Ravenhurst.
Every schoolchild who has taken a course in Government Organization and Function can tell you that the Political Survey Division is a branch of the System Census Bureau of the UN Government, and that its job is to evaluate the political activities of
[12]
various sub-governments all over the System.
And every one of those poor tykes would be dead wrong.
The Political Survey Division does evaluate political activity, all right, but it is the Secret Service of the UN Government. The vast majority of
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the System's citizens don't even know the Government has a Secret Service. I happen to know only because I'm an agent of the Political Survey Division.
The PSD was vitally interested in the whole McGuire project. Robots of McGuire's complexity had been built before; the robot that runs the traffic patterns of the American Eastern Seaboard is just as capable as McGuire when it comes to handling a tremendous number of variables and making decisions on them. But that robot didn't have to be given orders except in extreme emergencies. Keeping a few million cars moving and safe at the same time is actually pretty routine stuff for a robot. And a traffic robot isn't given orders verbally; it is given any orders that may be necessary via teletype by a trained programming technician. Those orders are usually in reference to a change of routing due to repair work on the highways or the like. The robot itself can take care of such emergencies as bad weather or even an accident caused by the malfunctioning of an individual automobile.
McGuire was different. In the first place, he was mobile. He was in command of a spacecraft. In a sense, he was the spacecraft, since it served him in a way that was analogous to the way a human body serves the human mind. And he wasn't in charge of millions of objects with a top velocity of a hundred and fifty miles an hour; he was in charge of a single object that moved at velocities of thousands of miles per second. Nor
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did he have a set, unmoving highway as his path; his paths were variable and led through the emptiness of space.
Unforeseen emergencies can happen at any time in space, most of them having to do with the lives of passengers. A cargo ship would be somewhat less susceptible to such emergencies if there were no humans aboard; it doesn't matter much to a robot if he has no air in his hull.
But with passengers aboard, there may be times when it would be necessary to give orders— fast ! And that means verbal orders, orders that can be given anywhere in the ship and relayed immediately by microphone to the robot's brain. A man doesn't have time to run to a teletyper and type out orders when there's an emergency in space.
That meant that McGuire had to understand English, and, since there has to be feedback in communication, he had to be able to speak it as well.
And that made McGuire more than somewhat difficult to deal with.
For more than a century, robotocists have been trying to build Asimov's famous Three Laws of Robotics into a robot brain.
First Law: A robot shall not, either through action or inaction, allow harm to come to a human being.
Second Law: A robot shall obey the orders of a human being, except when such orders conflict with the First Law .
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Third Law: A robot shall strive to protect its own existence, except when this conflicts with the First or Second Law.
Nobody has succeeded yet, because nobody has yet succeeded in defining the term "human being" in such a way that the logical mind of a robot can encompass the concept.
A traffic robot is useful only because the definition has been rigidly narrowed down. As far as a traffic robot is concerned, "human beings" are the automobiles on its highways. Woe betide any poor sap who tries, illegally, to cross a robot-controlled highway on foot. The robot's only concern would be with the safety of the automobiles, and if the only way to avoid destruction of an automobile were to be by nudging the pedestrian aside with a fender, that's what would happen.
And, since its orders only come from one place, I suppose that a traffic robot thinks that the guy who uses that typer is an automobile.
With the first six models of the McGuire ships, the robotocists attempted to build in the Three Laws exactly as stated. And the first six went insane.
If one human being says "jump left," and another says "jump right," the robot is unable to evaluate which human being has given the more valid order. Feed enough confusing and conflicting data into a robot brain, and it can begin behaving in ways that, in a human being, would be called paranoia or schizophrenia or catatonia or what-have-you, depending
[16]
on the symptoms. And an insane robot is fully as dangerous as an insane human being controlling the same mechanical equipment, if not more so.
So the seventh model had been modified. The present McGuire's brain was impressed with slight modifications of the First and Second Laws.
If it is difficult to define a human being, it is much more difficult to define a responsible human being. One, in other words, who can be relied upon to give wise and proper orders to a robot, who can be relied upon not to drive the robot insane.
The robotocists at Viking Spacecraft had decided to take another tack. "Very well," they'd said, "if we can't define all the members of a group, we can certainly define an individual. We'll pick one responsible person and build McGuire so that he will take orders only from that person."
As it turned out, I was that person. Just substitute "Daniel Oak" for "human being" in the First and Second Laws, and you'll see how important I was to a certain spaceship named McGuire.
When I finally caught the beam from Ceres and set my flitterboat down on the huge landing field that had been carved from the nickel-iron of the asteroid with a focused sun beam, I was itchy with my own perspiration and groggy tired. I don't like riding in flitterboats, sitting on a
[17]
bucket seat, astride the drive tube, like a witch on a broomstick, with nothing but a near-invisible transite hull between me and the stars, all cooped up in a vac suit. Unlike driving a car, you can't pull a flitterboat over and take a nap; you have to wait until you hit the next beacon station.
Ceres, the biggest rock in the Belt, is a lot more than just a beacon station. Like Eros and a few others, it's a city in its own right. And except for the Government Reservation, Viking Spacecraft owned Ceres, lock, stock, and mining rights.
Part of the reason for Viking's troubles was envy of that ownership. There were other companies in the Belt that would like to get their hands on that plum, and there were those who were doing everything short of cutting throats to get it. The PSD was afraid it might come to that, too, before very long.
Ceres is fifty-eight million cubic miles of nickel-iron, but nobody would cut her up for that. Nickel-iron is almost exactly as cheap as dirt on Earth, and, considering shipping costs, Earth soil costs a great deal more than nickel-iron in the Belt.
But, as an operations base, Ceres is second to none. Its surface gravity averages .0294 Standard Gee, as compared with Earth's .981, and that's enough to give a slight feeling of weight without unduly hampering the body with too much load. I weigh just under six pounds on Ceres, and after I've been there a while, going back to Earth is a strain that takes a
[18]
week to get used to. Kids that are brought up in the Belt are forced to exercise in a room with a one-gee spin on it at least an hour a day. They don't like it at first, but it keeps them from growing up with the strength of mice. And an adult with any sense takes a spin now and then, too. Traveling in a flitterboat will give you a one-gee pull, all right, but you don't get much exercise.
I parked my flitterboat in the space that had been assigned to me by Landing Control, and went over to the nearest air-lock dome.
After I'd cycled through and had shucked my vac suit, I went into the inner room to find Colonel Brock waiting for me.
"Have a good trip, Oak?" he asked, trying to put a smile on his scarred, battered face.
"I got here alive, if that makes it a good flitterboat trip," I said, shaking his extended hand.
"That's the definition of a good trip," he told me.
"Then the question was superfluous. Seriously, what I need is a bath and some sleep."
"You'll get that, but first let's go somewhere where we can talk. Want a drink?"
"I could use one, I guess. Your treat?"
"My treat," he said. "Come on."
I followed him out and down a ladder to a corridor that led north. By definition, any asteroid spins toward the east, and all directions follow from that, regardless of which way the axis may point.
[19]
Colonel Harrington Brock was dressed in the black-and-gold "union suit" that was the uniform of Ravenhurst's Security Guard. My own was a tasteful green, but some of the other people in the public corridor seemed to go for more flashiness; besides silver and gold, there were shocking pinks and violent mauves, with stripes and blazes of other colors.
A crowd wearing skin-tight cover-alls might shock the gentle people of Midwich-on-the-Moor, England, but they are normal dress in the Belt. You can't climb into a vac suit with bulky clothing on, and, if you did, you'd hate yourself within an hour, with a curse for every wrinkle that chafed your skin. And, in the Belt, you never know when you might have to get into a vac suit fast. In a "safe" area like the tunnels inside Ceres, there isn't much chance of losing air, but there are places where no one but a fool would ever be more than ten seconds away from his vac suit.
I read an article by a psychologist a few months back, in which he claimed that the taste for loud colors in union suits was actually due to modesty. He claimed that the bright patterns drew attention to the colors themselves, and away from the base the colors were laid over. The observer, he said, tends to see the color and pattern of the suit, rather than the body it clings to so closely. Maybe he's right; I wouldn't know, not being a psychologist. I have spent summers in nudist resorts, though, and I never noticed anyone painting themselves with lavender
[20]
and chartreuse checks. On the other hand, the people who go to nudist resorts are a self-screened group. So are the people who go to the Belt, for that matter, but the type of screening is different.
I'll just leave that problem in the hands of the psychologists, and go on wearing my immodestly quiet solid-color union suits.
Brock pushed open the inch-thick metal door beneath a sign that said
"O'Banion's Bar," and I followed him in. We sat down at a table and ordered drinks when the waiter bustled over. A cop in uniform isn't supposed to drink, but Brock figures that the head of the Security Guard ought to be able to get away with a breach of his own rules.
We had our drinks in front of us and our cigarettes lit before Brock opened up with his troubles.
"Oak," he said, "I wanted to intercept you before you went to the plant because I want you to know that there may be trouble."
"Yeah? What kind?" Sometimes it's a pain to play ignorant.
"Thurston's outfit is trying to oust Ravenhurst from the managership of Viking and take over the job. Baedecker Metals & Mining Corporation, which is managed by Baedecker himself, wants to force Viking out of business so that BM&M can take over Ceres for large-scale processing of precious metals.
"Between the two of 'em, they're raising all sorts of minor hell around
[21]
here, and it's liable to become major hell at any time. And we can't stand any hell—or sabotage—around this planetoid just now!"
"Now wait a minute," I said, still playing ignorant, "I thought we'd pretty well established that the 'sabotage' of the McGuire series was Jack Ravenhurst's fault. She was the one who was driving them nuts, not Thurston's agents."
"Perfectly true," he said agreeably. "We managed to block any attempts of sabotage by other company agents, even though it looked as though we hadn't for a while." He chuckled wryly. "We went all out to keep the McGuires safe, and all the time the boss' daughter was giving them the works." Then he looked sharply at me. "I covered that, of course. No one in the Security Guard but me knows that Jack was responsible."
"Good. But what about the Thurston and Baedecker agents, then?"
He took a hefty slug of his drink. "They're around, all right. We have our eyes on the ones we know, but those outfits are as sharp as we are, and they may have a few agents here on Ceres that we know nothing about."
"So? What does this have to do with me?"
He put his drink on the table. "Oak, I want you to help me." His onyx-brown eyes, only a shade darker than his skin, looked directly into my own. "I know it isn't part of your assignment, and you know I can't afford to pay you anything near what you're worth. It will have to come out of my
[22]
pocket because I couldn't possibly justify it from operating funds. Ravenhurst specifically told me that he doesn't want you messing around with the espionage and sabotage problem because he doesn't like your methods of operation."
"And you're going to go against his orders?"
"I am. Ravenhurst is sore at you personally because you showed him that Jack was responsible for the McGuire sabotage. It's an irrational dislike, and I am not going to let it interfere with my job. I'm going to protect Ravenhurst's interests to the best of my ability, and that means that I'll use the best of other people's abilities if I can."
I grinned at him. "The last I heard, you were sore at me for blatting it all over Ceres that Jaqueline Ravenhurst was missing, when she sneaked aboard McGuire."
He nodded perfunctorily. "I was. I still think you should have told me what you were up to. But you did it, and you got results that I'd been unable to get. I'm not going to let a momentary pique hang on as an irrational dislike. I like to think I have more sense than that."
"Thanks." There wasn't much else I could say.
"Now, I've got a little dough put away; it's not much, but I could offer you—"
I shook my head, cutting him off. "Nope. Sorry, Brock. For two reasons. In the first place, there would be a conflict of interest. I'm working for Ravenhurst, and if he doesn't want
[23]
me to work for you, then it would be unethical for me to take the job.
"In the second place, my fees are standardized. Oh, I can allow a certain amount of fluctuation, but I'm not a physician or a lawyer; my services are
[24]
not necessary to the survival of the individual, except in very rare cases, and those cases are generally arranged through a lawyer when it's a charity case.
"No, colonel, I'm afraid I couldn't
[25]
possibly work for you."
He thought that over for a long time. Finally, he nodded his head very slowly. "I see. Yeah, I get your point." He scowled down at his drink.
" But ," I said, "it would be a pleasure
[26]
to work with you."
He looked up quickly. "How's that?"
"Well, let's look at it this way: You can't hire me because I'm already working for Ravenhurst; I can't hire
[27]
you because you're working for Ravenhurst. But since we may need each other, and since we're both working for Ravenhurst, there would be no conflict of interest if we co-operate.
"Or, to put it another way, I can't take money for any service I may render you, but you can pay off in services. Am I coming through?"
His broad smile made the scars on his face fold in and deepen. "Loud and clear. It's a deal."
I held up a hand, palm toward him. "Ah, ah, ah! There's no 'deal' involved. We're just old buddies helping each other. This is for friendship, not business. I scratch your back; you scratch mine. Fair?"
"Fair. Come on down to my office; I want to give you a headful of facts and figures."
"Will do. Let me finish my guzzle."
Question:
What is the plot of the story?
Answer:
|
[
"The story begins with Daniel Oak going into Ravenhurst’s office to talk with him about another job. Ravenhurst tells Daniel that there is an issue with the robot McGuire because the robot will only listen to Daniel’s commands. This happened because of the way the robot was programmed and Daniel happened to trigger the programming that attaches the robot to whoever the first person was to speak to it. \n\nRavenhurst does not like Daniel’s methods but hires him anyways to fix the situation. Daniel believes that he is hired because Ravenhurst is afraid of losing his manager position. Ravenhurst hires and sends Daniel to the planet Ceres to work with the roboticists at Viking. Daniel puts on his vacuum suit and boards a flitterboat to Ceres. The reader learns that Daniel is a double agent as he actually works for the UN government’s Secret Service agency, also known as the Political Survey Division.\n\nDaniel is sent to Ceres to help with the robot McGuire. When he arrives at Ceres he is met by Colonel Harrington Brock. He goes to have a drink with Colonel Brock and they create a separate plan from Ravenhurst and team up to implement their own solution to the McGuire problem. \n",
"Daniel Oak enters the office of Shalimar Ravenhurst, the manager of the Viking Spacecraft company whom he describes as an intelligent but unlikeable man, on the planetoid Raven’s Rest. Ravenhurst offers Daniel a glass of wine, and reminds him that he has caused him trouble in the past. He reminds Daniel that the MGYR-7, an advanced robot spaceship operating system capable of understanding and speaking English nicknamed the McGuire, considers only Daniel as its master, rendering it uncooperative. Because of the McGuire self-preservation directive, it doesn’t allow this obedience to be erased. The most efficient path forward, Ravenhurt concludes, is to build the eighth iteration of MGYR, and he hires Daniel to expedite the process. \nDaniel leaves Raven’s Rest and travels in his flitterboat to the planetoid Ceres, a large asteroid with weak a gravitational force conducive to manufacturing mainly owned by Viking, and from which it operates. Daniel is an expediter, a job which involves speeding up projects for companies who hire him. We also learn that Daniel is a member of the Political Survey Division of the UN Government, which is interested in the McGuire project. However, it is not because of its sophistication and complexity, which is similar to that of a traffic pattern control robot, that Daniel has been tasked with gathering information about the McGuire, but rather its language-processing abilities.\nDaniel describes Asimov’s three laws of the robotic brain, which in summary direct the machine to obey human beings. However, because of the difficulty in defining a human being, the first six iterations of the McGuire have failed when conflicting directions are given. Only in the seventh iteration, when the McGuire is directed to regard only the person to first give it instructions as its commander, does the machine achieve any success. \nLanding on Ceres, Daniel is greeted by Colonel Harrington Brock, the head of Ravenhurst’s Security Guard who is dressed in a black-and-gold skin tight suit. Brock invites Daniel for a drink, which he accepts. Brock tells Daniel, who feigns ignorance about the subject, about two competing companies, Thurston and Baedecker Metals & Mining, who aim to sabotage Viking in order to assume control of Ceres. Despite having been asked by Ravenhurst, who disapproves of Daniel’s methods, not to involve Daniel on the project, Brock asks for Daniel’s help on this matter of corporate espionage. Though he refuses being employed by Brock, citing conflicts of interest, he agrees to enter into a cooperative relationship and to help out. \n",
"Daniel Oak, a \"Confidential Expediter\" and agent of the Political Survey Division, is called into the office of Shalimar Ravenhurst, owner of Viking Spacecraft. Work is being done to create a new version of a complex robot, called McGuire, who has been sabotaged in its past six attempts. Daniel has been hired to get down to the issue and prevent further sabotage to the seventh model. Upon entering Ravenhurst's office, Daniel is reprimanded as he is told he caused the sabotage of McGuire. McGuire operates to avoid issues by only following the orders of one individual, that person being the first to speak to him; this person ended up being Daniel. Because of this, Ravenhurst tells Daniel that he must go to Ceres, where McGuire is being built, and aid Viking in building a new model. Daniel heads to Ceres in his flitterboat, where he meets Colonel Brock. Brock tells Daniel that a competing business, Baedecker Metals & Mining Corporation, is trying to drive Viking out of business and overtake Ceres and its resources by causing issues and potential sabotages. However, Brock and Daniel are both aware that it was Ravenhurst's daughter, Jack, that has been causing sabotage, which is kept under wraps. Brock then attempts to hire Daniel to help him with the situation, to which Daniel denies, saying that he cannot conflict with Ravenhurst's contract. Daniel then proposes that they instead work alongside each other, and help each other through services and tasks rather than money, and Brock agrees.",
"The story starts with Daniel Oak, a double agent, in Shalimar Raverhurst’s office, and it was the third time that he is on this mountain-sized planetoid. Raverhurst first poured Oak a glass of Madeira. Then he told Oak that he has caused quite a lot of trouble for him. We learn that there is a robot, called McGuire, that has been sabotaged by Oak while he is hired to prevent those kind of things. Because it is kind of difficult to define human being for the robots, thus McGuire is implemented to follow the order of the first person that it speaks to after activation; and apparently, that person is Oak. Then we learn that Oak is a double agent, and he pretends to not know much about this issue at all. So Raverhurst goes on telling Oak why they cannot undo this sabotage: it’s costly thus not worthwhile, and McGuire does not allow others to change his processes. \n\nThen Raverhurst tells Oak that he will be going to Ceres to help build MGYR-8. So then Oak goes into his flitterboat and is going to Ceres. Then we learn from Oak that McGuire is different from other robots such as a traffic robot. Firstly McGuire is mobile in the sense that he is the spacecraft. His spaceship travels very quickly and there is no set paths for the robot to choose from, there is the whole universe. Moreover, he has to deal with unforeseen emergencies as well as with humans. Thus McGuire needs to be able to understand English and can communicate with humans. The most difficult part is defining “human being,” thus McGuire is set to takes order from one individual. \n\nAfter Oak arrives in Ceres, Colonel Harrington Brock, who is the security guard of Ravenhurst, was waiting for him. Instead of going back for a bath and sleep, Brock asks him to have a drink together. At O’Banion’s Bar Brock asks for Oak’s help, while Oak refuses to help, he suggests that they work together in co-operation."
] |
48513
|
Transcriber's Note:
This etext was produced from Analog March 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
ILLUSTRATED BY KRENKEL
HIS MASTER'S VOICE ANALOG SCIENCE FACT · SCIENCE FICTION
Spaceship McGuire had lots of knowledge—but no wisdom. He was smart—but incredibly foolish. And, as a natural consequence, tended to ask questions too profound for any philosopher—questions like "Who are you?"
By RANDALL GARRETT
I'd been in Ravenhurst's office on the mountain-sized planetoid called Raven's Rest only twice before. The third time was no better; Shalimar Ravenhurst was one of the smartest operators in the Belt, but when it came to personal relationships, he was utterly incompetent. He could make anyone dislike him without trying.
When I entered the office, he was
[3]
sitting behind his mahogany desk, his eyes focused on the operation he was going through with a wineglass and a decanter. He didn't look up at me as he said:
"Sit down, Mr. Oak. Will you have some Madeira?"
I decided I might as well observe the pleasantries. There was no point in my getting nasty until he did. "Thank you, Mr. Ravenhurst, I will."
He kept his eyes focused on his work: It isn't easy to pour wine on a planetoid where the gee-pull is measured in fractions of a centimeter per second squared. It moves slowly, like ropy molasses, but you have to be careful not to be fooled by that. The viscosity is just as low as ever, and if you pour it from any great height, it will go scooting right out of the glass
[4]
again. The momentum it builds up is enough to make it splash right out again in a slow-motion gush which gets it all over the place.
Besides which, even if it didn't splash, it would take it so long to fall a few inches that you'd die of thirst waiting for it.
Ravenhurst had evolved a technique from long years of practice. He tilted the glass and the bottle toward each other, their edges touching, like you do when you're trying to pour beer without putting a head on it. As soon as the wine wet the glass, the adhesive forces at work would pull more wine into the wine glass. To get capillary action on a low-gee asteroid, you don't need a capillary, by any means. The negative meniscus on the wine was something to see; the first time you see it, you get the eerie feeling that the glass is spinning and throwing the wine up against the walls by centrifugal force.
I took the glass he offered me (Careful! Don't slosh!) and sipped at it. Using squirt tubes would have been a hell of a lot easier and neater, but Ravenhurst liked to do things his way.
He put the stopper back in the decanter, picked up his own glass and sipped appreciatively. Not until he put it back down on the desk again did he raise his eyes and look at me for the first time since I'd come in.
"Mr. Oak, you have caused me considerable trouble."
"I thought we'd hashed all that out, Mr. Ravenhurst," I said, keeping my voice level.
[5]
"So had I. But it appears that there were more ramifications to your action than we had at first supposed." His voice had the texture of heavy linseed oil.
He waited, as if he expected me to make some reply to that. When I didn't, he sighed slightly and went on. "I fear that you have inadvertently sabotaged McGuire. You were commissioned to prevent sabotage, Mr. Oak, and I'm afraid that you abrogated your contract."
I just continued to keep my voice calm. "If you are trying to get back the fee you gave me, we can always take it to court. I don't think you'd win."
"Mr. Oak," he said heavily, "I am not a fool, regardless of what your own impression may be. If I were trying to get back that fee, I would hardly offer to pay you another one."
I didn't think he was a fool. You don't get into the managerial business and climb to the top and stay there unless you have brains. Ravenhurst was smart, all right; it was just that, when it came to personal relationships, he wasn't very wise.
"Then stop all this yak about an abrogated contract and get to the point," I told him.
"I shall. I was merely trying to point out to you that it is through your own actions that I find myself in a very trying position, and that your sense of honor and ethics should induce you to rectify the damage."
"My honor and ethics are in fine shape," I said, "but my interpretation of the concepts might not be quite
[6]
the same as yours. Get to the point."
He took another sip of Madeira. "The robotocists at Viking tell me that, in order to prevent any further ... ah ... sabotage by unauthorized persons, the MGYR-7 was constructed so that, after activation, the first man who addressed orders to it would thenceforth be considered its ... ah ... master.
"As I understand it, the problem of defining the term 'human being' unambiguously to a robot is still unsolved. The robotocists felt that it would be much easier to define a single individual. That would prevent the issuing of conflicting orders to a robot, provided the single individual were careful in giving orders himself.
"Now, it appears that you , Mr. Oak, were the first man to speak to McGuire after he had been activated. Is that correct?"
"Is that question purely rhetorical," I asked him, putting on my best expression of innocent interest. "Or are you losing your memory?" I had explained all that to him two weeks before, when I'd brought McGuire and the girl here, so that Ravenhurst would have a chance to cover up what had really happened.
My sarcasm didn't faze him in the least. "Rhetorical. It follows that you are the only man whose orders McGuire will obey."
"Your robotocists can change that," I said. This time, I was giving him my version of "genuine" innocence.
[7]
A man has to be a good actor to be a competent double agent, and I didn't want Ravenhurst to know that I knew a great deal more about the problem than he did.
He shook his head, making his jowls wobble. "No, they cannot. They realize now that there should be some way of making that change, but they failed to see that it would be necessary. Only by completely draining McGuire's memory banks and refilling them with new data can this bias be eliminated."
"Then why don't they do that?"
"There are two very good reasons," he said. And there was a shade of anger in his tone. "In the first place, that sort of operation takes time, and it costs money. If we do that, we might as well go ahead and make the slight changes in structure necessary to incorporate some of the improvements that the robotocists now feel are necessary. In other words, they might as well go ahead and build the MGYR-8, which is precisely the thing I hired you to prevent."
"It seems you have a point there, Mr. Ravenhurst." He'd hired me because things were shaky at Viking. If he lost too much more money on the McGuire experiment, he stood a good chance of losing his position as manager. If that happened some of his other managerial contracts might be canceled, too. Things like that can begin to snowball, and Ravenhurst might find himself out of the managerial business entirely.
"But," I went on, "hasn't the additional wasted time already cost you
[8]
money?"
"It has. I was reluctant to call you in again—understandably enough, I think."
"Perfectly. It's mutual."
He ignored me. "I even considered going through with the rebuilding work, now that we have traced down the source of failure of the first six models. Unfortunately, that isn't feasible, either." He scowled at me.
"It seems," he went on, "that McGuire refuses to allow his brain to be tampered with. The self-preservation 'instinct' has come to the fore. He has refused to let the technicians and robotocists enter his hull, and he has threatened to take off and leave Ceres if any further attempts are made to ... ah ... disrupt his thinking processes."
"I can't say that I blame him," I said. "What do you want me to do? Go to Ceres and tell him to submit like a good boy?"
"It is too late for that, Mr. Oak. Viking cannot stand any more of that kind of drain on its financial resources. I have been banking on the McGuire-type ships to put Viking Spacecraft ahead of every other spacecraft company in the System." He looked suddenly very grim and very determined. "Mr. Oak, I am certain that the robot ship is the answer to the transportation problems in the Solar System. For the sake of every human being in the Solar System, we must get the bugs out of McGuire!"
What's good for General Bull-moose is good for everybody , I quoted to myself. I'd have said it out loud,
[9]
but I was fairly certain that Shalimar Ravenhurst was not a student of the classics.
"Mr. Oak, I would like you to go to Ceres and co-operate with the robotocists at Viking. When the MGYR-8 is finally built, I want it to be the prototype for a fast, safe, functional robot spaceship that can be turned out commercially. You can be of great service, Mr. Oak."
"In other words, I've got you over a barrel."
"I don't deny it."
"You know what my fees are, Mr. Ravenhurst. That's what you'll be charged. I'll expect to be paid weekly; if Viking goes broke, I don't want to lose more than a week's pay. On the other hand, if the MGYR-8 is successful, I will expect a substantial bonus."
"How much?"
"Exactly half of the cost of rebuilding. Half what it would take to build a Model 8 right now, and taking a chance on there being no bugs in it."
He considered that, looking grimmer than ever. Then he said: "I will do it on the condition that the bonus be paid off in installments, one each six months for three years after the first successful commercial ship is built by Viking."
"My lawyer will nail you down on that wording," I said, "but it's a deal. Is there anything else?"
"No."
"Then I think I'll leave for Ceres before you break a blood vessel."
"You continue to amaze me, Mr. Oak," he said. And the soft oiliness
[10]
of his voice was the oil of vitriol. "Your compassion for your fellowman is a facet of your personality that I had not seen before. I shall welcome the opportunity to relax and allow my blood pressure to subside."
I could almost see Shalimar Ravenhurst suddenly exploding and adding his own touch of color to the room.
And, on that gladsome thought, I left. I let him have his small verbal triumph; if he'd known that I'd have taken on the job for almost nothing, he'd really have blown up.
Ten minutes later, I was in my vacuum suit, walking across the glaring, rough-polished rectangle of metal that was the landing field of Raven's Rest. The sun was near the zenith in the black, diamond-dusted sky, and the shadow of my flitterboat stood out like an inkblot on a bridal gown. I climbed in, started the engine, and released the magnetic anchor that held the little boat to the surface of the nickel-iron planetoid. I lifted her gently, worked her around until I was stationary in relation to the spinning planetoid, oriented myself against the stellar background, and headed toward the first blinker beacon on my way to Ceres.
For obvious economical reasons, it it impracticable to use full-sized spaceships in the Belt. A flitterboat, with a single gravitoinertial engine and the few necessities of life—air, some water, and a very little food—still costs more than a Rolls-Royce
[11]
automobile does on Earth, but there has to be some sort of individual transportation in the Belt.
They can't be used for any great distances because a man can't stay in a vac suit very long without getting uncomfortable. You have to hop from beacon to beacon, which means that your average velocity doesn't amount to much, since you spend too much time accelerating and decelerating. But a flitterboat is enough to get around the neighborhood in, and that's all that's needed.
I got the GM-187 blinker in my sights, eased the acceleration up to one gee, relaxed to watch the radar screen while I thought over my coming ordeal with McGuire.
Testing spaceships, robotic or any other kind, is strictly not my business. The sign on the door of my office in New York says: DANIEL OAK, Confidential Expediter ; I'm hired to help other people Get Things Done. Usually, if someone came to me with the problem of getting a spaceship test-piloted, I'd simply dig up the best test pilot in the business, hire him for my client, and forget about everything but collecting my fee. But I couldn't have refused this case if I'd wanted to. I'd already been assigned to it by someone a lot more important than Shalimar Ravenhurst.
Every schoolchild who has taken a course in Government Organization and Function can tell you that the Political Survey Division is a branch of the System Census Bureau of the UN Government, and that its job is to evaluate the political activities of
[12]
various sub-governments all over the System.
And every one of those poor tykes would be dead wrong.
The Political Survey Division does evaluate political activity, all right, but it is the Secret Service of the UN Government. The vast majority of
[13]
the System's citizens don't even know the Government has a Secret Service. I happen to know only because I'm an agent of the Political Survey Division.
The PSD was vitally interested in the whole McGuire project. Robots of McGuire's complexity had been built before; the robot that runs the traffic patterns of the American Eastern Seaboard is just as capable as McGuire when it comes to handling a tremendous number of variables and making decisions on them. But that robot didn't have to be given orders except in extreme emergencies. Keeping a few million cars moving and safe at the same time is actually pretty routine stuff for a robot. And a traffic robot isn't given orders verbally; it is given any orders that may be necessary via teletype by a trained programming technician. Those orders are usually in reference to a change of routing due to repair work on the highways or the like. The robot itself can take care of such emergencies as bad weather or even an accident caused by the malfunctioning of an individual automobile.
McGuire was different. In the first place, he was mobile. He was in command of a spacecraft. In a sense, he was the spacecraft, since it served him in a way that was analogous to the way a human body serves the human mind. And he wasn't in charge of millions of objects with a top velocity of a hundred and fifty miles an hour; he was in charge of a single object that moved at velocities of thousands of miles per second. Nor
[14]
did he have a set, unmoving highway as his path; his paths were variable and led through the emptiness of space.
Unforeseen emergencies can happen at any time in space, most of them having to do with the lives of passengers. A cargo ship would be somewhat less susceptible to such emergencies if there were no humans aboard; it doesn't matter much to a robot if he has no air in his hull.
But with passengers aboard, there may be times when it would be necessary to give orders— fast ! And that means verbal orders, orders that can be given anywhere in the ship and relayed immediately by microphone to the robot's brain. A man doesn't have time to run to a teletyper and type out orders when there's an emergency in space.
That meant that McGuire had to understand English, and, since there has to be feedback in communication, he had to be able to speak it as well.
And that made McGuire more than somewhat difficult to deal with.
For more than a century, robotocists have been trying to build Asimov's famous Three Laws of Robotics into a robot brain.
First Law: A robot shall not, either through action or inaction, allow harm to come to a human being.
Second Law: A robot shall obey the orders of a human being, except when such orders conflict with the First Law .
[15]
Third Law: A robot shall strive to protect its own existence, except when this conflicts with the First or Second Law.
Nobody has succeeded yet, because nobody has yet succeeded in defining the term "human being" in such a way that the logical mind of a robot can encompass the concept.
A traffic robot is useful only because the definition has been rigidly narrowed down. As far as a traffic robot is concerned, "human beings" are the automobiles on its highways. Woe betide any poor sap who tries, illegally, to cross a robot-controlled highway on foot. The robot's only concern would be with the safety of the automobiles, and if the only way to avoid destruction of an automobile were to be by nudging the pedestrian aside with a fender, that's what would happen.
And, since its orders only come from one place, I suppose that a traffic robot thinks that the guy who uses that typer is an automobile.
With the first six models of the McGuire ships, the robotocists attempted to build in the Three Laws exactly as stated. And the first six went insane.
If one human being says "jump left," and another says "jump right," the robot is unable to evaluate which human being has given the more valid order. Feed enough confusing and conflicting data into a robot brain, and it can begin behaving in ways that, in a human being, would be called paranoia or schizophrenia or catatonia or what-have-you, depending
[16]
on the symptoms. And an insane robot is fully as dangerous as an insane human being controlling the same mechanical equipment, if not more so.
So the seventh model had been modified. The present McGuire's brain was impressed with slight modifications of the First and Second Laws.
If it is difficult to define a human being, it is much more difficult to define a responsible human being. One, in other words, who can be relied upon to give wise and proper orders to a robot, who can be relied upon not to drive the robot insane.
The robotocists at Viking Spacecraft had decided to take another tack. "Very well," they'd said, "if we can't define all the members of a group, we can certainly define an individual. We'll pick one responsible person and build McGuire so that he will take orders only from that person."
As it turned out, I was that person. Just substitute "Daniel Oak" for "human being" in the First and Second Laws, and you'll see how important I was to a certain spaceship named McGuire.
When I finally caught the beam from Ceres and set my flitterboat down on the huge landing field that had been carved from the nickel-iron of the asteroid with a focused sun beam, I was itchy with my own perspiration and groggy tired. I don't like riding in flitterboats, sitting on a
[17]
bucket seat, astride the drive tube, like a witch on a broomstick, with nothing but a near-invisible transite hull between me and the stars, all cooped up in a vac suit. Unlike driving a car, you can't pull a flitterboat over and take a nap; you have to wait until you hit the next beacon station.
Ceres, the biggest rock in the Belt, is a lot more than just a beacon station. Like Eros and a few others, it's a city in its own right. And except for the Government Reservation, Viking Spacecraft owned Ceres, lock, stock, and mining rights.
Part of the reason for Viking's troubles was envy of that ownership. There were other companies in the Belt that would like to get their hands on that plum, and there were those who were doing everything short of cutting throats to get it. The PSD was afraid it might come to that, too, before very long.
Ceres is fifty-eight million cubic miles of nickel-iron, but nobody would cut her up for that. Nickel-iron is almost exactly as cheap as dirt on Earth, and, considering shipping costs, Earth soil costs a great deal more than nickel-iron in the Belt.
But, as an operations base, Ceres is second to none. Its surface gravity averages .0294 Standard Gee, as compared with Earth's .981, and that's enough to give a slight feeling of weight without unduly hampering the body with too much load. I weigh just under six pounds on Ceres, and after I've been there a while, going back to Earth is a strain that takes a
[18]
week to get used to. Kids that are brought up in the Belt are forced to exercise in a room with a one-gee spin on it at least an hour a day. They don't like it at first, but it keeps them from growing up with the strength of mice. And an adult with any sense takes a spin now and then, too. Traveling in a flitterboat will give you a one-gee pull, all right, but you don't get much exercise.
I parked my flitterboat in the space that had been assigned to me by Landing Control, and went over to the nearest air-lock dome.
After I'd cycled through and had shucked my vac suit, I went into the inner room to find Colonel Brock waiting for me.
"Have a good trip, Oak?" he asked, trying to put a smile on his scarred, battered face.
"I got here alive, if that makes it a good flitterboat trip," I said, shaking his extended hand.
"That's the definition of a good trip," he told me.
"Then the question was superfluous. Seriously, what I need is a bath and some sleep."
"You'll get that, but first let's go somewhere where we can talk. Want a drink?"
"I could use one, I guess. Your treat?"
"My treat," he said. "Come on."
I followed him out and down a ladder to a corridor that led north. By definition, any asteroid spins toward the east, and all directions follow from that, regardless of which way the axis may point.
[19]
Colonel Harrington Brock was dressed in the black-and-gold "union suit" that was the uniform of Ravenhurst's Security Guard. My own was a tasteful green, but some of the other people in the public corridor seemed to go for more flashiness; besides silver and gold, there were shocking pinks and violent mauves, with stripes and blazes of other colors.
A crowd wearing skin-tight cover-alls might shock the gentle people of Midwich-on-the-Moor, England, but they are normal dress in the Belt. You can't climb into a vac suit with bulky clothing on, and, if you did, you'd hate yourself within an hour, with a curse for every wrinkle that chafed your skin. And, in the Belt, you never know when you might have to get into a vac suit fast. In a "safe" area like the tunnels inside Ceres, there isn't much chance of losing air, but there are places where no one but a fool would ever be more than ten seconds away from his vac suit.
I read an article by a psychologist a few months back, in which he claimed that the taste for loud colors in union suits was actually due to modesty. He claimed that the bright patterns drew attention to the colors themselves, and away from the base the colors were laid over. The observer, he said, tends to see the color and pattern of the suit, rather than the body it clings to so closely. Maybe he's right; I wouldn't know, not being a psychologist. I have spent summers in nudist resorts, though, and I never noticed anyone painting themselves with lavender
[20]
and chartreuse checks. On the other hand, the people who go to nudist resorts are a self-screened group. So are the people who go to the Belt, for that matter, but the type of screening is different.
I'll just leave that problem in the hands of the psychologists, and go on wearing my immodestly quiet solid-color union suits.
Brock pushed open the inch-thick metal door beneath a sign that said
"O'Banion's Bar," and I followed him in. We sat down at a table and ordered drinks when the waiter bustled over. A cop in uniform isn't supposed to drink, but Brock figures that the head of the Security Guard ought to be able to get away with a breach of his own rules.
We had our drinks in front of us and our cigarettes lit before Brock opened up with his troubles.
"Oak," he said, "I wanted to intercept you before you went to the plant because I want you to know that there may be trouble."
"Yeah? What kind?" Sometimes it's a pain to play ignorant.
"Thurston's outfit is trying to oust Ravenhurst from the managership of Viking and take over the job. Baedecker Metals & Mining Corporation, which is managed by Baedecker himself, wants to force Viking out of business so that BM&M can take over Ceres for large-scale processing of precious metals.
"Between the two of 'em, they're raising all sorts of minor hell around
[21]
here, and it's liable to become major hell at any time. And we can't stand any hell—or sabotage—around this planetoid just now!"
"Now wait a minute," I said, still playing ignorant, "I thought we'd pretty well established that the 'sabotage' of the McGuire series was Jack Ravenhurst's fault. She was the one who was driving them nuts, not Thurston's agents."
"Perfectly true," he said agreeably. "We managed to block any attempts of sabotage by other company agents, even though it looked as though we hadn't for a while." He chuckled wryly. "We went all out to keep the McGuires safe, and all the time the boss' daughter was giving them the works." Then he looked sharply at me. "I covered that, of course. No one in the Security Guard but me knows that Jack was responsible."
"Good. But what about the Thurston and Baedecker agents, then?"
He took a hefty slug of his drink. "They're around, all right. We have our eyes on the ones we know, but those outfits are as sharp as we are, and they may have a few agents here on Ceres that we know nothing about."
"So? What does this have to do with me?"
He put his drink on the table. "Oak, I want you to help me." His onyx-brown eyes, only a shade darker than his skin, looked directly into my own. "I know it isn't part of your assignment, and you know I can't afford to pay you anything near what you're worth. It will have to come out of my
[22]
pocket because I couldn't possibly justify it from operating funds. Ravenhurst specifically told me that he doesn't want you messing around with the espionage and sabotage problem because he doesn't like your methods of operation."
"And you're going to go against his orders?"
"I am. Ravenhurst is sore at you personally because you showed him that Jack was responsible for the McGuire sabotage. It's an irrational dislike, and I am not going to let it interfere with my job. I'm going to protect Ravenhurst's interests to the best of my ability, and that means that I'll use the best of other people's abilities if I can."
I grinned at him. "The last I heard, you were sore at me for blatting it all over Ceres that Jaqueline Ravenhurst was missing, when she sneaked aboard McGuire."
He nodded perfunctorily. "I was. I still think you should have told me what you were up to. But you did it, and you got results that I'd been unable to get. I'm not going to let a momentary pique hang on as an irrational dislike. I like to think I have more sense than that."
"Thanks." There wasn't much else I could say.
"Now, I've got a little dough put away; it's not much, but I could offer you—"
I shook my head, cutting him off. "Nope. Sorry, Brock. For two reasons. In the first place, there would be a conflict of interest. I'm working for Ravenhurst, and if he doesn't want
[23]
me to work for you, then it would be unethical for me to take the job.
"In the second place, my fees are standardized. Oh, I can allow a certain amount of fluctuation, but I'm not a physician or a lawyer; my services are
[24]
not necessary to the survival of the individual, except in very rare cases, and those cases are generally arranged through a lawyer when it's a charity case.
"No, colonel, I'm afraid I couldn't
[25]
possibly work for you."
He thought that over for a long time. Finally, he nodded his head very slowly. "I see. Yeah, I get your point." He scowled down at his drink.
" But ," I said, "it would be a pleasure
[26]
to work with you."
He looked up quickly. "How's that?"
"Well, let's look at it this way: You can't hire me because I'm already working for Ravenhurst; I can't hire
[27]
you because you're working for Ravenhurst. But since we may need each other, and since we're both working for Ravenhurst, there would be no conflict of interest if we co-operate.
"Or, to put it another way, I can't take money for any service I may render you, but you can pay off in services. Am I coming through?"
His broad smile made the scars on his face fold in and deepen. "Loud and clear. It's a deal."
I held up a hand, palm toward him. "Ah, ah, ah! There's no 'deal' involved. We're just old buddies helping each other. This is for friendship, not business. I scratch your back; you scratch mine. Fair?"
"Fair. Come on down to my office; I want to give you a headful of facts and figures."
"Will do. Let me finish my guzzle."
|
What is the plot of the story?
|
After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about Aide Memoire by Keith Laumer.
Relevant chunks:
Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
AIDE MEMOIRE
BY KEITH LAUMER
The Fustians looked like turtles—but
they could move fast when they chose!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1962.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Across the table from Retief, Ambassador Magnan rustled a stiff sheet
of parchment and looked grave.
"This aide memoire," he said, "was just handed to me by the Cultural
Attache. It's the third on the subject this week. It refers to the
matter of sponsorship of Youth groups—"
"Some youths," Retief said. "Average age, seventy-five."
"The Fustians are a long-lived people," Magnan snapped. "These matters
are relative. At seventy-five, a male Fustian is at a trying age—"
"That's right. He'll try anything—in the hope it will maim somebody."
"Precisely the problem," Magnan said. "But the Youth Movement is
the important news in today's political situation here on Fust. And
sponsorship of Youth groups is a shrewd stroke on the part of the
Terrestrial Embassy. At my suggestion, well nigh every member of the
mission has leaped at the opportunity to score a few p—that is, cement
relations with this emergent power group—the leaders of the future.
You, Retief, as Councillor, are the outstanding exception."
"I'm not convinced these hoodlums need my help in organizing their
rumbles," Retief said. "Now, if you have a proposal for a pest control
group—"
"To the Fustians this is no jesting matter," Magnan cut in. "This
group—" he glanced at the paper—"known as the Sexual, Cultural, and
Athletic Recreational Society, or SCARS for short, has been awaiting
sponsorship for a matter of weeks now."
"Meaning they want someone to buy them a clubhouse, uniforms, equipment
and anything else they need to complete their sexual, cultural and
athletic development," Retief said.
"If we don't act promptly," Magnan said, "the Groaci Embassy may well
anticipate us. They're very active here."
"That's an idea," said Retief. "Let 'em. After awhile they'll go broke
instead of us."
"Nonsense. The group requires a sponsor. I can't actually order you to
step forward. However...." Magnan let the sentence hang in the air.
Retief raised one eyebrow.
"For a minute there," he said, "I thought you were going to make a
positive statement."
Magnan leaned back, lacing his fingers over his stomach. "I don't think
you'll find a diplomat of my experience doing anything so naive," he
said.
"I like the adult Fustians," said Retief. "Too bad they have to lug
half a ton of horn around on their backs. I wonder if surgery would
help."
"Great heavens, Retief," Magnan sputtered. "I'm amazed that even you
would bring up a matter of such delicacy. A race's unfortunate physical
characteristics are hardly a fit matter for Terrestrial curiosity."
"Well, of course your experience of the Fustian mentality is greater
than mine. I've only been here a month. But it's been my experience,
Mr. Ambassador, that few races are above improving on nature. Otherwise
you, for example, would be tripping over your beard."
Magnan shuddered. "Please—never mention the idea to a Fustian."
Retief stood. "My own program for the day includes going over to the
dockyards. There are some features of this new passenger liner the
Fustians are putting together that I want to look into. With your
permission, Mr. Ambassador...?"
Magnan snorted. "Your pre-occupation with the trivial disturbs me,
Retief. More interest in substantive matters—such as working with
Youth groups—would create a far better impression."
"Before getting too involved with these groups, it might be a good idea
to find out a little more about them," said Retief. "Who organizes
them? There are three strong political parties here on Fust. What's the
alignment of this SCARS organization?"
"You forget, these are merely teenagers, so to speak," Magnan said.
"Politics mean nothing to them ... yet."
"Then there are the Groaci. Why their passionate interest in a
two-horse world like Fust? Normally they're concerned with nothing but
business. But what has Fust got that they could use?"
"You may rule out the commercial aspect in this instance," said Magnan.
"Fust possesses a vigorous steel-age manufacturing economy. The Groaci
are barely ahead of them."
"Barely," said Retief. "Just over the line into crude atomics ... like
fission bombs."
Magnan shook his head, turned back to his papers. "What market exists
for such devices on a world at peace? I suggest you address your
attention to the less spectacular but more rewarding work of studying
the social patterns of the local youth."
"I've studied them," said Retief. "And before I meet any of the local
youth socially I want to get myself a good blackjack."
II
Retief left the sprawling bungalow-type building that housed the
chancery of the Terrestrial Embassy, swung aboard a passing flat-car
and leaned back against the wooden guard rail as the heavy vehicle
trundled through the city toward the looming gantries of the shipyards.
It was a cool morning. A light breeze carried the fishy odor of Fusty
dwellings across the broad cobbled avenue. A few mature Fustians
lumbered heavily along in the shade of the low buildings, audibly
wheezing under the burden of their immense carapaces. Among them,
shell-less youths trotted briskly on scaly stub legs. The driver of the
flat-car, a labor-caste Fustian with his guild colors emblazoned on his
back, heaved at the tiller, swung the unwieldy conveyance through the
shipyard gates, creaked to a halt.
"Thus I come to the shipyard with frightful speed," he said in Fustian.
"Well I know the way of the naked-backs, who move always in haste."
Retief climbed down, handed him a coin. "You should take up
professional racing," he said. "Daredevil."
He crossed the littered yard and tapped at the door of a rambling shed.
Boards creaked inside. Then the door swung back.
A gnarled ancient with tarnished facial scales and a weathered carapace
peered out at Retief.
"Long-may-you-sleep," said Retief. "I'd like to take a look around, if
you don't mind. I understand you're laying the bedplate for your new
liner today."
"May-you-dream-of-the-deeps," the old fellow mumbled. He waved a stumpy
arm toward a group of shell-less Fustians standing by a massive hoist.
"The youths know more of bedplates than do I, who but tend the place of
papers."
"I know how you feel, old-timer," said Retief. "That sounds like the
story of my life. Among your papers do you have a set of plans for the
vessel? I understand it's to be a passenger liner."
The oldster nodded. He shuffled to a drawing file, rummaged, pulled out
a sheaf of curled prints and spread them on the table. Retief stood
silently, running a finger over the uppermost drawing, tracing lines....
"What does the naked-back here?" barked a deep voice behind Retief. He
turned. A heavy-faced Fustian youth, wrapped in a mantle, stood at the
open door. Beady yellow eyes set among fine scales bored into Retief.
"I came to take a look at your new liner," said Retief.
"We need no prying foreigners here," the youth snapped. His eye fell on
the drawings. He hissed in sudden anger.
"Doddering hulk!" he snapped at the ancient. "May you toss in
nightmares! Put by the plans!"
"My mistake," Retief said. "I didn't know this was a secret project."
The youth hesitated. "It is not a secret project," he muttered. "Why
should it be secret?"
"You tell me."
The youth worked his jaws and rocked his head from side to side in the
Fusty gesture of uncertainty. "There is nothing to conceal," he said.
"We merely construct a passenger liner."
"Then you don't mind if I look over the drawings," said Retief. "Who
knows? Maybe some day I'll want to reserve a suite for the trip out."
The youth turned and disappeared. Retief grinned at the oldster. "Went
for his big brother, I guess," he said. "I have a feeling I won't get
to study these in peace here. Mind if I copy them?"
"Willingly, light-footed one," said the old Fustian. "And mine is the
shame for the discourtesy of youth."
Retief took out a tiny camera, flipped a copying lens in place, leafed
through the drawings, clicking the shutter.
"A plague on these youths," said the oldster, "who grow more virulent
day by day."
"Why don't you elders clamp down?"
"Agile are they and we are slow of foot. And this unrest is new.
Unknown in my youth was such insolence."
"The police—"
"Bah!" the ancient rumbled. "None have we worthy of the name, nor have
we needed ought ere now."
"What's behind it?"
"They have found leaders. The spiv, Slock, is one. And I fear they plot
mischief." He pointed to the window. "They come, and a Soft One with
them."
Retief pocketed the camera, glanced out the window. A pale-featured
Groaci with an ornately decorated crest stood with the youths, who eyed
the hut, then started toward it.
"That's the military attache of the Groaci Embassy," Retief said. "I
wonder what he and the boys are cooking up together?"
"Naught that augurs well for the dignity of Fust," the oldster rumbled.
"Flee, agile one, while I engage their attentions."
"I was just leaving," Retief said. "Which way out?"
"The rear door," the Fustian gestured with a stubby member. "Rest well,
stranger on these shores." He moved to the entrance.
"Same to you, pop," said Retief. "And thanks."
He eased through the narrow back entrance, waited until voices were
raised at the front of the shed, then strolled off toward the gate.
The second dark of the third cycle was lightening when Retief left the
Embassy technical library and crossed the corridor to his office. He
flipped on a light. A note was tucked under a paperweight:
"Retief—I shall expect your attendance at the IAS dinner at first
dark of the fourth cycle. There will be a brief but, I hope, impressive
Sponsorship ceremony for the SCARS group, with full press coverage,
arrangements for which I have managed to complete in spite of your
intransigence."
Retief snorted and glanced at his watch. Less than three hours. Just
time to creep home by flat-car, dress in ceremonial uniform and creep
back.
Outside he flagged a lumbering bus. He stationed himself in a corner
and watched the yellow sun, Beta, rise rapidly above the low skyline.
The nearby sea was at high tide now, under the pull of the major sun
and the three moons, and the stiff breeze carried a mist of salt spray.
Retief turned up his collar against the dampness. In half an hour he
would be perspiring under the vertical rays of a third-noon sun, but
the thought failed to keep the chill off.
Two Youths clambered up on the platform, moving purposefully toward
Retief. He moved off the rail, watching them, weight balanced.
"That's close enough, kids," he said. "Plenty of room on this scow. No
need to crowd up."
"There are certain films," the lead Fustian muttered. His voice was
unusually deep for a Youth. He was wrapped in a heavy cloak and moved
awkwardly. His adolescence was nearly at an end, Retief guessed.
"I told you once," said Retief. "Don't crowd me."
The two stepped close, slit mouths snapping in anger. Retief put out a
foot, hooked it behind the scaly leg of the overaged juvenile and threw
his weight against the cloaked chest. The clumsy Fustian tottered, fell
heavily. Retief was past him and off the flat-car before the other
Youth had completed his vain lunge toward the spot Retief had occupied.
The Terrestrial waved cheerfully at the pair, hopped aboard another
vehicle, watched his would-be assailants lumber down from their car,
tiny heads twisted to follow his retreating figure.
So they wanted the film? Retief reflected, thumbing a cigar alight.
They were a little late. He had already filed it in the Embassy vault,
after running a copy for the reference files.
And a comparison of the drawings with those of the obsolete Mark XXXV
battle cruiser used two hundred years earlier by the Concordiat Naval
Arm showed them to be almost identical, gun emplacements and all. The
term "obsolete" was a relative one. A ship which had been outmoded in
the armories of the Galactic Powers could still be king of the walk in
the Eastern Arm.
But how had these two known of the film? There had been no one present
but himself and the old-timer—and he was willing to bet the elderly
Fustian hadn't told them anything.
At least not willingly....
Retief frowned, dropped the cigar over the side, waited until the
flat-car negotiated a mud-wallow, then swung down and headed for the
shipyard.
The door, hinges torn loose, had been propped loosely back in position.
Retief looked around at the battered interior of the shed. The old
fellow had put up a struggle.
There were deep drag-marks in the dust behind the building. Retief
followed them across the yard. They disappeared under the steel door of
a warehouse.
Retief glanced around. Now, at the mid-hour of the fourth cycle, the
workmen were heaped along the edge of the refreshment pond, deep in
their siesta. He took a multi-bladed tool from a pocket, tried various
fittings in the lock. It snicked open.
He eased the door aside far enough to enter.
Heaped bales loomed before him. Snapping on the tiny lamp in the handle
of the combination tool, Retief looked over the pile. One stack seemed
out of alignment ... and the dust had been scraped from the floor
before it. He pocketed the light, climbed up on the bales, looked over
into a nest made by stacking the bundles around a clear spot. The aged
Fustian lay in it, on his back, a heavy sack tied over his head.
Retief dropped down inside the ring of bales, sawed at the tough twine
and pulled the sack free.
"It's me, old fellow," Retief said. "The nosy stranger. Sorry I got you
into this."
The oldster threshed his gnarled legs. He rocked slightly and fell
back. "A curse on the cradle that rocked their infant slumbers," he
rumbled. "But place me back on my feet and I hunt down the youth,
Slock, though he flee to the bottommost muck of the Sea of Torments."
"How am I going to get you out of here? Maybe I'd better get some help."
"Nay. The perfidious Youths abound here," said the old Fustian. "It
would be your life."
"I doubt if they'd go that far."
"Would they not?" The Fustian stretched his neck. "Cast your light
here. But for the toughness of my hide...."
Retief put the beam of the light on the leathery neck. A great smear of
thick purplish blood welled from a ragged cut. The oldster chuckled, a
sound like a seal coughing.
"Traitor, they called me. For long they sawed at me—in vain. Then
they trussed me and dumped me here. They think to return with weapons
to complete the task."
"Weapons? I thought it was illegal!"
"Their evil genius, the Soft One," said the Fustian. "He would provide
fuel to the Devil himself."
"The Groaci again," said Retief. "I wonder what their angle is."
"And I must confess, I told them of you, ere I knew their full
intentions. Much can I tell you of their doings. But first, I pray, the
block and tackle."
Retief found the hoist where the Fustian directed him, maneuvered it
into position, hooked onto the edge of the carapace and hauled away.
The immense Fustian rose slowly, teetered ... then flopped on his chest.
Slowly he got to his feet.
"My name is Whonk, fleet one," he said. "My cows are yours."
"Thanks. I'm Retief. I'd like to meet the girls some time. But right
now, let's get out of here."
Whonk leaned his bulk against the ponderous stacks of baled kelp,
bulldozed them aside. "Slow am I to anger," he said, "but implacable in
my wrath. Slock, beware!"
"Hold it," said Retief suddenly. He sniffed. "What's that odor?" He
flashed the light around, played it over a dry stain on the floor. He
knelt, sniffed at the spot.
"What kind of cargo was stacked here, Whonk? And where is it now?"
Whonk considered. "There were drums," he said. "Four of them, quite
small, painted an evil green, the property of the Soft Ones, the
Groaci. They lay here a day and a night. At full dark of the first
period they came with stevedores and loaded them aboard the barge
Moss
Rock
."
"The VIP boat. Who's scheduled to use it?"
"I know not. But what matters this? Let us discuss cargo movements
after I have settled a score with certain Youths."
"We'd better follow this up first, Whonk. There's only one substance I
know of that's transported in drums and smells like that blot on the
floor. That's titanite: the hottest explosive this side of a uranium
pile."
III
Beta was setting as Retief, Whonk puffing at his heels, came up to the
sentry box beside the gangway leading to the plush interior of the
official luxury space barge
Moss Rock
.
"A sign of the times," said Whonk, glancing inside the empty shelter.
"A guard should stand here, but I see him not. Doubtless he crept away
to sleep."
"Let's go aboard and take a look around."
They entered the ship. Soft lights glowed in utter silence. A rough box
stood on the floor, rollers and pry-bars beside it—a discordant note
in the muted luxury of the setting. Whonk rummaged in it.
"Curious," he said. "What means this?" He held up a stained cloak of
orange and green, a metal bracelet, papers.
"Orange and green," mused Relief. "Whose colors are those?"
"I know not." Whonk glanced at the arm-band. "But this is lettered." He
passed the metal band to Retief.
"SCARS," Retief read. He looked at Whonk. "It seems to me I've heard
the name before," he murmured. "Let's get back to the Embassy—fast."
Back on the ramp Retief heard a sound ... and turned in time to duck
the charge of a hulking Fustian youth who thundered past him and
fetched up against the broad chest of Whonk, who locked him in a warm
embrace.
"Nice catch, Whonk. Where'd he sneak out of?"
"The lout hid there by the storage bin," rumbled Whonk. The captive
youth thumped fists and toes fruitlessly against the oldster's carapace.
"Hang onto him," said Retief. "He looks like the biting kind."
"No fear. Clumsy I am, yet not without strength."
"Ask him where the titanite is tucked away."
"Speak, witless grub," growled Whonk, "lest I tweak you in twain."
The youth gurgled.
"Better let up before you make a mess of him," said Retief. Whonk
lifted the Youth clear of the floor, then flung him down with a thump
that made the ground quiver. The younger Fustian glared up at the
elder, mouth snapping.
"This one was among those who trussed me and hid me away for the
killing," said Whonk. "In his repentance he will tell all to his elder."
"That's the same young squirt that tried to strike up an acquaintance
with me on the bus," Retief said. "He gets around."
The youth scrambled to hands and knees, scuttled for freedom. Retief
planted a foot on his dragging cloak; it ripped free. He stared at the
bare back of the Fustian—
"By the Great Egg!" Whonk exclaimed, tripping the refugee as he tried
to rise. "This is no Youth! His carapace has been taken from him!"
Retief looked at the scarred back. "I thought he looked a little old.
But I thought—"
"This is not possible," Whonk said wonderingly. "The great nerve trunks
are deeply involved. Not even the cleverest surgeon could excise the
carapace and leave the patient living."
"It looks like somebody did the trick. But let's take this boy with us
and get out of here. His folks may come home."
"Too late," said Whonk. Retief turned.
Three youths came from behind the sheds.
"Well," Retief said. "It looks like the SCARS are out in force tonight.
Where's your pal?" he said to the advancing trio. "The sticky little
bird with the eye-stalks? Back at his Embassy, leaving you suckers
holding the bag, I'll bet."
"Shelter behind me, Retief," said Whonk.
"Go get 'em, old-timer." Retief stooped, picked up one of the pry-bars.
"I'll jump around and distract them."
Whonk let out a whistling roar and charged for the immature Fustians.
They fanned out ... and one tripped, sprawled on his face. Retief
whirled the metal bar he had thrust between the Fustian's legs, slammed
it against the skull of another, who shook his head, turned on
Retief ... and bounced off the steel hull of the
Moss Rock
as Whonk
took him in full charge.
Retief used the bar on another head. His third blow laid the Fustian
on the pavement, oozing purple. The other two club members departed
hastily, seriously dented but still mobile.
Retief leaned on his club, breathing hard. "Tough heads these kids
have got. I'm tempted to chase those two lads down, but I've got
another errand to run. I don't know who the Groaci intended to blast,
but I have a sneaking suspicion somebody of importance was scheduled
for a boat ride in the next few hours. And three drums of titanite is
enough to vaporize this tub and everyone aboard her."
"The plot is foiled," said Whonk. "But what reason did they have?"
"The Groaci are behind it. I have an idea the SCARS didn't know about
this gambit."
"Which of these is the leader?" asked Whonk. He prodded a fallen Youth
with a horny toe. "Arise, dreaming one."
"Never mind him, Whonk. We'll tie these two up and leave them here. I
know where to find the boss."
A stolid crowd filled the low-ceilinged banquet hall. Retief scanned
the tables for the pale blobs of Terrestrial faces, dwarfed by the
giant armored bodies of the Fustians. Across the room Magnan fluttered
a hand. Retief headed toward him. A low-pitched vibration filled the
air: the rumble of subsonic Fustian music.
Retief slid into his place beside Magnan. "Sorry to be late, Mr.
Ambassador."
"I'm honored that you chose to appear at all," said Magnan coldly. He
turned back to the Fustian on his left.
"Ah, yes, Mr. Minister," he said. "Charming, most charming. So joyous."
The Fustian looked at him, beady-eyed. "It is the
Lament of
Hatching
," he said; "our National Dirge."
"Oh," said Magnan. "How interesting. Such a pleasing balance of
instruments—"
"It is a droon solo," said the Fustian, eyeing the Terrestrial
Ambassador suspiciously.
"Why don't you just admit you can't hear it," Retief whispered loudly.
"And if I may interrupt a moment—"
Magnan cleared his throat. "Now that our Mr. Retief has arrived,
perhaps we could rush right along to the Sponsorship ceremonies."
"This group," said Retief, leaning across Magnan, "the SCARS. How much
do you know about them, Mr. Minister?"
"Nothing at all," the huge Fustian elder rumbled. "For my taste, all
Youths should be kept penned with the livestock until they grow a
carapace to tame their irresponsibility."
"We mustn't lose sight of the importance of channeling youthful
energies," said Magnan.
"Labor gangs," said the minister. "In my youth we were indentured to
the dredge-masters. I myself drew a muck sledge."
"But in these modern times," put in Magnan, "surely it's incumbent on
us to make happy these golden hours."
The minister snorted. "Last week I had a golden hour. They set upon me
and pelted me with overripe stench-fruit."
"But this was merely a manifestation of normal youthful frustrations,"
cried Magnan. "Their essential tenderness—"
"You'd not find a tender spot on that lout yonder," the minister
said, pointing with a fork at a newly arrived Youth, "if you drilled
boreholes and blasted."
"Why, that's our guest of honor," said Magnan, "a fine young fellow!
Slop I believe his name is."
"Slock," said Retief. "Eight feet of armor-plated orneriness. And—"
Magnan rose and tapped on his glass. The Fustians winced at the, to
them, supersonic vibrations. They looked at each other muttering.
Magnan tapped louder. The Minister drew in his head, eyes closed. Some
of the Fustians rose, tottered for the doors; the noise level rose.
Magnan redoubled his efforts. The glass broke with a clatter and green
wine gushed on the tablecloth.
"What in the name of the Great Egg!" the Minister muttered. He blinked,
breathing deeply.
"Oh, forgive me," blurted Magnan, dabbing at the wine.
"Too bad the glass gave out," said Retief. "In another minute you'd
have cleared the hall. And then maybe I could have gotten a word in
sideways. There's a matter you should know about—"
"Your attention, please," Magnan said, rising. "I see that our fine
young guest has arrived, and I hope that the remainder of his committee
will be along in a moment. It is my pleasure to announce that our Mr.
Retief has had the good fortune to win out in the keen bidding for the
pleasure of sponsoring this lovely group."
Retief tugged at Magnan's sleeve. "Don't introduce me yet," he said. "I
want to appear suddenly. More dramatic, you know."
"Well," murmured Magnan, glancing down at Retief, "I'm gratified to
see you entering into the spirit of the event at last." He turned his
attention back to the assembled guests. "If our honored guest will join
me on the rostrum...?" he said. "The gentlemen of the press may want to
catch a few shots of the presentation."
Magnan stepped up on the low platform at the center of the wide room,
took his place beside the robed Fustian youth and beamed at the cameras.
"How gratifying it is to take this opportunity to express once more the
great pleasure we have in sponsoring SCARS," he said, talking slowly
for the benefit of the scribbling reporters. "We'd like to think that
in our modest way we're to be a part of all that the SCARS achieve
during the years ahead."
Magnan paused as a huge Fustian elder heaved his bulk up the two low
steps to the rostrum, approached the guest of honor. He watched as the
newcomer paused behind Slock, who did not see the new arrival.
Retief pushed through the crowd, stepped up to face the Fustian youth.
Slock stared at him, drew back.
"You know me, Slock," said Retief loudly. "An old fellow named Whonk
told you about me, just before you tried to saw his head off, remember?
It was when I came out to take a look at that battle cruiser you're
building."
IV
With a bellow Slock reached for Retief—and choked off in mid-cry as
the Fustian elder, Whonk, pinioned him from behind, lifting him clear
of the floor.
"Glad you reporters happened along," said Retief to the gaping newsmen.
"Slock here had a deal with a sharp operator from the Groaci Embassy.
The Groaci were to supply the necessary hardware and Slock, as foreman
at the shipyards, was to see that everything was properly installed.
The next step, I assume, would have been a local take-over, followed
by a little interplanetary war on Flamenco or one of the other nearby
worlds ... for which the Groaci would be glad to supply plenty of ammo."
Magnan found his tongue. "Are you mad, Retief?" he screeched. "This
group was vouched for by the Ministry of Youth!"
"The Ministry's overdue for a purge," snapped Retief. He turned back
to Slock. "I wonder if you were in on the little diversion that was
planned for today. When the
Moss Rock
blew, a variety of clues were
to be planted where they'd be easy to find ... with SCARS written all
over them. The Groaci would thus have neatly laid the whole affair
squarely at the door of the Terrestrial Embassy ... whose sponsorship
of the SCARS had received plenty of publicity."
"The
Moss Rock
?" said Magnan. "But that was—Retief! This is idiotic.
Slock himself was scheduled to go on a cruise tomorrow!"
Slock roared suddenly, twisting violently. Whonk teetered, his grip
loosened ... and Slock pulled free and was off the platform, butting
his way through the milling oldsters on the dining room floor. Magnan
watched, open-mouthed.
"The Groaci were playing a double game, as usual," Retief said. "They
intended to dispose of this fellow Slock, once he'd served their
purpose."
"Well, don't stand there," yelped Magnan over the uproar. "If Slock is
the ring-leader of a delinquent gang...!" He moved to give chase.
Retief grabbed his arm. "Don't jump down there! You'd have as much
chance of getting through as a jack-rabbit through a threshing contest."
Ten minutes later the crowd had thinned slightly. "We can get through
now," Whonk called. "This way." He lowered himself to the floor, bulled
through to the exit. Flashbulbs popped. Retief and Magnan followed in
Whonk's wake.
In the lounge Retief grabbed the phone, waited for the operator, gave a
code letter. No reply. He tried another.
"No good," he said after a full minute had passed. "Wonder what's
loose?" He slammed the phone back in its niche. "Let's grab a cab."
In the street the blue sun, Alpha, peered like an arc light under a low
cloud layer, casting flat shadows across the mud of the avenue. The
three mounted a passing flat-car. Whonk squatted, resting the weight of
his immense shell on the heavy plank flooring.
"Would that I too could lose this burden, as has the false youth we
bludgeoned aboard the
Moss Rock
," he sighed. "Soon will I be forced
into retirement. Then a mere keeper of a place of papers such as I
will rate no more than a slab on the public strand, with once-daily
feedings. And even for a man of high position, retirement is no
pleasure. A slab in the Park of Monuments is little better. A dismal
outlook for one's next thousand years!"
"You two carry on to the police station," said Retief. "I want to play
a hunch. But don't take too long. I may be painfully right."
"What—?" Magnan started.
"As you wish, Retief," said Whonk.
The flat-car trundled past the gate to the shipyard and Retief jumped
down, headed at a run for the VIP boat. The guard post still stood
vacant. The two Youths whom he and Whonk had left trussed were gone.
"That's the trouble with a peaceful world," Retief muttered. "No police
protection." He stepped down from the lighted entry and took up a
position behind the sentry box. Alpha rose higher, shedding a glaring
blue-white light without heat. Retief shivered. Maybe he'd guessed
wrong....
There was a sound in the near distance, like two elephants colliding.
Retief looked toward the gate. His giant acquaintance, Whonk, had
reappeared and was grappling with a hardly less massive opponent. A
small figure became visible in the melee, scuttled for the gate. Headed
off by the battling titans, he turned and made for the opposite side
of the shipyard. Retief waited, jumped out and gathered in the fleeing
Groaci.
"Well, Yith," he said, "how's tricks? You should pardon the expression."
"Release me, Retief!" the pale-featured alien lisped, his throat
bladder pulsating in agitation. "The behemoths vie for the privilege of
dismembering me out of hand!"
"I know how they feel. I'll see what I can do ... for a price."
"I appeal to you," Yith whispered hoarsely. "As a fellow diplomat, a
fellow alien, a fellow soft-back—"
"Why don't you appeal to Slock, as a fellow skunk?" said Retief. "Now
keep quiet ... and you may get out of this alive."
The heavier of the two struggling Fustians threw the other to the
ground. There was another brief flurry, and then the smaller figure was
on its back, helpless.
"That's Whonk, still on his feet," said Retief. "I wonder who he's
caught—and why."
Whonk came toward the
Moss Rock
dragging the supine Fustian, who
kicked vainly. Retief thrust Yith down well out of sight behind the
sentry box. "Better sit tight, Yith. Don't try to sneak off; I can
outrun you. Stay here and I'll see what I can do." He stepped out and
hailed Whonk.
Puffing like a steam engine Whonk pulled up before him. "Sleep,
Retief!" He panted. "You followed a hunch; I did the same. I saw
something strange in this one when we passed him on the avenue. I
watched, followed him here. Look! It is Slock, strapped into a dead
carapace! Now many things become clear."
Retief whistled. "So the Youths aren't all as young as they look.
Somebody's been holding out on the rest of you Fustians!"
"The Soft One," Whonk said. "You laid him by the heels, Retief. I saw.
Produce him now."
"Hold on a minute, Whonk. It won't do you any good—"
Whonk winked broadly. "I must take my revenge!" he roared. "I shall
test the texture of the Soft One! His pulped remains will be scoured up
by the ramp-washers and mailed home in bottles!"
Retief whirled at a sound, caught up with the scuttling Yith fifty feet
away, hauled him back to Whonk.
"It's up to you, Whonk," he said. "I know how important ceremonial
revenge is to you Fustians. I will not interfere."
"Mercy!" Yith hissed, eye-stalks whipping in distress. "I claim
diplomatic immunity!"
"No diplomat am I," rumbled Whonk. "Let me see; suppose I start with
one of those obscenely active eyes—" He reached....
"I have an idea," said Retief brightly. "Do you suppose—just this
once—you could forego the ceremonial revenge if Yith promised to
arrange for a Groaci Surgical Mission to de-carapace you elders?"
"But," Whonk protested, "those eyes! What a pleasure to pluck them, one
by one!"
"Yess," hissed Yith, "I swear it! Our most expert surgeons ... platoons
of them, with the finest of equipment."
"I have dreamed of how it would be to sit on this one, to feel him
squash beneath my bulk...."
"Light as a whissle feather shall you dance," Yith whispered.
"Shell-less shall you spring in the joy of renewed youth—"
"Maybe just one eye," said Whonk grudgingly. "That would leave him
four."
"Be a sport," said Retief.
"Well."
"It's a deal then," said Retief. "Yith, on your word as a diplomat,
an alien, a soft-back and a skunk, you'll set up the mission. Groaci
surgical skill is an export that will net you more than armaments.
It will be a whissle feather in your cap—if you bring it off. And
in return, Whonk won't sit on you. And I won't prefer charges of
interference in the internal affairs of a free world."
Behind Whonk there was a movement. Slock, wriggling free of the
borrowed carapace, struggled to his feet ... in time for Whonk to seize
him, lift him high and head for the entry to the
Moss Rock
.
"Hey," Retief called. "Where are you going?"
"I would not deny this one his reward," called Whonk. "He hoped to
cruise in luxury. So be it."
"Hold on," said Retief. "That tub is loaded with titanite!"
"Stand not in my way, Retief. For this one in truth owes me a
vengeance."
Retief watched as the immense Fustian bore his giant burden up the ramp
and disappeared within the ship.
"I guess Whonk means business," he said to Yith, who hung in his grasp,
all five eyes goggling. "And he's a little too big for me to stop."
Whonk reappeared, alone, climbed down.
"What did you do with him?" said Retief. "Tell him you were going to—"
"We had best withdraw," said Whonk. "The killing radius of the drive is
fifty yards."
"You mean—"
"The controls are set for Groaci. Long-may-he-sleep."
"It was quite a bang," said Retief. "But I guess you saw it, too."
"No, confound it," Magnan said. "When I remonstrated with Hulk, or
Whelk—"
"Whonk."
"—the ruffian thrust me into an alley bound in my own cloak. I'll most
certainly complain to the Minister."
"How about the surgical mission?"
"A most generous offer," said Magnan. "Frankly, I was astonished. I
think perhaps we've judged the Groaci too harshly."
"I hear the Ministry of Youth has had a rough morning of it," said
Retief. "And a lot of rumors are flying to the effect that Youth Groups
are on the way out."
Magnan cleared his throat, shuffled papers. "I—ah—have explained to
the press that last night's—ah—"
"Fiasco."
"—affair was necessary in order to place the culprits in an untenable
position. Of course, as to the destruction of the VIP vessel and the
presumed death of, uh, Slop."
"The Fustians understand," said Retief. "Whonk wasn't kidding about
ceremonial vengeance."
"The Groaci had been guilty of gross misuse of diplomatic privilege,"
said Magnan. "I think that a note—or perhaps an Aide Memoire: less
formal...."
"The
Moss Rock
was bound for Groaci," said Retief. "She was already
in her transit orbit when she blew. The major fragments will arrive on
schedule in a month or so. It should provide quite a meteorite display.
I think that should be all the
aide
the Groaci's
memoires
will need
to keep their tentacles off Fust."
"But diplomatic usage—"
"Then, too, the less that's put in writing, the less they can blame you
for, if anything goes wrong."
"That's true," said Magnan, lips pursed. "Now you're thinking
constructively, Retief. We may make a diplomat of you yet." He smiled
expansively.
"Maybe. But I refuse to let it depress me." Retief stood up. "I'm
taking a few weeks off ... if you have no objection, Mr. Ambassador. My
pal Whonk wants to show me an island down south where the fishing is
good."
"But there are some extremely important matters coming up," said
Magnan. "We're planning to sponsor Senior Citizen Groups—"
"Count me out. All groups give me an itch."
"Why, what an astonishing remark, Retief! After all, we diplomats are
ourselves a group."
"Uh-huh," Retief said.
Magnan sat quietly, mouth open, and watched as Retief stepped into the
hall and closed the door gently behind him.
Question:
What is the plot of the story?
Answer:
|
[
"As the story opens, Ambassador Magnan briefs Councillor Retief on the Terrestrial Embassy’s request for sponsorship of youth groups on the planet Fust. Councillor Retief is not interested. Magnan specifically suggests that Retief sponsor the group SCARS (Sexual, Cultural and Athletic Recreational Society), and warns Retief that the rival Groaci may fill any void. Retief suggests researching the youth groups before giving them money. Magnan is dismissive. Retief is still not interested, and leaves to go look at plans for a new passenger liner being built by the Fustians. \nRetief takes a flat-car to the ship yard and meets Whonk, who is a shipyard clerk. He asks to see the blueprints, which he photographs. He and Whonk chat about the attitude of the youth, and Whonk blames it on their new leader, Slock, who hangs around with Yith, a member of the Groaci embassy.\nLater, while Retief is on his way home to dress for a dinner and press event organized by Magnan, two Fustian youths threaten him on the bus. Retief realizes that they were after his photos, which showed that the ship under construction was a battle cruiser, not a passenger liner. He also realizes that Whonk may be in danger. Retief escapes the youths and races back to the shipyard to find that Whonk has been dragged off and tied up in a warehouse. From the Fustian’s wounds, Retief realized that they had tried to kill him.\nRetief figures out that the Fustian youths have taken some titanite, an explosive, over to a ship called the Moss Rock, which would be full of dignitaries later. He and Whonk race over there and encounter more Fustians, and win a fight with them, effectively breaking up the Groaci-backed plot to blow up the ship. \nRetief arrives at the banquet a little late, and exchanges a few words with Magnan, who proceeds to make the Fustians miserable with his cultural insensitivity. A few minutes later, the SCARS leader, Slock, arrives. Retief reveals Slock’s plan: Slock, backed by the Groaci, was planning to take over Fust. The Groaci tried to frame the Terrestrial Embassy for the plot.\nSlock escaped. Retief went back toward the Moss Rock, where Whonk tackled Slock, and Retief accosted Yith. Whonk wanted to take revenge on Yith for attacking him earlier, but Retief instead negotiated a deal in which Yith, who had mastered removing the Fustian carapace surgically, which would be a great relief to Whonk and other elders, would agree to do so in return for not being ritually dismembered. Just as this agreement was completed, Slock tried to escape again, but Whonk dumped him on the Moss Rock, and set the autopilot for Groaci, still full of titanite. It blew up on the way there.\nMagnan wrested what he could, diplomatically speaking, from the wreckage of the youth sponsorship program and moved on to plans to sponsor Senior Citizens Groups.\n",
"This story follows Retief, a Terrestrial diplomat working on the surface of the Fustian planet, where these two species co-exist with the Groaci. At the start of the story, Retief is talking to the Terrestrial Ambassador about a new program that the Fustians are looking for sponsorship for, that the Ambassador wants Retief to take care of. Retief, the Councillor, does not seem interested, and heads out to the shipyards to ask the people there some questions about a new ship being built. An older Fustian named Whonk allows him to see the plans for the ship and tells Retief about Slock, one of the local leaders of the Youths that seems to be a bad influence. These troublesome characters showed up to talk to Whonk and scare Retief off of the docks as Retief slips out unnoticed. He finds plans in the Embassy's library for an old battle cruiser that match the plans for the new ship, pointing him towards a plot to re-introduce weapons into the society. He finds Whonk, injured from the others' attempt to extract information from him, and the two of them piece together the clues: there was titanite, a dangerous explosive, that is going to be placed on the fanciest boat at the docks, the Moss Rock. When they get to that ship to take a look, they find a variety of items emblazoned with the logo of SCARS, the Youth Group that Ambassador Magnan wanted Retief to sponsor at the beginning. Retief figures that these items are here as planted false evidence, so that the explosion would be pinned on the Youth Group, and thus the Terrestrials by extension. Retief's goal is to destroy this plot--Whonk captures a Fustian who they realize has had his shell surgically removed, something that they thought impossible. Retief takes this to mean that the Groaci have more medical knowledge than they realized, and that they are responsible for this plot. In order to expose this plan, he heads to the banquet where the sponsorship of the Youth Group is being announced. He interrupts the Ambassador's grand announcement, exposing the plot to the press that was already gathered there. He knew Slock to be a gang leader, told everyone of the plan to blow up the Moss Rock and his deal with the Groaci, and then runs toward the boat with Whonk and the Ambassador. Whonk wanted to follow through with his society's classic ceremonial revenge against Yith, the Groaci at the ship, but Retief convinces them to have a sort of trade: Yith would share the medical knowledge to remove Whonk's heavy outer shell so that it would no longer be a nuisance and a heavyweight, and Slock is thrown onto the Moss Rock as it leaves the docks and explodes. With the plot exposed, the Ambassador wants to move on to more social projects, but Retief heads out for a fishing vacation with his new friend Whonk.",
"The story begins with a meeting between Ambassador Magnan and Councillor Retief, who represents the Terrestrial Embassy on the planet Fust. The planet is populated with turtle-like creatures called Fustians (the younger Fustians lack the hard shell of the mature ones). Magnan assigns Retief the mission of sponsoring a new youth movement there called the Sexual, Cultural, Athletic Recreational Society (SCARS). Instead, Retief prefers to investigate a new passenger ship being built by the Fustians. Upon his arrival at the shipyard, Retief meets Whonk, an elderly Fustian who maintains documents, and he shows Retief the blueprints for the new ship. A young Fustian named Slock enters and arouses Retief’s suspicions by inquiring what he wants with the plans. After he leaves the shipyard, Retief is attacked by two young Fustians, and he returns to find Whonk has been attacked as well. Retief notices a stain on the ground that Whonk tells him is a remnant of four drums belonging to the Groaci—an alien species that operated a competing embassy. Retief had seen interacting a Groaci attache interacting with the youth that had attacked him earlier. The drums had been loaded onto a boat called \"Moss Rock.\" After identifying the smelly stain as an explosive called titanite, Retief and Whonk go to \"Moss Rock\" and discover a box containing a SCARS uniform. While there, they are attacked by an older-looking youth Fustian and discover that he is not a youth at all; rather, his shell has been removed by some mysterious method. They ward off another attack by his friends, and Retief decides to head to the sponsorship ceremony, realizing that the Groaci are likely taking advantage of the SCARS group's distaste for Fustian leadership to advance their plot to bomb \"Moss Rock\". At the sponsorship ceremony, Ambassador Magnan introduces Slock as guest of honor, and Retief and Whonk seize the opportunity to apprehend him and explain his deal with the Groaci to the press: The Groaci would supply weapons, and Slock would make sure they were installed on the ship. The SCARS uniforms found at the scene of the exploded ship would implicate them along with the Terrestrial Embassy, because of its sponsorship of SCARS. Magnan notes that Slock was scheduled to be on the ship, and Retief rebuts that this reveals the Groaci's intention to get rid of Slock after he'd done their bidding. Thus, the disaster at \"Moss Rock\" would cement the Groaci's control of Fust. Retief returns to the \"Moss Rock\" and captures the Groaci diplomat Yith, and Whonk captures Slock, whom they both discover has also had his shell surgically removed to appear younger. Retief makes a deal with Whonk to spare Yith's life in exchange for the same shell-removal surgery. Whonk takes his revenge on Slock by placing him back on the \"Moss Rock\" and exploding the ship with the titanite barrels on its course to Groaci. Retief informs Magnan that this display will prevent the Groaci from pursuing any further action against Fust.",
"Ambassador Magnan wants Retief, the Councillor working with him at the Terrestrial Embassy, to sponsor the Fustian youth group the Sexual, Cultural, and Athletic Recreational Society (SCARS), but Retief isn’t interested. Instead, he wants to check out the new passenger liner that the Fustians are building, but he does express concern about the Groaci’s interest in Fust, which has a steel-age manufacturing economy while Groaci is into crude atomics. At the shipyards, an old Fustian named Whonk shows him the blueprints for the new passenger liner. Retief takes photographs of the blueprints to study them later. Slock, a young Fustian, comes with a Groaci Embassy military attache and beats up on Whonk while Retief sneaks out the back.\n\nLater in the day, Retief has to attend a dinner where the sponsor for the SCARS youth group will be announced. On the way, he is accosted by two Fustain youth who tell him they want the films for the pictures he took of the blueprints. Retief manages to elude them. He has looked at pictures and realized they are plans for a replica of a battlecruiser used two hundred years ago and has gun placements. Retief realizes that Whonk must have told them about his pictures and knows that he wouldn’t tell them willingly, so he goes to Whonk’s office to look for him. He sees signs of a struggle and finds Whonk tied up behind some bales where he is out of sight. Whonk reveals he was attacked by a Groaci, Slock, and his cohorts, and they tried to kill him. Retief recognizes the smell of an explosive, and Whonk tells him drums of it have been placed on a barge called Moss Rock. \n\nRetief and Whonk decide to go back to the Embassy but are attacked by one of the young Fustians who attacked Whonk earlier that day. As they wrestle with him, they pull off his cloak to discover that his carapace has been removed, so he isn’t really a youth. Whonk is stunned because he believed it wasn’t possible to remove a carapace without killing the Fustian. \n\nAt the dinner, Magnan announces that Retief has won the “bidding” to sponsor the SCARS. Retief sneaks up on Slock and tells Magnan that he has figured out that the Groaci are planning to take over a local world and then branch out to more worlds. They have been using the young Fustians to help them set up their attack but planned to kill them after everything was ready. Retief catches a Groaci, and Whonk wants to kill him, but Retief gets him to promise to have the Groaci surgeon remove the carapaces from the older Fustians like Whonk. When Retief reports the scheme to Magnan, he tells his superior that the Moss Rock is headed for Groaci and will explode there, ending their problems with the Groaci.\n"
] |
61198
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Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
AIDE MEMOIRE
BY KEITH LAUMER
The Fustians looked like turtles—but
they could move fast when they chose!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1962.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Across the table from Retief, Ambassador Magnan rustled a stiff sheet
of parchment and looked grave.
"This aide memoire," he said, "was just handed to me by the Cultural
Attache. It's the third on the subject this week. It refers to the
matter of sponsorship of Youth groups—"
"Some youths," Retief said. "Average age, seventy-five."
"The Fustians are a long-lived people," Magnan snapped. "These matters
are relative. At seventy-five, a male Fustian is at a trying age—"
"That's right. He'll try anything—in the hope it will maim somebody."
"Precisely the problem," Magnan said. "But the Youth Movement is
the important news in today's political situation here on Fust. And
sponsorship of Youth groups is a shrewd stroke on the part of the
Terrestrial Embassy. At my suggestion, well nigh every member of the
mission has leaped at the opportunity to score a few p—that is, cement
relations with this emergent power group—the leaders of the future.
You, Retief, as Councillor, are the outstanding exception."
"I'm not convinced these hoodlums need my help in organizing their
rumbles," Retief said. "Now, if you have a proposal for a pest control
group—"
"To the Fustians this is no jesting matter," Magnan cut in. "This
group—" he glanced at the paper—"known as the Sexual, Cultural, and
Athletic Recreational Society, or SCARS for short, has been awaiting
sponsorship for a matter of weeks now."
"Meaning they want someone to buy them a clubhouse, uniforms, equipment
and anything else they need to complete their sexual, cultural and
athletic development," Retief said.
"If we don't act promptly," Magnan said, "the Groaci Embassy may well
anticipate us. They're very active here."
"That's an idea," said Retief. "Let 'em. After awhile they'll go broke
instead of us."
"Nonsense. The group requires a sponsor. I can't actually order you to
step forward. However...." Magnan let the sentence hang in the air.
Retief raised one eyebrow.
"For a minute there," he said, "I thought you were going to make a
positive statement."
Magnan leaned back, lacing his fingers over his stomach. "I don't think
you'll find a diplomat of my experience doing anything so naive," he
said.
"I like the adult Fustians," said Retief. "Too bad they have to lug
half a ton of horn around on their backs. I wonder if surgery would
help."
"Great heavens, Retief," Magnan sputtered. "I'm amazed that even you
would bring up a matter of such delicacy. A race's unfortunate physical
characteristics are hardly a fit matter for Terrestrial curiosity."
"Well, of course your experience of the Fustian mentality is greater
than mine. I've only been here a month. But it's been my experience,
Mr. Ambassador, that few races are above improving on nature. Otherwise
you, for example, would be tripping over your beard."
Magnan shuddered. "Please—never mention the idea to a Fustian."
Retief stood. "My own program for the day includes going over to the
dockyards. There are some features of this new passenger liner the
Fustians are putting together that I want to look into. With your
permission, Mr. Ambassador...?"
Magnan snorted. "Your pre-occupation with the trivial disturbs me,
Retief. More interest in substantive matters—such as working with
Youth groups—would create a far better impression."
"Before getting too involved with these groups, it might be a good idea
to find out a little more about them," said Retief. "Who organizes
them? There are three strong political parties here on Fust. What's the
alignment of this SCARS organization?"
"You forget, these are merely teenagers, so to speak," Magnan said.
"Politics mean nothing to them ... yet."
"Then there are the Groaci. Why their passionate interest in a
two-horse world like Fust? Normally they're concerned with nothing but
business. But what has Fust got that they could use?"
"You may rule out the commercial aspect in this instance," said Magnan.
"Fust possesses a vigorous steel-age manufacturing economy. The Groaci
are barely ahead of them."
"Barely," said Retief. "Just over the line into crude atomics ... like
fission bombs."
Magnan shook his head, turned back to his papers. "What market exists
for such devices on a world at peace? I suggest you address your
attention to the less spectacular but more rewarding work of studying
the social patterns of the local youth."
"I've studied them," said Retief. "And before I meet any of the local
youth socially I want to get myself a good blackjack."
II
Retief left the sprawling bungalow-type building that housed the
chancery of the Terrestrial Embassy, swung aboard a passing flat-car
and leaned back against the wooden guard rail as the heavy vehicle
trundled through the city toward the looming gantries of the shipyards.
It was a cool morning. A light breeze carried the fishy odor of Fusty
dwellings across the broad cobbled avenue. A few mature Fustians
lumbered heavily along in the shade of the low buildings, audibly
wheezing under the burden of their immense carapaces. Among them,
shell-less youths trotted briskly on scaly stub legs. The driver of the
flat-car, a labor-caste Fustian with his guild colors emblazoned on his
back, heaved at the tiller, swung the unwieldy conveyance through the
shipyard gates, creaked to a halt.
"Thus I come to the shipyard with frightful speed," he said in Fustian.
"Well I know the way of the naked-backs, who move always in haste."
Retief climbed down, handed him a coin. "You should take up
professional racing," he said. "Daredevil."
He crossed the littered yard and tapped at the door of a rambling shed.
Boards creaked inside. Then the door swung back.
A gnarled ancient with tarnished facial scales and a weathered carapace
peered out at Retief.
"Long-may-you-sleep," said Retief. "I'd like to take a look around, if
you don't mind. I understand you're laying the bedplate for your new
liner today."
"May-you-dream-of-the-deeps," the old fellow mumbled. He waved a stumpy
arm toward a group of shell-less Fustians standing by a massive hoist.
"The youths know more of bedplates than do I, who but tend the place of
papers."
"I know how you feel, old-timer," said Retief. "That sounds like the
story of my life. Among your papers do you have a set of plans for the
vessel? I understand it's to be a passenger liner."
The oldster nodded. He shuffled to a drawing file, rummaged, pulled out
a sheaf of curled prints and spread them on the table. Retief stood
silently, running a finger over the uppermost drawing, tracing lines....
"What does the naked-back here?" barked a deep voice behind Retief. He
turned. A heavy-faced Fustian youth, wrapped in a mantle, stood at the
open door. Beady yellow eyes set among fine scales bored into Retief.
"I came to take a look at your new liner," said Retief.
"We need no prying foreigners here," the youth snapped. His eye fell on
the drawings. He hissed in sudden anger.
"Doddering hulk!" he snapped at the ancient. "May you toss in
nightmares! Put by the plans!"
"My mistake," Retief said. "I didn't know this was a secret project."
The youth hesitated. "It is not a secret project," he muttered. "Why
should it be secret?"
"You tell me."
The youth worked his jaws and rocked his head from side to side in the
Fusty gesture of uncertainty. "There is nothing to conceal," he said.
"We merely construct a passenger liner."
"Then you don't mind if I look over the drawings," said Retief. "Who
knows? Maybe some day I'll want to reserve a suite for the trip out."
The youth turned and disappeared. Retief grinned at the oldster. "Went
for his big brother, I guess," he said. "I have a feeling I won't get
to study these in peace here. Mind if I copy them?"
"Willingly, light-footed one," said the old Fustian. "And mine is the
shame for the discourtesy of youth."
Retief took out a tiny camera, flipped a copying lens in place, leafed
through the drawings, clicking the shutter.
"A plague on these youths," said the oldster, "who grow more virulent
day by day."
"Why don't you elders clamp down?"
"Agile are they and we are slow of foot. And this unrest is new.
Unknown in my youth was such insolence."
"The police—"
"Bah!" the ancient rumbled. "None have we worthy of the name, nor have
we needed ought ere now."
"What's behind it?"
"They have found leaders. The spiv, Slock, is one. And I fear they plot
mischief." He pointed to the window. "They come, and a Soft One with
them."
Retief pocketed the camera, glanced out the window. A pale-featured
Groaci with an ornately decorated crest stood with the youths, who eyed
the hut, then started toward it.
"That's the military attache of the Groaci Embassy," Retief said. "I
wonder what he and the boys are cooking up together?"
"Naught that augurs well for the dignity of Fust," the oldster rumbled.
"Flee, agile one, while I engage their attentions."
"I was just leaving," Retief said. "Which way out?"
"The rear door," the Fustian gestured with a stubby member. "Rest well,
stranger on these shores." He moved to the entrance.
"Same to you, pop," said Retief. "And thanks."
He eased through the narrow back entrance, waited until voices were
raised at the front of the shed, then strolled off toward the gate.
The second dark of the third cycle was lightening when Retief left the
Embassy technical library and crossed the corridor to his office. He
flipped on a light. A note was tucked under a paperweight:
"Retief—I shall expect your attendance at the IAS dinner at first
dark of the fourth cycle. There will be a brief but, I hope, impressive
Sponsorship ceremony for the SCARS group, with full press coverage,
arrangements for which I have managed to complete in spite of your
intransigence."
Retief snorted and glanced at his watch. Less than three hours. Just
time to creep home by flat-car, dress in ceremonial uniform and creep
back.
Outside he flagged a lumbering bus. He stationed himself in a corner
and watched the yellow sun, Beta, rise rapidly above the low skyline.
The nearby sea was at high tide now, under the pull of the major sun
and the three moons, and the stiff breeze carried a mist of salt spray.
Retief turned up his collar against the dampness. In half an hour he
would be perspiring under the vertical rays of a third-noon sun, but
the thought failed to keep the chill off.
Two Youths clambered up on the platform, moving purposefully toward
Retief. He moved off the rail, watching them, weight balanced.
"That's close enough, kids," he said. "Plenty of room on this scow. No
need to crowd up."
"There are certain films," the lead Fustian muttered. His voice was
unusually deep for a Youth. He was wrapped in a heavy cloak and moved
awkwardly. His adolescence was nearly at an end, Retief guessed.
"I told you once," said Retief. "Don't crowd me."
The two stepped close, slit mouths snapping in anger. Retief put out a
foot, hooked it behind the scaly leg of the overaged juvenile and threw
his weight against the cloaked chest. The clumsy Fustian tottered, fell
heavily. Retief was past him and off the flat-car before the other
Youth had completed his vain lunge toward the spot Retief had occupied.
The Terrestrial waved cheerfully at the pair, hopped aboard another
vehicle, watched his would-be assailants lumber down from their car,
tiny heads twisted to follow his retreating figure.
So they wanted the film? Retief reflected, thumbing a cigar alight.
They were a little late. He had already filed it in the Embassy vault,
after running a copy for the reference files.
And a comparison of the drawings with those of the obsolete Mark XXXV
battle cruiser used two hundred years earlier by the Concordiat Naval
Arm showed them to be almost identical, gun emplacements and all. The
term "obsolete" was a relative one. A ship which had been outmoded in
the armories of the Galactic Powers could still be king of the walk in
the Eastern Arm.
But how had these two known of the film? There had been no one present
but himself and the old-timer—and he was willing to bet the elderly
Fustian hadn't told them anything.
At least not willingly....
Retief frowned, dropped the cigar over the side, waited until the
flat-car negotiated a mud-wallow, then swung down and headed for the
shipyard.
The door, hinges torn loose, had been propped loosely back in position.
Retief looked around at the battered interior of the shed. The old
fellow had put up a struggle.
There were deep drag-marks in the dust behind the building. Retief
followed them across the yard. They disappeared under the steel door of
a warehouse.
Retief glanced around. Now, at the mid-hour of the fourth cycle, the
workmen were heaped along the edge of the refreshment pond, deep in
their siesta. He took a multi-bladed tool from a pocket, tried various
fittings in the lock. It snicked open.
He eased the door aside far enough to enter.
Heaped bales loomed before him. Snapping on the tiny lamp in the handle
of the combination tool, Retief looked over the pile. One stack seemed
out of alignment ... and the dust had been scraped from the floor
before it. He pocketed the light, climbed up on the bales, looked over
into a nest made by stacking the bundles around a clear spot. The aged
Fustian lay in it, on his back, a heavy sack tied over his head.
Retief dropped down inside the ring of bales, sawed at the tough twine
and pulled the sack free.
"It's me, old fellow," Retief said. "The nosy stranger. Sorry I got you
into this."
The oldster threshed his gnarled legs. He rocked slightly and fell
back. "A curse on the cradle that rocked their infant slumbers," he
rumbled. "But place me back on my feet and I hunt down the youth,
Slock, though he flee to the bottommost muck of the Sea of Torments."
"How am I going to get you out of here? Maybe I'd better get some help."
"Nay. The perfidious Youths abound here," said the old Fustian. "It
would be your life."
"I doubt if they'd go that far."
"Would they not?" The Fustian stretched his neck. "Cast your light
here. But for the toughness of my hide...."
Retief put the beam of the light on the leathery neck. A great smear of
thick purplish blood welled from a ragged cut. The oldster chuckled, a
sound like a seal coughing.
"Traitor, they called me. For long they sawed at me—in vain. Then
they trussed me and dumped me here. They think to return with weapons
to complete the task."
"Weapons? I thought it was illegal!"
"Their evil genius, the Soft One," said the Fustian. "He would provide
fuel to the Devil himself."
"The Groaci again," said Retief. "I wonder what their angle is."
"And I must confess, I told them of you, ere I knew their full
intentions. Much can I tell you of their doings. But first, I pray, the
block and tackle."
Retief found the hoist where the Fustian directed him, maneuvered it
into position, hooked onto the edge of the carapace and hauled away.
The immense Fustian rose slowly, teetered ... then flopped on his chest.
Slowly he got to his feet.
"My name is Whonk, fleet one," he said. "My cows are yours."
"Thanks. I'm Retief. I'd like to meet the girls some time. But right
now, let's get out of here."
Whonk leaned his bulk against the ponderous stacks of baled kelp,
bulldozed them aside. "Slow am I to anger," he said, "but implacable in
my wrath. Slock, beware!"
"Hold it," said Retief suddenly. He sniffed. "What's that odor?" He
flashed the light around, played it over a dry stain on the floor. He
knelt, sniffed at the spot.
"What kind of cargo was stacked here, Whonk? And where is it now?"
Whonk considered. "There were drums," he said. "Four of them, quite
small, painted an evil green, the property of the Soft Ones, the
Groaci. They lay here a day and a night. At full dark of the first
period they came with stevedores and loaded them aboard the barge
Moss
Rock
."
"The VIP boat. Who's scheduled to use it?"
"I know not. But what matters this? Let us discuss cargo movements
after I have settled a score with certain Youths."
"We'd better follow this up first, Whonk. There's only one substance I
know of that's transported in drums and smells like that blot on the
floor. That's titanite: the hottest explosive this side of a uranium
pile."
III
Beta was setting as Retief, Whonk puffing at his heels, came up to the
sentry box beside the gangway leading to the plush interior of the
official luxury space barge
Moss Rock
.
"A sign of the times," said Whonk, glancing inside the empty shelter.
"A guard should stand here, but I see him not. Doubtless he crept away
to sleep."
"Let's go aboard and take a look around."
They entered the ship. Soft lights glowed in utter silence. A rough box
stood on the floor, rollers and pry-bars beside it—a discordant note
in the muted luxury of the setting. Whonk rummaged in it.
"Curious," he said. "What means this?" He held up a stained cloak of
orange and green, a metal bracelet, papers.
"Orange and green," mused Relief. "Whose colors are those?"
"I know not." Whonk glanced at the arm-band. "But this is lettered." He
passed the metal band to Retief.
"SCARS," Retief read. He looked at Whonk. "It seems to me I've heard
the name before," he murmured. "Let's get back to the Embassy—fast."
Back on the ramp Retief heard a sound ... and turned in time to duck
the charge of a hulking Fustian youth who thundered past him and
fetched up against the broad chest of Whonk, who locked him in a warm
embrace.
"Nice catch, Whonk. Where'd he sneak out of?"
"The lout hid there by the storage bin," rumbled Whonk. The captive
youth thumped fists and toes fruitlessly against the oldster's carapace.
"Hang onto him," said Retief. "He looks like the biting kind."
"No fear. Clumsy I am, yet not without strength."
"Ask him where the titanite is tucked away."
"Speak, witless grub," growled Whonk, "lest I tweak you in twain."
The youth gurgled.
"Better let up before you make a mess of him," said Retief. Whonk
lifted the Youth clear of the floor, then flung him down with a thump
that made the ground quiver. The younger Fustian glared up at the
elder, mouth snapping.
"This one was among those who trussed me and hid me away for the
killing," said Whonk. "In his repentance he will tell all to his elder."
"That's the same young squirt that tried to strike up an acquaintance
with me on the bus," Retief said. "He gets around."
The youth scrambled to hands and knees, scuttled for freedom. Retief
planted a foot on his dragging cloak; it ripped free. He stared at the
bare back of the Fustian—
"By the Great Egg!" Whonk exclaimed, tripping the refugee as he tried
to rise. "This is no Youth! His carapace has been taken from him!"
Retief looked at the scarred back. "I thought he looked a little old.
But I thought—"
"This is not possible," Whonk said wonderingly. "The great nerve trunks
are deeply involved. Not even the cleverest surgeon could excise the
carapace and leave the patient living."
"It looks like somebody did the trick. But let's take this boy with us
and get out of here. His folks may come home."
"Too late," said Whonk. Retief turned.
Three youths came from behind the sheds.
"Well," Retief said. "It looks like the SCARS are out in force tonight.
Where's your pal?" he said to the advancing trio. "The sticky little
bird with the eye-stalks? Back at his Embassy, leaving you suckers
holding the bag, I'll bet."
"Shelter behind me, Retief," said Whonk.
"Go get 'em, old-timer." Retief stooped, picked up one of the pry-bars.
"I'll jump around and distract them."
Whonk let out a whistling roar and charged for the immature Fustians.
They fanned out ... and one tripped, sprawled on his face. Retief
whirled the metal bar he had thrust between the Fustian's legs, slammed
it against the skull of another, who shook his head, turned on
Retief ... and bounced off the steel hull of the
Moss Rock
as Whonk
took him in full charge.
Retief used the bar on another head. His third blow laid the Fustian
on the pavement, oozing purple. The other two club members departed
hastily, seriously dented but still mobile.
Retief leaned on his club, breathing hard. "Tough heads these kids
have got. I'm tempted to chase those two lads down, but I've got
another errand to run. I don't know who the Groaci intended to blast,
but I have a sneaking suspicion somebody of importance was scheduled
for a boat ride in the next few hours. And three drums of titanite is
enough to vaporize this tub and everyone aboard her."
"The plot is foiled," said Whonk. "But what reason did they have?"
"The Groaci are behind it. I have an idea the SCARS didn't know about
this gambit."
"Which of these is the leader?" asked Whonk. He prodded a fallen Youth
with a horny toe. "Arise, dreaming one."
"Never mind him, Whonk. We'll tie these two up and leave them here. I
know where to find the boss."
A stolid crowd filled the low-ceilinged banquet hall. Retief scanned
the tables for the pale blobs of Terrestrial faces, dwarfed by the
giant armored bodies of the Fustians. Across the room Magnan fluttered
a hand. Retief headed toward him. A low-pitched vibration filled the
air: the rumble of subsonic Fustian music.
Retief slid into his place beside Magnan. "Sorry to be late, Mr.
Ambassador."
"I'm honored that you chose to appear at all," said Magnan coldly. He
turned back to the Fustian on his left.
"Ah, yes, Mr. Minister," he said. "Charming, most charming. So joyous."
The Fustian looked at him, beady-eyed. "It is the
Lament of
Hatching
," he said; "our National Dirge."
"Oh," said Magnan. "How interesting. Such a pleasing balance of
instruments—"
"It is a droon solo," said the Fustian, eyeing the Terrestrial
Ambassador suspiciously.
"Why don't you just admit you can't hear it," Retief whispered loudly.
"And if I may interrupt a moment—"
Magnan cleared his throat. "Now that our Mr. Retief has arrived,
perhaps we could rush right along to the Sponsorship ceremonies."
"This group," said Retief, leaning across Magnan, "the SCARS. How much
do you know about them, Mr. Minister?"
"Nothing at all," the huge Fustian elder rumbled. "For my taste, all
Youths should be kept penned with the livestock until they grow a
carapace to tame their irresponsibility."
"We mustn't lose sight of the importance of channeling youthful
energies," said Magnan.
"Labor gangs," said the minister. "In my youth we were indentured to
the dredge-masters. I myself drew a muck sledge."
"But in these modern times," put in Magnan, "surely it's incumbent on
us to make happy these golden hours."
The minister snorted. "Last week I had a golden hour. They set upon me
and pelted me with overripe stench-fruit."
"But this was merely a manifestation of normal youthful frustrations,"
cried Magnan. "Their essential tenderness—"
"You'd not find a tender spot on that lout yonder," the minister
said, pointing with a fork at a newly arrived Youth, "if you drilled
boreholes and blasted."
"Why, that's our guest of honor," said Magnan, "a fine young fellow!
Slop I believe his name is."
"Slock," said Retief. "Eight feet of armor-plated orneriness. And—"
Magnan rose and tapped on his glass. The Fustians winced at the, to
them, supersonic vibrations. They looked at each other muttering.
Magnan tapped louder. The Minister drew in his head, eyes closed. Some
of the Fustians rose, tottered for the doors; the noise level rose.
Magnan redoubled his efforts. The glass broke with a clatter and green
wine gushed on the tablecloth.
"What in the name of the Great Egg!" the Minister muttered. He blinked,
breathing deeply.
"Oh, forgive me," blurted Magnan, dabbing at the wine.
"Too bad the glass gave out," said Retief. "In another minute you'd
have cleared the hall. And then maybe I could have gotten a word in
sideways. There's a matter you should know about—"
"Your attention, please," Magnan said, rising. "I see that our fine
young guest has arrived, and I hope that the remainder of his committee
will be along in a moment. It is my pleasure to announce that our Mr.
Retief has had the good fortune to win out in the keen bidding for the
pleasure of sponsoring this lovely group."
Retief tugged at Magnan's sleeve. "Don't introduce me yet," he said. "I
want to appear suddenly. More dramatic, you know."
"Well," murmured Magnan, glancing down at Retief, "I'm gratified to
see you entering into the spirit of the event at last." He turned his
attention back to the assembled guests. "If our honored guest will join
me on the rostrum...?" he said. "The gentlemen of the press may want to
catch a few shots of the presentation."
Magnan stepped up on the low platform at the center of the wide room,
took his place beside the robed Fustian youth and beamed at the cameras.
"How gratifying it is to take this opportunity to express once more the
great pleasure we have in sponsoring SCARS," he said, talking slowly
for the benefit of the scribbling reporters. "We'd like to think that
in our modest way we're to be a part of all that the SCARS achieve
during the years ahead."
Magnan paused as a huge Fustian elder heaved his bulk up the two low
steps to the rostrum, approached the guest of honor. He watched as the
newcomer paused behind Slock, who did not see the new arrival.
Retief pushed through the crowd, stepped up to face the Fustian youth.
Slock stared at him, drew back.
"You know me, Slock," said Retief loudly. "An old fellow named Whonk
told you about me, just before you tried to saw his head off, remember?
It was when I came out to take a look at that battle cruiser you're
building."
IV
With a bellow Slock reached for Retief—and choked off in mid-cry as
the Fustian elder, Whonk, pinioned him from behind, lifting him clear
of the floor.
"Glad you reporters happened along," said Retief to the gaping newsmen.
"Slock here had a deal with a sharp operator from the Groaci Embassy.
The Groaci were to supply the necessary hardware and Slock, as foreman
at the shipyards, was to see that everything was properly installed.
The next step, I assume, would have been a local take-over, followed
by a little interplanetary war on Flamenco or one of the other nearby
worlds ... for which the Groaci would be glad to supply plenty of ammo."
Magnan found his tongue. "Are you mad, Retief?" he screeched. "This
group was vouched for by the Ministry of Youth!"
"The Ministry's overdue for a purge," snapped Retief. He turned back
to Slock. "I wonder if you were in on the little diversion that was
planned for today. When the
Moss Rock
blew, a variety of clues were
to be planted where they'd be easy to find ... with SCARS written all
over them. The Groaci would thus have neatly laid the whole affair
squarely at the door of the Terrestrial Embassy ... whose sponsorship
of the SCARS had received plenty of publicity."
"The
Moss Rock
?" said Magnan. "But that was—Retief! This is idiotic.
Slock himself was scheduled to go on a cruise tomorrow!"
Slock roared suddenly, twisting violently. Whonk teetered, his grip
loosened ... and Slock pulled free and was off the platform, butting
his way through the milling oldsters on the dining room floor. Magnan
watched, open-mouthed.
"The Groaci were playing a double game, as usual," Retief said. "They
intended to dispose of this fellow Slock, once he'd served their
purpose."
"Well, don't stand there," yelped Magnan over the uproar. "If Slock is
the ring-leader of a delinquent gang...!" He moved to give chase.
Retief grabbed his arm. "Don't jump down there! You'd have as much
chance of getting through as a jack-rabbit through a threshing contest."
Ten minutes later the crowd had thinned slightly. "We can get through
now," Whonk called. "This way." He lowered himself to the floor, bulled
through to the exit. Flashbulbs popped. Retief and Magnan followed in
Whonk's wake.
In the lounge Retief grabbed the phone, waited for the operator, gave a
code letter. No reply. He tried another.
"No good," he said after a full minute had passed. "Wonder what's
loose?" He slammed the phone back in its niche. "Let's grab a cab."
In the street the blue sun, Alpha, peered like an arc light under a low
cloud layer, casting flat shadows across the mud of the avenue. The
three mounted a passing flat-car. Whonk squatted, resting the weight of
his immense shell on the heavy plank flooring.
"Would that I too could lose this burden, as has the false youth we
bludgeoned aboard the
Moss Rock
," he sighed. "Soon will I be forced
into retirement. Then a mere keeper of a place of papers such as I
will rate no more than a slab on the public strand, with once-daily
feedings. And even for a man of high position, retirement is no
pleasure. A slab in the Park of Monuments is little better. A dismal
outlook for one's next thousand years!"
"You two carry on to the police station," said Retief. "I want to play
a hunch. But don't take too long. I may be painfully right."
"What—?" Magnan started.
"As you wish, Retief," said Whonk.
The flat-car trundled past the gate to the shipyard and Retief jumped
down, headed at a run for the VIP boat. The guard post still stood
vacant. The two Youths whom he and Whonk had left trussed were gone.
"That's the trouble with a peaceful world," Retief muttered. "No police
protection." He stepped down from the lighted entry and took up a
position behind the sentry box. Alpha rose higher, shedding a glaring
blue-white light without heat. Retief shivered. Maybe he'd guessed
wrong....
There was a sound in the near distance, like two elephants colliding.
Retief looked toward the gate. His giant acquaintance, Whonk, had
reappeared and was grappling with a hardly less massive opponent. A
small figure became visible in the melee, scuttled for the gate. Headed
off by the battling titans, he turned and made for the opposite side
of the shipyard. Retief waited, jumped out and gathered in the fleeing
Groaci.
"Well, Yith," he said, "how's tricks? You should pardon the expression."
"Release me, Retief!" the pale-featured alien lisped, his throat
bladder pulsating in agitation. "The behemoths vie for the privilege of
dismembering me out of hand!"
"I know how they feel. I'll see what I can do ... for a price."
"I appeal to you," Yith whispered hoarsely. "As a fellow diplomat, a
fellow alien, a fellow soft-back—"
"Why don't you appeal to Slock, as a fellow skunk?" said Retief. "Now
keep quiet ... and you may get out of this alive."
The heavier of the two struggling Fustians threw the other to the
ground. There was another brief flurry, and then the smaller figure was
on its back, helpless.
"That's Whonk, still on his feet," said Retief. "I wonder who he's
caught—and why."
Whonk came toward the
Moss Rock
dragging the supine Fustian, who
kicked vainly. Retief thrust Yith down well out of sight behind the
sentry box. "Better sit tight, Yith. Don't try to sneak off; I can
outrun you. Stay here and I'll see what I can do." He stepped out and
hailed Whonk.
Puffing like a steam engine Whonk pulled up before him. "Sleep,
Retief!" He panted. "You followed a hunch; I did the same. I saw
something strange in this one when we passed him on the avenue. I
watched, followed him here. Look! It is Slock, strapped into a dead
carapace! Now many things become clear."
Retief whistled. "So the Youths aren't all as young as they look.
Somebody's been holding out on the rest of you Fustians!"
"The Soft One," Whonk said. "You laid him by the heels, Retief. I saw.
Produce him now."
"Hold on a minute, Whonk. It won't do you any good—"
Whonk winked broadly. "I must take my revenge!" he roared. "I shall
test the texture of the Soft One! His pulped remains will be scoured up
by the ramp-washers and mailed home in bottles!"
Retief whirled at a sound, caught up with the scuttling Yith fifty feet
away, hauled him back to Whonk.
"It's up to you, Whonk," he said. "I know how important ceremonial
revenge is to you Fustians. I will not interfere."
"Mercy!" Yith hissed, eye-stalks whipping in distress. "I claim
diplomatic immunity!"
"No diplomat am I," rumbled Whonk. "Let me see; suppose I start with
one of those obscenely active eyes—" He reached....
"I have an idea," said Retief brightly. "Do you suppose—just this
once—you could forego the ceremonial revenge if Yith promised to
arrange for a Groaci Surgical Mission to de-carapace you elders?"
"But," Whonk protested, "those eyes! What a pleasure to pluck them, one
by one!"
"Yess," hissed Yith, "I swear it! Our most expert surgeons ... platoons
of them, with the finest of equipment."
"I have dreamed of how it would be to sit on this one, to feel him
squash beneath my bulk...."
"Light as a whissle feather shall you dance," Yith whispered.
"Shell-less shall you spring in the joy of renewed youth—"
"Maybe just one eye," said Whonk grudgingly. "That would leave him
four."
"Be a sport," said Retief.
"Well."
"It's a deal then," said Retief. "Yith, on your word as a diplomat,
an alien, a soft-back and a skunk, you'll set up the mission. Groaci
surgical skill is an export that will net you more than armaments.
It will be a whissle feather in your cap—if you bring it off. And
in return, Whonk won't sit on you. And I won't prefer charges of
interference in the internal affairs of a free world."
Behind Whonk there was a movement. Slock, wriggling free of the
borrowed carapace, struggled to his feet ... in time for Whonk to seize
him, lift him high and head for the entry to the
Moss Rock
.
"Hey," Retief called. "Where are you going?"
"I would not deny this one his reward," called Whonk. "He hoped to
cruise in luxury. So be it."
"Hold on," said Retief. "That tub is loaded with titanite!"
"Stand not in my way, Retief. For this one in truth owes me a
vengeance."
Retief watched as the immense Fustian bore his giant burden up the ramp
and disappeared within the ship.
"I guess Whonk means business," he said to Yith, who hung in his grasp,
all five eyes goggling. "And he's a little too big for me to stop."
Whonk reappeared, alone, climbed down.
"What did you do with him?" said Retief. "Tell him you were going to—"
"We had best withdraw," said Whonk. "The killing radius of the drive is
fifty yards."
"You mean—"
"The controls are set for Groaci. Long-may-he-sleep."
"It was quite a bang," said Retief. "But I guess you saw it, too."
"No, confound it," Magnan said. "When I remonstrated with Hulk, or
Whelk—"
"Whonk."
"—the ruffian thrust me into an alley bound in my own cloak. I'll most
certainly complain to the Minister."
"How about the surgical mission?"
"A most generous offer," said Magnan. "Frankly, I was astonished. I
think perhaps we've judged the Groaci too harshly."
"I hear the Ministry of Youth has had a rough morning of it," said
Retief. "And a lot of rumors are flying to the effect that Youth Groups
are on the way out."
Magnan cleared his throat, shuffled papers. "I—ah—have explained to
the press that last night's—ah—"
"Fiasco."
"—affair was necessary in order to place the culprits in an untenable
position. Of course, as to the destruction of the VIP vessel and the
presumed death of, uh, Slop."
"The Fustians understand," said Retief. "Whonk wasn't kidding about
ceremonial vengeance."
"The Groaci had been guilty of gross misuse of diplomatic privilege,"
said Magnan. "I think that a note—or perhaps an Aide Memoire: less
formal...."
"The
Moss Rock
was bound for Groaci," said Retief. "She was already
in her transit orbit when she blew. The major fragments will arrive on
schedule in a month or so. It should provide quite a meteorite display.
I think that should be all the
aide
the Groaci's
memoires
will need
to keep their tentacles off Fust."
"But diplomatic usage—"
"Then, too, the less that's put in writing, the less they can blame you
for, if anything goes wrong."
"That's true," said Magnan, lips pursed. "Now you're thinking
constructively, Retief. We may make a diplomat of you yet." He smiled
expansively.
"Maybe. But I refuse to let it depress me." Retief stood up. "I'm
taking a few weeks off ... if you have no objection, Mr. Ambassador. My
pal Whonk wants to show me an island down south where the fishing is
good."
"But there are some extremely important matters coming up," said
Magnan. "We're planning to sponsor Senior Citizen Groups—"
"Count me out. All groups give me an itch."
"Why, what an astonishing remark, Retief! After all, we diplomats are
ourselves a group."
"Uh-huh," Retief said.
Magnan sat quietly, mouth open, and watched as Retief stepped into the
hall and closed the door gently behind him.
|
What is the significance of Garve leaving the ship and following the call of the city?
|
After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about The Beast-Jewel of Mars by V. E. Thiessen.
Relevant chunks:
The Beast-Jewel of Mars
By V. E. THIESSEN
The city was strange, fantastic, beautiful. He'd never been there before, yet already he was a fabulous legend—a dire, hateful legend.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
He lay on his stomach, a lean man in faded one piece dungarees, and an odd metallic hat, peering over the side of the canal. Behind him the little winds sifted red dust into his collar, but he could not move; he could only sit there with his gaze riveted on the spires and minarets that twinkled in the distance, far down the bottom of the canal.
One part of his mind said, This is it, this is the fabled city of Mars. This is the beauty and the fantasy and the music of the legends, and I must go down there. Yet somewhere deeper in his mind, deep in the primal urges that kept him from death, the warning was taut and urgent. Get away. They have a part of your mind now. Get away from the city before you lose it all. Get away before your body becomes a husk, a soulless husk to walk the low canals with sightless eyes, like those who came before you.
He strained to push back from the edge, trying to get that fantastic beauty out of his sight. He fought the lids of his eyes, fought to close them while he pushed himself back, but they remained open, staring at the jeweled towers, and borne on the little winds the thin wail of music reached him, saying, Come into the city, come down into the fabled city .
He slid over the edge, sliding down the sloping sides of the canal. The rough sandstone tore at his dungarees, tore at his elbow where it touched but he did not feel the pain. His face was turned toward the towers, and the sound of his breathing was less than human.
His feet caught a projecting bit of stone and were slowed for an instant, so that he turned sideways and rolled on, down into the red dust bottom of the canal, to lie face down in the dust, with the chin strap of the odd metallic hat cutting cruelly into his chin.
He lay there an instant, knowing that now he had a chance. With his face down like this, and the dust smarting his eyes the image was gone for an instant. He had to get away, he knew that. He had to mount the sides of the canal and never look back.
He told himself, "I am Eric North, from Earth, the Third Planet of Sol, and this is not real."
He squirmed in the dust, feeling it bite his cheeks; he squirmed until he could get up and see nothing but the red sand stone walls of the canal. He ran at the walls and clawed his way up like an animal in his haste. He wouldn't look again.
The wind freshened and the tune of the music began to talk to him. It told of going barefoot over long streets of fur. It told of jewels, and wine, and women as fair as springtime. These and more were in the city, waiting for him to claim them.
He sobbed, and clawed forward. He stopped to rest, and slowly his head began to turn. He turned, and the spires and minarets twinkled at him, beautiful, soothing, stopping the tears that had welled down his cheeks.
When he reached the bottom of the canal he began to run toward the city.
When he came to the city there was a high wall around it, and a heavy gate carved with lotus blossoms. He beat against the gate and cried,
"Oh! Let me in. Let me in to the city!" The music was richer now, as if it were everywhere, and the gate swung open without the faintest sound.
A sentinel stood before the opened gate at the end of a long blue street. He was dressed in red silk with his sleeves edged in blue leopard skin, and he wore a belt with a jeweled short sword. He drew the sword from its scabbard, and bowed forward until the point of the sword touched the street of blue fur. He said, "I give you the welcome of my sword, and the welcome of the city. Speak your name so that it may be set in the records of the dreamers."
The music sang, and the spires twinkled, and Eric said, "I am Eric North!"
The sword point jerked, and the sentinel straightened. His face was white. He cried aloud, "It is Eric the Bronze. It is Eric of the Legend." He whirled the sword aloft, and smashed it upon Eric's metal hat, and the hatred was a blue flame in his eyes.
When Eric regained consciousness the people of the city were all about him. They were very fair, and the women were more beautiful than music. Yet now they stared at him with red hate in their eyes. An older man came forward and struck at the copper hat with a stick. The clang deafened Eric and the man cried, "You are right. It is Eric the Bronze. Bring the ships and let him be scourged from the city."
The man drew back the stick and struck again, and Eric's back took fire with the blow. The crowd chanted, "Whips, bring the whips," and fear forced Eric to his feet. He fled then, running on the heedless feet of panic, outstripping those who were behind him until he passed through the great gates into the red dust floor of the canal. The gates closed behind him, and the dust beat upon him, and he paused, his heart hammering inside his chest like a great bell clapper. He turned and looked behind to be sure he was safe.
The towers twinkled at him, and the music whispered to him, "Come back, Eric North. Come back to the city."
He turned and stumbled back to the great gate and hammered on it until his fists were raw, pleading for it to open and let him back.
And deep inside him some part of his mind said, "This is a madness you cannot escape. The city is evil, an evil like you have never known," and a fear as old as time coursed through his frame.
He seized the copper hat from his head, and beat on the lotus carvings of the great door, crying, "Let me in! Please, take me back into the city."
And as he beat the city changed. It became dull and sordid and evil, a city of disgust, with every part offensive to the eye. The spires and minarets were gargoyles of hatred, twisted and misshapen, and the sound of the city was a macabre song of hate.
He stared, and his back was chill with superstitions as old as the beginning of man. The city flickered, changing before his eyes until it was beautiful again.
He stood, amazed, and put the metal hat back on his head. With the motion the shift took place again, and beauty was ugliness. Amazed, he stared at the illusion, and the thought came to him that the metal hat had not entirely failed him after all.
He turned and began to walk away from the city, and when it began to call he took the hat off his head and found peace for a time. Then when it began again he replaced the hat, and revulsion sped his footsteps. And so, hat on, hat off, he made his way down the dusty floor of the canal, and up the rocky sides until he stood on the Martian desert, and the canal was a thin line behind him. He breathed easily then, for he was beyond the range of the illusions.
And now that his mind was his own again he began to study the problem, and to understand something of the nature of the forces against which he had been pitted.
The helmet contained an electrical circuit, designed as a shield against electrical waves tuned to affect his brain. But the hat had failed because the city, whatever it was, had adjusted to this revised pattern as he had approached it. Hence, the helmet had been no defense against illusion. However, when he had jerked the helmet off suddenly to beat on the door, his mental pattern had changed, too suddenly, and the machine caught up only after he had glimpsed another image. Then as the illusion adjusted replacing the helmet threw it off again.
He grinned wryly. He would have liked to know more about the city, whatever it was. He would have liked to know more about the people he had seen, whether they were real or part of the illusion, and if they were as ugly as the second city had been.
Yet the danger was too great. He would go back to his ship and make the arrangements to destroy the city. The ship was armed, and to deliver indirect fire over the edge of the canal would be simple enough. Garve North, his brother, waited back at the ship. If he knew of the city he would have to go there. Eric must not take a chance on that. After they had blasted whatever it was that lay in the canal floor, then it would be time enough to tell Garve, and go down to see what was left.
The ship rested easily on the flat sandstone area where he had established base camp. Its familiar lines brought a smile to Eric's face, a feeling of confidence now that tools and weapons were his again.
He opened the door and entered. The lock doors were left open so that he could enter directly into the body of the ship. He came in in a swift leap, calling, "Garve! Hey, Garve, where are you?"
The ship remained mute. He prowled through it, calling, "Garve," wondering where the young hothead had gone, and then he saw a note clipped to the control board of the ship. He tore it loose impatiently and began to read. Garve had scrawled:
"Funny thing, Eric. A while ago I thought I heard music. I walked down to the canal, and it seemed like there were lights, and a town of some sort far down the canal. I wanted to investigate, but thought I'd better come back. But the thing has been in my mind for hours now, and I'm going down to see what it is. If you want to follow, come straight down the canal."
Eric stared at the note, and the line of his jaw was white. Apparently Garve had seen the city from farther away, and its effect had not been so strong. Even so, Garve's natural curiosity had done the rest.
Garve had gone down to the city, and Garve had no shielded hat. Eric selected two high explosive grenades from the ship's arsenal. They were small but they packed a lot of power. He had a pistol packed with smaller pellets of the same explosive, and he had the hat. That should be adequate. He thrust the bronze hat back on his head and began walking back to the canal.
The return back to the city would always live in his mind as a phantasmagora, a montage of twisted hate and unseemly beauty. When he came again to the gate he did not attempt to enter, but circled the wall, hat on, hat off, stiff limbed like a puppet dancing to the same tune over and over again. He found a place where he could scale the wall, and thrust the helmet on his head, and clawed up the misshapen wall. It was all he could do to make himself drop into the ugly city.
He heard a familiar voice as he dropped. "Eric," the voice said. "Eric, you did come back." The voice was his brother's, and he whirled, seeking the voice. A figure stood before him, a twisted caricature of his brother. The figure cried, "The hat! You fool, get rid of that hat!" The caricature that was his brother seized the hat, and jerked so hard that the chin strap broke under Eric's chin. The hat was flung away and sailed high and far over the fence and outside the city.
The phantasm flickered, the illusion moved. Garve was now more handsome than ever, and the city was a dream of delight. Garve said, "Come," and Eric followed down a street of blue fur. He had no will to resist.
Garve said, "Keep your head down and your face hidden. If we meet someone you may not be recognized. They won't be expecting you from this side of the city."
Eric asked, "You knew I'd come after you?"
"Yes. The Legend said you'd be back."
Eric stopped and whirled to face his brother. "The Legend? Eric the Bronze? What is this wild fantasy?"
"Not so loud!" Garve's voice cautioned him. "Of course the crowd called you that because of the copper hat and your heavy tan. But the Elders believe so too. I don't know what it is, Eric, reincarnation, prophesy, superstition, I only know that when I was with the Elders I believed them. You are a part of a Legend. You are Eric the Bronze."
Eric looked down at his sun tanned hands and flexed them. He loosened the explosive pistol in its holster. At least he was going to be a well armed, well prepared Legend. And while one part of his mind marveled at the city and relaxed into a pleasure as deep as a dream, another struggled with the almost forgotten desire to rescue his brother and escape. He asked, "Who are the Elders?"
"We are going to them, to the center of the city." Garve's voice sharpened, "Keep your head down. I think the last two men we passed are looking after us. Don't look back."
After a moment Garve said, "I think they are following us. Get ready to run. If we are separated, keep going until you reach City Center. The Elders will be expecting you." Garve glanced back, and his voice sharpened, "Now! Run!"
They ran. But as they ran figures began to converge upon them. Farther up the street others appeared, cutting off their flight.
Garve cried, "In here," and pulled Eric into a crevice between two buildings. Eric drew his gun, and savagery began to dance in his eyes. The soft fur muffled sounds of pursuit closed in upon them.
Garve put one hand on Eric's gun hand and said, "Wait here. And if you value my life, don't use that gun." Then he was gone, running deerlike down the street.
For an instant Eric thought the ruse had succeeded. He heard cries and two men passed him running in pursuit. But then the cry came back. "Let him go. Get the other one. The other one."
Eric was seen an instant later, and the people of the city began to converge upon him. He could have destroyed them all with his charges in the gun, but his brother's warning shrieked in his ears, "If you value my life don't use the gun."
There was nothing he could do. Eric stood quietly until he was taken prisoner. They moved him to the center of the wide fur street. Two men held his arms, and twisted painfully. The crowd looked at him, coldly, calculatingly. One of them said, "Get the whips. If we whip him he will not come back." The city twinkled, and the music was so faint he could hardly hear it.
There was only one weapon Eric could use. He had gathered from Garve's words that these people were superstitious.
He laughed, a great chest-shattering laugh that gusted out into the thin Martian air. He laughed and cried in a great voice, "And can you so easily dispose of a Legend? If I am Eric of the Legend, can whips defeat the prophesy?"
There was an instant when he could have twisted loose. They stood, fear-bound at his words. But there was no place to hide, and without the use of his weapons Eric could not have gone far. He had to bluff it out.
Then one of the men cried, "Fools! It is true. We must take no chance with the whips. He would come back. But if he dies here before us now, then we may forget the prophesy."
The crowd murmured and a second voice cried, "Get the sword, get the guards, and kill him at once!"
Eric tensed to break away but now it was too late. His captors were alert. They increased the twist on his arms until he almost screamed with the pain.
The crowd parted, and the guard came through, his red silk clothing gleaming in the sun, his sword bright and deadly. He stopped before Eric, and the sword swirled up like a saber, ready for a slashing cut downward across Eric's neck.
A woman's voice, soft and yet authoritative, called, "Hold!" And a murmur of respect rippled through the crowd.
"Nolette! The Daughter of the City comes."
Eric turned his gaze to the side and saw the woman who had spoken. She was mounted upon a black horse with a jeweled bridle. She was young and her hair was long and free in the wind. She had ridden so softly across the fur street that no one had been aware of her presence.
She said, "Let me touch this man. Let me feel the pulse of his heart so that I may know if he is truly the Bronze one of the Legend. Give me your hand, stranger." She leaned down and grasped his hand. Eric shook his arms free, and reached up and clung to the offered hand, thinking,
"If I pull her down perhaps I can use her as a shield." He tensed his muscles and began to pull.
She cried, "No! You fool. Come up on the horse," and pulled back with an energy as fierce as his own. Then he had swung up on the horse, and the animal leaped forward, its muffled gallop beating out a tattoo of freedom.
Eric clung tightly to the girl's waist. He could feel the young suppleness of her body, and the fine strands of her hair kept swirling back into his face. It had a faint perfume, a clean and heady scent that made him more aware of the touch of her waist. He breathed deeply, oddly happy as they rode.
After five minutes ride they came to a building in the center of the city. The building was cubical, severe in line and architecture, and it contrasted oddly with the exquisite ornament of the rest of the city. It was as if it were a monolith from another time, a stranger crouched among enemies.
The girl halted before the structure and said, "Dismount here, Eric."
Eric swung down, his arms still tingling with pleasure where he had held her. She said, "Knock three times on the door. I will see you again inside. And thank your brother for sending me to bring you here."
Eric knocked on the door. The door was as plain as the building, made of a luminous plastic. It had all the beauty of the great gate door, but a more timeless, more functional beauty.
The door opened and an old man greeted Eric. "Come in. The Council awaits you. Follow me, please."
Eric followed down a hallway and into a large room. The room was obviously designed for a conference room. A great table stood in the room, made of the same luminous plastic as the door of the building. Six men sat at this conference table. Eric's guide placed him in a chair at the base of the T-shaped table.
There was one vacant seat beside the head of the T, and as Eric watched, the young woman who had rescued him entered and took her place there. She smiled at Eric, and the room took on a warmth that it had lacked with only the older men present. The man at her right, obviously presiding here looked at Eric and spoke. "I am Kroon, the eldest of the elders. We have brought you here to satisfy ourselves of your identity. In view of your danger in the City you are entitled to some sort of explanation." He glanced around the room and asked, "What is the judgment of the elders?"
Eric caught a faint nod here, a gesture there. Kroon nodded as if in satisfaction. He turned to the girl, "And what is your opinion, Daughter of the City?"
Nolette's expression held sorrow, as if she looked into the far future. She said, "He is Eric the Bronze. I have no doubt."
Eric asked, "And what is this Legend of Eric the Bronze? Why am I so despised in the city?"
Kroon answered, "According to the Ancient Legend you will destroy the city. This, and other things."
Eric gaped. No wonder the crowd had shown such hatred. But why were the elders so friendly? They were obviously the governing body, and if there was strife between them and the people it had not shown in the respect the crowd had accorded Nolette.
Kroon said, "I see you are puzzled. Let me tell you the story of the City. The City is old. It dates from long ago when the canals of Mars ran clear and green with water, and the deserts were vineyards and gardens. The drouth came, and the changes in climate, and soon it became plain that the people of Mars were doomed. They had ships, and could build more, and gradually they left to colonize other planets. Yet they could take little of their science. And fear and riots destroyed much. Also there were those who were filled with love for this homeland, and who thought that one day it might be habitable again. All the skill of the ancient Martian fathers went into the building of a giant machine, the machine that is the City, to protect a small colony of those who were chosen to remain on Mars."
"This whole city is a machine!" Eric asked.
"Yes, or the product of one. The heart of it lies underneath our feet, in caverns beneath this building. The nature of the machine is this, that it translates thought into reality."
Eric stared. The idea was staggering.
"This is essentially simple, although the technology is complex. It is necessary to have a recording device, to capture thought, a transmuting device capable of transmuting the red dust of the desert into any sort of material desired, and a construction device, to assemble this material into the pattern already recorded from thought." Kroon paused.
"You still doubt, my friend. Perhaps you are thirsty after your escape. Think strongly of a tall glass of cold water, visualize it in your mind, the sight and the fluidity and the touch of it."
Eric did so. Without warning a glass of water stood on the table before him. He touched the water to his lips. It was cool and satisfying. He drank it, convinced completely.
Eric asked, "And I am to destroy the City?"
"Yes. The time has come."
"But why?" Eric demanded. For an instant he could see the twinkling beauty as clearly as if he had stood outside the walls of this building.
Kroon said, "There are difficulties. The machine builds according to the mass will of the people, though it is sensitive to the individual in areas where it does not conflict with the imagination of the mass. We have had strangers, visitors, and even our own people, who grew drunk with the power of the machine, who dreamed more and more lust and greed into existence. These were banished from the city, and so strong is the call of the city that many of them became victims of their own evilness, and now walk mindlessly, with no thought but to seek for the beauty they have lost here."
Kroon sighed. "The people have lost the will to learn. Many do not even know of the machine. Our science is almost gone, and only a few of us, the dreamers, the elders, have kept alive the old knowledge of the machine and its history. By the collected powers of our imagination we build and control the outward appearance of the city.
"We have passed this down from father to son. A part of the ancient Legend is that the builders made provisions for the machine to be destroyed when contact with outsiders had been made once again, so that our people would again have to struggle forward to knowledge and power. The instrument of destruction was to be a man termed Eric the Bronze. It is not that you are reborn. It is just that sometime such a man would come."
Eric said, "I can understand the Bronze part. They had thought that a space man might well be sun tanned. They had thought that a science to protect against this beautiful illusion would provide a metal shield of some sort, probably copper in nature. That such a man should come is inevitable. But why Eric. Why the name Eric?"
For the first time Nolette spoke. She said quietly, "The name Eric was an honorable name of the ancient fathers. It must have been their thought that the new beginning should wait for some of their own far flung kind to return."
Eric nodded. He asked, "What happens now?"
"Nothing. Dwell here with us and you will be safe from our people. If the prediction is not soon fulfilled and you are not the Eric of the Legend, you may stay or go as you desire."
"My brother, Garve. What about him?"
"He loves the city. He will also stay, though he will be outside this building." Kroon clasped his hands. "Nolette, will you show Eric his quarters?"
Question:
What is the significance of Garve leaving the ship and following the call of the city?
Answer:
|
[
"Eric is determined to destroy the city without exploring it, no matter how tempting it is. But Garve's note forces the eldest brother to follow and help his brother out. The whole course of events changes and Eric has to return to the city, which he left with such an effort. This leads to Eric being endangered, captured and almost killed. From another point, it leads to Eric learning more about the city and they legend. If he destroyed the city as he wanted to, he would fulfill the prophecy without knowing. He would have considered the whole city an illusion without knowing it was a machine initially created for a good purpose. His return to the city also leads to his encounter with the beautiful girl, whose presence makes Eric happy. ",
"Garve leaving the ship and following the call of the city is very significant to the plot. Before Eric realised that Garve had gone to the city, he was planning on destroying the place, with all of its inhabitants at once. Because Grave is missing, Eric must return to the city, where Garve has learned from the Elders about the legend of Eric the Bronze. Garve tries to take Eric to see the Elders, but Eric is captured by two civilians on the way. It is during this capture that Eric meets Nolette, who takes him to see the Elders. Because of Garve leaving the ship, the Elders are able to explain the history behind this mysterious city of Mars, and that he must be the one to destroy it. \n",
"Garve’s leaving serves as a reason and motive for Eric North to go back to the city. Knowing that Garve does not have a metal helmet nor does he has any weapons, Eric needs to go back to the city to bring Garve back. And because Eric goes back to the city, he is captured again, which leads to the next part of the story inside the Elder’s building. If Garve did not leave for the city, Eric might not be captured, encounter Nolette, and learn about the city from the Elders. ",
"Garve leaving the ship and following the city's call sets up the second return to the city. Since Eric had initially planned to destroy the city, Garve's insistence on going back again prevents him from doing so. Furthermore, this second trip allows Eric to meet the Elders and not get killed by the citizens. Once he meets the Elders, he is more knowledgeable about the city's prophesy and story. It also sets up the purpose of Eric the Bronze and whether Eric North will fulfill it or not. However, this is also significant to Garve because he shows that he loves the city and wants to stay in it, directly contradicting what Eric is supposed to do to the city. \n\n"
] |
63605
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The Beast-Jewel of Mars
By V. E. THIESSEN
The city was strange, fantastic, beautiful. He'd never been there before, yet already he was a fabulous legend—a dire, hateful legend.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
He lay on his stomach, a lean man in faded one piece dungarees, and an odd metallic hat, peering over the side of the canal. Behind him the little winds sifted red dust into his collar, but he could not move; he could only sit there with his gaze riveted on the spires and minarets that twinkled in the distance, far down the bottom of the canal.
One part of his mind said, This is it, this is the fabled city of Mars. This is the beauty and the fantasy and the music of the legends, and I must go down there. Yet somewhere deeper in his mind, deep in the primal urges that kept him from death, the warning was taut and urgent. Get away. They have a part of your mind now. Get away from the city before you lose it all. Get away before your body becomes a husk, a soulless husk to walk the low canals with sightless eyes, like those who came before you.
He strained to push back from the edge, trying to get that fantastic beauty out of his sight. He fought the lids of his eyes, fought to close them while he pushed himself back, but they remained open, staring at the jeweled towers, and borne on the little winds the thin wail of music reached him, saying, Come into the city, come down into the fabled city .
He slid over the edge, sliding down the sloping sides of the canal. The rough sandstone tore at his dungarees, tore at his elbow where it touched but he did not feel the pain. His face was turned toward the towers, and the sound of his breathing was less than human.
His feet caught a projecting bit of stone and were slowed for an instant, so that he turned sideways and rolled on, down into the red dust bottom of the canal, to lie face down in the dust, with the chin strap of the odd metallic hat cutting cruelly into his chin.
He lay there an instant, knowing that now he had a chance. With his face down like this, and the dust smarting his eyes the image was gone for an instant. He had to get away, he knew that. He had to mount the sides of the canal and never look back.
He told himself, "I am Eric North, from Earth, the Third Planet of Sol, and this is not real."
He squirmed in the dust, feeling it bite his cheeks; he squirmed until he could get up and see nothing but the red sand stone walls of the canal. He ran at the walls and clawed his way up like an animal in his haste. He wouldn't look again.
The wind freshened and the tune of the music began to talk to him. It told of going barefoot over long streets of fur. It told of jewels, and wine, and women as fair as springtime. These and more were in the city, waiting for him to claim them.
He sobbed, and clawed forward. He stopped to rest, and slowly his head began to turn. He turned, and the spires and minarets twinkled at him, beautiful, soothing, stopping the tears that had welled down his cheeks.
When he reached the bottom of the canal he began to run toward the city.
When he came to the city there was a high wall around it, and a heavy gate carved with lotus blossoms. He beat against the gate and cried,
"Oh! Let me in. Let me in to the city!" The music was richer now, as if it were everywhere, and the gate swung open without the faintest sound.
A sentinel stood before the opened gate at the end of a long blue street. He was dressed in red silk with his sleeves edged in blue leopard skin, and he wore a belt with a jeweled short sword. He drew the sword from its scabbard, and bowed forward until the point of the sword touched the street of blue fur. He said, "I give you the welcome of my sword, and the welcome of the city. Speak your name so that it may be set in the records of the dreamers."
The music sang, and the spires twinkled, and Eric said, "I am Eric North!"
The sword point jerked, and the sentinel straightened. His face was white. He cried aloud, "It is Eric the Bronze. It is Eric of the Legend." He whirled the sword aloft, and smashed it upon Eric's metal hat, and the hatred was a blue flame in his eyes.
When Eric regained consciousness the people of the city were all about him. They were very fair, and the women were more beautiful than music. Yet now they stared at him with red hate in their eyes. An older man came forward and struck at the copper hat with a stick. The clang deafened Eric and the man cried, "You are right. It is Eric the Bronze. Bring the ships and let him be scourged from the city."
The man drew back the stick and struck again, and Eric's back took fire with the blow. The crowd chanted, "Whips, bring the whips," and fear forced Eric to his feet. He fled then, running on the heedless feet of panic, outstripping those who were behind him until he passed through the great gates into the red dust floor of the canal. The gates closed behind him, and the dust beat upon him, and he paused, his heart hammering inside his chest like a great bell clapper. He turned and looked behind to be sure he was safe.
The towers twinkled at him, and the music whispered to him, "Come back, Eric North. Come back to the city."
He turned and stumbled back to the great gate and hammered on it until his fists were raw, pleading for it to open and let him back.
And deep inside him some part of his mind said, "This is a madness you cannot escape. The city is evil, an evil like you have never known," and a fear as old as time coursed through his frame.
He seized the copper hat from his head, and beat on the lotus carvings of the great door, crying, "Let me in! Please, take me back into the city."
And as he beat the city changed. It became dull and sordid and evil, a city of disgust, with every part offensive to the eye. The spires and minarets were gargoyles of hatred, twisted and misshapen, and the sound of the city was a macabre song of hate.
He stared, and his back was chill with superstitions as old as the beginning of man. The city flickered, changing before his eyes until it was beautiful again.
He stood, amazed, and put the metal hat back on his head. With the motion the shift took place again, and beauty was ugliness. Amazed, he stared at the illusion, and the thought came to him that the metal hat had not entirely failed him after all.
He turned and began to walk away from the city, and when it began to call he took the hat off his head and found peace for a time. Then when it began again he replaced the hat, and revulsion sped his footsteps. And so, hat on, hat off, he made his way down the dusty floor of the canal, and up the rocky sides until he stood on the Martian desert, and the canal was a thin line behind him. He breathed easily then, for he was beyond the range of the illusions.
And now that his mind was his own again he began to study the problem, and to understand something of the nature of the forces against which he had been pitted.
The helmet contained an electrical circuit, designed as a shield against electrical waves tuned to affect his brain. But the hat had failed because the city, whatever it was, had adjusted to this revised pattern as he had approached it. Hence, the helmet had been no defense against illusion. However, when he had jerked the helmet off suddenly to beat on the door, his mental pattern had changed, too suddenly, and the machine caught up only after he had glimpsed another image. Then as the illusion adjusted replacing the helmet threw it off again.
He grinned wryly. He would have liked to know more about the city, whatever it was. He would have liked to know more about the people he had seen, whether they were real or part of the illusion, and if they were as ugly as the second city had been.
Yet the danger was too great. He would go back to his ship and make the arrangements to destroy the city. The ship was armed, and to deliver indirect fire over the edge of the canal would be simple enough. Garve North, his brother, waited back at the ship. If he knew of the city he would have to go there. Eric must not take a chance on that. After they had blasted whatever it was that lay in the canal floor, then it would be time enough to tell Garve, and go down to see what was left.
The ship rested easily on the flat sandstone area where he had established base camp. Its familiar lines brought a smile to Eric's face, a feeling of confidence now that tools and weapons were his again.
He opened the door and entered. The lock doors were left open so that he could enter directly into the body of the ship. He came in in a swift leap, calling, "Garve! Hey, Garve, where are you?"
The ship remained mute. He prowled through it, calling, "Garve," wondering where the young hothead had gone, and then he saw a note clipped to the control board of the ship. He tore it loose impatiently and began to read. Garve had scrawled:
"Funny thing, Eric. A while ago I thought I heard music. I walked down to the canal, and it seemed like there were lights, and a town of some sort far down the canal. I wanted to investigate, but thought I'd better come back. But the thing has been in my mind for hours now, and I'm going down to see what it is. If you want to follow, come straight down the canal."
Eric stared at the note, and the line of his jaw was white. Apparently Garve had seen the city from farther away, and its effect had not been so strong. Even so, Garve's natural curiosity had done the rest.
Garve had gone down to the city, and Garve had no shielded hat. Eric selected two high explosive grenades from the ship's arsenal. They were small but they packed a lot of power. He had a pistol packed with smaller pellets of the same explosive, and he had the hat. That should be adequate. He thrust the bronze hat back on his head and began walking back to the canal.
The return back to the city would always live in his mind as a phantasmagora, a montage of twisted hate and unseemly beauty. When he came again to the gate he did not attempt to enter, but circled the wall, hat on, hat off, stiff limbed like a puppet dancing to the same tune over and over again. He found a place where he could scale the wall, and thrust the helmet on his head, and clawed up the misshapen wall. It was all he could do to make himself drop into the ugly city.
He heard a familiar voice as he dropped. "Eric," the voice said. "Eric, you did come back." The voice was his brother's, and he whirled, seeking the voice. A figure stood before him, a twisted caricature of his brother. The figure cried, "The hat! You fool, get rid of that hat!" The caricature that was his brother seized the hat, and jerked so hard that the chin strap broke under Eric's chin. The hat was flung away and sailed high and far over the fence and outside the city.
The phantasm flickered, the illusion moved. Garve was now more handsome than ever, and the city was a dream of delight. Garve said, "Come," and Eric followed down a street of blue fur. He had no will to resist.
Garve said, "Keep your head down and your face hidden. If we meet someone you may not be recognized. They won't be expecting you from this side of the city."
Eric asked, "You knew I'd come after you?"
"Yes. The Legend said you'd be back."
Eric stopped and whirled to face his brother. "The Legend? Eric the Bronze? What is this wild fantasy?"
"Not so loud!" Garve's voice cautioned him. "Of course the crowd called you that because of the copper hat and your heavy tan. But the Elders believe so too. I don't know what it is, Eric, reincarnation, prophesy, superstition, I only know that when I was with the Elders I believed them. You are a part of a Legend. You are Eric the Bronze."
Eric looked down at his sun tanned hands and flexed them. He loosened the explosive pistol in its holster. At least he was going to be a well armed, well prepared Legend. And while one part of his mind marveled at the city and relaxed into a pleasure as deep as a dream, another struggled with the almost forgotten desire to rescue his brother and escape. He asked, "Who are the Elders?"
"We are going to them, to the center of the city." Garve's voice sharpened, "Keep your head down. I think the last two men we passed are looking after us. Don't look back."
After a moment Garve said, "I think they are following us. Get ready to run. If we are separated, keep going until you reach City Center. The Elders will be expecting you." Garve glanced back, and his voice sharpened, "Now! Run!"
They ran. But as they ran figures began to converge upon them. Farther up the street others appeared, cutting off their flight.
Garve cried, "In here," and pulled Eric into a crevice between two buildings. Eric drew his gun, and savagery began to dance in his eyes. The soft fur muffled sounds of pursuit closed in upon them.
Garve put one hand on Eric's gun hand and said, "Wait here. And if you value my life, don't use that gun." Then he was gone, running deerlike down the street.
For an instant Eric thought the ruse had succeeded. He heard cries and two men passed him running in pursuit. But then the cry came back. "Let him go. Get the other one. The other one."
Eric was seen an instant later, and the people of the city began to converge upon him. He could have destroyed them all with his charges in the gun, but his brother's warning shrieked in his ears, "If you value my life don't use the gun."
There was nothing he could do. Eric stood quietly until he was taken prisoner. They moved him to the center of the wide fur street. Two men held his arms, and twisted painfully. The crowd looked at him, coldly, calculatingly. One of them said, "Get the whips. If we whip him he will not come back." The city twinkled, and the music was so faint he could hardly hear it.
There was only one weapon Eric could use. He had gathered from Garve's words that these people were superstitious.
He laughed, a great chest-shattering laugh that gusted out into the thin Martian air. He laughed and cried in a great voice, "And can you so easily dispose of a Legend? If I am Eric of the Legend, can whips defeat the prophesy?"
There was an instant when he could have twisted loose. They stood, fear-bound at his words. But there was no place to hide, and without the use of his weapons Eric could not have gone far. He had to bluff it out.
Then one of the men cried, "Fools! It is true. We must take no chance with the whips. He would come back. But if he dies here before us now, then we may forget the prophesy."
The crowd murmured and a second voice cried, "Get the sword, get the guards, and kill him at once!"
Eric tensed to break away but now it was too late. His captors were alert. They increased the twist on his arms until he almost screamed with the pain.
The crowd parted, and the guard came through, his red silk clothing gleaming in the sun, his sword bright and deadly. He stopped before Eric, and the sword swirled up like a saber, ready for a slashing cut downward across Eric's neck.
A woman's voice, soft and yet authoritative, called, "Hold!" And a murmur of respect rippled through the crowd.
"Nolette! The Daughter of the City comes."
Eric turned his gaze to the side and saw the woman who had spoken. She was mounted upon a black horse with a jeweled bridle. She was young and her hair was long and free in the wind. She had ridden so softly across the fur street that no one had been aware of her presence.
She said, "Let me touch this man. Let me feel the pulse of his heart so that I may know if he is truly the Bronze one of the Legend. Give me your hand, stranger." She leaned down and grasped his hand. Eric shook his arms free, and reached up and clung to the offered hand, thinking,
"If I pull her down perhaps I can use her as a shield." He tensed his muscles and began to pull.
She cried, "No! You fool. Come up on the horse," and pulled back with an energy as fierce as his own. Then he had swung up on the horse, and the animal leaped forward, its muffled gallop beating out a tattoo of freedom.
Eric clung tightly to the girl's waist. He could feel the young suppleness of her body, and the fine strands of her hair kept swirling back into his face. It had a faint perfume, a clean and heady scent that made him more aware of the touch of her waist. He breathed deeply, oddly happy as they rode.
After five minutes ride they came to a building in the center of the city. The building was cubical, severe in line and architecture, and it contrasted oddly with the exquisite ornament of the rest of the city. It was as if it were a monolith from another time, a stranger crouched among enemies.
The girl halted before the structure and said, "Dismount here, Eric."
Eric swung down, his arms still tingling with pleasure where he had held her. She said, "Knock three times on the door. I will see you again inside. And thank your brother for sending me to bring you here."
Eric knocked on the door. The door was as plain as the building, made of a luminous plastic. It had all the beauty of the great gate door, but a more timeless, more functional beauty.
The door opened and an old man greeted Eric. "Come in. The Council awaits you. Follow me, please."
Eric followed down a hallway and into a large room. The room was obviously designed for a conference room. A great table stood in the room, made of the same luminous plastic as the door of the building. Six men sat at this conference table. Eric's guide placed him in a chair at the base of the T-shaped table.
There was one vacant seat beside the head of the T, and as Eric watched, the young woman who had rescued him entered and took her place there. She smiled at Eric, and the room took on a warmth that it had lacked with only the older men present. The man at her right, obviously presiding here looked at Eric and spoke. "I am Kroon, the eldest of the elders. We have brought you here to satisfy ourselves of your identity. In view of your danger in the City you are entitled to some sort of explanation." He glanced around the room and asked, "What is the judgment of the elders?"
Eric caught a faint nod here, a gesture there. Kroon nodded as if in satisfaction. He turned to the girl, "And what is your opinion, Daughter of the City?"
Nolette's expression held sorrow, as if she looked into the far future. She said, "He is Eric the Bronze. I have no doubt."
Eric asked, "And what is this Legend of Eric the Bronze? Why am I so despised in the city?"
Kroon answered, "According to the Ancient Legend you will destroy the city. This, and other things."
Eric gaped. No wonder the crowd had shown such hatred. But why were the elders so friendly? They were obviously the governing body, and if there was strife between them and the people it had not shown in the respect the crowd had accorded Nolette.
Kroon said, "I see you are puzzled. Let me tell you the story of the City. The City is old. It dates from long ago when the canals of Mars ran clear and green with water, and the deserts were vineyards and gardens. The drouth came, and the changes in climate, and soon it became plain that the people of Mars were doomed. They had ships, and could build more, and gradually they left to colonize other planets. Yet they could take little of their science. And fear and riots destroyed much. Also there were those who were filled with love for this homeland, and who thought that one day it might be habitable again. All the skill of the ancient Martian fathers went into the building of a giant machine, the machine that is the City, to protect a small colony of those who were chosen to remain on Mars."
"This whole city is a machine!" Eric asked.
"Yes, or the product of one. The heart of it lies underneath our feet, in caverns beneath this building. The nature of the machine is this, that it translates thought into reality."
Eric stared. The idea was staggering.
"This is essentially simple, although the technology is complex. It is necessary to have a recording device, to capture thought, a transmuting device capable of transmuting the red dust of the desert into any sort of material desired, and a construction device, to assemble this material into the pattern already recorded from thought." Kroon paused.
"You still doubt, my friend. Perhaps you are thirsty after your escape. Think strongly of a tall glass of cold water, visualize it in your mind, the sight and the fluidity and the touch of it."
Eric did so. Without warning a glass of water stood on the table before him. He touched the water to his lips. It was cool and satisfying. He drank it, convinced completely.
Eric asked, "And I am to destroy the City?"
"Yes. The time has come."
"But why?" Eric demanded. For an instant he could see the twinkling beauty as clearly as if he had stood outside the walls of this building.
Kroon said, "There are difficulties. The machine builds according to the mass will of the people, though it is sensitive to the individual in areas where it does not conflict with the imagination of the mass. We have had strangers, visitors, and even our own people, who grew drunk with the power of the machine, who dreamed more and more lust and greed into existence. These were banished from the city, and so strong is the call of the city that many of them became victims of their own evilness, and now walk mindlessly, with no thought but to seek for the beauty they have lost here."
Kroon sighed. "The people have lost the will to learn. Many do not even know of the machine. Our science is almost gone, and only a few of us, the dreamers, the elders, have kept alive the old knowledge of the machine and its history. By the collected powers of our imagination we build and control the outward appearance of the city.
"We have passed this down from father to son. A part of the ancient Legend is that the builders made provisions for the machine to be destroyed when contact with outsiders had been made once again, so that our people would again have to struggle forward to knowledge and power. The instrument of destruction was to be a man termed Eric the Bronze. It is not that you are reborn. It is just that sometime such a man would come."
Eric said, "I can understand the Bronze part. They had thought that a space man might well be sun tanned. They had thought that a science to protect against this beautiful illusion would provide a metal shield of some sort, probably copper in nature. That such a man should come is inevitable. But why Eric. Why the name Eric?"
For the first time Nolette spoke. She said quietly, "The name Eric was an honorable name of the ancient fathers. It must have been their thought that the new beginning should wait for some of their own far flung kind to return."
Eric nodded. He asked, "What happens now?"
"Nothing. Dwell here with us and you will be safe from our people. If the prediction is not soon fulfilled and you are not the Eric of the Legend, you may stay or go as you desire."
"My brother, Garve. What about him?"
"He loves the city. He will also stay, though he will be outside this building." Kroon clasped his hands. "Nolette, will you show Eric his quarters?"
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What’s the significance of Dotty’s dreams?
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After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about Dr. Kometevsky's Day by Fritz Leiber.
Relevant chunks:
DR. KOMETEVSKY'S DAY
By FRITZ LEIBER
Illustrated by DAVID STONE
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction February 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Before science, there was superstition. After science, there will be ... what? The biggest, most staggering , most final fact of them all!
"But it's all predicted here! It even names this century for the next reshuffling of the planets."
Celeste Wolver looked up unwillingly at the book her friend Madge Carnap held aloft like a torch. She made out the ill-stamped title, The Dance of the Planets . There was no mistaking the time of its origin; only paper from the Twentieth Century aged to that particularly nasty shade of brown. Indeed, the book seemed to Celeste a brown old witch resurrected from the Last Age of Madness to confound a world growing sane, and she couldn't help shrinking back a trifle toward her husband Theodor.
He tried to come to her rescue. "Only predicted in the vaguest way. As I understand it, Kometevsky claimed, on the basis of a lot of evidence drawn from folklore, that the planets and their moons trade positions every so often."
"As if they were playing Going to Jerusalem, or musical chairs," Celeste chimed in, but she couldn't make it sound funny.
"Jupiter was supposed to have started as the outermost planet, and is to end up in the orbit of Mercury," Theodor continued. "Well, nothing at all like that has happened."
"But it's begun," Madge said with conviction. "Phobos and Deimos have disappeared. You can't argue away that stubborn little fact."
That was the trouble; you couldn't. Mars' two tiny moons had simply vanished during a period when, as was generally the case, the eyes of astronomy weren't on them. Just some hundred-odd cubic miles of rock—the merest cosmic flyspecks—yet they had carried away with them the security of a whole world.
Looking at the lovely garden landscape around her, Celeste Wolver felt that in a moment the shrubby hills would begin to roll like waves, the charmingly aimless paths twist like snakes and sink in the green sea, the sparsely placed skyscrapers dissolve into the misty clouds they pierced.
People must have felt like this , she thought, when Aristarches first hinted and Copernicus told them that the solid Earth under their feet was falling dizzily through space. Only it's worse for us, because they couldn't see that anything had changed. We can.
"You need something to cling to," she heard Madge say. "Dr. Kometevsky was the only person who ever had an inkling that anything like this might happen. I was never a Kometevskyite before. Hadn't even heard of the man."
She said it almost apologetically. In fact, standing there so frank and anxious-eyed, Madge looked anything but a fanatic, which made it much worse.
"Of course, there are several more convincing alternate explanations...." Theodor began hesitantly, knowing very well that there weren't. If Phobos and Deimos had suddenly disintegrated, surely Mars Base would have noticed something. Of course there was the Disordered Space Hypothesis, even if it was little more than the chance phrase of a prominent physicist pounded upon by an eager journalist. And in any case, what sense of security were you left with if you admitted that moons and planets might explode, or drop through unseen holes in space? So he ended up by taking a different tack: "Besides, if Phobos and Deimos simply shot off somewhere, surely they'd have been picked up by now by 'scope or radar."
"Two balls of rock just a few miles in diameter?" Madge questioned.
"Aren't they smaller than many of the asteroids? I'm no astronomer, but I think' I'm right."
And of course she was.
She swung the book under her arm. "Whew, it's heavy," she observed, adding in slightly scandalized tones, "Never been microfilmed." She smiled nervously and looked them up and down. "Going to a party?" she asked.
Theodor's scarlet cloak and Celeste's green culottes and silver jacket justified the question, but they shook their heads.
"Just the normally flamboyant garb of the family," Celeste said, while Theodor explained, "As it happens, we're bound on business connected with the disappearance. We Wolvers practically constitute a sub-committee of the Congress for the Discovery of New Purposes. And since a lot of varied material comes to our attention, we're going to see if any of it correlates with this bit of astronomical sleight-of-hand."
Madge nodded. "Give you something to do, at any rate. Well, I must be off. The Buddhist temple has lent us their place for a meeting." She gave them a woeful grin. "See you when the Earth jumps."
Theodor said to Celeste, "Come on, dear. We'll be late."
But Celeste didn't want to move too fast. "You know, Teddy," she said uncomfortably, "all this reminds me of those old myths where too much good fortune is a sure sign of coming disaster. It was just too much luck, our great-grandparents missing World III and getting the World Government started a thousand years ahead of schedule. Luck like that couldn't last, evidently. Maybe we've gone too fast with a lot of things, like space-flight and the Deep Shaft and—" she hesitated a bit—"complex marriages. I'm a woman. I want complete security. Where am I to find it?"
"In me," Theodor said promptly.
"In you?" Celeste questioned, walking slowly. "But you're just one-third of my husband. Perhaps I should look for it in Edmund or Ivan."
"You angry with me about something?"
"Of course not. But a woman wants her source of security whole. In a crisis like this, it's disturbing to have it divided."
"Well, we are a whole and, I believe, indivisible family," Theodor told her warmly. "You're not suggesting, are you, that we're going to be punished for our polygamous sins by a cosmic catastrophe? Fire from Heaven and all that?"
"Don't be silly. I just wanted to give you a picture of my feeling." Celeste smiled. "I guess none of us realized how much we've come to depend on the idea of unchanging scientific law. Knocks the props from under you."
Theodor nodded emphatically. "All the more reason to get a line on what's happening as quickly as possible. You know, it's fantastically far-fetched, but I think the experience of persons with Extra-Sensory Perception may give us a clue. During the past three or four days there's been a remarkable similarity in the dreams of ESPs all over the planet. I'm going to present the evidence at the meeting."
Celeste looked up at him. "So that's why Rosalind's bringing Frieda's daughter?"
"Dotty is your daughter, too, and Rosalind's," Theodor reminded her.
"No, just Frieda's," Celeste said bitterly. "Of course you may be the father. One-third of a chance."
Theodor looked at her sharply, but didn't comment. "Anyway, Dotty will be there," he said. "Probably asleep by now. All the ESPs have suddenly seemed to need more sleep."
As they talked, it had been growing darker, though the luminescence of the path kept it from being bothersome. And now the cloud rack parted to the east, showing a single red planet low on the horizon.
"Did you know," Theodor said suddenly, "that in Gulliver's Travels Dean Swift predicted that better telescopes would show Mars to have two moons? He got the sizes and distances and periods damned accurately, too. One of the few really startling coincidences of reality and literature."
"Stop being eerie," Celeste said sharply. But then she went on, "Those names Phobos and Deimos—they're Greek, aren't they? What do they mean?"
Theodor lost a step. "Fear and Terror," he said unwillingly. "Now don't go taking that for an omen. Most of the mythological names of major and minor ancient gods had been taken—the bodies in the Solar System are named that way, of course—and these were about all that were available."
It was true, but it didn't comfort him much.
I am a God , Dotty was dreaming, and I want to be by myself and think. I and my god-friends like to keep some of our thoughts secret, but the other gods have forbidden us to.
A little smile flickered across the lips of the sleeping girl, and the woman in gold tights and gold-spangled jacket leaned forward thoughtfully. In her dignity and simplicity and straight-spined grace, she was rather like a circus mother watching her sick child before she went out for the trapeze act.
I and my god-friends sail off in our great round silver boats , Dotty went on dreaming. The other gods are angry and scared. They are frightened of the thoughts we may think in secret. They follow us to hunt us down. There are many more of them than of us.
As Celeste and Theodor entered the committee room, Rosalind Wolver—a glitter of platinum against darkness—came in through the opposite door and softly shut it behind her. Frieda, a fair woman in blue robes, got up from the round table.
Celeste turned away with outward casualness as Theodor kissed his two other wives. She was pleased to note that Edmund seemed impatient too. A figure in close-fitting black, unrelieved except for two red arrows at the collar, he struck her as embodying very properly the serious, fateful temper of the moment.
He took two briefcases from his vest pocket and tossed them down on the table beside one of the microfilm projectors.
"I suggest we get started without waiting for Ivan," he said.
Frieda frowned anxiously. "It's ten minutes since he phoned from the Deep Space Bar to say he was starting right away. And that's hardly a two minutes walk."
Rosalind instantly started toward the outside door.
"I'll check," she explained. "Oh, Frieda, I've set the mike so you'll hear if Dotty calls."
Edmund threw up his hands. "Very well, then," he said and walked over, switched on the picture and stared out moodily.
Theodor and Frieda got out their briefcases, switched on projectors, and began silently checking through their material.
Celeste fiddled with the TV and got a newscast. But she found her eyes didn't want to absorb the blocks of print that rather swiftly succeeded each other, so, after a few moments, she shrugged impatiently and switched to audio.
At the noise, the others looked around at her with surprise and some irritation, but in a few moments they were also listening.
"The two rocket ships sent out from Mars Base to explore the orbital positions of Phobos and Deimos—that is, the volume of space they'd be occupying if their positions had remained normal—report finding masses of dust and larger debris. The two masses of fine debris are moving in the same orbits and at the same velocities as the two vanished moons, and occupy roughly the same volumes of space, though the mass of material is hardly a hundredth that of the moons. Physicists have ventured no statements as to whether this constitutes a confirmation of the Disintegration Hypothesis.
"However, we're mighty pleased at this news here. There's a marked lessening of tension. The finding of the debris—solid, tangible stuff—seems to lift the whole affair out of the supernatural miasma in which some of us have been tempted to plunge it. One-hundredth of the moons has been found.
"The rest will also be!"
Edmund had turned his back on the window. Frieda and Theodor had switched off their projectors.
"Meanwhile, Earthlings are going about their business with a minimum of commotion, meeting with considerable calm the strange threat to the fabric of their Solar System. Many, of course, are assembled in churches and humanist temples. Kometevskyites have staged helicopter processions at Washington, Peking, Pretoria, and Christiana, demanding that instant preparations be made for—and I quote—'Earth's coming leap through space.' They have also formally challenged all astronomers to produce an explanation other than the one contained in that strange book so recently conjured from oblivion, The Dance of the Planets .
"That about winds up the story for the present. There are no new reports from Interplanetary Radar, Astronomy, or the other rocket ships searching in the extended Mars volume. Nor have any statements been issued by the various groups working on the problem in Astrophysics, Cosmic Ecology, the Congress for the Discovery of New Purposes, and so forth. Meanwhile, however, we can take courage from the words of a poem written even before Dr. Kometevsky's book:
"This Earth is not the steadfast place
We landsmen build upon;
From deep to deep she varies pace,
And while she comes is gone.
Beneath my feet I feel
Her smooth bulk heave and dip;
With velvet plunge and soft upreel
She swings and steadies to her keel
Like a gallant, gallant ship."
While the TV voice intoned the poem, growing richer as emotion caught it up, Celeste looked around her at the others. Frieda, with her touch of feminine helplessness showing more than ever through her business-like poise. Theodor leaning forward from his scarlet cloak thrown back, smiling the half-smile with which he seemed to face even the unknown. Black Edmund, masking a deep uncertainty with a strong show of decisiveness.
In short, her family. She knew their every quirk and foible. And yet now they seemed to her a million miles away, figures seen through the wrong end of a telescope.
Were they really a family? Strong sources of mutual strength and security to each other? Or had they merely been playing family, experimenting with their notions of complex marriage like a bunch of silly adolescents? Butterflies taking advantage of good weather to wing together in a glamorous, artificial dance—until outraged Nature decided to wipe them out?
As the poem was ending, Celeste saw the door open and Rosalind come slowly in. The Golden Woman's face was white as the paths she had been treading.
Just then the TV voice quickened with shock. "News! Lunar Observatory One reports that, although Jupiter is just about to pass behind the Sun, a good coronagraph of the planet has been obtained. Checked and rechecked, it admits of only one interpretation, which Lunar One feels duty-bound to release. Jupiter's fourteen moons are no longer visible! "
The chorus of remarks with which the Wolvers would otherwise have received this was checked by one thing: the fact that Rosalind seemed not to hear it. Whatever was on her mind prevented even that incredible statement from penetrating.
She walked shakily to the table and put down a briefcase, one end of which was smudged with dirt.
Without looking at them, she said, "Ivan left the Deep Space Bar twenty minutes ago, said he was coming straight here. On my way back I searched the path. Midway I found this half-buried in the dirt. I had to tug to get it out—almost as if it had been cemented into the ground. Do you feel how the dirt seems to be in the leather, as if it had lain for years in the grave?"
By now the others were fingering the small case of microfilms they had seen so many times in Ivan's competent hands. What Rosalind said was true. It had a gritty, unwholesome feel to it. Also, it felt strangely heavy.
"And see what's written on it," she added.
They turned it over. Scrawled with white pencil in big, hasty, frantic letters were two words:
"Going down!"
The other gods , Dotty dreamt, are combing the whole Universe for us. We have escaped them many times, but now our tricks are almost used up. There are no doors going out of the Universe and our boats are silver beacons to the hunters. So we decide to disguise them in the only way they can be disguised. It is our last chance.
Edmund rapped the table to gain the family's attention. "I'd say we've done everything we can for the moment to find Ivan. We've made a thorough local search. A wider one, which we can't conduct personally, is in progress. All helpful agencies have been alerted and descriptions are being broadcast. I suggest we get on with the business of the evening—which may very well be connected with Ivan's disappearance."
One by one the others nodded and took their places at the round table. Celeste made a great effort to throw off the feeling of unreality that had engulfed her and focus attention on her microfilms.
"I'll take over Ivan's notes," she heard Edmund say. "They're mainly about the Deep Shaft."
"How far have they got with that?" Frieda asked idly. "Twenty-five miles?"
"Nearer thirty, I believe," Edmund answered, "and still going down."
At those last two words they all looked up quickly. Then their eyes went toward Ivan's briefcase.
Our trick has succeeded , Dotty dreamt. The other gods have passed our hiding place a dozen times without noticing. They search the Universe for us many times in vain. They finally decide that we have found a door going out of the Universe. Yet they fear us all the more. They think of us as devils who will some day return through the door to destroy them. So they watch everywhere. We lie quietly smiling in our camouflaged boats, yet hardly daring to move or think, for fear that the faintest echoes of our doings will give them a clue. Hundreds of millions of years pass by. They seem to us no more than drugged hours in a prison.
Theodor rubbed his eyes and pushed his chair back from the table. "We need a break."
Frieda agreed wearily. "We've gone through everything."
"Good idea," Edmund said briskly. "I think we've hit on several crucial points along the way and half disentangled them from the great mass of inconsequential material. I'll finish up that part of the job right now and present my case when we're all a bit fresher. Say half an hour?"
Theodor nodded heavily, pushing up from his chair and hitching his cloak over a shoulder.
"I'm going out for a drink," he informed them.
After several hesitant seconds, Rosalind quietly followed him. Frieda stretched out on a couch and closed her eyes. Edmund scanned microfilms tirelessly, every now and then setting one aside.
Celeste watched him for a minute, then sprang up and started toward the room where Dotty was asleep. But midway she stopped.
Not my child , she thought bitterly. Frieda's her mother, Rosalind her nurse. I'm nothing at all. Just one of the husband's girl friends. A lady of uneasy virtue in a dissolving world.
But then she straightened her shoulders and went on.
Rosalind didn't catch up with Theodor. Her footsteps were silent and he never looked back along the path whose feeble white glow rose only knee-high, lighting a low strip of shrub and mossy tree trunk to either side, no more.
It was a little chilly. She drew on her gloves, but she didn't hurry. In fact, she fell farther and farther behind the dipping tail of his scarlet cloak and his plodding red shoes, which seemed to move disembodied, like those in the fairy tale.
When she reached the point where she had found Ivan's briefcase, she stopped altogether.
A breeze rustled the leaves, and, moistly brushing her cheek, brought forest scents of rot and mold. After a bit she began to hear the furtive scurryings and scuttlings of forest creatures.
She looked around her half-heartedly, suddenly realizing the futility of her quest. What clues could she hope to find in this knee-high twilight? And they'd thoroughly combed the place earlier in the night.
Without warning, an eerie tingling went through her and she was seized by a horror of the cold, grainy Earth underfoot—an ancestral terror from the days when men shivered at ghost stories about graves and tombs.
A tiny detail persisted in bulking larger and larger in her mind—the unnaturalness of the way the Earth had impregnated the corner of Ivan's briefcase, almost as if dirt and leather co-existed in the same space. She remembered the queer way the partly buried briefcase had resisted her first tug, like a rooted plant.
She felt cowed by the mysterious night about her, and literally dwarfed, as if she had grown several inches shorter. She roused herself and started forward.
Something held her feet.
They were ankle-deep in the path. While she looked in fright and horror, they began to sink still lower into the ground.
She plunged frantically, trying to jerk loose. She couldn't. She had the panicky feeling that the Earth had not only trapped but invaded her; that its molecules were creeping up between the molecules of her flesh; that the two were becoming one.
And she was sinking faster. Now knee-deep, thigh-deep, hip-deep, waist-deep. She beat at the powdery path with her hands and threw her body from side to side in agonized frenzy like some sinner frozen in the ice of the innermost circle of the ancients' hell. And always the sense of the dark, grainy tide rose inside as well as around her.
She thought, he'd just have had time to scribble that note on his briefcase and toss it away. She jerked off a glove, leaned out as far as she could, and made a frantic effort to drive its fingers into the powdery path. Then the Earth mounted to her chin, her nose, and covered her eyes.
She expected blackness, but it was as if the light of the path stayed with her, making a little glow all around. She saw roots, pebbles, black rot, worn tunnels, worms. Tier on tier of them, her vision penetrating the solid ground. And at the same time, the knowledge that these same sorts of things were coursing up through her.
And still she continued to sink at a speed that increased, as if the law of gravitation applied to her in a diminished way. She dropped from black soil through gray clay and into pale limestone.
Her tortured, rock-permeated lungs sucked at rock and drew in air. She wondered madly if a volume of air were falling with her through the stone.
A glitter of quartz. The momentary openness of a foot-high cavern with a trickle of water. And then she was sliding down a black basalt column, half inside it, half inside gold-flecked ore. Then just black basalt. And always faster.
It grew hot, then hotter, as if she were approaching the mythical eternal fires.
At first glance Theodor thought the Deep Space Bar was empty. Then he saw a figure hunched monkeylike on the last stool, almost lost in the blue shadows, while behind the bar, her crystal dress blending with the tiers of sparkling glasses, stood a grave-eyed young girl who could hardly have been fifteen.
The TV was saying, "... in addition, a number of mysterious disappearances of high-rating individuals have been reported. These are thought to be cases of misunderstanding, illusory apprehension, and impulse traveling—a result of the unusual stresses of the time. Finally, a few suggestible individuals in various parts of the globe, especially the Indian Peninsula, have declared themselves to be 'gods' and in some way responsible for current events.
"It is thought—"
The girl switched off the TV and took Theodor's order, explaining casually, "Joe wanted to go to a Kometevskyite meeting, so I took over for him." When she had prepared Theodor's highball, she announced,
"I'll have a drink with you gentlemen," and squeezed herself a glass of pomegranate juice.
The monkeylike figure muttered, "Scotch-and-soda," then turned toward Edmund and asked, "And what is your reaction to all this, sir?"
Theodor recognized the shrunken wrinkle-seamed face. It was Colonel Fortescue, a military antique long retired from the Peace Patrol and reputed to have seen actual fighting in the Last Age of Madness. Now, for some reason, the face sported a knowing smile.
Theodor shrugged. Just then the TV "big news" light blinked blue and the girl switched on audio. The Colonel winked at Theodor.
"... confirming the disappearance of Jupiter's moons. But two other utterly fantastic reports have just been received. First, Lunar Observatory One says that it is visually tracking fourteen small bodies which it believes may be the lost moons of Jupiter. They are moving outward from the Solar System at an incredible velocity and are already beyond the orbit of Saturn!"
The Colonel said, "Ah!"
"Second, Palomar reports a large number of dark bodies approaching the Solar System at an equally incredible velocity. They are at about twice the distance of Pluto, but closing in fast! We will be on the air with further details as soon as possible."
The Colonel said, "Ah-ha!"
Theodor stared at him. The old man's self-satisfied poise was almost amusing.
"Are you a Kometevskyite?" Theodor asked him.
The Colonel laughed. "Of course not, my boy. Those poor people are fumbling in the dark. Don't you see what's happened?"
"Frankly, no."
The Colonel leaned toward Theodor and whispered gruffly, "The Divine Plan. God is a military strategist, naturally."
Then he lifted the scotch-and-soda in his clawlike hand and took a satisfying swallow.
"I knew it all along, of course," he went on musingly, "but this last news makes it as plain as a rocket blast, at least to anyone who knows military strategy. Look here, my boy, suppose you were commanding a fleet and got wind of the enemy's approach—what would you do? Why, you'd send your scouts and destroyers fanning out toward them. Behind that screen you'd mass your heavy ships. Then—"
"You don't mean to imply—" Theodor interrupted.
The girl behind the bar looked at them both cryptically.
"Of course I do!" the Colonel cut in sharply. "It's a war between the forces of good and evil. The bright suns and planets are on one side, the dark on the other. The moons are the destroyers, Jupiter and Saturn are the big battleships, while we're on a heavy cruiser, I'm proud to say. We'll probably go into action soon. Be a corking fight, what? And all by divine strategy!"
He chuckled and took another big drink. Theodor looked at him sourly. The girl behind the bar polished a glass and said nothing.
Dotty suddenly began to turn and toss, and a look of terror came over her sleeping face. Celeste leaned forward apprehensively.
The child's lips worked and Celeste made out the sleepy-fuzzy words:
"They've found out where we're hiding. They're coming to get us. No! Please, no!"
Celeste's reactions were mixed. She felt worried about Dotty and at the same time almost in terror of her, as if the little girl were an agent of supernatural forces. She told herself that this fear was an expression of her own hostility, yet she didn't really believe it. She touched the child's hand.
Dotty's eyes opened without making Celeste feel she had quite come awake. After a bit she looked at Celeste and her little lips parted in a smile.
"Hello," she said sleepily. "I've been having such funny dreams." Then, after a pause, frowning, "I really am a god, you know. It feels very queer."
"Yes, dear?" Celeste prompted uneasily. "Shall I call Frieda?"
The smile left Dotty's lips. "Why do you act so nervous around me?" she asked. "Don't you love me, Mummy?"
Celeste started at the word. Her throat closed. Then, very slowly, her face broke into a radiant smile. "Of course I do, darling. I love you very much."
Dotty nodded happily, her eyes already closed again.
There was a sudden flurry of excited voices beyond the door. Celeste heard her name called. She stood up.
"I'm going to have to go out and talk with the others," she said. "If you want me, dear, just call."
"Yes, Mummy."
Edmund rapped for attention. Celeste, Frieda, and Theodor glanced around at him. He looked more frightfully strained, they realized, than even they felt. His expression was a study in suppressed excitement, but there were also signs of a knowledge that was almost too overpowering for a human being to bear.
His voice was clipped, rapid. "I think it's about time we stopped worrying about our own affairs and thought of those of the Solar System, partly because I think they have a direct bearing on the disappearances of Ivan end Rosalind. As I told you, I've been sorting out the crucial items from the material we've been presenting. There are roughly four of those items, as I see it. It's rather like a mystery story. I wonder if, hearing those four clues, you will come to the same conclusion I have."
The others nodded.
"First, there are the latest reports from Deep Shaft, which, as you know, has been sunk to investigate deep-Earth conditions. At approximately twenty-nine miles below the surface, the delvers have encountered a metallic obstruction which they have tentatively named the durasphere. It resists their hardest drills, their strongest corrosives. They have extended a side-tunnel at that level for a quarter of a mile. Delicate measurements, made possible by the mirror-smooth metal surface, show that the durasphere has a slight curvature that is almost exactly equal to the curvature of the Earth itself. The suggestion is that deep borings made anywhere in the world would encounter the durasphere at the same depth.
"Second, the movements of the moons of Mars and Jupiter, and particularly the debris left behind by the moons of Mars. Granting Phobos and Deimos had duraspheres proportional in size to that of Earth, then the debris would roughly equal in amount the material in those two duraspheres' rocky envelopes. The suggestion is that the two duraspheres suddenly burst from their envelopes with such titanic velocity as to leave those disrupted envelopes behind."
It was deadly quiet in the committee room.
"Thirdly, the disappearances of Ivan and Rosalind, and especially the baffling hint—from Ivan's message in one case and Rosalind's downward-pointing glove in the other—that they were both somehow drawn into the depths of the Earth.
"Finally, the dreams of the ESPs, which agree overwhelmingly in the following points: A group of beings separate themselves from a godlike and telepathic race because they insist on maintaining a degree of mental privacy. They flee in great boats or ships of some sort. They are pursued on such a scale that there is no hiding place for them anywhere in the universe. In some manner they successfully camouflage their ships. Eons pass and their still-fanatical pursuers do not penetrate their secret. Then, suddenly, they are detected."
Edmund waited. "Do you see what I'm driving at?" he asked hoarsely.
He could tell from their looks that the others did, but couldn't bring
themselves to put it into words.
"I suppose it's the time-scale and the value-scale that are so hard for
us to accept," he said softly. "Much more, even, than the size-scale.
The thought that there are creatures in the Universe to whom the whole
career of Man—in fact, the whole career of life—is no more than a few
thousand or hundred thousand years. And to whom Man is no more than a
minor stage property—a trifling part of a clever job of camouflage."
This time he went on, "Fantasy writers have at times hinted all sorts
of odd things about the Earth—that it might even be a kind of single
living creature, or honeycombed with inhabited caverns, and so on.
But I don't know that any of them have ever suggested that the Earth,
together with all the planets and moons of the Solar System, might
be...."
In a whisper, Frieda finished for him, "... a camouflaged fleet of
gigantic spherical spaceships."
" Your guess happens to be the precise truth. "
At that familiar, yet dreadly unfamiliar voice, all four of them swung
toward the inner door. Dotty was standing there, a sleep-stupefied
little girl with a blanket caught up around her and dragging behind.
Their own daughter. But in her eyes was a look from which they cringed.
She said, "I am a creature somewhat older than what your geologists
call the Archeozoic Era. I am speaking to you through a number of
telepathically sensitive individuals among your kind. In each case my
thoughts suit themselves to your level of comprehension. I inhabit the
disguised and jetless spaceship which is your Earth."
Celeste swayed a step forward. "Baby...." she implored.
Dotty went on, without giving her a glance, "It is true that we planted
the seeds of life on some of these planets simply as part of our
camouflage, just as we gave them a suitable environment for each. And
it is true that now we must let most of that life be destroyed. Our
hiding place has been discovered, our pursuers are upon us, and we must
make one last effort to escape or do battle, since we firmly believe
that the principle of mental privacy to which we have devoted our
existence is perhaps the greatest good in the whole Universe.
"But it is not true that we look with contempt upon you. Our whole race
is deeply devoted to life, wherever it may come into being, and it is
our rule never to interfere with its development. That was one of
the reasons we made life a part of our camouflage—it would make our
pursuers reluctant to examine these planets too closely.
"Yes, we have always cherished you and watched your evolution with
interest from our hidden lairs. We may even unconsciously have shaped
your development in certain ways, trying constantly to educate you away
from war and finally succeeding—which may have given the betraying
clue to our pursuers.
"Your planets must be burst asunder—this particular planet in the
area of the Pacific—so that we may have our last chance to escape.
Even if we did not move, our pursuers would destroy you with us. We
cannot invite you inside our ships—not for lack of space, but because
you could never survive the vast accelerations to which you would be
subjected. You would, you see, need very special accommodations, of
which we have enough only for a few.
"Those few we will take with us, as the seed from which a new human
race may—if we ourselves somehow survive—be born."
Rosalind and Ivan stared dumbly at each other across the egg-shaped
silver room, without apparent entrance or exit, in which they were
sprawled. But their thoughts were no longer of thirty-odd mile
journeys down through solid earth, or of how cool it was after the
heat of the passage, or of how grotesque it was to be trapped here,
the fragment of a marriage. They were both listening to the voice that
spoke inside their minds.
"In a few minutes your bodies will be separated into layers one atom
thick, capable of being shelved or stored in such a way as to endure
almost infinite accelerations. Single cells will cover acres of space.
But do not be alarmed. The process will be painless and each particle
will be catalogued for future assembly. Your consciousness will endure
throughout the process."
Rosalind looked at her gold-shod toes. She was wondering, will they go
first, or my head? Or will I be peeled like an apple?
She looked at Ivan and knew he was thinking the same thing.
Up in the committee room, the other Wolvers slumped around the table.
Only little Dotty sat straight and staring, speechless and unanswering,
quite beyond their reach, like a telephone off the hook and with the
connection open, but no voice from the other end.
They had just switched off the TV after listening to a confused
medley of denials, prayers, Kometevskyite chatterings, and a few
astonishingly realistic comments on the possibility of survival.
These last pointed out that, on the side of the Earth opposite the
Pacific, the convulsions would come slowly when the entombed spaceship
burst forth—provided, as seemed the case, that it moved without jets
or reaction.
It would be as if the Earth's vast core simply vanished. Gravity would
diminish abruptly to a fraction of its former value. The empty envelope
of rock and water and air would slowly fall together, though at the
same time the air would begin to escape from the debris because there
would no longer be the mass required to hold it.
However, there might be definite chances of temporary and even
prolonged survival for individuals in strong, hermetically sealed
structures, such as submarines and spaceships. The few spaceships on
Earth were reported to have blasted off, or be preparing to leave, with
as many passengers as could be carried.
But most persons, apparently, could not contemplate action of any sort.
They could only sit and think, like the Wolvers.
A faint smile relaxed Celeste's face. She was thinking, how beautiful!
It means the death of the Solar System, which is a horrifying
subjective concept. Objectively, though, it would be a more awesome
sight than any human being has ever seen or ever could see. It's an
absurd and even brutal thing to wish—but I wish I could see the whole
cataclysm from beginning to end. It would make death seem very small, a
tiny personal event.
Dotty's face was losing its blank expression, becoming intent and
alarmed.
"We are in contact with our pursuers," she said in the
familiar-unfamiliar voice. "Negotiations are now going on. There
seems to be—there is a change in them. Where they were harsh and
vindictive before, they now are gentle and conciliatory." She paused,
the alarm on her childish features pinching into anxious uncertainty.
"Our pursuers have always been shrewd. The change in them may be false,
intended merely to lull us into allowing them to come close enough to
destroy us. We must not fall into the trap by growing hopeful...."
They leaned forward, clutching hands, watching the little face as
though it were a television screen. Celeste had the wild feeling that
she was listening to a communique from a war so unthinkably vast and
violent, between opponents so astronomically huge and nearly immortal,
that she felt like no more than a reasoning ameba ... and then realized
with an explosive urge to laugh that that was exactly the situation.
"No!" said Dotty. Her eyes began to glow. "They have changed! During
the eons in which we lay sealed away and hidden from them, knowing
nothing of them, they have rebelled against the tyranny of a communal
mind to which no thoughts are private ... the tyranny that we ourselves
fled to escape. They come not to destroy us, but to welcome us back to
a society that we and they can make truly great!"
Frieda collapsed to a chair, trembling between laughter and hysterical
weeping. Theodor looked as blank as Dotty had while waiting for words
to speak. Edmund sprang to the picture window, Celeste toward the TV
set.
Climbing shakily out of the chair, Frieda stumbled to the picture
window and peered out beside Edmund. She saw lights bobbing along the
paths with a wild excitement.
On the TV screen, Celeste watched two brightly lit ships spinning in
the sky—whether human spaceships or Phobos and Deimos come to help
Earth rejoice, she couldn't tell.
Dotty spoke again, the joy in her strange voice forcing them to turn.
"And you, dear children, creatures of our camouflage, we welcome
you—whatever your future career on these planets or like ones—into
the society of enlightened worlds! You need not feel small and alone
and helpless ever again, for we shall always be with you!"
The outer door opened. Ivan and Rosalind reeled in, drunkenly smiling,
arm in arm.
"Like rockets," Rosalind blurted happily. "We came through the
durasphere and solid rock ... shot up right to the surface."
"They didn't have to take us along," Ivan added with a bleary grin.
"But you know that already, don't you? They're too good to let you live
in fear, so they must have told you by now."
"Yes, we know," said Theodor. "They must be almost godlike in their
goodness. I feel ... calm."
Edmund nodded soberly. "Calmer than I ever felt before. It's knowing, I
suppose, that—well, we're not alone."
Dotty blinked and looked around and smiled at them all with a wholly
little-girl smile.
"Oh, Mummy," she said, and it was impossible to tell whether she spoke
to Frieda or Rosalind or Celeste, "I've just had the funniest dream."
"No, darling," said Rosalind gently, "it's we who had the dream. We've
just awakened."
Question:
What’s the significance of Dotty’s dreams?
Answer:
|
[
"Throughout the entire story, the narrative gets interrupted by small parts of Dotty's dreams. She has extrasensory abilities, and the semi-god creatures use her and other ESPs to communicate with people. In her dreams, she tells the story of these creatures' life. She speaks about their belief in mental privacy and says that other gods do not want them to have private thoughts and decide to hunt them down. The creatures that value privacy of thoughts create inhabited planets and manage to hide for millions of years from the others. But now they have been found and need to flee again. Dotty’s dreams conceptually explain the origin of the planets of the Solar System and why those need to be destroyed now. Through her dreams, the creatures tell the Earth is their camouflaged spaceship, and they will soon need to live. \n",
"Dotty is one of the humans with Extra-Sensory Perception, which allows her to be a gateway of communication between the species that live within Earth and humans. A side effect of this is that she dreams a lot from the perspective of the other species. Her dreams are a reflection of what the species is feeling and what they are thinking with respect to their hunters. Dotty could understand that the species was being hunted, and could understand what they were thinking. At the end, Dotty wakes up and tells the family that she was dreaming.",
"Dotty is Frieda’s daughter who has extra-sensory perception. Dotty’s dream shows how the godlike creatures who live on Earth, their boat, escape from their pursuers and use life as camouflage to escape from the search. Her dream also shows what the godlike creatures think. In her dream, the godlike creatures express their desire for mental privacy that is not allowed by their other fellows. The godlike creatures leave their fellows, who are scared by them because of the unknown of their secret thoughts. When they used all their ways to get out of the universe, they had no choice but to hide under the camouflage disguised with life, and they succeeded. Dotty’s dream is significant because it shows how and why the godlike creatures fled from their point of view. It also indicates Dotty’s compatibility with the godlike creatures to allow them to talk with her family through her body.",
"Dotty’s dreams are significant because they tell the life of the god-like beings who have separated themselves from the rest of the group. Dotty’s dreams give insight to how the god-like beings came about, and how the start of the conflict between them and the rest of their race started. The dreams also reveal how the group managed to escape, creating great ships and camouflaging themselves so that their pursuers will not be able to catch up to them. Later, Dotty’s dreams also allow her to be controlled by one of the voices so that she is able to tell the rest of the Wolvers what will happen to the world and them because the pursuers have discovered where the rogue god-like group has been hiding. Dotty’s dreams also allow her to serve as a messenger between the two parties and inform them of what is happening in regards to the current situation. "
] |
51353
|
DR. KOMETEVSKY'S DAY
By FRITZ LEIBER
Illustrated by DAVID STONE
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction February 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Before science, there was superstition. After science, there will be ... what? The biggest, most staggering , most final fact of them all!
"But it's all predicted here! It even names this century for the next reshuffling of the planets."
Celeste Wolver looked up unwillingly at the book her friend Madge Carnap held aloft like a torch. She made out the ill-stamped title, The Dance of the Planets . There was no mistaking the time of its origin; only paper from the Twentieth Century aged to that particularly nasty shade of brown. Indeed, the book seemed to Celeste a brown old witch resurrected from the Last Age of Madness to confound a world growing sane, and she couldn't help shrinking back a trifle toward her husband Theodor.
He tried to come to her rescue. "Only predicted in the vaguest way. As I understand it, Kometevsky claimed, on the basis of a lot of evidence drawn from folklore, that the planets and their moons trade positions every so often."
"As if they were playing Going to Jerusalem, or musical chairs," Celeste chimed in, but she couldn't make it sound funny.
"Jupiter was supposed to have started as the outermost planet, and is to end up in the orbit of Mercury," Theodor continued. "Well, nothing at all like that has happened."
"But it's begun," Madge said with conviction. "Phobos and Deimos have disappeared. You can't argue away that stubborn little fact."
That was the trouble; you couldn't. Mars' two tiny moons had simply vanished during a period when, as was generally the case, the eyes of astronomy weren't on them. Just some hundred-odd cubic miles of rock—the merest cosmic flyspecks—yet they had carried away with them the security of a whole world.
Looking at the lovely garden landscape around her, Celeste Wolver felt that in a moment the shrubby hills would begin to roll like waves, the charmingly aimless paths twist like snakes and sink in the green sea, the sparsely placed skyscrapers dissolve into the misty clouds they pierced.
People must have felt like this , she thought, when Aristarches first hinted and Copernicus told them that the solid Earth under their feet was falling dizzily through space. Only it's worse for us, because they couldn't see that anything had changed. We can.
"You need something to cling to," she heard Madge say. "Dr. Kometevsky was the only person who ever had an inkling that anything like this might happen. I was never a Kometevskyite before. Hadn't even heard of the man."
She said it almost apologetically. In fact, standing there so frank and anxious-eyed, Madge looked anything but a fanatic, which made it much worse.
"Of course, there are several more convincing alternate explanations...." Theodor began hesitantly, knowing very well that there weren't. If Phobos and Deimos had suddenly disintegrated, surely Mars Base would have noticed something. Of course there was the Disordered Space Hypothesis, even if it was little more than the chance phrase of a prominent physicist pounded upon by an eager journalist. And in any case, what sense of security were you left with if you admitted that moons and planets might explode, or drop through unseen holes in space? So he ended up by taking a different tack: "Besides, if Phobos and Deimos simply shot off somewhere, surely they'd have been picked up by now by 'scope or radar."
"Two balls of rock just a few miles in diameter?" Madge questioned.
"Aren't they smaller than many of the asteroids? I'm no astronomer, but I think' I'm right."
And of course she was.
She swung the book under her arm. "Whew, it's heavy," she observed, adding in slightly scandalized tones, "Never been microfilmed." She smiled nervously and looked them up and down. "Going to a party?" she asked.
Theodor's scarlet cloak and Celeste's green culottes and silver jacket justified the question, but they shook their heads.
"Just the normally flamboyant garb of the family," Celeste said, while Theodor explained, "As it happens, we're bound on business connected with the disappearance. We Wolvers practically constitute a sub-committee of the Congress for the Discovery of New Purposes. And since a lot of varied material comes to our attention, we're going to see if any of it correlates with this bit of astronomical sleight-of-hand."
Madge nodded. "Give you something to do, at any rate. Well, I must be off. The Buddhist temple has lent us their place for a meeting." She gave them a woeful grin. "See you when the Earth jumps."
Theodor said to Celeste, "Come on, dear. We'll be late."
But Celeste didn't want to move too fast. "You know, Teddy," she said uncomfortably, "all this reminds me of those old myths where too much good fortune is a sure sign of coming disaster. It was just too much luck, our great-grandparents missing World III and getting the World Government started a thousand years ahead of schedule. Luck like that couldn't last, evidently. Maybe we've gone too fast with a lot of things, like space-flight and the Deep Shaft and—" she hesitated a bit—"complex marriages. I'm a woman. I want complete security. Where am I to find it?"
"In me," Theodor said promptly.
"In you?" Celeste questioned, walking slowly. "But you're just one-third of my husband. Perhaps I should look for it in Edmund or Ivan."
"You angry with me about something?"
"Of course not. But a woman wants her source of security whole. In a crisis like this, it's disturbing to have it divided."
"Well, we are a whole and, I believe, indivisible family," Theodor told her warmly. "You're not suggesting, are you, that we're going to be punished for our polygamous sins by a cosmic catastrophe? Fire from Heaven and all that?"
"Don't be silly. I just wanted to give you a picture of my feeling." Celeste smiled. "I guess none of us realized how much we've come to depend on the idea of unchanging scientific law. Knocks the props from under you."
Theodor nodded emphatically. "All the more reason to get a line on what's happening as quickly as possible. You know, it's fantastically far-fetched, but I think the experience of persons with Extra-Sensory Perception may give us a clue. During the past three or four days there's been a remarkable similarity in the dreams of ESPs all over the planet. I'm going to present the evidence at the meeting."
Celeste looked up at him. "So that's why Rosalind's bringing Frieda's daughter?"
"Dotty is your daughter, too, and Rosalind's," Theodor reminded her.
"No, just Frieda's," Celeste said bitterly. "Of course you may be the father. One-third of a chance."
Theodor looked at her sharply, but didn't comment. "Anyway, Dotty will be there," he said. "Probably asleep by now. All the ESPs have suddenly seemed to need more sleep."
As they talked, it had been growing darker, though the luminescence of the path kept it from being bothersome. And now the cloud rack parted to the east, showing a single red planet low on the horizon.
"Did you know," Theodor said suddenly, "that in Gulliver's Travels Dean Swift predicted that better telescopes would show Mars to have two moons? He got the sizes and distances and periods damned accurately, too. One of the few really startling coincidences of reality and literature."
"Stop being eerie," Celeste said sharply. But then she went on, "Those names Phobos and Deimos—they're Greek, aren't they? What do they mean?"
Theodor lost a step. "Fear and Terror," he said unwillingly. "Now don't go taking that for an omen. Most of the mythological names of major and minor ancient gods had been taken—the bodies in the Solar System are named that way, of course—and these were about all that were available."
It was true, but it didn't comfort him much.
I am a God , Dotty was dreaming, and I want to be by myself and think. I and my god-friends like to keep some of our thoughts secret, but the other gods have forbidden us to.
A little smile flickered across the lips of the sleeping girl, and the woman in gold tights and gold-spangled jacket leaned forward thoughtfully. In her dignity and simplicity and straight-spined grace, she was rather like a circus mother watching her sick child before she went out for the trapeze act.
I and my god-friends sail off in our great round silver boats , Dotty went on dreaming. The other gods are angry and scared. They are frightened of the thoughts we may think in secret. They follow us to hunt us down. There are many more of them than of us.
As Celeste and Theodor entered the committee room, Rosalind Wolver—a glitter of platinum against darkness—came in through the opposite door and softly shut it behind her. Frieda, a fair woman in blue robes, got up from the round table.
Celeste turned away with outward casualness as Theodor kissed his two other wives. She was pleased to note that Edmund seemed impatient too. A figure in close-fitting black, unrelieved except for two red arrows at the collar, he struck her as embodying very properly the serious, fateful temper of the moment.
He took two briefcases from his vest pocket and tossed them down on the table beside one of the microfilm projectors.
"I suggest we get started without waiting for Ivan," he said.
Frieda frowned anxiously. "It's ten minutes since he phoned from the Deep Space Bar to say he was starting right away. And that's hardly a two minutes walk."
Rosalind instantly started toward the outside door.
"I'll check," she explained. "Oh, Frieda, I've set the mike so you'll hear if Dotty calls."
Edmund threw up his hands. "Very well, then," he said and walked over, switched on the picture and stared out moodily.
Theodor and Frieda got out their briefcases, switched on projectors, and began silently checking through their material.
Celeste fiddled with the TV and got a newscast. But she found her eyes didn't want to absorb the blocks of print that rather swiftly succeeded each other, so, after a few moments, she shrugged impatiently and switched to audio.
At the noise, the others looked around at her with surprise and some irritation, but in a few moments they were also listening.
"The two rocket ships sent out from Mars Base to explore the orbital positions of Phobos and Deimos—that is, the volume of space they'd be occupying if their positions had remained normal—report finding masses of dust and larger debris. The two masses of fine debris are moving in the same orbits and at the same velocities as the two vanished moons, and occupy roughly the same volumes of space, though the mass of material is hardly a hundredth that of the moons. Physicists have ventured no statements as to whether this constitutes a confirmation of the Disintegration Hypothesis.
"However, we're mighty pleased at this news here. There's a marked lessening of tension. The finding of the debris—solid, tangible stuff—seems to lift the whole affair out of the supernatural miasma in which some of us have been tempted to plunge it. One-hundredth of the moons has been found.
"The rest will also be!"
Edmund had turned his back on the window. Frieda and Theodor had switched off their projectors.
"Meanwhile, Earthlings are going about their business with a minimum of commotion, meeting with considerable calm the strange threat to the fabric of their Solar System. Many, of course, are assembled in churches and humanist temples. Kometevskyites have staged helicopter processions at Washington, Peking, Pretoria, and Christiana, demanding that instant preparations be made for—and I quote—'Earth's coming leap through space.' They have also formally challenged all astronomers to produce an explanation other than the one contained in that strange book so recently conjured from oblivion, The Dance of the Planets .
"That about winds up the story for the present. There are no new reports from Interplanetary Radar, Astronomy, or the other rocket ships searching in the extended Mars volume. Nor have any statements been issued by the various groups working on the problem in Astrophysics, Cosmic Ecology, the Congress for the Discovery of New Purposes, and so forth. Meanwhile, however, we can take courage from the words of a poem written even before Dr. Kometevsky's book:
"This Earth is not the steadfast place
We landsmen build upon;
From deep to deep she varies pace,
And while she comes is gone.
Beneath my feet I feel
Her smooth bulk heave and dip;
With velvet plunge and soft upreel
She swings and steadies to her keel
Like a gallant, gallant ship."
While the TV voice intoned the poem, growing richer as emotion caught it up, Celeste looked around her at the others. Frieda, with her touch of feminine helplessness showing more than ever through her business-like poise. Theodor leaning forward from his scarlet cloak thrown back, smiling the half-smile with which he seemed to face even the unknown. Black Edmund, masking a deep uncertainty with a strong show of decisiveness.
In short, her family. She knew their every quirk and foible. And yet now they seemed to her a million miles away, figures seen through the wrong end of a telescope.
Were they really a family? Strong sources of mutual strength and security to each other? Or had they merely been playing family, experimenting with their notions of complex marriage like a bunch of silly adolescents? Butterflies taking advantage of good weather to wing together in a glamorous, artificial dance—until outraged Nature decided to wipe them out?
As the poem was ending, Celeste saw the door open and Rosalind come slowly in. The Golden Woman's face was white as the paths she had been treading.
Just then the TV voice quickened with shock. "News! Lunar Observatory One reports that, although Jupiter is just about to pass behind the Sun, a good coronagraph of the planet has been obtained. Checked and rechecked, it admits of only one interpretation, which Lunar One feels duty-bound to release. Jupiter's fourteen moons are no longer visible! "
The chorus of remarks with which the Wolvers would otherwise have received this was checked by one thing: the fact that Rosalind seemed not to hear it. Whatever was on her mind prevented even that incredible statement from penetrating.
She walked shakily to the table and put down a briefcase, one end of which was smudged with dirt.
Without looking at them, she said, "Ivan left the Deep Space Bar twenty minutes ago, said he was coming straight here. On my way back I searched the path. Midway I found this half-buried in the dirt. I had to tug to get it out—almost as if it had been cemented into the ground. Do you feel how the dirt seems to be in the leather, as if it had lain for years in the grave?"
By now the others were fingering the small case of microfilms they had seen so many times in Ivan's competent hands. What Rosalind said was true. It had a gritty, unwholesome feel to it. Also, it felt strangely heavy.
"And see what's written on it," she added.
They turned it over. Scrawled with white pencil in big, hasty, frantic letters were two words:
"Going down!"
The other gods , Dotty dreamt, are combing the whole Universe for us. We have escaped them many times, but now our tricks are almost used up. There are no doors going out of the Universe and our boats are silver beacons to the hunters. So we decide to disguise them in the only way they can be disguised. It is our last chance.
Edmund rapped the table to gain the family's attention. "I'd say we've done everything we can for the moment to find Ivan. We've made a thorough local search. A wider one, which we can't conduct personally, is in progress. All helpful agencies have been alerted and descriptions are being broadcast. I suggest we get on with the business of the evening—which may very well be connected with Ivan's disappearance."
One by one the others nodded and took their places at the round table. Celeste made a great effort to throw off the feeling of unreality that had engulfed her and focus attention on her microfilms.
"I'll take over Ivan's notes," she heard Edmund say. "They're mainly about the Deep Shaft."
"How far have they got with that?" Frieda asked idly. "Twenty-five miles?"
"Nearer thirty, I believe," Edmund answered, "and still going down."
At those last two words they all looked up quickly. Then their eyes went toward Ivan's briefcase.
Our trick has succeeded , Dotty dreamt. The other gods have passed our hiding place a dozen times without noticing. They search the Universe for us many times in vain. They finally decide that we have found a door going out of the Universe. Yet they fear us all the more. They think of us as devils who will some day return through the door to destroy them. So they watch everywhere. We lie quietly smiling in our camouflaged boats, yet hardly daring to move or think, for fear that the faintest echoes of our doings will give them a clue. Hundreds of millions of years pass by. They seem to us no more than drugged hours in a prison.
Theodor rubbed his eyes and pushed his chair back from the table. "We need a break."
Frieda agreed wearily. "We've gone through everything."
"Good idea," Edmund said briskly. "I think we've hit on several crucial points along the way and half disentangled them from the great mass of inconsequential material. I'll finish up that part of the job right now and present my case when we're all a bit fresher. Say half an hour?"
Theodor nodded heavily, pushing up from his chair and hitching his cloak over a shoulder.
"I'm going out for a drink," he informed them.
After several hesitant seconds, Rosalind quietly followed him. Frieda stretched out on a couch and closed her eyes. Edmund scanned microfilms tirelessly, every now and then setting one aside.
Celeste watched him for a minute, then sprang up and started toward the room where Dotty was asleep. But midway she stopped.
Not my child , she thought bitterly. Frieda's her mother, Rosalind her nurse. I'm nothing at all. Just one of the husband's girl friends. A lady of uneasy virtue in a dissolving world.
But then she straightened her shoulders and went on.
Rosalind didn't catch up with Theodor. Her footsteps were silent and he never looked back along the path whose feeble white glow rose only knee-high, lighting a low strip of shrub and mossy tree trunk to either side, no more.
It was a little chilly. She drew on her gloves, but she didn't hurry. In fact, she fell farther and farther behind the dipping tail of his scarlet cloak and his plodding red shoes, which seemed to move disembodied, like those in the fairy tale.
When she reached the point where she had found Ivan's briefcase, she stopped altogether.
A breeze rustled the leaves, and, moistly brushing her cheek, brought forest scents of rot and mold. After a bit she began to hear the furtive scurryings and scuttlings of forest creatures.
She looked around her half-heartedly, suddenly realizing the futility of her quest. What clues could she hope to find in this knee-high twilight? And they'd thoroughly combed the place earlier in the night.
Without warning, an eerie tingling went through her and she was seized by a horror of the cold, grainy Earth underfoot—an ancestral terror from the days when men shivered at ghost stories about graves and tombs.
A tiny detail persisted in bulking larger and larger in her mind—the unnaturalness of the way the Earth had impregnated the corner of Ivan's briefcase, almost as if dirt and leather co-existed in the same space. She remembered the queer way the partly buried briefcase had resisted her first tug, like a rooted plant.
She felt cowed by the mysterious night about her, and literally dwarfed, as if she had grown several inches shorter. She roused herself and started forward.
Something held her feet.
They were ankle-deep in the path. While she looked in fright and horror, they began to sink still lower into the ground.
She plunged frantically, trying to jerk loose. She couldn't. She had the panicky feeling that the Earth had not only trapped but invaded her; that its molecules were creeping up between the molecules of her flesh; that the two were becoming one.
And she was sinking faster. Now knee-deep, thigh-deep, hip-deep, waist-deep. She beat at the powdery path with her hands and threw her body from side to side in agonized frenzy like some sinner frozen in the ice of the innermost circle of the ancients' hell. And always the sense of the dark, grainy tide rose inside as well as around her.
She thought, he'd just have had time to scribble that note on his briefcase and toss it away. She jerked off a glove, leaned out as far as she could, and made a frantic effort to drive its fingers into the powdery path. Then the Earth mounted to her chin, her nose, and covered her eyes.
She expected blackness, but it was as if the light of the path stayed with her, making a little glow all around. She saw roots, pebbles, black rot, worn tunnels, worms. Tier on tier of them, her vision penetrating the solid ground. And at the same time, the knowledge that these same sorts of things were coursing up through her.
And still she continued to sink at a speed that increased, as if the law of gravitation applied to her in a diminished way. She dropped from black soil through gray clay and into pale limestone.
Her tortured, rock-permeated lungs sucked at rock and drew in air. She wondered madly if a volume of air were falling with her through the stone.
A glitter of quartz. The momentary openness of a foot-high cavern with a trickle of water. And then she was sliding down a black basalt column, half inside it, half inside gold-flecked ore. Then just black basalt. And always faster.
It grew hot, then hotter, as if she were approaching the mythical eternal fires.
At first glance Theodor thought the Deep Space Bar was empty. Then he saw a figure hunched monkeylike on the last stool, almost lost in the blue shadows, while behind the bar, her crystal dress blending with the tiers of sparkling glasses, stood a grave-eyed young girl who could hardly have been fifteen.
The TV was saying, "... in addition, a number of mysterious disappearances of high-rating individuals have been reported. These are thought to be cases of misunderstanding, illusory apprehension, and impulse traveling—a result of the unusual stresses of the time. Finally, a few suggestible individuals in various parts of the globe, especially the Indian Peninsula, have declared themselves to be 'gods' and in some way responsible for current events.
"It is thought—"
The girl switched off the TV and took Theodor's order, explaining casually, "Joe wanted to go to a Kometevskyite meeting, so I took over for him." When she had prepared Theodor's highball, she announced,
"I'll have a drink with you gentlemen," and squeezed herself a glass of pomegranate juice.
The monkeylike figure muttered, "Scotch-and-soda," then turned toward Edmund and asked, "And what is your reaction to all this, sir?"
Theodor recognized the shrunken wrinkle-seamed face. It was Colonel Fortescue, a military antique long retired from the Peace Patrol and reputed to have seen actual fighting in the Last Age of Madness. Now, for some reason, the face sported a knowing smile.
Theodor shrugged. Just then the TV "big news" light blinked blue and the girl switched on audio. The Colonel winked at Theodor.
"... confirming the disappearance of Jupiter's moons. But two other utterly fantastic reports have just been received. First, Lunar Observatory One says that it is visually tracking fourteen small bodies which it believes may be the lost moons of Jupiter. They are moving outward from the Solar System at an incredible velocity and are already beyond the orbit of Saturn!"
The Colonel said, "Ah!"
"Second, Palomar reports a large number of dark bodies approaching the Solar System at an equally incredible velocity. They are at about twice the distance of Pluto, but closing in fast! We will be on the air with further details as soon as possible."
The Colonel said, "Ah-ha!"
Theodor stared at him. The old man's self-satisfied poise was almost amusing.
"Are you a Kometevskyite?" Theodor asked him.
The Colonel laughed. "Of course not, my boy. Those poor people are fumbling in the dark. Don't you see what's happened?"
"Frankly, no."
The Colonel leaned toward Theodor and whispered gruffly, "The Divine Plan. God is a military strategist, naturally."
Then he lifted the scotch-and-soda in his clawlike hand and took a satisfying swallow.
"I knew it all along, of course," he went on musingly, "but this last news makes it as plain as a rocket blast, at least to anyone who knows military strategy. Look here, my boy, suppose you were commanding a fleet and got wind of the enemy's approach—what would you do? Why, you'd send your scouts and destroyers fanning out toward them. Behind that screen you'd mass your heavy ships. Then—"
"You don't mean to imply—" Theodor interrupted.
The girl behind the bar looked at them both cryptically.
"Of course I do!" the Colonel cut in sharply. "It's a war between the forces of good and evil. The bright suns and planets are on one side, the dark on the other. The moons are the destroyers, Jupiter and Saturn are the big battleships, while we're on a heavy cruiser, I'm proud to say. We'll probably go into action soon. Be a corking fight, what? And all by divine strategy!"
He chuckled and took another big drink. Theodor looked at him sourly. The girl behind the bar polished a glass and said nothing.
Dotty suddenly began to turn and toss, and a look of terror came over her sleeping face. Celeste leaned forward apprehensively.
The child's lips worked and Celeste made out the sleepy-fuzzy words:
"They've found out where we're hiding. They're coming to get us. No! Please, no!"
Celeste's reactions were mixed. She felt worried about Dotty and at the same time almost in terror of her, as if the little girl were an agent of supernatural forces. She told herself that this fear was an expression of her own hostility, yet she didn't really believe it. She touched the child's hand.
Dotty's eyes opened without making Celeste feel she had quite come awake. After a bit she looked at Celeste and her little lips parted in a smile.
"Hello," she said sleepily. "I've been having such funny dreams." Then, after a pause, frowning, "I really am a god, you know. It feels very queer."
"Yes, dear?" Celeste prompted uneasily. "Shall I call Frieda?"
The smile left Dotty's lips. "Why do you act so nervous around me?" she asked. "Don't you love me, Mummy?"
Celeste started at the word. Her throat closed. Then, very slowly, her face broke into a radiant smile. "Of course I do, darling. I love you very much."
Dotty nodded happily, her eyes already closed again.
There was a sudden flurry of excited voices beyond the door. Celeste heard her name called. She stood up.
"I'm going to have to go out and talk with the others," she said. "If you want me, dear, just call."
"Yes, Mummy."
Edmund rapped for attention. Celeste, Frieda, and Theodor glanced around at him. He looked more frightfully strained, they realized, than even they felt. His expression was a study in suppressed excitement, but there were also signs of a knowledge that was almost too overpowering for a human being to bear.
His voice was clipped, rapid. "I think it's about time we stopped worrying about our own affairs and thought of those of the Solar System, partly because I think they have a direct bearing on the disappearances of Ivan end Rosalind. As I told you, I've been sorting out the crucial items from the material we've been presenting. There are roughly four of those items, as I see it. It's rather like a mystery story. I wonder if, hearing those four clues, you will come to the same conclusion I have."
The others nodded.
"First, there are the latest reports from Deep Shaft, which, as you know, has been sunk to investigate deep-Earth conditions. At approximately twenty-nine miles below the surface, the delvers have encountered a metallic obstruction which they have tentatively named the durasphere. It resists their hardest drills, their strongest corrosives. They have extended a side-tunnel at that level for a quarter of a mile. Delicate measurements, made possible by the mirror-smooth metal surface, show that the durasphere has a slight curvature that is almost exactly equal to the curvature of the Earth itself. The suggestion is that deep borings made anywhere in the world would encounter the durasphere at the same depth.
"Second, the movements of the moons of Mars and Jupiter, and particularly the debris left behind by the moons of Mars. Granting Phobos and Deimos had duraspheres proportional in size to that of Earth, then the debris would roughly equal in amount the material in those two duraspheres' rocky envelopes. The suggestion is that the two duraspheres suddenly burst from their envelopes with such titanic velocity as to leave those disrupted envelopes behind."
It was deadly quiet in the committee room.
"Thirdly, the disappearances of Ivan and Rosalind, and especially the baffling hint—from Ivan's message in one case and Rosalind's downward-pointing glove in the other—that they were both somehow drawn into the depths of the Earth.
"Finally, the dreams of the ESPs, which agree overwhelmingly in the following points: A group of beings separate themselves from a godlike and telepathic race because they insist on maintaining a degree of mental privacy. They flee in great boats or ships of some sort. They are pursued on such a scale that there is no hiding place for them anywhere in the universe. In some manner they successfully camouflage their ships. Eons pass and their still-fanatical pursuers do not penetrate their secret. Then, suddenly, they are detected."
Edmund waited. "Do you see what I'm driving at?" he asked hoarsely.
He could tell from their looks that the others did, but couldn't bring
themselves to put it into words.
"I suppose it's the time-scale and the value-scale that are so hard for
us to accept," he said softly. "Much more, even, than the size-scale.
The thought that there are creatures in the Universe to whom the whole
career of Man—in fact, the whole career of life—is no more than a few
thousand or hundred thousand years. And to whom Man is no more than a
minor stage property—a trifling part of a clever job of camouflage."
This time he went on, "Fantasy writers have at times hinted all sorts
of odd things about the Earth—that it might even be a kind of single
living creature, or honeycombed with inhabited caverns, and so on.
But I don't know that any of them have ever suggested that the Earth,
together with all the planets and moons of the Solar System, might
be...."
In a whisper, Frieda finished for him, "... a camouflaged fleet of
gigantic spherical spaceships."
" Your guess happens to be the precise truth. "
At that familiar, yet dreadly unfamiliar voice, all four of them swung
toward the inner door. Dotty was standing there, a sleep-stupefied
little girl with a blanket caught up around her and dragging behind.
Their own daughter. But in her eyes was a look from which they cringed.
She said, "I am a creature somewhat older than what your geologists
call the Archeozoic Era. I am speaking to you through a number of
telepathically sensitive individuals among your kind. In each case my
thoughts suit themselves to your level of comprehension. I inhabit the
disguised and jetless spaceship which is your Earth."
Celeste swayed a step forward. "Baby...." she implored.
Dotty went on, without giving her a glance, "It is true that we planted
the seeds of life on some of these planets simply as part of our
camouflage, just as we gave them a suitable environment for each. And
it is true that now we must let most of that life be destroyed. Our
hiding place has been discovered, our pursuers are upon us, and we must
make one last effort to escape or do battle, since we firmly believe
that the principle of mental privacy to which we have devoted our
existence is perhaps the greatest good in the whole Universe.
"But it is not true that we look with contempt upon you. Our whole race
is deeply devoted to life, wherever it may come into being, and it is
our rule never to interfere with its development. That was one of
the reasons we made life a part of our camouflage—it would make our
pursuers reluctant to examine these planets too closely.
"Yes, we have always cherished you and watched your evolution with
interest from our hidden lairs. We may even unconsciously have shaped
your development in certain ways, trying constantly to educate you away
from war and finally succeeding—which may have given the betraying
clue to our pursuers.
"Your planets must be burst asunder—this particular planet in the
area of the Pacific—so that we may have our last chance to escape.
Even if we did not move, our pursuers would destroy you with us. We
cannot invite you inside our ships—not for lack of space, but because
you could never survive the vast accelerations to which you would be
subjected. You would, you see, need very special accommodations, of
which we have enough only for a few.
"Those few we will take with us, as the seed from which a new human
race may—if we ourselves somehow survive—be born."
Rosalind and Ivan stared dumbly at each other across the egg-shaped
silver room, without apparent entrance or exit, in which they were
sprawled. But their thoughts were no longer of thirty-odd mile
journeys down through solid earth, or of how cool it was after the
heat of the passage, or of how grotesque it was to be trapped here,
the fragment of a marriage. They were both listening to the voice that
spoke inside their minds.
"In a few minutes your bodies will be separated into layers one atom
thick, capable of being shelved or stored in such a way as to endure
almost infinite accelerations. Single cells will cover acres of space.
But do not be alarmed. The process will be painless and each particle
will be catalogued for future assembly. Your consciousness will endure
throughout the process."
Rosalind looked at her gold-shod toes. She was wondering, will they go
first, or my head? Or will I be peeled like an apple?
She looked at Ivan and knew he was thinking the same thing.
Up in the committee room, the other Wolvers slumped around the table.
Only little Dotty sat straight and staring, speechless and unanswering,
quite beyond their reach, like a telephone off the hook and with the
connection open, but no voice from the other end.
They had just switched off the TV after listening to a confused
medley of denials, prayers, Kometevskyite chatterings, and a few
astonishingly realistic comments on the possibility of survival.
These last pointed out that, on the side of the Earth opposite the
Pacific, the convulsions would come slowly when the entombed spaceship
burst forth—provided, as seemed the case, that it moved without jets
or reaction.
It would be as if the Earth's vast core simply vanished. Gravity would
diminish abruptly to a fraction of its former value. The empty envelope
of rock and water and air would slowly fall together, though at the
same time the air would begin to escape from the debris because there
would no longer be the mass required to hold it.
However, there might be definite chances of temporary and even
prolonged survival for individuals in strong, hermetically sealed
structures, such as submarines and spaceships. The few spaceships on
Earth were reported to have blasted off, or be preparing to leave, with
as many passengers as could be carried.
But most persons, apparently, could not contemplate action of any sort.
They could only sit and think, like the Wolvers.
A faint smile relaxed Celeste's face. She was thinking, how beautiful!
It means the death of the Solar System, which is a horrifying
subjective concept. Objectively, though, it would be a more awesome
sight than any human being has ever seen or ever could see. It's an
absurd and even brutal thing to wish—but I wish I could see the whole
cataclysm from beginning to end. It would make death seem very small, a
tiny personal event.
Dotty's face was losing its blank expression, becoming intent and
alarmed.
"We are in contact with our pursuers," she said in the
familiar-unfamiliar voice. "Negotiations are now going on. There
seems to be—there is a change in them. Where they were harsh and
vindictive before, they now are gentle and conciliatory." She paused,
the alarm on her childish features pinching into anxious uncertainty.
"Our pursuers have always been shrewd. The change in them may be false,
intended merely to lull us into allowing them to come close enough to
destroy us. We must not fall into the trap by growing hopeful...."
They leaned forward, clutching hands, watching the little face as
though it were a television screen. Celeste had the wild feeling that
she was listening to a communique from a war so unthinkably vast and
violent, between opponents so astronomically huge and nearly immortal,
that she felt like no more than a reasoning ameba ... and then realized
with an explosive urge to laugh that that was exactly the situation.
"No!" said Dotty. Her eyes began to glow. "They have changed! During
the eons in which we lay sealed away and hidden from them, knowing
nothing of them, they have rebelled against the tyranny of a communal
mind to which no thoughts are private ... the tyranny that we ourselves
fled to escape. They come not to destroy us, but to welcome us back to
a society that we and they can make truly great!"
Frieda collapsed to a chair, trembling between laughter and hysterical
weeping. Theodor looked as blank as Dotty had while waiting for words
to speak. Edmund sprang to the picture window, Celeste toward the TV
set.
Climbing shakily out of the chair, Frieda stumbled to the picture
window and peered out beside Edmund. She saw lights bobbing along the
paths with a wild excitement.
On the TV screen, Celeste watched two brightly lit ships spinning in
the sky—whether human spaceships or Phobos and Deimos come to help
Earth rejoice, she couldn't tell.
Dotty spoke again, the joy in her strange voice forcing them to turn.
"And you, dear children, creatures of our camouflage, we welcome
you—whatever your future career on these planets or like ones—into
the society of enlightened worlds! You need not feel small and alone
and helpless ever again, for we shall always be with you!"
The outer door opened. Ivan and Rosalind reeled in, drunkenly smiling,
arm in arm.
"Like rockets," Rosalind blurted happily. "We came through the
durasphere and solid rock ... shot up right to the surface."
"They didn't have to take us along," Ivan added with a bleary grin.
"But you know that already, don't you? They're too good to let you live
in fear, so they must have told you by now."
"Yes, we know," said Theodor. "They must be almost godlike in their
goodness. I feel ... calm."
Edmund nodded soberly. "Calmer than I ever felt before. It's knowing, I
suppose, that—well, we're not alone."
Dotty blinked and looked around and smiled at them all with a wholly
little-girl smile.
"Oh, Mummy," she said, and it was impossible to tell whether she spoke
to Frieda or Rosalind or Celeste, "I've just had the funniest dream."
"No, darling," said Rosalind gently, "it's we who had the dream. We've
just awakened."
|
What is the plot of the story?
|
After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about Saboteur of Space by Robert Abernathy.
Relevant chunks:
Saboteur of Space
By ROBERT ABERNATHY
Fresh power was coming to Earth, energy which would bring life to a dying planet. Only two men stood in its way, one a cowardly rat, the other a murderous martyr; both pawns in a cosmic game where death moved his chessmen of fate—and even the winner would lose.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Ryd Randl stood, slouching a little, in the darkened footway, and watched the sky over Dynamopolis come alive with searchlights. The shuttered glow of Burshis' Stumble Inn was only a few yards off to his right, but even that lodestone failed before the novel interest of a ship about to ground in the one-time Port of Ten Thousand Ships.
Now he made out the flicker of the braking drive a mile or so overhead, and presently soft motor thunder came down to blanket the almost lightless city with sound. A beam swayed through the throbbing darkness, caught the descending ship and held it, a small gleaming minnow slipping through the dark heavens. A faint glow rose from Pi Mesa, where the spaceport lay above the city, as a runway lighted up—draining the last reserves of the city's stored power, but draining them gladly now that, in those autumn days of the historic year 819, relief was in sight.
Ryd shrugged limply; the play was meaningless to him. He turned to shuffle down the inviting ramp into the glowing interior of Burshis' dive.
The place was crowded with men and smoke. Perhaps half the former were asleep, on tables or on the floor; but for the few places like Burshis' which were still open under the power shortage, many would have frozen, these days, in the chilly nights at fourteen thousand feet. For Dynamopolis sprawled atop the world, now as in the old days when it had been built to be the power center of North America.
The rocket blasts crescendoed and died up on Pi Mesa as Ryd wedged himself with difficulty into the group along the bar. If anyone recognized him, they showed it only by looking fixedly at something else. Only Burshis Yuns kept his static smile and nodded with surprising friendliness at Ryd's pinched, old-young face.
Ryd was startled by the nod. Burshis finished serving another customer and maneuvered down the stained chrome-and-synthyl bar. Ryd was heartened.
"Say, Burshis," he started nervously, as the bulky man halted with his back to him. But Burshis turned, still smiling, shaking his head so that his jowls quivered.
"No loans," he said flatly. "But just one on the house, Ryd."
The drink almost spilled itself in Ryd's hand. Clutching it convulsively, he made his eyes narrow and said suspiciously, "What you setting 'em up for, Burshis? It's the first time since—"
Burshis' smile stayed put. He said affably, "Didn't you hear that ship that just came down on the Mesa? That was the ship from Mars—the escort they were sending with the power cylinder. The power's coming in again." He turned to greet a coin-tapping newcomer, added over his shoulder: "You know what that means, Ryd. Some life around here again. Jobs for all the bums in this town—even for you."
He left Ryd frowning, thinking fuzzily. A warming gulp seemed to clear his head. Jobs. So they thought they could put that over on him again, huh? Well, he'd show them. He was smart; he was a damn good helio man—no, that had been ten years ago. But now he was out of the habit of working, anyway. No job for Ryd Randl. They gave him one once and then took it away. He drank still more deeply.
The man on Ryd's immediate right leaned toward him. He laid a hand on his arm, gripping it hard, and said quietly: "So you're Ryd Randl."
Ryd had a bad moment before he saw that the face wasn't that of any plain-clothes man he knew. For that matter, it didn't belong to anybody he had ever known—an odd, big-boned face, strikingly ugly, with a beak-nose that was yet not too large for the hard jaw or too bleak for the thin mouth below it. An expensive transparent hat slanted over the face, and from its iridescent shadows gleamed eyes that were alert and almost frighteningly black. Ryd noted that the man wore a dark-gray cellotex of a sort rarely seen in joints like Burshis'.
"Suppose we step outside, Ryd. I'd like to talk to you."
"What's the idea?" demanded Ryd, his small store of natural courage floated to the top by alcohol.
The other seemed to realize that he was getting ahead of himself. He leaned back slightly, drew a deep breath, and said slowly and distinctly. "Would you care to make some money, my friend?"
" Huh? Why, yeh—I guess so—"
"Then come with me." The hand still on his arm was insistent. In his daze, Ryd let himself be drawn away from the bar into the sluggish crowd; then he suddenly remembered his unfinished drink, and made frantic gestures. Deliberately misunderstanding, the tall stranger fumbled briefly, tossed a coin on the counter-top, and hustled Ryd out, past the blue-and-gold-lit meloderge that was softly pouring out its endlessly changing music, through the swinging doors into the dark.
Outside, between lightless buildings, the still cold closed in on them. They kept walking—so fast that Ryd began to lose his breath, long-accustomed though his lungs were to the high, thin air.
"So you're Ryd Randl," repeated the stranger after a moment's silence.
"I might have known you. But I'd almost given up finding you tonight."
Ryd tried feebly to wrench free, stumbled. "Look," he gasped. "If you're a cop, say so!"
The other laughed shortly. "No. I'm just a man about to offer you a chance. For a come-back, Ryd—a chance to live again.... My name—you can call me Mury."
Ryd was voiceless. Something seemed increasingly ominous about the tall, spare man at his side. He wished himself back in Burshis' with his first free drink in a month. The thought of it brought tears to his eyes.
"How long have you been out of a job, Ryd?"
"Nine ... ten years. Say, what's it to you?"
"And why, Ryd?"
"Why...? Look, mister, I was a helio operator." He hunched his narrow shoulders and spread his hands in an habitual gesture of defeat. "Damn good one, too—I was a foreman ten years ago. But I don't have the physique for Mars—I might just have made it then , but I thought the plant was going to open again and—"
And that was it. The almost airless Martian sky, with its burning actinic rays, is so favorable for the use of the helio-dynamic engine. And after the middle of the eighth century, robot labor gave Mars its full economic independence—and domination. For power is—power; and there is the Restriction Act to keep men on Earth even if more than two in ten could live healthily on the outer world.
"Ten years ago," Mury nodded as if satisfied. "That must have been the Power Company of North America—the main plant by Dynamopolis itself, that shut down in December, 809. They were the last to close down outside the military bases in the Kun Lun."
Ryd was pacing beside him now. He felt a queer upsurge of confidence in this strange man; for too long he had met no sympathy and all too few men who talked his language. He burst out: "They wouldn't take me, damn them! Said my record wasn't good enough for them. That is, I didn't have a drag with any of the Poligerents."
"I know all about your record," said Mury softly.
Ryd's suspicions came back abruptly, and he reverted to his old kicked-dog manner. "How do you know? And what's it to you?"
All at once, Mury came to a stop, and swung around to face him squarely, hard eyes compelling. They were on an overpass, not far from where the vast, almost wholly deserted offices of the Triplanet Freighting Company sprawled over a square mile of city. A half-smile twisted Mury's thin lips.
"Don't misunderstand me, Ryd—you mean nothing at all to me as an individual. But you're one of a vast mass of men for whom I am working—the billions caught in the net of a corrupt government and sold as an economic prey to the ruthless masters of Mars. This, after they've borne all the hardships of a year of embargo, have offered their hands willingly to the rebuilding of decadent Earth, only to be refused by the weak leaders who can neither defy the enemy nor capitulate frankly to him."
Ryd was dazed. His mind had never been constructed to cope with such ideas and the past few years had not improved its capabilities. "Are you talking about the power cylinder?" he demanded blurrily.
Mury cast a glance toward the Milky Way as if to descry the Martian cargo projectile somewhere up among its countless lights. He said simply, "Yes."
"I don't get it," mumbled Ryd, frowning. He found words that he had heard somewhere a day or so before, in some bar or flophouse: "The power cylinder is going to be the salvation of Earth. It's a shot in the arm—no, right in the heart of Earth industry, here in Dynamopolis. It will turn the wheels and light the cities and—"
"To hell with that!" snapped Mury, suddenly savage. His hands came up slightly, the fingers flexing; then dropped back to his sides. "Don't you know you're repeating damnable lies?"
Ryd could only stare, cringing and bewildered. Mury went on with a passion shocking after his smooth calm:
"The power shell is aid, yes—but with what a price! It's the thirty pieces of silver for which the venal fools who rule our nations have sold the whole planet to Mars. Because they lack the courage and vision to retool Earth's plants and factories for the inescapable conflict, they're selling us out—making Earth, the first home of man, a colony of the Red Planet. Do you know what Earth is to the great Martian land-owners? Do you? " He paused out of breath; then finished venomously, "Earth is a great pool of labor ready to be tapped, cheaper than robots—cheap as slaves !"
"What about it?" gulped Ryd, drawing away from the fanatic. "What you want me to do about it?"
Mury took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. His face was once more bleakly impassive; only the mouth was an ugly line. "We're going to do something about it, you and I. Tonight. Now."
Ryd was nearly sober. And wholly terrified. He got out chokingly,
"What's that mean?"
"The power shell—isn't coming in as planned."
"You can't do that."
" We can," said Mury with a heavy accent on the first word. "And there are fifty thousand credits in it for you, Ryd. Are you with us?"
Suspicion was chill reality now in Ryd's mind. And he knew one thing certainly—if he refused now to accompany Mury, he would be killed, by this man or another of his kind. For the secret power known only as We never took chances. Whispered-of, terrible, and world-embracing, desperate upshot of the times in its principles of dynamitism, war, and panclasm—that was We .
The question hung in the air for a long moment. Then Ryd, with an effort, said, "Sure." A moment later it struck him that the monosyllabic assent was suspicious; he added quickly, "I got nothing to lose, see?" It was, he realized, the cold truth.
"You won't lose," said Mury. He seemed to relax. But the menace with which he had clothed himself clung, as he turned back on the way they had come.
Ryd followed dog-like, his feet in their worn shoes moving without his volition. He was frightened. Out of his very fright came a longing to placate Mury, assure him that he, Ryd, was on the same side whatever happened....
After some steps he stole a sidelong glance at his tall companion, and whined, "Where ... where we going now?"
Mury paused in his long stride, removed a hand from a pocket of the gray topcoat that wrapped him as in somber thoughts. Wordlessly, he pointed as Ryd had known he would—toward where a pale man-made dawn seemed breaking over Pi Mesa.
II
"One blow for freedom!" said Mury with caught breath. His voice fell upon air scarcely stilled since the sodden thump of the blow that had killed the guard.
The body lay between them, face down on the graveled way in the inky moon-shadow. On one side Pi Mesa stretched away two hundred yards to drop sharply into the night; on the other was the unlighted mass of the long, continuous, low buildings that housed now unused fuel pumps and servicing equipment. Looking down at the dead huddle at his feet, a little stunned by the reality of this, Ryd knew that he was in it now. He was caught in the machinery.
Mury hefted the length of steel in his hand once more, as if testing the weight that had crushed a man's skull so easily. Then, with a short wrist-flip, he sent it flying into the dried weeds which had over-grown the aero field on the mesa's rim during the summer months after State order had grounded all fliers in America.
"All right, Ryd," he said coolly. "Trade clothes with this fellow. I've brought you this far—you're taking me the rest of the way."
The rest of the way.
Ryd was still panting, and his side was paining from the strenuous exertion of the long climb up the side of the mountain, far from the guarded highway. His fingers, numbed by the cold of the high, thin air, shook as he knelt and fumbled with the zippers of the dead guard's uniform. The belted gun, however, was heavy and oddly comforting as he clumsily buckled it about his hips. He knew enough of weapons to recognize this as, not the usual paralyzer, but a flame pistol, powerful and deadly. He let his hand linger on its butt; then strong fingers tightened on his bony wrist, and he looked up with a start into the sardonic black eyes of the Panclast.
"No use now for firearms," said Mury. "All the guns we could carry wouldn't help us if we were caught out there. That gun is just a stage property for the little play we're going to give in about three minutes—when you'll act a guardsman escorting me, a Poligerent of Dynamopolis, aboard the towship Shahrazad ."
For a moment Ryd felt relief—he had hazily imagined that Mury's hatred of Mars and all things Martian might have led him to try to sabotage the Martian warship which lay somewhere on the runways beyond the long, low buildings, and which would be closely guarded. But the towship would also be guarded ... he shivered in the cold, dry night air.
Mury had melted into the shadow a few yards away. There was a light scraping, then a green flame sputtered, briefly lighting up his hands and face, and narrowing at once to a thin, singing needle of light. He had turned a pocket electron torch against the lock-mechanism of a small, disused metal door.
Ryd watched in painful suspense. There was no sound in his ears save for the hard, dry shrilling of the ray as it bit into the steel. It seemed to be crying: run, run —but he remembered the power that knew how to punish better than the law, and stood still, shivering.
The lock gave way and the door slipped aside. A light went on inside, and Ryd's heart stopped, backfired, and started again, raggedly. The same automatic mechanism that had turned the lights on had started the air-fresher, which picked up speed with a soft whine, sweeping out the long-stale atmosphere. Mury motioned to Ryd to follow him in.
It was still musty in the narrow passage, between the closely-pressing walls, beneath the great tubes and cable sheathings that fluted the ceiling overhead. A stairway spiraled up on the right to the control cupola somewhere overhead; even in the airtight gallery a thin film of dust lay on every step. Up there were the meters and switches of the disused terminal facilities of the spaceport; beyond the metal door marked CAUTION, just beyond the stairwell, lay the long runway down which the ships of space had glided to be serviced, refueled, and launched into the sky once more by now dormant machines.
"Wait," said Mury succinctly; he vanished up the spiral stair, his long legs taking two steps at a time. After an aching minute's silence, he was back. All was clear as seen from the turret-windows overhead.
They emerged in shadow, hugging the wall. Almost a quarter of a mile to the right the megalith of the Communications Tower, crowned with many lights where the signal-men sat godlike in its summit. Its floodlights shed a vast oval of light out over the mesa, where the mile-long runways—no longer polished mirror-like as in the days of Dynamopolis' glory—stretched away into the darkness of the table land. A handful of odd ships—mere remnant of the hundreds that Pi Mesa port had berthed—huddled under the solenoid wickets, as if driven together by the chill of the thin, knife-like wind that blew across the mesa.
As the two paced slowly across the runways, Ryd had a sense of protective isolation in the vast impersonality of the spaceport. Surely, in this Titanic desolation of metal slabs and flat-roofed buildings, dominated by the one great tower, total insignificance must mean safety for them.
And indeed no guard challenged them. There were armed men watching for all intruders out on the desert beyond the runways, but once inside, Ryd's borrowed blue seemed to serve as passport enough. Nonetheless, the passport's knees were shaking when they stood at last, inconspicuous still, at the shadowed base of the Communications Tower.
Not far off, a half-dozen dignitaries, huddled close together in the midst of these Cyclopean man-made things that dwarfed their policies, their principles and ambitions, stood talking rather nervously with two officers, aristocratically gaudy in the scarlet of the Martian Fleet. Blue-clad guardsmen of Earth watched from a distance—watched boredly enough.
And out on the steel-stripped tarmac, under the solenoid of Number Two Runway, lay a towship, backed like a stegosaur with its massive magnets—the Shahrazad , panting like a dragon amid rolling clouds of steam. She was plainly ready to go into space. The bottom dropped out of Ryd's stomach before he realized that a warning at least must be sounded before the ship could lift. But that might come any moment now.
"Relax," said Mury in a low voice. "Nothing's gone wrong. We'll be aboard the Shahrazad when she lifts." For a moment his black eyes shifted, hardening, toward Runway Four. The Martian warship lay there beyond the solenoid, a spiteful hundred-foot swordfish of steel, with blind gunvalves, row on row, along its sleek sides and turret-blisters. It had not yet been tugged onto the turntable; it could not be leaving again very soon, though Earth weight was undoubtedly incommoding its crew. About it a few figures stood that were stiffly erect and immobile, as tall as tall men. From head to toe they were scarlet.
"Robots!" gasped Ryd, clutching his companion's arm convulsively.
"Martian soldier robots!"
"They're unarmed, harmless. They aren't your police with built-in weapons. Only the humans are dangerous. But we've got to move. For God's sake, take it easy."
Ryd licked dry lips. "Are we going—out into space?"
"Where else?" said Mury.
The official-looking individual in the expensive topcoat and sport hat had reached the starboard airlock of the towship before anyone thought to question his authorization, escorted as he was by a blue-uniformed guardsman. When another sentry, pacing between runways a hundred yards from the squat space vessel, paused to wonder, it was—as it came about—just a little too late.
The guard turned and swung briskly off to intercept the oddly-behaving pair, hand crowding the butt of his pistol, for he was growing uneasy. His alarm mounted rapidly, till he nearly sprained an ankle in sprinting across the last of the two intervening runways, between the solenoid wickets. Those metal arches, crowding one on the other in perspective, formed a tunnel that effectively shielded the Shahrazad's airlocks from more distant view; the gang of notables attracted by the occasion was already being shepherded back to safety by the Communications guards, whose attention was thus well taken up.
The slight man in guardsman's blue glanced over his shoulder and vanished abruptly into the circular lock. His companion wheeled on the topmost step, looking down with some irritation on his unhandsome face, but with no apparent doubt of his command of the situation.
"Yes?" he inquired frostily.
"What goes on here?" snapped the guard, frowning at the tall figure silhouetted against the glow in the airlock. "The crew's signaled all aboard and the ship lifts in two minutes. You ought to be—"
"I am Semul Mury, Poligerent for the City of Dynamopolis," interrupted the tall man with asperity. "The City is naturally interested in the delivery of the power which will revivify our industries." He paused, sighed, shifting his weight to the next lower step of the gangway. "I suppose you'll want to re-check my credentials?"
The guard was somewhat confused; a Poligerent, in ninth-century bureaucracy, was a force to be reckoned with. But he contrived to nod with an appearance of brusqueness.
Fully expecting official papers, signed and garnished with all the pompous seals of a chartered metropolis, the guard was dazed to receive instead a terrific left-handed foul to the pit of the stomach, and as he reeled dizzily, retching and clawing for his gun, to find that gun no longer holstered but in the hand of the self-styled Poligerent, pointing at its licensed owner.
"I think," Mury said quietly, flexing his left wrist with care the while his right held the gun steady, "that you'd better come aboard with us."
The guard was not more cowardly than the run of politically-appointed civic guardsmen. But a flame gun kills more frightfully than the ancient electric chair. He complied, grasping the railing with both hands as he stumbled before Mury up the gangway—for he was still very sick indeed, wholly apart from his bewilderment, which was enormous.
Above, Ryd Randl waited in the lock, flattened against the curved wall, white and jittering. The inner door was shut, an impenetrable countersunk mirror of metal.
"Cover him, Ryd," ordered Mury flatly. In obedience Ryd lugged out the heavy flame pistol and pointed it; his finger was dangerously tremulous on the firing lever. He moistened his lips to voice his fears; but Mury, pocketing the other gun, threw the three-way switch on the side panel, the switch that should have controlled the inner lock.
Nothing happened.
"Oh, God. We're caught. We're trapped!" The outer gangway had slid up, the lock wheezed shut, forming an impenetrable crypt of niosteel.
Mury smiled with supernal calm. "We won't be here long," he said. Then, to quiet Ryd's fears, he went on: "The central control panel and the three local switches inside, between, and outside the locks are on the circuit in that order. Unless the locks were closed from the switch just beyond the inner lock, that lock will open when the central control panel is cut out in preparation for lifting."
Almost as he paused and drew breath, a light sprang out over the switch he had closed and the inner lock swung silently free of its gaskets. Ryd felt a trembling relief; but Mury's voice lashed out like a whip as he slipped cat-like into the passage.
"Keep him covered. Back out of the lock."
Ryd backed—the white, tense face of the prisoner holding his own nervous gaze—and, almost out of the lock, stumbled over the metal pressure rings. And the gun was out of his unsure grip, clattering somewhere near his slithering feet, as he started to fall.
He saw the guardsman hurl himself forward; then he was flung spinning, back against the engine-room door. In a flash, even as he struggled to keep on his feet, he saw the man in the airlock coming up from a crouch, shifting the pistol in his right hand to reach its firing lever; he saw Mury sidestep swiftly and throw the master control switch outside.
The inner lock whooshed shut, barely missing Ryd. At the same instant, the flame gun lighted locks and passage with one terrific flash, and a scorched, discolored spot appeared on the beveled metal of the opposite lock a foot from Mury's right shoulder.
"You damned clumsy little fool—" said Mury with soft intensity. Then, while the air around the metal walls still buzzed and snapped with blue sparks, he whirled and went up the control-room gangway in two quick bounds. Even as he went the flame gun thundered again in the starboard airlock.
Mury was just in time, for the pilot had been about to flash "Ready" to the Communications Tower when the explosions had given him pause. But the latter and his two companions were neither ready nor armed; clamped in their seats at the controls, already marked, they were helpless in an instant before the leveled menace of the gun. And the imprisoned guardsman, having wasted most of his charges, was helpless, too, in his little cell of steel.
"It's been tried before," said one of the masked men. He had a blond, youthful thatch and a smooth healthy face below the mask, together with an astrogator's triangled stars which made him ex officio the brains of the vessel. "Stealing a ship—it can't be done any more."
"It's been done again," said Mury grimly. "And you don't know the half of it. But—you will. I'll need you. As for your friends—" The gun muzzle shifted slightly to indicate the pilot and the engineer. "Out of those clamps. You're going to ride this out in the portside airlock."
He had to repeat the command, in tones that snapped with menace, before they started with fumbling, rebellious hands to strip their armor from themselves. The burly engineer was muttering phrases of obscene fervor; the weedy young pilot was wild-eyed. The blond astrogator, sitting still masked and apparently unmoved, demanded:
"What do you think you're trying to do?"
"What do you think?" demanded Mury in return. "I'm taking the ship into space. On schedule and on course—to meet the power shell." The flame gun moved with a jerk. "And as for you—what's your name?"
"Yet Arliess."
"You want to make the trip alive, don't you, Yet Arliess?"
The young astrogator stared at him and at the gun through masking goggles; then he sank into his seat with a slow shudder. "Why, yes," he said as if in wonder, "I do."
III
Shahrazad drove steadily forward into deep space, vibrating slightly to the tremendous thrust of her powerful engines. The small, cramped cabin was stiflingly hot to the three armored men who sat before its banked dials, watching their steady needles.
Ryd had blacked out, darkness washing into his eyes and consciousness draining from his head, as the space ship had pitched out into emptiness over the end of the runway on Pi Mesa and Mury had cut in the maindrive. Pressure greater than anything he had ever felt had crushed him; his voice had been snatched from his lips by those terrible forces and lost beneath the opening thunder of the three-inch tubes. Up and up, while the acceleration climbed to seven gravities—and Ryd had lost every sensation, not to regain them until Earth was dropping away under the towship's keel.
A single gravity held them back and down in the tilted seats, and the control panels seemed to curve half above them, their banks of lights confused with the stars coldly through the great nose window. In the control room all sounds impinged on a background made up of the insect hum of air-purifiers, the almost supersonic whine of the fast-spinning gyroscopes somewhere behind them, the deep continuous growl of the engines.
Mury's voice broke through that steady murmur, coming from Ryd's right.
"You can unfasten your anticlamps, Ryd," he said dryly. "That doesn't mean you," to the young navigator, on his other hand as he sat in the pilot's seat with his pressure-clamps thrown back and his gloved hands free to caress the multiplex controls before him. Clipped to the sloping dash at his left elbow was a loaded flame gun.
Ryd emerged, with much bungling, from his padded clamps, and shook his head groggily as he ran a hand through his slightly thinning hair. He ventured shakily, "Where are we?"
Mury smiled slightly. "Only our astrogator," he indicated Arliess, still masked and fettered, "can tell you that with precision. I understand only enough of astrogational practice to make sure that he is holding to the course outlined on the log. For that matter ... he is an intelligent young man and if he were not blinded by notions of duty to an outworn system.... We are now somewhere near the orbit of the Moon. Isn't that right, Arliess?"
The other did not seem to hear; he sat staring blindly before him through his goggles at the slowly-changing chart, where cryptic lights burned, some moving like glowing paramecia along fine-traced luminous tracks.
Mury too sat silent and immobile for a minute or more. Then, abruptly, he inclined his universal chair far to the right, and his long frame seemed to tense oddly. His finger stabbed out one of the sparks of light.
"What's that, Arliess?"
The astrogator broke his silence. "A ship."
"I know that well enough. What ship?"
"I supposed you had examined the log. It would have told you that that's the liner Alborak , out of Aeropolis with a diplomatic mission for Mars."
Mury shook his head regretfully. "That won't wash, Arliess. Even if you suppose her off course, no liner aspace ever carried a tenth of that drive."
"I don't know what you're talking about," said Arliess. But his voice was raw and unsteady.
"I'm talking about this. That ship is a warship, and it's looking for us—will intercept us inside of twenty minutes at the most!"
Question:
What is the plot of the story?
Answer:
|
[
"It’s the year 819, and a man named Ryd Randl who lives in Dynamopolis, a city in North America, goes to a dive bar. The place is crowded with many men because Dynamopolis is experiencing a power shortage, and they would freeze outside. Burshis, the owner of the bar, gives Ryd a free drink and explains that a ship from Mars just brought power back. He is expecting there to be a big boom in the economy soon, which will lead to jobs for people like Ryd. Ryd is not easily convinced of this good news. \nThe ugly and tall man sitting next to Ryd recognizes him. Once outside, Mury introduces himself and asks Ryd if he wants to make some money. He explains that he can offer Ryd a comeback. Ryd has been jobless for ten years, but before that he was a helio operator. Since then, Mars has become fully independent, and all the work moved there. Mury says that he is working for the hundreds of men who have been put out by the corrupt government on Mars. Although Ryd and all the other Earthmen have been told that the new power cylinder being installed will create jobs and bring back the power, Mury argues that isn’t truly the case. He insists that Earthmen are essentially slaves to Mars’s landowners, and in order to stop that from happening, they must stop the power cylinder from landing on Earth. \nThe two men arrive at Pi Mesa, and Mury kills a guard. Ryd steals his clothing and his flame pistol so that they can get on the ship unnoticed. Ryd must pretend to be a guard escorting Mury, the Poligerent of Dynamopolis aboard the Shahrazad. The two men sneak into the controlled area through a metal door, make it to the Communications Tower, and speak with a guard. Mury offers to show his credentials as Poligerent, and surprises the guard with a punch to the gut. Mury takes the officer’s gun, points it at him, and demands he accompany them. \n\nRyd nervously points his flame pistol at the guard and drops his weapon. The weapon goes off and its flame hits some machinery. This gives the pilot pause, and Mury hurries to the control room and takes over the situation. There are three workers there who become his hostages. He explains to the men that he’s taking Shahrazad into space to meet the power shell. \n\nWhen the ship takes off, Ryd passes out from the pressure of the acceleration. When he wakes, Mury assures him that they are on the right path, somewhere near the orbit of the Moon. However, Mury quickly finds out that his masterful plan has been foiled when one of his prisoners, the astrogator, informs him that a ship named the Alboroak is approaching, and it’s about to intercept them. \n",
"The story begins with the landing of a Martian ship on Earth, where electrical power has reached a critical shortage. The Martian ship reportedly carries a power cylinder that will restore power on Earth, enabling businesses to reopen and people to regain their jobs. Ryd Randl sees the ship landing just before he enters the Burshis’ Stumble Inn which has power and where many men are staying to keep from freezing to death outside. Ryd lost his job ten years ago, and apparently, he has asked for loans from many people in the bar because they will not look him in the eye. The bar owner gives him a free drink but refuses to offer him a loan if Ryd asks him for one. A stranger approaches Ryd and seems to know, although Ryd does not know the stranger. The stranger asks Ryd to step outside with him and offers Ryd a way to make money. The stranger’s name is Mury, and he is a Poligerent. Mury claims to be working for all the Earthmen who lost their jobs when the government made a deal with Mars. The Martians have sent a power cylinder to Earth that is supposed to restore power to Earth; however, Mury explains that the people who rule Earth’s nations have sold the planet in exchange for the device because Earth will become a colony of Mars. He claims that the Martians view Earth as a ready labor pool of slaves. Mury wants Ryd to help him prevent the power shell from reaching Earth. Ryd doesn’t want to agree to help but knows that if he doesn’t, Mury will kill him.\n\tMury and Ryd go to the airstrip where the Martian ship and its township have landed. Mury kills a guard and orders Ryd to don the uniform; he plans for Ryd to act as his escort to the towship so that he can go aboard. In their guises, Ryd and Mury make their way to the township unaccosted until one guard becomes suspicious and confronts them. When Mury offers to show him his credentials, Mury hits him in the stomach and brings him aboard the towship. The pilots and an astrogator are in the cockpit when Mury enters and sends the pilots out. The ship takes off, and when it nears the orbit of the Moon, Ryd comes to and asks where they are. Mury and the astrogator notice a bright light on the radar screen which indicates a ship. The astrogator claims it is a ship on a diplomatic mission for Mars, but Mury claims it is a warship because of its speed. He says the ship is looking for them and will intercept them in twenty minutes.\n",
"Some time in the future, Earth has sold the planet to Mars and become a colony of the Red Planet. This causes unrest for laborers who feel Mars is allowing Earth to degrade so that they can export human labor to Mars at very low cost. In the city of Dynamopolis, their main industry is distributing power, which once made them the power center of North America. \n\nThere is a spaceport, Pi Mesa, that receives essential supplies for Earth to continue existing, such as the power cylinder send from Mars as aid to Earth that is rumored to have landed there. The power shell means an end to an electrical blackout the people of Earth are currently suffering from and the creation of jobs for the people of Dynamopolis.\n\nA scary figure named Mury meets Ryd Randl, a helio operator currently out of work, at the Stumble Inn bar in Dynamopolis. Mury forces Ryd into a grand plan to board a Martian spaceship on Pi Mesa to intercept a power shell in outer space and stop it from being delivered to Earth. Mury wishes to start a sort of revolution on Earth for it to become independent from Mars again, and describes that there is an “inescapable conflict” coming between Earth and Mars.\n\nMury and Ryd invade the Pi Mesa spaceport by killing a guard, and taking his clothes to disguise Ryd as a guard escorting Mury. This disguise works for a time until one of the Martian guards senses something is wrong and tries to stop them. They narrowly make it aboard a towship called Shahrazad which they believe is going into space to retrieve a power shell to bring down to Earth. They force the captain and crew into an airlock, except for the astronavigator named Arliess, who Mury forces to continue working by holding their planned course. \n\nWhen they blast off into outer space, Mury spots a Martian warship which may confirm his suspicion that Mars was about to begin a war with Earth. This is where the story ends.\n\n",
"Set in the 800s 14,000 feet in the sky, Ryd Randl gets his first free drink of the month. He walks into Burshis’ Stumble Inn where the bartender, Burshis, hands him a drink. There’s buzz about the arrival of power from Mars. Dynamopolis has been desolate for at least a decade. This center lacked power and many lost their jobs over it. So, this new deal struck with Mars is giving people hope again. Randl laughs it off, however. He was laid off 10 years ago and gave up on finding another job. \nThe beak-nosed, scary man next to him drags Randl outside, after paying for his drink and offering him money. He introduces himself as Mury and proposes a deal. A revolutionary, Mury wants to stop the shipment to protect Earthmen from becoming Martian slaves. He needs Randl’s help, and he’ll pay 50,000 credits. Ryd agrees, and they make the trek to Pi Mesa. Mury kills a guard on the way up, and Ryd changes into his clothes, flame pistol included. Now Mury will pretend to be a Poligerent of Dynamopolis so they can board the Shahrazad. \nThey break into the spaceport successfully and continue on. Their disguises work for the most part, though Ryd’s nervous behavior makes them suspicious. Making their way down the runways, they finally arrive at the Communications Tower. On the tarmac lay Shahrazad, but guards both human and robot were everywhere. They made it onto the airlock before another guard took notice. He rushes after them and asks them who they are. Mury turns and tells him his credentials, then offers to show him ID. He then punches him and disarms him. The guard comes onboard as their captive. At first, the switches don’t work, but Mury calms Ryd down. When the central control panel is cut, then the ship will take off. \nRyd is supposed to be covering the guard when he slips and drops his weapon. The guard picks it up but is soon defeated. Mury forces the young pilot, Yet Arliess, to take off, while he sends the other two men to the airlock. The pilot does as he says, and all is well until Mury notices something on the map. There’s a bright light, one that wasn’t there before. A warship was coming for them, and although Arliess tried to lie, Mury saw straight through it. \n"
] |
62997
|
Saboteur of Space
By ROBERT ABERNATHY
Fresh power was coming to Earth, energy which would bring life to a dying planet. Only two men stood in its way, one a cowardly rat, the other a murderous martyr; both pawns in a cosmic game where death moved his chessmen of fate—and even the winner would lose.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Ryd Randl stood, slouching a little, in the darkened footway, and watched the sky over Dynamopolis come alive with searchlights. The shuttered glow of Burshis' Stumble Inn was only a few yards off to his right, but even that lodestone failed before the novel interest of a ship about to ground in the one-time Port of Ten Thousand Ships.
Now he made out the flicker of the braking drive a mile or so overhead, and presently soft motor thunder came down to blanket the almost lightless city with sound. A beam swayed through the throbbing darkness, caught the descending ship and held it, a small gleaming minnow slipping through the dark heavens. A faint glow rose from Pi Mesa, where the spaceport lay above the city, as a runway lighted up—draining the last reserves of the city's stored power, but draining them gladly now that, in those autumn days of the historic year 819, relief was in sight.
Ryd shrugged limply; the play was meaningless to him. He turned to shuffle down the inviting ramp into the glowing interior of Burshis' dive.
The place was crowded with men and smoke. Perhaps half the former were asleep, on tables or on the floor; but for the few places like Burshis' which were still open under the power shortage, many would have frozen, these days, in the chilly nights at fourteen thousand feet. For Dynamopolis sprawled atop the world, now as in the old days when it had been built to be the power center of North America.
The rocket blasts crescendoed and died up on Pi Mesa as Ryd wedged himself with difficulty into the group along the bar. If anyone recognized him, they showed it only by looking fixedly at something else. Only Burshis Yuns kept his static smile and nodded with surprising friendliness at Ryd's pinched, old-young face.
Ryd was startled by the nod. Burshis finished serving another customer and maneuvered down the stained chrome-and-synthyl bar. Ryd was heartened.
"Say, Burshis," he started nervously, as the bulky man halted with his back to him. But Burshis turned, still smiling, shaking his head so that his jowls quivered.
"No loans," he said flatly. "But just one on the house, Ryd."
The drink almost spilled itself in Ryd's hand. Clutching it convulsively, he made his eyes narrow and said suspiciously, "What you setting 'em up for, Burshis? It's the first time since—"
Burshis' smile stayed put. He said affably, "Didn't you hear that ship that just came down on the Mesa? That was the ship from Mars—the escort they were sending with the power cylinder. The power's coming in again." He turned to greet a coin-tapping newcomer, added over his shoulder: "You know what that means, Ryd. Some life around here again. Jobs for all the bums in this town—even for you."
He left Ryd frowning, thinking fuzzily. A warming gulp seemed to clear his head. Jobs. So they thought they could put that over on him again, huh? Well, he'd show them. He was smart; he was a damn good helio man—no, that had been ten years ago. But now he was out of the habit of working, anyway. No job for Ryd Randl. They gave him one once and then took it away. He drank still more deeply.
The man on Ryd's immediate right leaned toward him. He laid a hand on his arm, gripping it hard, and said quietly: "So you're Ryd Randl."
Ryd had a bad moment before he saw that the face wasn't that of any plain-clothes man he knew. For that matter, it didn't belong to anybody he had ever known—an odd, big-boned face, strikingly ugly, with a beak-nose that was yet not too large for the hard jaw or too bleak for the thin mouth below it. An expensive transparent hat slanted over the face, and from its iridescent shadows gleamed eyes that were alert and almost frighteningly black. Ryd noted that the man wore a dark-gray cellotex of a sort rarely seen in joints like Burshis'.
"Suppose we step outside, Ryd. I'd like to talk to you."
"What's the idea?" demanded Ryd, his small store of natural courage floated to the top by alcohol.
The other seemed to realize that he was getting ahead of himself. He leaned back slightly, drew a deep breath, and said slowly and distinctly. "Would you care to make some money, my friend?"
" Huh? Why, yeh—I guess so—"
"Then come with me." The hand still on his arm was insistent. In his daze, Ryd let himself be drawn away from the bar into the sluggish crowd; then he suddenly remembered his unfinished drink, and made frantic gestures. Deliberately misunderstanding, the tall stranger fumbled briefly, tossed a coin on the counter-top, and hustled Ryd out, past the blue-and-gold-lit meloderge that was softly pouring out its endlessly changing music, through the swinging doors into the dark.
Outside, between lightless buildings, the still cold closed in on them. They kept walking—so fast that Ryd began to lose his breath, long-accustomed though his lungs were to the high, thin air.
"So you're Ryd Randl," repeated the stranger after a moment's silence.
"I might have known you. But I'd almost given up finding you tonight."
Ryd tried feebly to wrench free, stumbled. "Look," he gasped. "If you're a cop, say so!"
The other laughed shortly. "No. I'm just a man about to offer you a chance. For a come-back, Ryd—a chance to live again.... My name—you can call me Mury."
Ryd was voiceless. Something seemed increasingly ominous about the tall, spare man at his side. He wished himself back in Burshis' with his first free drink in a month. The thought of it brought tears to his eyes.
"How long have you been out of a job, Ryd?"
"Nine ... ten years. Say, what's it to you?"
"And why, Ryd?"
"Why...? Look, mister, I was a helio operator." He hunched his narrow shoulders and spread his hands in an habitual gesture of defeat. "Damn good one, too—I was a foreman ten years ago. But I don't have the physique for Mars—I might just have made it then , but I thought the plant was going to open again and—"
And that was it. The almost airless Martian sky, with its burning actinic rays, is so favorable for the use of the helio-dynamic engine. And after the middle of the eighth century, robot labor gave Mars its full economic independence—and domination. For power is—power; and there is the Restriction Act to keep men on Earth even if more than two in ten could live healthily on the outer world.
"Ten years ago," Mury nodded as if satisfied. "That must have been the Power Company of North America—the main plant by Dynamopolis itself, that shut down in December, 809. They were the last to close down outside the military bases in the Kun Lun."
Ryd was pacing beside him now. He felt a queer upsurge of confidence in this strange man; for too long he had met no sympathy and all too few men who talked his language. He burst out: "They wouldn't take me, damn them! Said my record wasn't good enough for them. That is, I didn't have a drag with any of the Poligerents."
"I know all about your record," said Mury softly.
Ryd's suspicions came back abruptly, and he reverted to his old kicked-dog manner. "How do you know? And what's it to you?"
All at once, Mury came to a stop, and swung around to face him squarely, hard eyes compelling. They were on an overpass, not far from where the vast, almost wholly deserted offices of the Triplanet Freighting Company sprawled over a square mile of city. A half-smile twisted Mury's thin lips.
"Don't misunderstand me, Ryd—you mean nothing at all to me as an individual. But you're one of a vast mass of men for whom I am working—the billions caught in the net of a corrupt government and sold as an economic prey to the ruthless masters of Mars. This, after they've borne all the hardships of a year of embargo, have offered their hands willingly to the rebuilding of decadent Earth, only to be refused by the weak leaders who can neither defy the enemy nor capitulate frankly to him."
Ryd was dazed. His mind had never been constructed to cope with such ideas and the past few years had not improved its capabilities. "Are you talking about the power cylinder?" he demanded blurrily.
Mury cast a glance toward the Milky Way as if to descry the Martian cargo projectile somewhere up among its countless lights. He said simply, "Yes."
"I don't get it," mumbled Ryd, frowning. He found words that he had heard somewhere a day or so before, in some bar or flophouse: "The power cylinder is going to be the salvation of Earth. It's a shot in the arm—no, right in the heart of Earth industry, here in Dynamopolis. It will turn the wheels and light the cities and—"
"To hell with that!" snapped Mury, suddenly savage. His hands came up slightly, the fingers flexing; then dropped back to his sides. "Don't you know you're repeating damnable lies?"
Ryd could only stare, cringing and bewildered. Mury went on with a passion shocking after his smooth calm:
"The power shell is aid, yes—but with what a price! It's the thirty pieces of silver for which the venal fools who rule our nations have sold the whole planet to Mars. Because they lack the courage and vision to retool Earth's plants and factories for the inescapable conflict, they're selling us out—making Earth, the first home of man, a colony of the Red Planet. Do you know what Earth is to the great Martian land-owners? Do you? " He paused out of breath; then finished venomously, "Earth is a great pool of labor ready to be tapped, cheaper than robots—cheap as slaves !"
"What about it?" gulped Ryd, drawing away from the fanatic. "What you want me to do about it?"
Mury took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. His face was once more bleakly impassive; only the mouth was an ugly line. "We're going to do something about it, you and I. Tonight. Now."
Ryd was nearly sober. And wholly terrified. He got out chokingly,
"What's that mean?"
"The power shell—isn't coming in as planned."
"You can't do that."
" We can," said Mury with a heavy accent on the first word. "And there are fifty thousand credits in it for you, Ryd. Are you with us?"
Suspicion was chill reality now in Ryd's mind. And he knew one thing certainly—if he refused now to accompany Mury, he would be killed, by this man or another of his kind. For the secret power known only as We never took chances. Whispered-of, terrible, and world-embracing, desperate upshot of the times in its principles of dynamitism, war, and panclasm—that was We .
The question hung in the air for a long moment. Then Ryd, with an effort, said, "Sure." A moment later it struck him that the monosyllabic assent was suspicious; he added quickly, "I got nothing to lose, see?" It was, he realized, the cold truth.
"You won't lose," said Mury. He seemed to relax. But the menace with which he had clothed himself clung, as he turned back on the way they had come.
Ryd followed dog-like, his feet in their worn shoes moving without his volition. He was frightened. Out of his very fright came a longing to placate Mury, assure him that he, Ryd, was on the same side whatever happened....
After some steps he stole a sidelong glance at his tall companion, and whined, "Where ... where we going now?"
Mury paused in his long stride, removed a hand from a pocket of the gray topcoat that wrapped him as in somber thoughts. Wordlessly, he pointed as Ryd had known he would—toward where a pale man-made dawn seemed breaking over Pi Mesa.
II
"One blow for freedom!" said Mury with caught breath. His voice fell upon air scarcely stilled since the sodden thump of the blow that had killed the guard.
The body lay between them, face down on the graveled way in the inky moon-shadow. On one side Pi Mesa stretched away two hundred yards to drop sharply into the night; on the other was the unlighted mass of the long, continuous, low buildings that housed now unused fuel pumps and servicing equipment. Looking down at the dead huddle at his feet, a little stunned by the reality of this, Ryd knew that he was in it now. He was caught in the machinery.
Mury hefted the length of steel in his hand once more, as if testing the weight that had crushed a man's skull so easily. Then, with a short wrist-flip, he sent it flying into the dried weeds which had over-grown the aero field on the mesa's rim during the summer months after State order had grounded all fliers in America.
"All right, Ryd," he said coolly. "Trade clothes with this fellow. I've brought you this far—you're taking me the rest of the way."
The rest of the way.
Ryd was still panting, and his side was paining from the strenuous exertion of the long climb up the side of the mountain, far from the guarded highway. His fingers, numbed by the cold of the high, thin air, shook as he knelt and fumbled with the zippers of the dead guard's uniform. The belted gun, however, was heavy and oddly comforting as he clumsily buckled it about his hips. He knew enough of weapons to recognize this as, not the usual paralyzer, but a flame pistol, powerful and deadly. He let his hand linger on its butt; then strong fingers tightened on his bony wrist, and he looked up with a start into the sardonic black eyes of the Panclast.
"No use now for firearms," said Mury. "All the guns we could carry wouldn't help us if we were caught out there. That gun is just a stage property for the little play we're going to give in about three minutes—when you'll act a guardsman escorting me, a Poligerent of Dynamopolis, aboard the towship Shahrazad ."
For a moment Ryd felt relief—he had hazily imagined that Mury's hatred of Mars and all things Martian might have led him to try to sabotage the Martian warship which lay somewhere on the runways beyond the long, low buildings, and which would be closely guarded. But the towship would also be guarded ... he shivered in the cold, dry night air.
Mury had melted into the shadow a few yards away. There was a light scraping, then a green flame sputtered, briefly lighting up his hands and face, and narrowing at once to a thin, singing needle of light. He had turned a pocket electron torch against the lock-mechanism of a small, disused metal door.
Ryd watched in painful suspense. There was no sound in his ears save for the hard, dry shrilling of the ray as it bit into the steel. It seemed to be crying: run, run —but he remembered the power that knew how to punish better than the law, and stood still, shivering.
The lock gave way and the door slipped aside. A light went on inside, and Ryd's heart stopped, backfired, and started again, raggedly. The same automatic mechanism that had turned the lights on had started the air-fresher, which picked up speed with a soft whine, sweeping out the long-stale atmosphere. Mury motioned to Ryd to follow him in.
It was still musty in the narrow passage, between the closely-pressing walls, beneath the great tubes and cable sheathings that fluted the ceiling overhead. A stairway spiraled up on the right to the control cupola somewhere overhead; even in the airtight gallery a thin film of dust lay on every step. Up there were the meters and switches of the disused terminal facilities of the spaceport; beyond the metal door marked CAUTION, just beyond the stairwell, lay the long runway down which the ships of space had glided to be serviced, refueled, and launched into the sky once more by now dormant machines.
"Wait," said Mury succinctly; he vanished up the spiral stair, his long legs taking two steps at a time. After an aching minute's silence, he was back. All was clear as seen from the turret-windows overhead.
They emerged in shadow, hugging the wall. Almost a quarter of a mile to the right the megalith of the Communications Tower, crowned with many lights where the signal-men sat godlike in its summit. Its floodlights shed a vast oval of light out over the mesa, where the mile-long runways—no longer polished mirror-like as in the days of Dynamopolis' glory—stretched away into the darkness of the table land. A handful of odd ships—mere remnant of the hundreds that Pi Mesa port had berthed—huddled under the solenoid wickets, as if driven together by the chill of the thin, knife-like wind that blew across the mesa.
As the two paced slowly across the runways, Ryd had a sense of protective isolation in the vast impersonality of the spaceport. Surely, in this Titanic desolation of metal slabs and flat-roofed buildings, dominated by the one great tower, total insignificance must mean safety for them.
And indeed no guard challenged them. There were armed men watching for all intruders out on the desert beyond the runways, but once inside, Ryd's borrowed blue seemed to serve as passport enough. Nonetheless, the passport's knees were shaking when they stood at last, inconspicuous still, at the shadowed base of the Communications Tower.
Not far off, a half-dozen dignitaries, huddled close together in the midst of these Cyclopean man-made things that dwarfed their policies, their principles and ambitions, stood talking rather nervously with two officers, aristocratically gaudy in the scarlet of the Martian Fleet. Blue-clad guardsmen of Earth watched from a distance—watched boredly enough.
And out on the steel-stripped tarmac, under the solenoid of Number Two Runway, lay a towship, backed like a stegosaur with its massive magnets—the Shahrazad , panting like a dragon amid rolling clouds of steam. She was plainly ready to go into space. The bottom dropped out of Ryd's stomach before he realized that a warning at least must be sounded before the ship could lift. But that might come any moment now.
"Relax," said Mury in a low voice. "Nothing's gone wrong. We'll be aboard the Shahrazad when she lifts." For a moment his black eyes shifted, hardening, toward Runway Four. The Martian warship lay there beyond the solenoid, a spiteful hundred-foot swordfish of steel, with blind gunvalves, row on row, along its sleek sides and turret-blisters. It had not yet been tugged onto the turntable; it could not be leaving again very soon, though Earth weight was undoubtedly incommoding its crew. About it a few figures stood that were stiffly erect and immobile, as tall as tall men. From head to toe they were scarlet.
"Robots!" gasped Ryd, clutching his companion's arm convulsively.
"Martian soldier robots!"
"They're unarmed, harmless. They aren't your police with built-in weapons. Only the humans are dangerous. But we've got to move. For God's sake, take it easy."
Ryd licked dry lips. "Are we going—out into space?"
"Where else?" said Mury.
The official-looking individual in the expensive topcoat and sport hat had reached the starboard airlock of the towship before anyone thought to question his authorization, escorted as he was by a blue-uniformed guardsman. When another sentry, pacing between runways a hundred yards from the squat space vessel, paused to wonder, it was—as it came about—just a little too late.
The guard turned and swung briskly off to intercept the oddly-behaving pair, hand crowding the butt of his pistol, for he was growing uneasy. His alarm mounted rapidly, till he nearly sprained an ankle in sprinting across the last of the two intervening runways, between the solenoid wickets. Those metal arches, crowding one on the other in perspective, formed a tunnel that effectively shielded the Shahrazad's airlocks from more distant view; the gang of notables attracted by the occasion was already being shepherded back to safety by the Communications guards, whose attention was thus well taken up.
The slight man in guardsman's blue glanced over his shoulder and vanished abruptly into the circular lock. His companion wheeled on the topmost step, looking down with some irritation on his unhandsome face, but with no apparent doubt of his command of the situation.
"Yes?" he inquired frostily.
"What goes on here?" snapped the guard, frowning at the tall figure silhouetted against the glow in the airlock. "The crew's signaled all aboard and the ship lifts in two minutes. You ought to be—"
"I am Semul Mury, Poligerent for the City of Dynamopolis," interrupted the tall man with asperity. "The City is naturally interested in the delivery of the power which will revivify our industries." He paused, sighed, shifting his weight to the next lower step of the gangway. "I suppose you'll want to re-check my credentials?"
The guard was somewhat confused; a Poligerent, in ninth-century bureaucracy, was a force to be reckoned with. But he contrived to nod with an appearance of brusqueness.
Fully expecting official papers, signed and garnished with all the pompous seals of a chartered metropolis, the guard was dazed to receive instead a terrific left-handed foul to the pit of the stomach, and as he reeled dizzily, retching and clawing for his gun, to find that gun no longer holstered but in the hand of the self-styled Poligerent, pointing at its licensed owner.
"I think," Mury said quietly, flexing his left wrist with care the while his right held the gun steady, "that you'd better come aboard with us."
The guard was not more cowardly than the run of politically-appointed civic guardsmen. But a flame gun kills more frightfully than the ancient electric chair. He complied, grasping the railing with both hands as he stumbled before Mury up the gangway—for he was still very sick indeed, wholly apart from his bewilderment, which was enormous.
Above, Ryd Randl waited in the lock, flattened against the curved wall, white and jittering. The inner door was shut, an impenetrable countersunk mirror of metal.
"Cover him, Ryd," ordered Mury flatly. In obedience Ryd lugged out the heavy flame pistol and pointed it; his finger was dangerously tremulous on the firing lever. He moistened his lips to voice his fears; but Mury, pocketing the other gun, threw the three-way switch on the side panel, the switch that should have controlled the inner lock.
Nothing happened.
"Oh, God. We're caught. We're trapped!" The outer gangway had slid up, the lock wheezed shut, forming an impenetrable crypt of niosteel.
Mury smiled with supernal calm. "We won't be here long," he said. Then, to quiet Ryd's fears, he went on: "The central control panel and the three local switches inside, between, and outside the locks are on the circuit in that order. Unless the locks were closed from the switch just beyond the inner lock, that lock will open when the central control panel is cut out in preparation for lifting."
Almost as he paused and drew breath, a light sprang out over the switch he had closed and the inner lock swung silently free of its gaskets. Ryd felt a trembling relief; but Mury's voice lashed out like a whip as he slipped cat-like into the passage.
"Keep him covered. Back out of the lock."
Ryd backed—the white, tense face of the prisoner holding his own nervous gaze—and, almost out of the lock, stumbled over the metal pressure rings. And the gun was out of his unsure grip, clattering somewhere near his slithering feet, as he started to fall.
He saw the guardsman hurl himself forward; then he was flung spinning, back against the engine-room door. In a flash, even as he struggled to keep on his feet, he saw the man in the airlock coming up from a crouch, shifting the pistol in his right hand to reach its firing lever; he saw Mury sidestep swiftly and throw the master control switch outside.
The inner lock whooshed shut, barely missing Ryd. At the same instant, the flame gun lighted locks and passage with one terrific flash, and a scorched, discolored spot appeared on the beveled metal of the opposite lock a foot from Mury's right shoulder.
"You damned clumsy little fool—" said Mury with soft intensity. Then, while the air around the metal walls still buzzed and snapped with blue sparks, he whirled and went up the control-room gangway in two quick bounds. Even as he went the flame gun thundered again in the starboard airlock.
Mury was just in time, for the pilot had been about to flash "Ready" to the Communications Tower when the explosions had given him pause. But the latter and his two companions were neither ready nor armed; clamped in their seats at the controls, already marked, they were helpless in an instant before the leveled menace of the gun. And the imprisoned guardsman, having wasted most of his charges, was helpless, too, in his little cell of steel.
"It's been tried before," said one of the masked men. He had a blond, youthful thatch and a smooth healthy face below the mask, together with an astrogator's triangled stars which made him ex officio the brains of the vessel. "Stealing a ship—it can't be done any more."
"It's been done again," said Mury grimly. "And you don't know the half of it. But—you will. I'll need you. As for your friends—" The gun muzzle shifted slightly to indicate the pilot and the engineer. "Out of those clamps. You're going to ride this out in the portside airlock."
He had to repeat the command, in tones that snapped with menace, before they started with fumbling, rebellious hands to strip their armor from themselves. The burly engineer was muttering phrases of obscene fervor; the weedy young pilot was wild-eyed. The blond astrogator, sitting still masked and apparently unmoved, demanded:
"What do you think you're trying to do?"
"What do you think?" demanded Mury in return. "I'm taking the ship into space. On schedule and on course—to meet the power shell." The flame gun moved with a jerk. "And as for you—what's your name?"
"Yet Arliess."
"You want to make the trip alive, don't you, Yet Arliess?"
The young astrogator stared at him and at the gun through masking goggles; then he sank into his seat with a slow shudder. "Why, yes," he said as if in wonder, "I do."
III
Shahrazad drove steadily forward into deep space, vibrating slightly to the tremendous thrust of her powerful engines. The small, cramped cabin was stiflingly hot to the three armored men who sat before its banked dials, watching their steady needles.
Ryd had blacked out, darkness washing into his eyes and consciousness draining from his head, as the space ship had pitched out into emptiness over the end of the runway on Pi Mesa and Mury had cut in the maindrive. Pressure greater than anything he had ever felt had crushed him; his voice had been snatched from his lips by those terrible forces and lost beneath the opening thunder of the three-inch tubes. Up and up, while the acceleration climbed to seven gravities—and Ryd had lost every sensation, not to regain them until Earth was dropping away under the towship's keel.
A single gravity held them back and down in the tilted seats, and the control panels seemed to curve half above them, their banks of lights confused with the stars coldly through the great nose window. In the control room all sounds impinged on a background made up of the insect hum of air-purifiers, the almost supersonic whine of the fast-spinning gyroscopes somewhere behind them, the deep continuous growl of the engines.
Mury's voice broke through that steady murmur, coming from Ryd's right.
"You can unfasten your anticlamps, Ryd," he said dryly. "That doesn't mean you," to the young navigator, on his other hand as he sat in the pilot's seat with his pressure-clamps thrown back and his gloved hands free to caress the multiplex controls before him. Clipped to the sloping dash at his left elbow was a loaded flame gun.
Ryd emerged, with much bungling, from his padded clamps, and shook his head groggily as he ran a hand through his slightly thinning hair. He ventured shakily, "Where are we?"
Mury smiled slightly. "Only our astrogator," he indicated Arliess, still masked and fettered, "can tell you that with precision. I understand only enough of astrogational practice to make sure that he is holding to the course outlined on the log. For that matter ... he is an intelligent young man and if he were not blinded by notions of duty to an outworn system.... We are now somewhere near the orbit of the Moon. Isn't that right, Arliess?"
The other did not seem to hear; he sat staring blindly before him through his goggles at the slowly-changing chart, where cryptic lights burned, some moving like glowing paramecia along fine-traced luminous tracks.
Mury too sat silent and immobile for a minute or more. Then, abruptly, he inclined his universal chair far to the right, and his long frame seemed to tense oddly. His finger stabbed out one of the sparks of light.
"What's that, Arliess?"
The astrogator broke his silence. "A ship."
"I know that well enough. What ship?"
"I supposed you had examined the log. It would have told you that that's the liner Alborak , out of Aeropolis with a diplomatic mission for Mars."
Mury shook his head regretfully. "That won't wash, Arliess. Even if you suppose her off course, no liner aspace ever carried a tenth of that drive."
"I don't know what you're talking about," said Arliess. But his voice was raw and unsteady.
"I'm talking about this. That ship is a warship, and it's looking for us—will intercept us inside of twenty minutes at the most!"
|
What is the plot of the story?
|
After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about Acid Bath by Bill Garson.
Relevant chunks:
ACID BATH
By VASELEOS GARSON
The starways' Lone Watcher had expected some odd developments
in his singular, nerve-fraught job on the asteroid. But nothing like the
weird twenty-one-day liquid test devised by the invading Steel-Blues.
Jon Karyl
was bolting in a new baffle
plate on the stationary rocket engine.
It was a tedious job and took all his
concentration. So he wasn't paying too much
attention to what was going on in other
parts of the little asteroid.
He didn't see the peculiar blue space
ship, its rockets throttled down, as it drifted
to land only a few hundred yards away from
his plastic igloo.
Nor did he see the half-dozen steel-blue
creatures slide out of the peculiar vessel's
airlock.
It was only as he crawled out of the
depths of the rocket power plant that he
realized something was wrong.
By then it was almost too late. The six
blue figures were only fifty feet away, approaching
him at a lope.
Jon Karyl took one look and went bounding
over the asteroid's rocky slopes in fifty-foot
bounds.
When you're a Lone Watcher, and
strangers catch you unawares, you don't
stand still. You move fast. It's the Watcher's
first rule. Stay alive. An Earthship may depend
upon your life.
As he fled, Jon Karyl cursed softly under
his breath. The automatic alarm should have
shrilled out a warning.
Then he saved as much of his breath as
he could as some sort of power wave tore
up the rocky sward to his left. He twisted
and zig-zagged in his flight, trying to get
out of sight of the strangers.
Once hidden from their eyes, he could cut
back and head for the underground entrance
to the service station.
He glanced back finally.
Two of the steel-blue creatures were jack-rabbiting
after him, and rapidly closing the
distance.
Jon Karyl unsheathed the stubray pistol
at his side, turned the oxygen dial up for
greater exertion, increased the gravity pull
in his space-suit boots as he neared the
ravine he'd been racing for.
The oxygen was just taking hold when
he hit the lip of the ravine and began
sprinting through its man-high bush-strewn
course.
The power ray from behind ripped out
great gobs of the sheltering bushes. But
running naturally, bent close to the bottom
of the ravine, Jon Karyl dodged the bare
spots. The oxygen made the tremendous
exertion easy for his lungs as he sped down
the dim trail, hidden from the two steel-blue
stalkers.
He'd eluded them, temporarily at least,
Jon Karyl decided when he finally edged off
the dim trail and watched for movement
along the route behind him.
He stood up, finally, pushed aside the
leafy overhang of a bush and looked for
landmarks along the edge of the ravine.
He found one, a stubby bush, shaped like
a Maltese cross, clinging to the lip of the
ravine. The hidden entrance to the service
station wasn't far off.
His pistol held ready, he moved quietly
on down the ravine until the old water
course made an abrupt hairpin turn.
Instead of following around the sharp
bend, Jon Karyl moved straight ahead
through the overhanging bushes until he
came to a dense thicket. Dropping to his
hands and knees he worked his way under
the edge of the thicket into a hollowed-out
space in the center.
There
, just ahead of him, was the lock
leading into the service station. Slipping
a key out of a leg pouch on the space suit,
he jabbed it into the center of the lock,
opening the lever housing.
He pulled strongly on the lever. With a
hiss of escaping air, the lock swung open.
Jon Karyl darted inside, the door closing
softly behind.
At the end of the long tunnel he stepped
to the televisor which was fixed on the area
surrounding the station.
Jon Karyl saw none of the steel-blue creatures.
But he saw their ship. It squatted
like a smashed-down kid's top, its lock shut
tight.
He tuned the televisor to its widest range
and finally spotted one of the Steel-Blues.
He was looking into the stationary rocket
engine.
As Karyl watched, a second Steel-Blue
came crawling out of the ship.
The two Steel-Blues moved toward the
center of the televisor range. They're coming
toward the station, Karyl thought grimly.
Karyl examined the two creatures. They
were of the steel-blue color from the crown
of their egg-shaped heads to the tips of
their walking appendages.
They were about the height of Karyl—six
feet. But where he tapered from broad
shoulders to flat hips, they were straight up
and down. They had no legs, just appendages,
many-jointed that stretched and
shrank independent of the other, but keeping
the cylindrical body with its four pairs
of tentacles on a level balance.
Where their eyes would have been was
an elliptical-shaped lens, covering half the
egg-head, with its converging ends curving
around the sides of the head.
Robots! Jon gauged immediately. But
where were their masters?
The Steel-Blues moved out of the range
of the televisor. A minute later Jon heard
a pounding from the station upstairs.
He chuckled. They were like the wolf of
pre-atomic days who huffed and puffed to
blow the house down.
The outer shell of the station was formed
from stelrylite, the toughest metal in the
solar system. With the self-sealing lock of
the same resistant material, a mere pounding
was nothing.
Jon thought he'd have a look-see anyway.
He went up the steel ladder leading to the
station's power plant and the televisor that
could look into every room within the
station.
He heaved a slight sigh when he reached
the power room, for right at his hand were
weapons to blast the ship from the asteroid.
Jon adjusted one televisor to take in the
lock to the station. His teeth suddenly
clamped down on his lower lip.
Those Steel-Blues were pounding holes
into the stelrylite with round-headed metal
clubs. But it was impossible. Stelrylite didn't
break up that easily.
Jon leaped to a row of studs, lining up
the revolving turret which capped the station
so that its thin fin pointed at the
squat ship of the invaders.
Then he went to the atomic cannon's
firing buttons.
He pressed first the yellow, then the blue
button. Finally the red one.
The thin fin—the cannon's sight—split in
half as the turret opened and the coiled nose
of the cannon protruded. There was a
soundless flash. Then a sharp crack.
Jon was dumbfounded when he saw the
bolt ricochet off the ship. This was no ship
of the solar system. There was nothing that
could withstand even the slight jolt of power
given by the station cannon on any of the
Sun's worlds. But what was this? A piece of
the ship had changed. A bubble of metal,
like a huge drop of blue wax, dripped off
the vessel and struck the rocket of the
asteroid. It steamed and ran in rivulets.
He pressed the red button again.
Then abruptly he was on the floor of the
power room, his legs strangely cut out from
under him. He tried to move them. They lay
flaccid. His arms seemed all right and tried
to lever himself to an upright position.
Damn it, he seemed as if he were paralyzed
from the waist down. But it couldn't
happen that suddenly.
He turned his head.
A Steel-Blue stood facing him. A forked
tentacle held a square black box.
Jon could read nothing in that metallic
face. He said, voice muffled by the confines
of the plastic helmet, "Who are you?"
"I am"—there was a rising inflection in
the answer—"a Steel-Blue."
There were no lips on the Steel-Blue's
face to move. "That is what I have named
you," Jon Karyl said. "But what are you?"
"A robot," came the immediate answer.
Jon was quite sure then that the Steel-Blue
was telepathic. "Yes," the Steel-Blue answered.
"We talk in the language of the
mind. Come!" he said peremptorily, motioning
with the square black box.
The paralysis left Karyl's legs. He followed
the Steel-Blue, aware that the lens
he'd seen on the creature's face had a
counterpart on the back of the egg-head.
Eyes in the back of his head, Jon thought.
That's quite an innovation. "Thank you,"
Steel-Blue said.
There wasn't much fear in Jon Karyl's
mind. Psychiatrists had proved that when he
had applied for this high-paying but man-killing
job as a Lone Watcher on the Solar
System's starways.
He had little fear now, only curiosity.
These Steel-Blues didn't seem inimical.
They could have snuffed out my life very
simply. Perhaps they and Solarians can be
friends.
Steel-Blue chuckled.
Jon
followed him through the sundered
lock of the station. Karyl stopped for a
moment to examine the wreckage of the
lock. It had been punched full of holes as
if it had been some soft cheese instead of a
metal which Earthmen had spent nearly a
century perfecting.
"We appreciate your compliment," Steel-Blue
said. "But that metal also is found on
our world. It's probably the softest and most
malleable we have. We were surprised you—earthmen,
is it?—use it as protective
metal."
"Why are you in this system?" Jon asked,
hardly expecting an answer.
It came anyway. "For the same reason you
Earthmen are reaching out farther into your
system. We need living room. You have
strategically placed planets for our use. We
will use them."
Jon sighed. For 400 years scientists had
been preaching preparedness as Earth flung
her ships into the reaches of the solar system,
taking the first long step toward the
conquest of space.
There are other races somewhere, they
argued. As strong and smart as man, many
of them so transcending man in mental and
inventive power that we must be prepared to
strike the minute danger shows.
Now here was the answer to the scientists'
warning. Invasion by extra-terrestrials.
"What did you say?" asked Steel-Blue.
"I couldn't understand."
"Just thinking to myself," Jon answered.
It was a welcome surprise. Apparently his
thoughts had to be directed outward, rather
than inward, in order for the Steel-Blues to
read it.
He followed the Steel-Blue into the gaping
lock of the invaders' space ship wondering
how he could warn Earth. The Space
Patrol cruiser was due in for refueling at
his service station in 21 days. But by that
time he probably would be mouldering in
the rocky dust of the asteroid.
It was pitch dark within the ship but the
Steel-Blue seemed to have no trouble at all
maneuvering through the maze of corridors.
Jon followed him, attached to one tentacle.
Finally Jon and his guide entered a circular
room, bright with light streaming from
a glass-like, bulging skylight. They apparently
were near topside of the vessel.
A Steel-Blue, more massive than his
guide and with four more pair of tentacles,
including two short ones that grew from the
top of its head, spoke out.
"This is the violator?" Jon's Steel-Blue
nodded.
"You know the penalty? Carry it out."
"He also is an inhabitant of this system,"
Jon's guide added.
"Examine him first, then give him the
death."
Jon Karyl shrugged as he was led from
the lighted room through more corridors.
If it got too bad he still had the stubray
pistol.
Anyway, he was curious. He'd taken on
the lonely, nerve-wracking job of service
station attendant just to see what it offered.
Here was a part of it, and it was certainly
something new.
"This is the examination room," his
Steel-Blue said, almost contemptuously.
A green effulgence surrounded him.
There
was a hiss. Simultaneously, as the
tiny microphone on the outside of his
suit picked up the hiss, he felt a chill go
through his body. Then it seemed as if a
half dozen hands were inside him, examining
his internal organs. His stomach contracted.
He felt a squeeze on his heart. His
lungs tickled.
There were several more queer motions
inside his body.
Then another Steel-Blue voice said:
"He is a soft-metal creature, made up of
metals that melt at a very low temperature.
He also contains a liquid whose makeup I
cannot ascertain by ray-probe. Bring him
back when the torture is done."
Jon Karyl grinned a trifle wryly. What
kind of torture could this be?
Would it last 21 days? He glanced at the
chronometer on his wrist.
Jon's Steel-Blue led him out of the alien
ship and halted expectantly just outside the
ship's lock.
Jon Karyl waited, too. He thought of the
stubray pistol holstered at his hip. Shoot my
way out? It'd be fun while it lasted. But he
toted up the disadvantages.
He either would have to find a hiding
place on the asteroid, and if the Steel-Blues
wanted him bad enough they could tear the
whole place to pieces, or somehow get
aboard the little life ship hidden in the
service station.
In that he would be just a sitting duck.
He shrugged off the slight temptation to
use the pistol. He was still curious.
And he was interested in staying alive as
long as possible. There was a remote chance
he might warn the SP ship. Unconsciously,
he glanced toward his belt to see the little
power pack which, if under ideal conditions,
could finger out fifty thousand miles into
space.
If he could somehow stay alive the 21
days he might be able to warn the patrol.
He couldn't do it by attempting to flee, for
his life would be snuffed out immediately.
The Steel-Blue said quietly:
"It might be ironical to let you warn
that SP ship you keep thinking about. But
we know your weapon now. Already our
ship is equipped with a force field designed
especially to deflect your atomic guns."
Jon Karyl covered up his thoughts
quickly. They can delve deeper than the
surface of the mind. Or wasn't I keeping a
leash on my thoughts?
The Steel-Blue chuckled. "You get—absent-minded,
is it?—every once in a
while."
Just then four other Steel-Blues appeared
lugging great sheets of plastic and various
other equipment.
They dumped their loads and began unbundling
them.
Working swiftly, they built a plastic
igloo, smaller than the living room in the
larger service station igloo. They ranged instruments
inside—one of them Jon Karyl
recognized as an air pump from within the
station—and they laid out a pallet.
When they were done Jon saw a miniature
reproduction of the service station, lacking
only the cannon cap and fin, and with clear
plastic walls instead of the opaqueness of the
other.
His Steel-Blue said: "We have reproduced
the atmosphere of your station so that you
be watched while you undergo the torture
under the normal conditions of your life."
"What is this torture?" Jon Karyl asked.
The answer was almost caressing: "It is
a liquid we use to dissolve metals. It causes
joints to harden if even so much as a drop
remains on it long. It eats away the metal,
leaving a scaly residue which crumbles
eventually into dust.
"We will dilute it with a harmless liquid
for you since No. 1 does not wish you to die
instantly.
"Enter your"—the Steel-Blue hesitated—"mausoleum.
You die in your own atmosphere.
However, we took the liberty of purifying
it. There were dangerous elements in
it."
Jon walked into the little igloo. The
Steel-Blues sealed the lock, fingered dials
and switches on the outside. Jon's space suit
deflated. Pressure was building up in the
igloo.
He took a sample of the air, found that
it was good, although quite rich in oxygen
compared with what he'd been using in the
service station and in his suit.
With a sigh of relief he took off his helmet
and gulped huge draughts of the air.
He sat down on the pallet and waited
for the torture to begin.
The Steel Blues crowded about the igloo,
staring at him through elliptical eyes.
Apparently, they too, were waiting for the
torture to begin.
Jon thought the excess of oxygen was
making him light-headed.
He stared at a cylinder which was beginning
to sprout tentacles from the circle.
He rubbed his eyes and looked again. An
opening, like the adjustable eye-piece of a
spacescope, was appearing in the center of
the cylinder.
A square, glass-like tumbler sat in the
opening disclosed in the four-foot cylinder
that had sprouted tentacles. It contained a
yellowish liquid.
One of the tentacles reached into the
opening and clasped the glass. The opening
closed and the cylinder, propelled by locomotor
appendages, moved toward Jon.
He didn't like the looks of the liquid in
the tumbler. It looked like an acid of some
sort. He raised to his feet.
He unsheathed the stubray gun and prepared
to blast the cylinder.
The
cylinder moved so fast Jon felt his
eyes jump in his head. He brought the
stubray gun up—but he was helpless. The
pistol kept on going up. With a deft movement,
one of the tentacles had speared it
from his hand and was holding it out of
his reach.
Jon kicked at the glass in the cylinder's
hand. But he was too slow. Two tentacles
gripped the kicking leg. Another struck him
in the chest, knocking him to the pallet. The
same tentacle, assisted by a new one,
pinioned his shoulders.
Four tentacles held him supine. The cylinder
lifted a glass-like cap from the tumbler
of liquid.
Lying there helplessly, Jon was remembering
an old fairy tale he'd read as a kid.
Something about a fellow named Socrates
who was given a cup of hemlock to drink.
It was the finis for Socrates. But the old
hero had been nonchalant and calm about
the whole thing.
With a sigh, Jon Karyl, who was curious
unto death, relaxed and said, "All right,
bub, you don't have to force-feed me. I'll
take it like a man."
The cylinder apparently understood him,
for it handed him the tumbler. It even reholstered
his stubray pistol.
Jon brought the glass of liquid under his
nose. The fumes of the liquid were pungent.
It brought tears to his eyes.
He looked at the cylinder, then at the
Steel-Blues crowding around the plastic
igloo. He waved the glass at the audience.
"To Earth, ever triumphant," he toasted.
Then he drained the glass at a gulp.
Its taste was bitter, and he felt hot
prickles jab at his scalp. It was like eating
very hot peppers. His eyes filled with tears.
He coughed as the stuff went down.
But he was still alive, he thought in
amazement. He'd drunk the hemlock and
was still alive.
The reaction set in quickly. He hadn't
known until then how tense he'd been. Now
with the torture ordeal over, he relaxed. He
laid down on the pallet and went to sleep.
There was one lone Steel-Blue watching
him when he rubbed the sleep out of his
eyes and sat up.
He vanished almost instantly. He, or another
like him, returned immediately accompanied
by a half-dozen others, including
the multi-tentacled creature known as No. 1.
One said,
"You are alive." The thought registered
amazement. "When you lost consciousness,
we thought you had"—there was a hesitation—"as
you say, died."
"No," Jon Karyl said. "I didn't die. I
was just plain dead-beat so I went to sleep."
The Steel-Blues apparently didn't understand.
"Good it is that you live. The torture
will continue," spoke No. 1 before loping
away.
The cylinder business began again. This
time, Jon drank the bitter liquid slowly, trying
to figure out what it was. It had a
familiar, tantalizing taste but he couldn't
quite put a taste-finger on it.
His belly said he was hungry. He glanced
at his chronometer. Only 20 days left before
the SP ship arrived.
Would this torture—he chuckled—last
until then? But he was growing more and
more conscious that his belly was screaming
for hunger. The liquid had taken the edge
off his thirst.
It was on the fifth day of his torture that
Jon Karyl decided that he was going to get
something to eat or perish in the attempt.
The cylinder sat passively in its niche in
the circle. A dozen Steel-Blues were watching
as Jon put on his helmet and unsheathed
his stubray.
They merely watched as he pressed the
stubray's firing stud. Invisible rays licked
out of the bulbous muzzle of the pistol.
The plastic splintered.
Jon was out of his goldfish bowl and
striding toward his own igloo adjacent to
the service station when a Steel-Blue
accosted him.
"Out of my way," grunted Jon, waving
the stubray. "I'm hungry."
"I'm the first Steel-Blue you met," said
the creature who barred his way. "Go back
to your torture."
"But I'm so hungry I'll chew off one of
your tentacles and eat it without seasoning."
"Eat?" The Steel-Blue sounded puzzled.
"I want to refuel. I've got to have food
to keep my engine going."
Steel-Blue chuckled. "So the hemlock, as
you call it, is beginning to affect you at
last? Back to the torture room."
"Like R-dust," Jon growled. He pressed
the firing stud on the stubray gun. One of
Steel-Blue's tentacles broke off and fell to
the rocky sward.
Steel-Blue jerked out the box he'd used
once before. A tentacle danced over it.
Abruptly Jon found himself standing on
a pinnacle of rock. Steel-Blue had cut a
swath around him 15 feet deep and five feet
wide.
"Back to the room," Steel-Blue commanded.
Jon resheathed the stubray pistol,
shrugged non-committally and leaped the
trench. He walked slowly back and reentered
the torture chamber.
The Steel-Blues rapidly repaired the damage
he'd done.
As he watched them, Jon was still curious,
but he was getting mad underneath at
the cold egoism of the Steel-Blues.
By the shimmering clouds of Earth, by
her green fields, and dark forests, he'd
stay alive to warn the SP ship.
Yes, he'd stay alive till then. And send
the story of the Steel-Blues' corrosive acid
to it. Then hundreds of Earth's ships could
equip themselves with spray guns and squirt
citric acid and watch the Steel-Blues fade
away.
It sounded almost silly to Jon Karyl. The
fruit acid of Earth to repel these invaders—it
doesn't sound possible. That couldn't be
the answer.
Citric acid wasn't the answer, Jon Karyl
discovered a week later.
The Steel-Blue who had captured him in
the power room of the service station came
in to examine him.
"You're still holding out, I see," he observed
after poking Jon in every sensitive
part of his body.
"I'll suggest to No. 1 that we increase
the power of the—ah—hemlock. How do
you feel?"
Between the rich oxygen and the dizziness
of hunger, Jon was a bit delirious. But he
answered honestly enough: "My guts feel as
if they're chewing each other up. My bones
ache. My joints creak. I can't coordinate I'm
so hungry."
"That is the hemlock," Steel-Blue said.
It was when he quaffed the new and
stronger draught that Jon knew that his
hope that it was citric acid was squelched.
The acid taste was weaker which meant
that the citric acid was the diluting liquid.
It was the liquid he couldn't taste beneath
the tang of the citric acid that was the corrosive
acid.
On the fourteenth day, Jon was so weak
he didn't feel much like moving around. He
let the cylinder feed him the hemlock.
No. 1 came again to see him, and went
away chuckling, "Decrease the dilution.
This Earthman at last is beginning to
suffer."
Staying
alive had now become a fetish
with Jon.
On the sixteenth day, the Earthman realized
that the Steel-Blues also were waiting
for the SP ship.
The extra-terrestrials had repaired the
blue ship where the service station atomic
ray had struck. And they were doing a little
target practice with plastic bubbles only a
few miles above the asteroid.
When his chronometer clocked off the
beginning of the twenty-first day, Jon received
a tumbler of the hemlock from the
hands of No. 1 himself.
"It is the hemlock," he chuckled, "undiluted.
Drink it and your torture is over.
You will die before your SP ship is destroyed.
"We have played with you long enough.
Today we begin to toy with your SP ship.
Drink up, Earthman, drink to enslavement."
Weak though he was Jon lunged to his
feet, spilling the tumbler of liquid. It ran
cool along the plastic arm of his space suit.
He changed his mind about throwing the
contents on No. 1.
With a smile he set the glass at his lips
and drank. Then he laughed at No. 1.
"The SP ship will turn your ship into
jelly."
No. 1 swept out, chuckling. "Boast if you
will, Earthman, it's your last chance."
There was an exultation in Jon's heart
that deadened the hunger and washed away
the nausea.
At last he knew what the hemlock was.
He sat on the pallet adjusting the little
power-pack radio. The SP ship should now
be within range of the set. The space patrol
was notorious for its accuracy in keeping to
schedule. Seconds counted like years. They
had to be on the nose, or it meant disaster
or death.
He sent out the call letters.
"AX to SP-101 ... AX to SP-101 ... AX
to SP-101 ..."
Three times he sent the call, then began
sending his message, hoping that his signal
was reaching the ship. He couldn't know if
they answered. Though the power pack
could get out a message over a vast distance,
it could not pick up messages even
when backed by an SP ship's power unless
the ship was only a few hundred miles
away.
The power pack was strictly a distress
signal.
He didn't know how long he'd been
sending, nor how many times his weary
voice had repeated the short but desperate
message.
He kept watching the heavens and hoping.
Abruptly he knew the SP ship was coming,
for the blue ship of the Steel-Blues was
rising silently from the asteroid.
Up and up it rose, then flames flickered
in a circle about its curious shape. The ship
disappeared, suddenly accelerating.
Jon Karyl strained his eyes.
Finally he looked away from the heavens
to the two Steel-Blues who stood negligently
outside the goldfish bowl.
Once more, Jon used the stubray pistol.
He marched out of the plastic igloo and ran
toward the service station.
He didn't know how weak he was until
he stumbled and fell only a few feet from
his prison.
The Steel-Blues just watched him.
He crawled on, around the circular pit in
the sward of the asteroid where one Steel-Blue
had shown him the power of his
weapon.
He'd been crawling through a nightmare
for years when the quiet voice penetrated
his dulled mind.
"Take it easy, Karyl. You're among
friends."
He pried open his eyes with his will. He
saw the blue and gold of a space guard's
uniform. He sighed and drifted into unconsciousness.
He was
still weak days later when
Capt. Ron Small of SP-101 said,
"Yes, Karyl, it's ironical. They fed you
what they thought was sure death, and it's
the only thing that kept you going long
enough to warn us."
"I was dumb for a long time," Karyl said.
"I thought that it was the acid, almost to
the very last. But when I drank that last
glass, I knew they didn't have a chance.
"They were metal monsters. No wonder
they feared that liquid. It would rust their
joints, short their wiring, and kill them.
No wonder they stared when I kept alive
after drinking enough to completely annihilate
a half-dozen of them.
"But what happened when you met the
ship?"
The space captain grinned.
"Not much. Our crew was busy creating
a hollow shell filled with water to be shot
out of a rocket tube converted into a projectile
thrower.
"These Steel-Blues, as you call them, put
traction beams on us and started tugging us
toward the asteroid. We tried a couple of
atomic shots but when they just glanced off,
we gave up.
"They weren't expecting the shell of
water. When it hit that blue ship, you could
almost see it oxidize before your eyes.
"I guess they knew what was wrong right
away. They let go the traction beams and
tried to get away. They forgot about the
force field, so we just poured atomic fire
into the weakening ship. It just melted
away."
Jon Karyl got up from the divan where
he'd been lying. "They thought I was a
metal creature, too. But where do you suppose
they came from?"
The captain shrugged. "Who knows?"
Jon set two glasses on the table.
"Have a drink of the best damn water in
the solar system?" He asked Capt. Small.
"Don't mind if I do."
The water twinkled in the two glasses,
winking as if it knew just what it had
done.
Question:
What is the plot of the story?
Answer:
|
[
"Jon Karyl is bolting a new baffle plate on the stationary rocket engine and ignores what happens around other parts of the little asteroid. A peculiar spaceship lands a few hundred yards away from his plastic igloo, and a half-dozen steel-blue creatures slide out of the airlock. When he climbs up again and sees the creatures, Jon runs for the rocky slopes. Jon brings out his stubray pistol and turns up the oxygen dial for greater exertion as two of the creatures continue to chase him. He manages to elude them by going down a dim trail temporarily. Once Jon finds the stubby bush shaped like a Maltese cross, he keeps going until he reaches the hollowed-out space. He observes the steel-blue creatures from the televisor, noting how they head towards the station to try and destroy it. Although the station is not supposed to break because it is made out of stelrylite, the creatures pound holes into the station with round-headed metal clubs. He presses the atomic cannon’s firing buttons and finds that it is impossible to damage the ship. Suddenly, a Steel-Blue paralyzes him from the waist down and tells him to come with them. Once outside, the Steel-Blue explains to Jon that the most protective metal they use is the softest one in their world. He follows the Steel-Blue into the ship, where a more massive one tells Jon’s Steel-Blue to examine him and give him death. The Steel-Blue brings him to the examination room, where Jon is curious about this whole interaction. He thinks about warning the SP patrol and using his weapon, but his Steel-Blue tells him they are already aware of it. The other Steel-Blues begin reproducing the service station, and Jon’s Steel-Blue tells him that his torture will be dissolved in a liquid they have prepared. When he goes inside, he prepares to blast at the cylinder with his gun. However, the tentacles take it away from him and bring him a glass-like cup filled with liquid. Jon toasts to Earth and drinks the liquid, going to sleep shortly after. When he awakes again, the Steel-Blues are amazed that he is still alive. On the fifth day, Jon breaks out of his plastic bowl with his subray because he is hungry. The Steel-Blues try to torture him more with the poison, and Jon has now made it a fetish to stay alive. When Jon takes the drink from No. 1, it tells him that the SP ship will be destroyed. Jon tries to send a distress signal, and he watches as the SP ship begins to come abruptly. The Steel-Blues watch as he tries to escape, only to be greeted by the voice of a space guard. Captain Ron Small of SP-101 tells him later that the Steel-Blues fed him a liquid they feared. The Steel-Blues tried to fight back, but the SP ship just shot a water rocket and set it on atomic fire. Captain Small and Jon then toast to water. ",
"This story follows Jon Karyl, a service station attendant. While fixing something on the rocket engine, a landing peculiar blue ship escapes his attention. When he notices the intruders, he finds them to be steel-blue creatures intent on approaching and capturing him. Escaping away back to the service station, he fires atomic cannons at the creatures' ship only to watch it ricochet off. Suddenly, a Steel-Blue temporarily paralyzes his legs and instructs him to follow. Karyl finds out - through an exchange of mind-reading - that these Steel-Blues are just like Earthmen as they seek out further planets to inhabit. \n\nAnother Steel-Blue instructs Karyl's Steel-Blue to examine him and then torture him, leaving him to his death. Proclaimed to be a soft-metal creature, Karyl is instructed to enter a plastic igloo. This igloo is a reproduction of Earth's atmosphere, so the Steel-Blues can observe the torture. In it, Karyl is given a series of dilutions containing a liquid that dissolves metal, with the last tumbler containing the pure liquid. Though Karyl initially tries to escape using his stubray pistol, he becomes curious about death and drinks the liquid. To the Steel-Blues surprise, he survives the first night and all subsequent days as well, seemingly only suffering from a lack of food and nutrition. Karyl vows to stay alive until the SP ship can rescue him, but his Steel-Blue warns him that they will be ready to attack it when it comes. \n\nOn the sixteenth day, the Steel-Blues await Karyl to die as they give him the final undiluted liquid. Drinking it, Karyl laughs instead and taunts the Steel-Blues. Using a power-pack radio, he sends a warning signal to the SP ship. When it arrives, he stumbles out of the igloo and crawls until he hears a human voice. Later on in his recovery, he finds out that his warning was successful and that the liquid thought to be poison by the Steel-Blues was in fact water. Beneficial to humans, but harmful to robots. In fact, this is what the Captain of the SP ship used to attack the Steel-Blues. ",
"After he repairs the rocket engine, Jon Karyl, a starways’ Lone Watcher, notices the invasion of Steel-Blues, extraterrestrial robotic creatures. He flees towards the service station while six Steel-Blues chase behind him. During his run, Steel-Blues use power rays to attack him but fail. He flees successfully into the service station, uses the televisors to spot the motion of Steel-Blues, and examines them. He realizes Steel-Blues are robotic. The pounding sound upstairs makes Jon realizes that Steel-Blues is trying to break the entrance door. He thinks Steel-Blues are doing a useless job as the strongest metal forms the service station in the solar system. He goes to the station’s power plant to use the televisor that can see every room, but the Steel-Blue pounds a hole into the door, which seems impossible to him. He attacks the Steel-Blues’ spaceship with an atomic cannon bomb, finding the bomb ricochet off the ship and strike the rocket nearby. Suddenly, he is taken down by the Steel-Blue, who invades the station when he tries to attack the ship the second time. Through the conversation with the invading Steel-Blue, Jon knows that they can read his mind when it is directed outward.\n\nAs Jon is taken to the Steel-Blues’ ship, he learns that the toughest metal in the solar system is considered the most vulnerable one for Steel-Blues. He also knows that Steel-Blues’ purpose in invading the solar system is to conquer more living spaces for themselves. In the Steel-Blues’ ship, Jon sees the leader of the Steel-Blue, who orders Jon’s guide Steel-Blue to examine Jon. After Jon is examined, they classify him as a soft-metal creature by him. Jon is taken to a prison to undergo the torture built by the Steel-Blue, forced to drink a liquid used to dissolve the metal. The Earth space patrol cruiser will come to refuel their ship after 21 days; Jon knows that he has to stay alive until then to alert the SP ship. During the torture, namely drinking the unknown liquid, Jon attempts to escape but fails. The Steel-Blues every day watch him undergo torture. At the beginning of the torture, the liquid is diluted and tastes like some strong acid. As the days pass, the diluted portion decreases, and Jon realizes what the liquid is. Finally, on the last day, when the SP ship is scheduled to come, and Jon is fed with the undiluted liquid, he realizes that it is water and the weakness of the Steel-Blues. He sends the message to the SP ship and then passes out outside the prison. When he wakes up, he is rescued by the SP ship, and the Steel-Blues is destroyed by the powerful water attack of the SP ship.\n",
"The story follows Jon Karyl, a lone watcher that lives in what seems to be an asteroid. He is in charge of watching and protecting the asteroid before other humans come. While doing this, an alien ship arrives on the asteroid. Jon is forced to run from his base while the aliens chase him. He manages to get to his secondary entry to the base without the aliens seeing. When he gets back to the base, he tries to shoot the enemy ship with a cannon, but he doesn’t do any damage. Instead, the aliens manage to break into his base and capture him. Jon is taken to the enemy ship and he realizes that the aliens are in fact robots. The robots take him to their leader, where Jon is told that he will be tortured. Jon knows that there is another ship coming in 21 days, so he only has to survive for those days. The robots give Jon an acid that would slowly kill him, and Jon is forced to drink it. After a few days of this same routine, Jon escapes the ship using his blaster, as he is very hungry. He gets caught again and continues drinking the acid. When the human ship arrives, Jon manages to warn them about the robots. When Jon woke up from passing out, the humans had already destroyed the robots. It is revealed that they had been feeding Jon water and citric acid, thinking that it would kill Jon. "
] |
29159
|
ACID BATH
By VASELEOS GARSON
The starways' Lone Watcher had expected some odd developments
in his singular, nerve-fraught job on the asteroid. But nothing like the
weird twenty-one-day liquid test devised by the invading Steel-Blues.
Jon Karyl
was bolting in a new baffle
plate on the stationary rocket engine.
It was a tedious job and took all his
concentration. So he wasn't paying too much
attention to what was going on in other
parts of the little asteroid.
He didn't see the peculiar blue space
ship, its rockets throttled down, as it drifted
to land only a few hundred yards away from
his plastic igloo.
Nor did he see the half-dozen steel-blue
creatures slide out of the peculiar vessel's
airlock.
It was only as he crawled out of the
depths of the rocket power plant that he
realized something was wrong.
By then it was almost too late. The six
blue figures were only fifty feet away, approaching
him at a lope.
Jon Karyl took one look and went bounding
over the asteroid's rocky slopes in fifty-foot
bounds.
When you're a Lone Watcher, and
strangers catch you unawares, you don't
stand still. You move fast. It's the Watcher's
first rule. Stay alive. An Earthship may depend
upon your life.
As he fled, Jon Karyl cursed softly under
his breath. The automatic alarm should have
shrilled out a warning.
Then he saved as much of his breath as
he could as some sort of power wave tore
up the rocky sward to his left. He twisted
and zig-zagged in his flight, trying to get
out of sight of the strangers.
Once hidden from their eyes, he could cut
back and head for the underground entrance
to the service station.
He glanced back finally.
Two of the steel-blue creatures were jack-rabbiting
after him, and rapidly closing the
distance.
Jon Karyl unsheathed the stubray pistol
at his side, turned the oxygen dial up for
greater exertion, increased the gravity pull
in his space-suit boots as he neared the
ravine he'd been racing for.
The oxygen was just taking hold when
he hit the lip of the ravine and began
sprinting through its man-high bush-strewn
course.
The power ray from behind ripped out
great gobs of the sheltering bushes. But
running naturally, bent close to the bottom
of the ravine, Jon Karyl dodged the bare
spots. The oxygen made the tremendous
exertion easy for his lungs as he sped down
the dim trail, hidden from the two steel-blue
stalkers.
He'd eluded them, temporarily at least,
Jon Karyl decided when he finally edged off
the dim trail and watched for movement
along the route behind him.
He stood up, finally, pushed aside the
leafy overhang of a bush and looked for
landmarks along the edge of the ravine.
He found one, a stubby bush, shaped like
a Maltese cross, clinging to the lip of the
ravine. The hidden entrance to the service
station wasn't far off.
His pistol held ready, he moved quietly
on down the ravine until the old water
course made an abrupt hairpin turn.
Instead of following around the sharp
bend, Jon Karyl moved straight ahead
through the overhanging bushes until he
came to a dense thicket. Dropping to his
hands and knees he worked his way under
the edge of the thicket into a hollowed-out
space in the center.
There
, just ahead of him, was the lock
leading into the service station. Slipping
a key out of a leg pouch on the space suit,
he jabbed it into the center of the lock,
opening the lever housing.
He pulled strongly on the lever. With a
hiss of escaping air, the lock swung open.
Jon Karyl darted inside, the door closing
softly behind.
At the end of the long tunnel he stepped
to the televisor which was fixed on the area
surrounding the station.
Jon Karyl saw none of the steel-blue creatures.
But he saw their ship. It squatted
like a smashed-down kid's top, its lock shut
tight.
He tuned the televisor to its widest range
and finally spotted one of the Steel-Blues.
He was looking into the stationary rocket
engine.
As Karyl watched, a second Steel-Blue
came crawling out of the ship.
The two Steel-Blues moved toward the
center of the televisor range. They're coming
toward the station, Karyl thought grimly.
Karyl examined the two creatures. They
were of the steel-blue color from the crown
of their egg-shaped heads to the tips of
their walking appendages.
They were about the height of Karyl—six
feet. But where he tapered from broad
shoulders to flat hips, they were straight up
and down. They had no legs, just appendages,
many-jointed that stretched and
shrank independent of the other, but keeping
the cylindrical body with its four pairs
of tentacles on a level balance.
Where their eyes would have been was
an elliptical-shaped lens, covering half the
egg-head, with its converging ends curving
around the sides of the head.
Robots! Jon gauged immediately. But
where were their masters?
The Steel-Blues moved out of the range
of the televisor. A minute later Jon heard
a pounding from the station upstairs.
He chuckled. They were like the wolf of
pre-atomic days who huffed and puffed to
blow the house down.
The outer shell of the station was formed
from stelrylite, the toughest metal in the
solar system. With the self-sealing lock of
the same resistant material, a mere pounding
was nothing.
Jon thought he'd have a look-see anyway.
He went up the steel ladder leading to the
station's power plant and the televisor that
could look into every room within the
station.
He heaved a slight sigh when he reached
the power room, for right at his hand were
weapons to blast the ship from the asteroid.
Jon adjusted one televisor to take in the
lock to the station. His teeth suddenly
clamped down on his lower lip.
Those Steel-Blues were pounding holes
into the stelrylite with round-headed metal
clubs. But it was impossible. Stelrylite didn't
break up that easily.
Jon leaped to a row of studs, lining up
the revolving turret which capped the station
so that its thin fin pointed at the
squat ship of the invaders.
Then he went to the atomic cannon's
firing buttons.
He pressed first the yellow, then the blue
button. Finally the red one.
The thin fin—the cannon's sight—split in
half as the turret opened and the coiled nose
of the cannon protruded. There was a
soundless flash. Then a sharp crack.
Jon was dumbfounded when he saw the
bolt ricochet off the ship. This was no ship
of the solar system. There was nothing that
could withstand even the slight jolt of power
given by the station cannon on any of the
Sun's worlds. But what was this? A piece of
the ship had changed. A bubble of metal,
like a huge drop of blue wax, dripped off
the vessel and struck the rocket of the
asteroid. It steamed and ran in rivulets.
He pressed the red button again.
Then abruptly he was on the floor of the
power room, his legs strangely cut out from
under him. He tried to move them. They lay
flaccid. His arms seemed all right and tried
to lever himself to an upright position.
Damn it, he seemed as if he were paralyzed
from the waist down. But it couldn't
happen that suddenly.
He turned his head.
A Steel-Blue stood facing him. A forked
tentacle held a square black box.
Jon could read nothing in that metallic
face. He said, voice muffled by the confines
of the plastic helmet, "Who are you?"
"I am"—there was a rising inflection in
the answer—"a Steel-Blue."
There were no lips on the Steel-Blue's
face to move. "That is what I have named
you," Jon Karyl said. "But what are you?"
"A robot," came the immediate answer.
Jon was quite sure then that the Steel-Blue
was telepathic. "Yes," the Steel-Blue answered.
"We talk in the language of the
mind. Come!" he said peremptorily, motioning
with the square black box.
The paralysis left Karyl's legs. He followed
the Steel-Blue, aware that the lens
he'd seen on the creature's face had a
counterpart on the back of the egg-head.
Eyes in the back of his head, Jon thought.
That's quite an innovation. "Thank you,"
Steel-Blue said.
There wasn't much fear in Jon Karyl's
mind. Psychiatrists had proved that when he
had applied for this high-paying but man-killing
job as a Lone Watcher on the Solar
System's starways.
He had little fear now, only curiosity.
These Steel-Blues didn't seem inimical.
They could have snuffed out my life very
simply. Perhaps they and Solarians can be
friends.
Steel-Blue chuckled.
Jon
followed him through the sundered
lock of the station. Karyl stopped for a
moment to examine the wreckage of the
lock. It had been punched full of holes as
if it had been some soft cheese instead of a
metal which Earthmen had spent nearly a
century perfecting.
"We appreciate your compliment," Steel-Blue
said. "But that metal also is found on
our world. It's probably the softest and most
malleable we have. We were surprised you—earthmen,
is it?—use it as protective
metal."
"Why are you in this system?" Jon asked,
hardly expecting an answer.
It came anyway. "For the same reason you
Earthmen are reaching out farther into your
system. We need living room. You have
strategically placed planets for our use. We
will use them."
Jon sighed. For 400 years scientists had
been preaching preparedness as Earth flung
her ships into the reaches of the solar system,
taking the first long step toward the
conquest of space.
There are other races somewhere, they
argued. As strong and smart as man, many
of them so transcending man in mental and
inventive power that we must be prepared to
strike the minute danger shows.
Now here was the answer to the scientists'
warning. Invasion by extra-terrestrials.
"What did you say?" asked Steel-Blue.
"I couldn't understand."
"Just thinking to myself," Jon answered.
It was a welcome surprise. Apparently his
thoughts had to be directed outward, rather
than inward, in order for the Steel-Blues to
read it.
He followed the Steel-Blue into the gaping
lock of the invaders' space ship wondering
how he could warn Earth. The Space
Patrol cruiser was due in for refueling at
his service station in 21 days. But by that
time he probably would be mouldering in
the rocky dust of the asteroid.
It was pitch dark within the ship but the
Steel-Blue seemed to have no trouble at all
maneuvering through the maze of corridors.
Jon followed him, attached to one tentacle.
Finally Jon and his guide entered a circular
room, bright with light streaming from
a glass-like, bulging skylight. They apparently
were near topside of the vessel.
A Steel-Blue, more massive than his
guide and with four more pair of tentacles,
including two short ones that grew from the
top of its head, spoke out.
"This is the violator?" Jon's Steel-Blue
nodded.
"You know the penalty? Carry it out."
"He also is an inhabitant of this system,"
Jon's guide added.
"Examine him first, then give him the
death."
Jon Karyl shrugged as he was led from
the lighted room through more corridors.
If it got too bad he still had the stubray
pistol.
Anyway, he was curious. He'd taken on
the lonely, nerve-wracking job of service
station attendant just to see what it offered.
Here was a part of it, and it was certainly
something new.
"This is the examination room," his
Steel-Blue said, almost contemptuously.
A green effulgence surrounded him.
There
was a hiss. Simultaneously, as the
tiny microphone on the outside of his
suit picked up the hiss, he felt a chill go
through his body. Then it seemed as if a
half dozen hands were inside him, examining
his internal organs. His stomach contracted.
He felt a squeeze on his heart. His
lungs tickled.
There were several more queer motions
inside his body.
Then another Steel-Blue voice said:
"He is a soft-metal creature, made up of
metals that melt at a very low temperature.
He also contains a liquid whose makeup I
cannot ascertain by ray-probe. Bring him
back when the torture is done."
Jon Karyl grinned a trifle wryly. What
kind of torture could this be?
Would it last 21 days? He glanced at the
chronometer on his wrist.
Jon's Steel-Blue led him out of the alien
ship and halted expectantly just outside the
ship's lock.
Jon Karyl waited, too. He thought of the
stubray pistol holstered at his hip. Shoot my
way out? It'd be fun while it lasted. But he
toted up the disadvantages.
He either would have to find a hiding
place on the asteroid, and if the Steel-Blues
wanted him bad enough they could tear the
whole place to pieces, or somehow get
aboard the little life ship hidden in the
service station.
In that he would be just a sitting duck.
He shrugged off the slight temptation to
use the pistol. He was still curious.
And he was interested in staying alive as
long as possible. There was a remote chance
he might warn the SP ship. Unconsciously,
he glanced toward his belt to see the little
power pack which, if under ideal conditions,
could finger out fifty thousand miles into
space.
If he could somehow stay alive the 21
days he might be able to warn the patrol.
He couldn't do it by attempting to flee, for
his life would be snuffed out immediately.
The Steel-Blue said quietly:
"It might be ironical to let you warn
that SP ship you keep thinking about. But
we know your weapon now. Already our
ship is equipped with a force field designed
especially to deflect your atomic guns."
Jon Karyl covered up his thoughts
quickly. They can delve deeper than the
surface of the mind. Or wasn't I keeping a
leash on my thoughts?
The Steel-Blue chuckled. "You get—absent-minded,
is it?—every once in a
while."
Just then four other Steel-Blues appeared
lugging great sheets of plastic and various
other equipment.
They dumped their loads and began unbundling
them.
Working swiftly, they built a plastic
igloo, smaller than the living room in the
larger service station igloo. They ranged instruments
inside—one of them Jon Karyl
recognized as an air pump from within the
station—and they laid out a pallet.
When they were done Jon saw a miniature
reproduction of the service station, lacking
only the cannon cap and fin, and with clear
plastic walls instead of the opaqueness of the
other.
His Steel-Blue said: "We have reproduced
the atmosphere of your station so that you
be watched while you undergo the torture
under the normal conditions of your life."
"What is this torture?" Jon Karyl asked.
The answer was almost caressing: "It is
a liquid we use to dissolve metals. It causes
joints to harden if even so much as a drop
remains on it long. It eats away the metal,
leaving a scaly residue which crumbles
eventually into dust.
"We will dilute it with a harmless liquid
for you since No. 1 does not wish you to die
instantly.
"Enter your"—the Steel-Blue hesitated—"mausoleum.
You die in your own atmosphere.
However, we took the liberty of purifying
it. There were dangerous elements in
it."
Jon walked into the little igloo. The
Steel-Blues sealed the lock, fingered dials
and switches on the outside. Jon's space suit
deflated. Pressure was building up in the
igloo.
He took a sample of the air, found that
it was good, although quite rich in oxygen
compared with what he'd been using in the
service station and in his suit.
With a sigh of relief he took off his helmet
and gulped huge draughts of the air.
He sat down on the pallet and waited
for the torture to begin.
The Steel Blues crowded about the igloo,
staring at him through elliptical eyes.
Apparently, they too, were waiting for the
torture to begin.
Jon thought the excess of oxygen was
making him light-headed.
He stared at a cylinder which was beginning
to sprout tentacles from the circle.
He rubbed his eyes and looked again. An
opening, like the adjustable eye-piece of a
spacescope, was appearing in the center of
the cylinder.
A square, glass-like tumbler sat in the
opening disclosed in the four-foot cylinder
that had sprouted tentacles. It contained a
yellowish liquid.
One of the tentacles reached into the
opening and clasped the glass. The opening
closed and the cylinder, propelled by locomotor
appendages, moved toward Jon.
He didn't like the looks of the liquid in
the tumbler. It looked like an acid of some
sort. He raised to his feet.
He unsheathed the stubray gun and prepared
to blast the cylinder.
The
cylinder moved so fast Jon felt his
eyes jump in his head. He brought the
stubray gun up—but he was helpless. The
pistol kept on going up. With a deft movement,
one of the tentacles had speared it
from his hand and was holding it out of
his reach.
Jon kicked at the glass in the cylinder's
hand. But he was too slow. Two tentacles
gripped the kicking leg. Another struck him
in the chest, knocking him to the pallet. The
same tentacle, assisted by a new one,
pinioned his shoulders.
Four tentacles held him supine. The cylinder
lifted a glass-like cap from the tumbler
of liquid.
Lying there helplessly, Jon was remembering
an old fairy tale he'd read as a kid.
Something about a fellow named Socrates
who was given a cup of hemlock to drink.
It was the finis for Socrates. But the old
hero had been nonchalant and calm about
the whole thing.
With a sigh, Jon Karyl, who was curious
unto death, relaxed and said, "All right,
bub, you don't have to force-feed me. I'll
take it like a man."
The cylinder apparently understood him,
for it handed him the tumbler. It even reholstered
his stubray pistol.
Jon brought the glass of liquid under his
nose. The fumes of the liquid were pungent.
It brought tears to his eyes.
He looked at the cylinder, then at the
Steel-Blues crowding around the plastic
igloo. He waved the glass at the audience.
"To Earth, ever triumphant," he toasted.
Then he drained the glass at a gulp.
Its taste was bitter, and he felt hot
prickles jab at his scalp. It was like eating
very hot peppers. His eyes filled with tears.
He coughed as the stuff went down.
But he was still alive, he thought in
amazement. He'd drunk the hemlock and
was still alive.
The reaction set in quickly. He hadn't
known until then how tense he'd been. Now
with the torture ordeal over, he relaxed. He
laid down on the pallet and went to sleep.
There was one lone Steel-Blue watching
him when he rubbed the sleep out of his
eyes and sat up.
He vanished almost instantly. He, or another
like him, returned immediately accompanied
by a half-dozen others, including
the multi-tentacled creature known as No. 1.
One said,
"You are alive." The thought registered
amazement. "When you lost consciousness,
we thought you had"—there was a hesitation—"as
you say, died."
"No," Jon Karyl said. "I didn't die. I
was just plain dead-beat so I went to sleep."
The Steel-Blues apparently didn't understand.
"Good it is that you live. The torture
will continue," spoke No. 1 before loping
away.
The cylinder business began again. This
time, Jon drank the bitter liquid slowly, trying
to figure out what it was. It had a
familiar, tantalizing taste but he couldn't
quite put a taste-finger on it.
His belly said he was hungry. He glanced
at his chronometer. Only 20 days left before
the SP ship arrived.
Would this torture—he chuckled—last
until then? But he was growing more and
more conscious that his belly was screaming
for hunger. The liquid had taken the edge
off his thirst.
It was on the fifth day of his torture that
Jon Karyl decided that he was going to get
something to eat or perish in the attempt.
The cylinder sat passively in its niche in
the circle. A dozen Steel-Blues were watching
as Jon put on his helmet and unsheathed
his stubray.
They merely watched as he pressed the
stubray's firing stud. Invisible rays licked
out of the bulbous muzzle of the pistol.
The plastic splintered.
Jon was out of his goldfish bowl and
striding toward his own igloo adjacent to
the service station when a Steel-Blue
accosted him.
"Out of my way," grunted Jon, waving
the stubray. "I'm hungry."
"I'm the first Steel-Blue you met," said
the creature who barred his way. "Go back
to your torture."
"But I'm so hungry I'll chew off one of
your tentacles and eat it without seasoning."
"Eat?" The Steel-Blue sounded puzzled.
"I want to refuel. I've got to have food
to keep my engine going."
Steel-Blue chuckled. "So the hemlock, as
you call it, is beginning to affect you at
last? Back to the torture room."
"Like R-dust," Jon growled. He pressed
the firing stud on the stubray gun. One of
Steel-Blue's tentacles broke off and fell to
the rocky sward.
Steel-Blue jerked out the box he'd used
once before. A tentacle danced over it.
Abruptly Jon found himself standing on
a pinnacle of rock. Steel-Blue had cut a
swath around him 15 feet deep and five feet
wide.
"Back to the room," Steel-Blue commanded.
Jon resheathed the stubray pistol,
shrugged non-committally and leaped the
trench. He walked slowly back and reentered
the torture chamber.
The Steel-Blues rapidly repaired the damage
he'd done.
As he watched them, Jon was still curious,
but he was getting mad underneath at
the cold egoism of the Steel-Blues.
By the shimmering clouds of Earth, by
her green fields, and dark forests, he'd
stay alive to warn the SP ship.
Yes, he'd stay alive till then. And send
the story of the Steel-Blues' corrosive acid
to it. Then hundreds of Earth's ships could
equip themselves with spray guns and squirt
citric acid and watch the Steel-Blues fade
away.
It sounded almost silly to Jon Karyl. The
fruit acid of Earth to repel these invaders—it
doesn't sound possible. That couldn't be
the answer.
Citric acid wasn't the answer, Jon Karyl
discovered a week later.
The Steel-Blue who had captured him in
the power room of the service station came
in to examine him.
"You're still holding out, I see," he observed
after poking Jon in every sensitive
part of his body.
"I'll suggest to No. 1 that we increase
the power of the—ah—hemlock. How do
you feel?"
Between the rich oxygen and the dizziness
of hunger, Jon was a bit delirious. But he
answered honestly enough: "My guts feel as
if they're chewing each other up. My bones
ache. My joints creak. I can't coordinate I'm
so hungry."
"That is the hemlock," Steel-Blue said.
It was when he quaffed the new and
stronger draught that Jon knew that his
hope that it was citric acid was squelched.
The acid taste was weaker which meant
that the citric acid was the diluting liquid.
It was the liquid he couldn't taste beneath
the tang of the citric acid that was the corrosive
acid.
On the fourteenth day, Jon was so weak
he didn't feel much like moving around. He
let the cylinder feed him the hemlock.
No. 1 came again to see him, and went
away chuckling, "Decrease the dilution.
This Earthman at last is beginning to
suffer."
Staying
alive had now become a fetish
with Jon.
On the sixteenth day, the Earthman realized
that the Steel-Blues also were waiting
for the SP ship.
The extra-terrestrials had repaired the
blue ship where the service station atomic
ray had struck. And they were doing a little
target practice with plastic bubbles only a
few miles above the asteroid.
When his chronometer clocked off the
beginning of the twenty-first day, Jon received
a tumbler of the hemlock from the
hands of No. 1 himself.
"It is the hemlock," he chuckled, "undiluted.
Drink it and your torture is over.
You will die before your SP ship is destroyed.
"We have played with you long enough.
Today we begin to toy with your SP ship.
Drink up, Earthman, drink to enslavement."
Weak though he was Jon lunged to his
feet, spilling the tumbler of liquid. It ran
cool along the plastic arm of his space suit.
He changed his mind about throwing the
contents on No. 1.
With a smile he set the glass at his lips
and drank. Then he laughed at No. 1.
"The SP ship will turn your ship into
jelly."
No. 1 swept out, chuckling. "Boast if you
will, Earthman, it's your last chance."
There was an exultation in Jon's heart
that deadened the hunger and washed away
the nausea.
At last he knew what the hemlock was.
He sat on the pallet adjusting the little
power-pack radio. The SP ship should now
be within range of the set. The space patrol
was notorious for its accuracy in keeping to
schedule. Seconds counted like years. They
had to be on the nose, or it meant disaster
or death.
He sent out the call letters.
"AX to SP-101 ... AX to SP-101 ... AX
to SP-101 ..."
Three times he sent the call, then began
sending his message, hoping that his signal
was reaching the ship. He couldn't know if
they answered. Though the power pack
could get out a message over a vast distance,
it could not pick up messages even
when backed by an SP ship's power unless
the ship was only a few hundred miles
away.
The power pack was strictly a distress
signal.
He didn't know how long he'd been
sending, nor how many times his weary
voice had repeated the short but desperate
message.
He kept watching the heavens and hoping.
Abruptly he knew the SP ship was coming,
for the blue ship of the Steel-Blues was
rising silently from the asteroid.
Up and up it rose, then flames flickered
in a circle about its curious shape. The ship
disappeared, suddenly accelerating.
Jon Karyl strained his eyes.
Finally he looked away from the heavens
to the two Steel-Blues who stood negligently
outside the goldfish bowl.
Once more, Jon used the stubray pistol.
He marched out of the plastic igloo and ran
toward the service station.
He didn't know how weak he was until
he stumbled and fell only a few feet from
his prison.
The Steel-Blues just watched him.
He crawled on, around the circular pit in
the sward of the asteroid where one Steel-Blue
had shown him the power of his
weapon.
He'd been crawling through a nightmare
for years when the quiet voice penetrated
his dulled mind.
"Take it easy, Karyl. You're among
friends."
He pried open his eyes with his will. He
saw the blue and gold of a space guard's
uniform. He sighed and drifted into unconsciousness.
He was
still weak days later when
Capt. Ron Small of SP-101 said,
"Yes, Karyl, it's ironical. They fed you
what they thought was sure death, and it's
the only thing that kept you going long
enough to warn us."
"I was dumb for a long time," Karyl said.
"I thought that it was the acid, almost to
the very last. But when I drank that last
glass, I knew they didn't have a chance.
"They were metal monsters. No wonder
they feared that liquid. It would rust their
joints, short their wiring, and kill them.
No wonder they stared when I kept alive
after drinking enough to completely annihilate
a half-dozen of them.
"But what happened when you met the
ship?"
The space captain grinned.
"Not much. Our crew was busy creating
a hollow shell filled with water to be shot
out of a rocket tube converted into a projectile
thrower.
"These Steel-Blues, as you call them, put
traction beams on us and started tugging us
toward the asteroid. We tried a couple of
atomic shots but when they just glanced off,
we gave up.
"They weren't expecting the shell of
water. When it hit that blue ship, you could
almost see it oxidize before your eyes.
"I guess they knew what was wrong right
away. They let go the traction beams and
tried to get away. They forgot about the
force field, so we just poured atomic fire
into the weakening ship. It just melted
away."
Jon Karyl got up from the divan where
he'd been lying. "They thought I was a
metal creature, too. But where do you suppose
they came from?"
The captain shrugged. "Who knows?"
Jon set two glasses on the table.
"Have a drink of the best damn water in
the solar system?" He asked Capt. Small.
"Don't mind if I do."
The water twinkled in the two glasses,
winking as if it knew just what it had
done.
|
What appears to be the role of the State in the Northem?
|
After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about I, the Unspeakable by Walter J. Sheldon.
Relevant chunks:
I, the Unspeakable
By WALT SHELDON
Illustrated by LOUIS MARCHETTI
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction April 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
"What's in a name?" might be very dangerous to ask in certain societies, in which sticks and stones are also a big problem!
I fought to be awake. I was dreaming, but I think I must have blushed. I must have blushed in my sleep.
" Do it! " she said. " Please do it! For me! "
It was the voice that always came, low, intense, seductive, the sound of your hand on silk ... and to a citizen of Northem, a conformist, it was shocking. I was a conformist then; I was still one that morning.
I awoke. The glowlight was on, slowly increasing. I was in my living machine in Center Four, where I belonged, and all the familiar things were about me, reality was back, but I was breathing very hard.
I lay on the pneumo a while before getting up. I looked at the chroner: 0703 hours, Day 17, Month IX, New Century Three. My morning nuro-tablets had already popped from the tube, and the timer had begun to boil an egg. The egg was there because the realfood allotment had been increased last month. The balance of trade with Southem had just swung a decimal or two our way.
I rose finally, stepped to the mirror, switched it to positive and looked at myself. New wrinkles—or maybe just a deepening of the old ones. It was beginning to show; the past two years were leaving traces.
I hadn't worried about my appearance when I'd been with the Office of Weapons. There, I'd been able to keep pretty much to myself, doing research on magnetic mechanics as applied to space drive. But other jobs, where you had to be among people, might be different. I needed every possible thing in my favor.
Yes, I still hoped for a job, even after two years. I still meant to keep on plugging, making the rounds.
I'd go out again today.
The timer clicked and my egg was ready. I swallowed the tablets and then took the egg to the table to savor it and make it last.
As I leaned forward to sit, the metal tag dangled from my neck, catching the glowlight. My identity tag.
Everything came back in a rush—
My name. The dream and her voice. And her suggestion.
Would I dare? Would I start out this very morning and take the risk, the terrible risk?
You remember renumbering. Two years ago. You remember how it was then; how everybody looked forward to his new designation, and how everybody made jokes about the way the letters came out, and how all the records were for a while fouled up beyond recognition.
The telecomics kidded renumbering. One went a little too far and they psycho-scanned him and then sent him to Marscol as a dangerous nonconform.
If you were disappointed with your new designation, you didn't complain. You didn't want a sudden visit from the Deacons during the night.
There had to be renumbering. We all understood that. With the population of Northem already past two billion, the old designations were too clumsy. Renumbering was efficient. It contributed to the good of Northem. It helped advance the warless struggle with Southem.
The equator is the boundary. I understand that once there was a political difference and that the two superstates sprawled longitudinally, not latitudinally, over the globe. Now they are pretty much the same. There is the truce, and they are both geared for war. They are both efficient states, as tightly controlled as an experiment with enzymes, as microsurgery, as the temper of a diplomat.
We were renumbered, then, in Northem. You know the system: everybody now has six digits and an additional prefix or suffix of four letters. Stateleader, for instance, has the designation AAAA-111/111. Now, to address somebody by calling off four letters is a little clumsy. We try to pronounce them when they are pronounceable. That is, no one says to Stateleader, "Good morning, A-A-A-A." They say, "Good morning, Aaaa."
Reading the last quote, I notice a curious effect. It says what I feel. Of course I didn't feel that way on that particular morning. I was still conformal; the last thing in my mind was that I would infract and be psycho-scanned.
Four letters then, and in many cases a pronounceable four letter word.
A four letter word.
Yes, you suspect already. You know what a four letter word can be.
Mine was.
It was unspeakable.
The slight weight on my forehead reminded me that I still wore my sleep-learner. I'd been studying administrative cybernetics, hoping to qualify in that field, although it was a poor substitute for a space drive expert. I removed the band and stepped across the room and turned off the oscillator. I went back to my egg and my bitter memories.
I will never forget the first day I received my new four letter combination and reported it to my chief, as required. I was unthinkably embarrassed. He didn't say anything. He just swallowed and choked and became crimson when he saw it. He didn't dare pass it to his secretarial engineer; he went to the administrative circuits and registered it himself.
I can't blame him for easing me out. He was trying to run an efficient organization, after all, and no doubt I upset its efficiency. My work was important—magnetic mechanics was the only way to handle quanta reaction, or the so-called non-energy drive, and was therefore the answer to feasible space travel beyond our present limit of Mars—and there were frequent inspection tours by Big Wheels and Very Important Persons.
Whenever anyone, especially a woman, asked my name, the embarrassment would become a crackling electric field all about us. The best tactic was just not to answer.
The chief called me in one day. He looked haggard.
"Er—old man," he said, not quite able to bring himself to utter my name, "I'm going to have to switch you to another department. How would you like to work on nutrition kits? Very interesting work."
"Nutrition kits? Me? On nutrition kits?"
"Well, I—er—know it sounds unusual, but it justifies. I just had the cybs work it over in the light of present regulations, and it justifies."
Everything had to justify, of course. Every act in the monthly report had to be covered by regulations and cross-regulations. Of course there were so many regulations that if you just took the time to work it out, you could justify damn near anything. I knew what the chief was up to. Just to remove me from my post would have taken a year of applications and hearings and innumerable visits to the capital in Center One. But if I should infract—deliberately infract—it would enable the chief to let me go. The equivalent of resigning.
"I'll infract," I said. "Rather than go on nutrition kits, I'll infract."
He looked vastly relieved. "Uh—fine," he said. "I rather hoped you would."
It took a week or so. Then I was on Non-Productive status and issued an N/P book for my necessities. Very few luxury coupons in the N/P book. I didn't really mind at first. My new living machine was smaller, but basically comfortable, and since I was still a loyal member of the state and a verified conformist, I wouldn't starve.
But I didn't know what I was in for.
I went from bureau to bureau, office to office, department to department—any place where they might use a space drive expert. A pattern began to emerge; the same story everywhere. When I mentioned my specialty they would look delighted. When I handed them my tag and they saw my name, they would go into immediate polite confusion. As soon as they recovered they would say they'd call me if anything turned up....
A few weeks of this and I became a bit dazed.
And then there was the problem of everyday existence. You might say it's lucky to be an N/P for a while. I've heard people say that. Basic needs provided, worlds of leisure time; on the surface it sounds attractive.
But let me give you an example. Say it is monthly realfood day. You go to the store, your mouth already watering in anticipation. You take your place in line and wait for your package. The distributor takes your coupon book and is all ready to reach for your package—and then he sees the fatal letters N/P. Non-Producer. A drone, a drain upon the State. You can see his stare curdle. He scowls at the book again.
"Not sure this is in order. Better go to the end of the line. We'll check it later."
You know what happens before the end of the line reaches the counter. No more packages.
Well, I couldn't get myself off N/P status until I got a post, and with my name I couldn't get a post.
Nor could I change my name. You know what happens when you try to change something already on the records. The very idea of wanting change implies criticism of the State. Unthinkable behavior.
That was why this curious dream voice shocked me so. The thing that it suggested was quite as embarrassing as its non-standard, emotional, provocative tone.
Bear with me; I'm getting to the voice—to her —in a moment.
I want to tell you first about the loneliness, the terrible loneliness. I could hardly join group games at any of the rec centers. I could join no special interest clubs or even State Loyalty chapters. Although I dabbled with theoretical research in my own quarters, I could scarcely submit any findings for publication—not with my name attached. A pseudonym would have been non-regulation and illegal.
But there was the worst thing of all. I could not mate.
Funny, I hadn't thought about mating until it became impossible. I remember the first time, out of sheer idleness, I wandered into a Eugenic Center. I filled out my form very carefully and submitted it for analysis and assignment. The clerk saw my name, and did the usual double-take. He coughed and swallowed and fidgeted.
He said, "Of course you understand that we must submit your application to the woman authorized to spend time in the mating booths with you, and that she has the right to refuse."
"Yes, I understand that."
"M'm," he said, and dismissed me with a nod.
I waited for a call in the next few weeks, still hoping, but I knew no woman would consent to meet a man with my name, let alone enter a mating booth with him.
The urge to reproduce myself became unbearable. I concocted all sorts of wild schemes.
I might infract socially and be classified a nonconform and sent to Marscol. I'd heard rumors that in that desolate land, on that desolate planet, both mingling and mating were rather disgustingly unrestricted. Casual mating would be terribly dangerous, of course, with all the wild irradiated genes from the atomic decade still around, but I felt I'd be willing to risk that. Well, almost....
About then I began to have these dreams. As I've told you, in the dream there was only this woman's seductive voice. The first time I heard it I awoke in a warm sweat and swore something had gone wrong with the sleep-learner. You never hear the actual words with this machine, of course; you simply absorb the concepts unconsciously. Still, it seemed an explanation. I checked thoroughly. Nothing wrong.
The next night I heard the woman's voice again.
" Try it ," she said. " Do it. Start tomorrow to get your name changed. There will be a way. There must be a way. The rules are so mixed up that a clever man can do almost anything. Do it, please—for me. "
She was not only trying to get me to commit nonconformity, but making heretical remarks besides. I awoke that time and half-expected a Deacon to pop out of the tube and turn his electric club upon me.
And I heard the voice nearly every night.
It hammered away.
" What if you do fail? Almost anything would be better than the miserable existence you're leading now! "
One morning I even caught myself wondering just how I'd go about this idea of hers. Wondering what the first step might be.
She seemed to read my thoughts. That night she said, " Consult the cybs in the Govpub office. If you look hard enough and long enough, you'll find a way. "
Now, on this morning of the seventeenth day in the ninth month, I ate my boiled egg slowly and actually toyed with the idea. I thought of being on productive status again. I had almost lost my fanatical craving to be useful to the State, but I did want to be busy—desperately. I didn't want to be despised any more. I didn't want to be lonely. I wanted to reproduce myself.
I made my decision suddenly. Waves of emotion carried me along. I got up, crossed the room to the directory, and pushbuttoned to find the location of the nearest Govpub office.
I didn't know what would happen and almost didn't care.
II
Like most important places, the Govpub Office in Center Four was underground. I could have taken a tunnelcar more quickly, but it seemed pleasanter to travel topside. Or maybe I just wanted to put this off a bit. Think about it. Compose myself.
At the entrance to the Govpub warren there was a big director cyb, a plate with a speaker and switch. The sign on it said to switch it on and get close to the speaker and I did.
The cyb's mechanical voice—they never seem to get the "th" sounds right—said, "This is Branch Four of the Office of Government Publications. Say, 'Publications,' and/or, 'Information desired,' as thoroughly and concisely as possible. Use approved voice and standard phraseology."
Well, simple enough so far. I had always rather prided myself on my knack for approved voice, those flat, emotionless tones that indicate efficiency. And I would never forget how to speak Statese. I said,
"Applicant desires all pertinent information relative assignment, change or amendment of State Serial designations, otherwise generally referred to as nomenclature."
There was a second's delay while the audio patterns tripped relays and brought the memory tubes in.
Then the cyb said, "Proceed to Numbering and Identity section. Consult alphabetical list and diagram on your left for location of same."
"Thanks," I said absent-mindedly.
I started to turn away and the cyb said, "Information on tanks is military information and classified. State authorization for—"
I switched it off.
Numbering and Identity wasn't hard to find. I took the shaft to the proper level and then it was only a walk of a few hundred yards through the glowlit corridors.
N. & I. turned out to be a big room, somewhat circular, very high-ceilinged, with banks of cyb controls covering the upper walls. Narrow passageways, like spokes, led off in several directions. There was an information desk in the center of the room.
I looked that way and my heart went into free fall.
There was a girl at the information desk. An exceptionally attractive girl. She was well within the limits of acceptable standard, and her features were even enough, and her hair a middle blonde—but she had something else. Hard to describe. It was a warmth, a buoyancy, a sense of life and intense animation. It didn't exactly show; it radiated. It seemed to sing out from her clear complexion, from her figure, which even a tunic could not hide, from everything about her.
And if I were to state my business, I would have to tell her my name.
I almost backed out right then. I stopped momentarily. And then common sense took hold and I realized that if I were to go through with this thing, here would be only the first of a long series of embarrassments and discomforts. It had to be done.
I walked up to the desk and the girl turned to face me, and I could have sworn that a faint smile crossed her lips. It was swift, like the shadow of a bird across one of the lawns in one of the great parks topside. Very non-standard. Yet I wasn't offended; if anything, I felt suddenly and disturbingly pleased.
"What information is desired?" she asked. Her voice was standard—or was it?
Again I had the feeling of restrained warmth.
I used colloquial. "I want to get the dope on State Serial designations, how they're assigned and so forth. Especially how they might be changed."
She put a handsteno on the desk top and said, "Name? Address? Post?"
I froze. I stood there and stared at her.
She looked up and said, "Well?"
"I—er—no post at present. N/P status."
Her fingers moved on the steno.
I gave her my address and she recorded that.
Then I paused again.
She said, "And your name?"
I took a deep breath and told her.
I didn't want to look into her eyes. I wanted to look away, but I couldn't find a decent excuse to. I saw her eyes become wide and noticed for the first time that they were a warm gray, almost a mouse color. I felt like laughing at that irrelevant observation, but more than that I felt like turning and running. I felt like climbing and dashing all over the walls like a frustrated cat and yelling at the top of my lungs. I felt like anything but standing there and looking stupid, meeting her stare—
She looked down quickly and recorded my name. It took her a little longer than necessary. In that time she recovered. Somewhat.
"All right," she said finally, "I'll make a search."
She turned to a row of buttons on a console in the center of the desk and began to press them in various combinations. A typer clicked away. She tore off a slip of paper, consulted it, and said, "Information desired is in Bank 29. Please follow me."
Well, following her was a pleasure, anyway. I could watch the movement of her hips and torso as she walked. She was not tall, but long-legged and extremely lithe. Graceful and rhythmic. Very, very feminine, almost beyond standard in that respect. I felt blood throb in my temples and was heartily ashamed of myself.
I would like to be in a mating booth with her, I thought, the full authorized twenty minutes. And I knew I was unconformist and the realization hardly scared me at all.
She led me down one of the long passageways.
A few moments later I said, "Don't you sometimes get—well, pretty lonely working here?" Personal talk at a time like this wasn't approved behavior, but I couldn't help it.
She answered hesitantly, but at least she answered. She said, "Not terribly. The cybs are company enough most of the time."
"You don't get many visitors, then."
"Not right here. N. & I. isn't a very popular section. Most people who come to Govpub spend their time researching in the ancient manuscript room. The—er—social habits of the pre-atomic civilization."
I laughed. I knew what she meant, all right. Pre-atomics and their ideas about free mating always fascinated people. I moved up beside her. "What's your name, by the way?"
"L-A-R-A 339/827."
I pronounced it. "Lara. Lah-rah. That's beautiful. Fits you, too."
She didn't answer; she kept her eyes straight ahead and I saw the faint spot of color on her cheek.
I had a sudden impulse to ask her to meet me after hours at one of the rec centers. If it had been my danger alone, I might have, but I couldn't very well ask her to risk discovery of a haphazard, unauthorized arrangement like that and the possibility of going to the psycho-scan.
We came to a turn in the corridor and something happened; I'm not sure just how it happened. I keep telling myself that my movements were not actually deliberate. I was to the right of her. The turn was to the left. She turned quickly, and I didn't, so that I bumped into her, knocking her off balance. I grabbed her to keep her from falling.
For a moment we stood there, face to face, touching each other lightly. I held her by the arms. I felt the primitive warmth of her breath. Our eyes held together ... proton ... electron ... I felt her tremble.
She broke from my grip suddenly and started off again.
After that she was very business-like.
We came finally to the controls of Bank 29 and she stood before them and began to press button combinations. I watched her work; I watched her move. I had almost forgotten why I'd come here. The lights blinked on and off and the typers clacked softly as the machine sorted out information.
She had a long printed sheet from the roll presently. She frowned at it and turned to me. "You can take this along and study it," she said,
"but I'm afraid what you have in mind may be—a little difficult."
She must have guessed what I had in mind. I said, "I didn't think it would be easy."
"It seems that the only agency authorized to change a State Serial under any circumstances is Opsych."
"Opsych?" You can't keep up with all these departments.
"The Office of Psychological Adjustment. They can change you if you go from a lower to higher E.A.C."
"I don't get it, exactly."
As she spoke I had the idea that there was sympathy in her voice. Just an overtone. "Well," she said, "as you know, the post a person is qualified to hold often depends largely on his Emotional Adjustment Category. Now if he improves and passes from, let us say, Grade 3 to Grade 4, he will probably change his place of work. In order to protect him from any associative maladjustments developed under the old E.A.C, he is permitted a new number."
I groaned. "But I'm already in the highest E.A.C.!"
"It looks very uncertain then."
"Sometimes I think I'd be better off in the mines, or on Marscol—or—in the hell of the pre-atomics!"
She looked amused. "What did you say your E.A.C. was?"
"Oh, all right. Sorry." I controlled myself and grinned. "I guess this whole thing has been just a little too much for me. Maybe my E.A.C.'s even gone down."
"That might be your chance then."
"How do you mean?"
"If you could get to the top man in Opsych and demonstrate that your number has inadvertently changed your E.A.C., he might be able to justify a change."
"By the State, he might!" I punched my palm. "Only how do I get to him?"
"I can find his location on the cyb here. Center One, the capital, for a guess. You'll have to get a travel permit to go there, of course. Just a moment."
She worked at the machine again, trying it on general data. The printed slip came out a moment later and she read it to me. Chief, Opsych, was in the capital all right. It didn't give the exact location of his office, but it did tell how to find the underground bay in Center One containing the Opsych offices.
We headed back through the passageway then and she kept well ahead of me. I couldn't keep my eyes from her walk, from the way she walked with everything below her shoulders. My blood was pounding at my temples again.
I tried to keep the conversation going. "Do you think it'll be hard to get a travel permit?"
"Not impossible. My guess is that you'll be at Travbur all day tomorrow, maybe even the next day. But you ought to be able to swing it if you hold out long enough."
I sighed. "I know. It's that way everywhere in Northem. Our motto ought to be, 'Why make it difficult when with just a little more effort you can make it impossible?'"
She started to laugh, and then, as she emerged from the passageway into the big circular room, she cut her laugh short.
A second later, as I came along, I saw why.
There were two Deacons by the central desk. They were burly and had that hard, pinched-face look and wore the usual black belts. Electric clubs hung from the belts. Spidery looking pistols were at their sides.
I didn't know whether these two had heard my crack or not. I know they kept looking at me.
Lara and I crossed the room silently, she back to her desk, I to the exit door. The Deacons' remote, disapproving eyes swung in azimuth, tracking us.
I walked out and wanted to turn and smile at Lara, and get into my smile something of the hope that someday, somewhere, I'd see her again—but of course I didn't dare.
III
I had the usual difficulties at Travbur the next day. I won't go into them, except to say that I was batted from office to office like a ping pong ball, and that, when I finally got my travel permit, I was made to feel that I had stolen an original Picasso from the State Museum.
I made it in a day. Just. I got my permit thirty seconds before closing time. I was to take the jetcopter to Center One at 0700 hours the following morning.
In my living machine that evening, I was much too excited to work at theoretical research as I usually did after a hard day of tramping around. I bathed, I paced a while, I sat and hummed nervously and got up and paced again. I turned on the telepuppets. There was a drama about the space pilots who fly the nonconformist prisoners to the forests and pulp-acetate plants on Mars. Seemed that the Southem political prisoners who are confined to the southern hemisphere of Mars, wanted to attack and conquer the north. The nonconformists, led by our pilot, came through for the State in the end. Corn is thicker than water. Standard.
There were, however, some good stereofilm shots of the limitless forests of Mars, and I wondered what it would be like to live there, in a green, fresh-smelling land. Pleasant, I supposed, if you could put up with the no doubt revolting morality of a prison planet.
And the drama seemed to point out that there was no more security for the nonconformists out there than for us here on Earth. Maybe somewhere in the universe, I thought, there would be peace for men. Somewhere beyond the solar system, perhaps, someday when we had the means to go there....
Yet instinct told me that wasn't the answer, either. I thought of a verse by an ancient pre-atomic poet named Hoffenstein. (People had unwieldy, random combinations of letters for names in those days.) The poem went:
Wherever I go,
I
go too,
And spoil everything.
That was it. The story of mankind.
I turned the glowlight down and lay on the pneumo after a while, but I didn't sleep for a long, long time.
Then, when I did sleep, when I had been sleeping, I heard the voice again. The low, seductive woman's voice—the startling, shocking voice out of my unconscious.
" You have taken the first step ," she said. " You are on your way to freedom. Don't stop now. Don't sink back into the lifelessness of conformity. Go on ... on and on. Keep struggling, for that is the only answer.... "
I didn't exactly talk back, but in the queer way of the dream, I thought objections. I was in my thirties, at the mid-point of my life, and the whole of that life had been spent under the State. I knew no other way to act. Suppressing what little individuality I might have was, for me, a way of survival. I was chockful of prescribed, stereotyped reactions, and I held onto them even when something within me told me what they were. This wasn't easy, this breaking away, not even this slight departure from the secure, camouflaged norm....
" The woman, Lara, attracts you ," said the voice.
I suppose at that point I twitched or rolled in my sleep. Yes, the voice was right, the woman Lara attracted me. So much that I ached with it.
" Take her. Find a way. When you succeed in changing your name, and know that you can do things, then find a way. There will be a way. "
The idea at once thrilled and frightened me.
I woke writhing and in a sweat again.
It was morning.
I dressed and headed for the jetcopter stage and the ship for Center One.
The ship was comfortable and departed on time, a transport with seats for about twenty passengers. I sat near the tail and moodily busied myself watching the gaunt brown earth far below. Between Centers there was mostly desert, only occasional patches of green. Before the atomic decade, I had heard, nearly all the earth was green and teemed with life ... birds, insects, animals, people, too. It was hard rock and sand now, with a few scrubs hanging on for life. The pre-atomics, who hadn't mastered synthesization, would have a hard time scratching existence from the earth today.
I tried to break the sad mood, and started to look around at some of the other passengers. That was when I first noticed the prisoners in the forward seats. Man and woman, they were, a youngish, rather non-descript couple, thin, very quiet. They were manacled and two Deacons sat across from them. The Deacons' backs were turned to me and I could see the prisoners' faces.
They had curious faces. Their eyes were indescribably sad, and yet their lips seemed to be ready to smile at any moment.
They were holding hands, not seeming to care about this vulgar emotional display.
I had the sudden crazy idea that Lara and I were sitting there, holding hands like that, nonconforming in the highest, and that we were wonderfully happy. Our eyes were sad too, but we were really happy, quietly happy, and that was why our lips stayed upon the brink of a smile.
Question:
What appears to be the role of the State in the Northem?
Answer:
|
[
"Northem, one of the two superstates of the world and home to the Narrator, is ruled by the State. It is highly efficient, and allocates alphanumeric designations to its citizens to be used as names. In the most recent renumbering, the State assigns the narrator an unspeakable four-letter designation. \n\tThe State, through its officers the Deacons, enforces norms of acceptability. These norms include the ranges of physical attractiveness within which women are required to stay, the flat tone of voice in which citizens must speak, and the facial expressions citizens are allowed to display. Additionally, the State regulates sexual behaviour: mating is only allowed in Eugenic Centers, and those who infract upon sexual norms are sent to a prison planet called Marscol. \n\tThe State further regulates the allocation of realfood, such as eggs, which is a valuable commodity. When the balance of trade between Northem and Southem, the other superstate, fluctuates, more or less realfood becomes available. Non-productive members of society, so long as they are conformists, or loyal members of the state, are cared for by the State.\n",
"The State is currently ruling over Northem. They’ve set rules that must be followed by the citizens, those that infract and do not obey will be send to Marscol. Those that follow the rules, the states will provide food to them. Thus, the State cultivate and organize conformists, and tell them to obey rules. Moreover, because the old designations were not efficient, and there are more than two billion people in Northem. Thus the State has decided to introduce a new renumbering system that would be benificial to both the Northm and the Southem. Thus everyone was renumbered. They each receives a six digits along with four digits of prefix or sufix. \n\nFurthermore, the State favors short and succinct languages. It prefers efficiency. They changed the numbering system because it was not efficient; the boss was trying to ease the main character out because he desired an efficient organization; the cyb asked for efficient words when the main character was the Govpub Office. \n\nAlso, there had been political differences between the Northern and Southern states. During those times, they each spread longitudinally across the globe. While not in war currently, both of the states are geared up for it. ",
"The Northem acts as the moral, civilized, and orderly opposition to the Southem. The State helps to enforce this order and civility, primarily by the renumbering of its citizens. This structured system of naming attempts to place citizens on similar levels and address each other formally. To challenge this naming system would be to question the authority of the State. Society is also divided into Producers and Non-Producers; the Non-Producers are seen as draining of the Northem, reinforcing productivity as a defining value of the State. The State also aids in enforcing mating regulations; the narrator notes that pre-atomic civilization had free mating, where public affection and partnership was common; however, mating is now a State-regulated activity as provided by Eugenic Centers.",
"The citizens of Northem are conformists that dare do not go against the State nor criticize the State. The State regulates nearly every aspect of a person’s life. The State of Northem is in charge of renumbering, assigning a work designation, food allotments, sleeping arrangements, and mating abilities for its citizens. Renumbering is claimed to help the war-type struggle against Southem. With the new designation, every person was assigned six digits and four letters as a prefix or suffix. "
] |
51210
|
I, the Unspeakable
By WALT SHELDON
Illustrated by LOUIS MARCHETTI
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction April 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
"What's in a name?" might be very dangerous to ask in certain societies, in which sticks and stones are also a big problem!
I fought to be awake. I was dreaming, but I think I must have blushed. I must have blushed in my sleep.
" Do it! " she said. " Please do it! For me! "
It was the voice that always came, low, intense, seductive, the sound of your hand on silk ... and to a citizen of Northem, a conformist, it was shocking. I was a conformist then; I was still one that morning.
I awoke. The glowlight was on, slowly increasing. I was in my living machine in Center Four, where I belonged, and all the familiar things were about me, reality was back, but I was breathing very hard.
I lay on the pneumo a while before getting up. I looked at the chroner: 0703 hours, Day 17, Month IX, New Century Three. My morning nuro-tablets had already popped from the tube, and the timer had begun to boil an egg. The egg was there because the realfood allotment had been increased last month. The balance of trade with Southem had just swung a decimal or two our way.
I rose finally, stepped to the mirror, switched it to positive and looked at myself. New wrinkles—or maybe just a deepening of the old ones. It was beginning to show; the past two years were leaving traces.
I hadn't worried about my appearance when I'd been with the Office of Weapons. There, I'd been able to keep pretty much to myself, doing research on magnetic mechanics as applied to space drive. But other jobs, where you had to be among people, might be different. I needed every possible thing in my favor.
Yes, I still hoped for a job, even after two years. I still meant to keep on plugging, making the rounds.
I'd go out again today.
The timer clicked and my egg was ready. I swallowed the tablets and then took the egg to the table to savor it and make it last.
As I leaned forward to sit, the metal tag dangled from my neck, catching the glowlight. My identity tag.
Everything came back in a rush—
My name. The dream and her voice. And her suggestion.
Would I dare? Would I start out this very morning and take the risk, the terrible risk?
You remember renumbering. Two years ago. You remember how it was then; how everybody looked forward to his new designation, and how everybody made jokes about the way the letters came out, and how all the records were for a while fouled up beyond recognition.
The telecomics kidded renumbering. One went a little too far and they psycho-scanned him and then sent him to Marscol as a dangerous nonconform.
If you were disappointed with your new designation, you didn't complain. You didn't want a sudden visit from the Deacons during the night.
There had to be renumbering. We all understood that. With the population of Northem already past two billion, the old designations were too clumsy. Renumbering was efficient. It contributed to the good of Northem. It helped advance the warless struggle with Southem.
The equator is the boundary. I understand that once there was a political difference and that the two superstates sprawled longitudinally, not latitudinally, over the globe. Now they are pretty much the same. There is the truce, and they are both geared for war. They are both efficient states, as tightly controlled as an experiment with enzymes, as microsurgery, as the temper of a diplomat.
We were renumbered, then, in Northem. You know the system: everybody now has six digits and an additional prefix or suffix of four letters. Stateleader, for instance, has the designation AAAA-111/111. Now, to address somebody by calling off four letters is a little clumsy. We try to pronounce them when they are pronounceable. That is, no one says to Stateleader, "Good morning, A-A-A-A." They say, "Good morning, Aaaa."
Reading the last quote, I notice a curious effect. It says what I feel. Of course I didn't feel that way on that particular morning. I was still conformal; the last thing in my mind was that I would infract and be psycho-scanned.
Four letters then, and in many cases a pronounceable four letter word.
A four letter word.
Yes, you suspect already. You know what a four letter word can be.
Mine was.
It was unspeakable.
The slight weight on my forehead reminded me that I still wore my sleep-learner. I'd been studying administrative cybernetics, hoping to qualify in that field, although it was a poor substitute for a space drive expert. I removed the band and stepped across the room and turned off the oscillator. I went back to my egg and my bitter memories.
I will never forget the first day I received my new four letter combination and reported it to my chief, as required. I was unthinkably embarrassed. He didn't say anything. He just swallowed and choked and became crimson when he saw it. He didn't dare pass it to his secretarial engineer; he went to the administrative circuits and registered it himself.
I can't blame him for easing me out. He was trying to run an efficient organization, after all, and no doubt I upset its efficiency. My work was important—magnetic mechanics was the only way to handle quanta reaction, or the so-called non-energy drive, and was therefore the answer to feasible space travel beyond our present limit of Mars—and there were frequent inspection tours by Big Wheels and Very Important Persons.
Whenever anyone, especially a woman, asked my name, the embarrassment would become a crackling electric field all about us. The best tactic was just not to answer.
The chief called me in one day. He looked haggard.
"Er—old man," he said, not quite able to bring himself to utter my name, "I'm going to have to switch you to another department. How would you like to work on nutrition kits? Very interesting work."
"Nutrition kits? Me? On nutrition kits?"
"Well, I—er—know it sounds unusual, but it justifies. I just had the cybs work it over in the light of present regulations, and it justifies."
Everything had to justify, of course. Every act in the monthly report had to be covered by regulations and cross-regulations. Of course there were so many regulations that if you just took the time to work it out, you could justify damn near anything. I knew what the chief was up to. Just to remove me from my post would have taken a year of applications and hearings and innumerable visits to the capital in Center One. But if I should infract—deliberately infract—it would enable the chief to let me go. The equivalent of resigning.
"I'll infract," I said. "Rather than go on nutrition kits, I'll infract."
He looked vastly relieved. "Uh—fine," he said. "I rather hoped you would."
It took a week or so. Then I was on Non-Productive status and issued an N/P book for my necessities. Very few luxury coupons in the N/P book. I didn't really mind at first. My new living machine was smaller, but basically comfortable, and since I was still a loyal member of the state and a verified conformist, I wouldn't starve.
But I didn't know what I was in for.
I went from bureau to bureau, office to office, department to department—any place where they might use a space drive expert. A pattern began to emerge; the same story everywhere. When I mentioned my specialty they would look delighted. When I handed them my tag and they saw my name, they would go into immediate polite confusion. As soon as they recovered they would say they'd call me if anything turned up....
A few weeks of this and I became a bit dazed.
And then there was the problem of everyday existence. You might say it's lucky to be an N/P for a while. I've heard people say that. Basic needs provided, worlds of leisure time; on the surface it sounds attractive.
But let me give you an example. Say it is monthly realfood day. You go to the store, your mouth already watering in anticipation. You take your place in line and wait for your package. The distributor takes your coupon book and is all ready to reach for your package—and then he sees the fatal letters N/P. Non-Producer. A drone, a drain upon the State. You can see his stare curdle. He scowls at the book again.
"Not sure this is in order. Better go to the end of the line. We'll check it later."
You know what happens before the end of the line reaches the counter. No more packages.
Well, I couldn't get myself off N/P status until I got a post, and with my name I couldn't get a post.
Nor could I change my name. You know what happens when you try to change something already on the records. The very idea of wanting change implies criticism of the State. Unthinkable behavior.
That was why this curious dream voice shocked me so. The thing that it suggested was quite as embarrassing as its non-standard, emotional, provocative tone.
Bear with me; I'm getting to the voice—to her —in a moment.
I want to tell you first about the loneliness, the terrible loneliness. I could hardly join group games at any of the rec centers. I could join no special interest clubs or even State Loyalty chapters. Although I dabbled with theoretical research in my own quarters, I could scarcely submit any findings for publication—not with my name attached. A pseudonym would have been non-regulation and illegal.
But there was the worst thing of all. I could not mate.
Funny, I hadn't thought about mating until it became impossible. I remember the first time, out of sheer idleness, I wandered into a Eugenic Center. I filled out my form very carefully and submitted it for analysis and assignment. The clerk saw my name, and did the usual double-take. He coughed and swallowed and fidgeted.
He said, "Of course you understand that we must submit your application to the woman authorized to spend time in the mating booths with you, and that she has the right to refuse."
"Yes, I understand that."
"M'm," he said, and dismissed me with a nod.
I waited for a call in the next few weeks, still hoping, but I knew no woman would consent to meet a man with my name, let alone enter a mating booth with him.
The urge to reproduce myself became unbearable. I concocted all sorts of wild schemes.
I might infract socially and be classified a nonconform and sent to Marscol. I'd heard rumors that in that desolate land, on that desolate planet, both mingling and mating were rather disgustingly unrestricted. Casual mating would be terribly dangerous, of course, with all the wild irradiated genes from the atomic decade still around, but I felt I'd be willing to risk that. Well, almost....
About then I began to have these dreams. As I've told you, in the dream there was only this woman's seductive voice. The first time I heard it I awoke in a warm sweat and swore something had gone wrong with the sleep-learner. You never hear the actual words with this machine, of course; you simply absorb the concepts unconsciously. Still, it seemed an explanation. I checked thoroughly. Nothing wrong.
The next night I heard the woman's voice again.
" Try it ," she said. " Do it. Start tomorrow to get your name changed. There will be a way. There must be a way. The rules are so mixed up that a clever man can do almost anything. Do it, please—for me. "
She was not only trying to get me to commit nonconformity, but making heretical remarks besides. I awoke that time and half-expected a Deacon to pop out of the tube and turn his electric club upon me.
And I heard the voice nearly every night.
It hammered away.
" What if you do fail? Almost anything would be better than the miserable existence you're leading now! "
One morning I even caught myself wondering just how I'd go about this idea of hers. Wondering what the first step might be.
She seemed to read my thoughts. That night she said, " Consult the cybs in the Govpub office. If you look hard enough and long enough, you'll find a way. "
Now, on this morning of the seventeenth day in the ninth month, I ate my boiled egg slowly and actually toyed with the idea. I thought of being on productive status again. I had almost lost my fanatical craving to be useful to the State, but I did want to be busy—desperately. I didn't want to be despised any more. I didn't want to be lonely. I wanted to reproduce myself.
I made my decision suddenly. Waves of emotion carried me along. I got up, crossed the room to the directory, and pushbuttoned to find the location of the nearest Govpub office.
I didn't know what would happen and almost didn't care.
II
Like most important places, the Govpub Office in Center Four was underground. I could have taken a tunnelcar more quickly, but it seemed pleasanter to travel topside. Or maybe I just wanted to put this off a bit. Think about it. Compose myself.
At the entrance to the Govpub warren there was a big director cyb, a plate with a speaker and switch. The sign on it said to switch it on and get close to the speaker and I did.
The cyb's mechanical voice—they never seem to get the "th" sounds right—said, "This is Branch Four of the Office of Government Publications. Say, 'Publications,' and/or, 'Information desired,' as thoroughly and concisely as possible. Use approved voice and standard phraseology."
Well, simple enough so far. I had always rather prided myself on my knack for approved voice, those flat, emotionless tones that indicate efficiency. And I would never forget how to speak Statese. I said,
"Applicant desires all pertinent information relative assignment, change or amendment of State Serial designations, otherwise generally referred to as nomenclature."
There was a second's delay while the audio patterns tripped relays and brought the memory tubes in.
Then the cyb said, "Proceed to Numbering and Identity section. Consult alphabetical list and diagram on your left for location of same."
"Thanks," I said absent-mindedly.
I started to turn away and the cyb said, "Information on tanks is military information and classified. State authorization for—"
I switched it off.
Numbering and Identity wasn't hard to find. I took the shaft to the proper level and then it was only a walk of a few hundred yards through the glowlit corridors.
N. & I. turned out to be a big room, somewhat circular, very high-ceilinged, with banks of cyb controls covering the upper walls. Narrow passageways, like spokes, led off in several directions. There was an information desk in the center of the room.
I looked that way and my heart went into free fall.
There was a girl at the information desk. An exceptionally attractive girl. She was well within the limits of acceptable standard, and her features were even enough, and her hair a middle blonde—but she had something else. Hard to describe. It was a warmth, a buoyancy, a sense of life and intense animation. It didn't exactly show; it radiated. It seemed to sing out from her clear complexion, from her figure, which even a tunic could not hide, from everything about her.
And if I were to state my business, I would have to tell her my name.
I almost backed out right then. I stopped momentarily. And then common sense took hold and I realized that if I were to go through with this thing, here would be only the first of a long series of embarrassments and discomforts. It had to be done.
I walked up to the desk and the girl turned to face me, and I could have sworn that a faint smile crossed her lips. It was swift, like the shadow of a bird across one of the lawns in one of the great parks topside. Very non-standard. Yet I wasn't offended; if anything, I felt suddenly and disturbingly pleased.
"What information is desired?" she asked. Her voice was standard—or was it?
Again I had the feeling of restrained warmth.
I used colloquial. "I want to get the dope on State Serial designations, how they're assigned and so forth. Especially how they might be changed."
She put a handsteno on the desk top and said, "Name? Address? Post?"
I froze. I stood there and stared at her.
She looked up and said, "Well?"
"I—er—no post at present. N/P status."
Her fingers moved on the steno.
I gave her my address and she recorded that.
Then I paused again.
She said, "And your name?"
I took a deep breath and told her.
I didn't want to look into her eyes. I wanted to look away, but I couldn't find a decent excuse to. I saw her eyes become wide and noticed for the first time that they were a warm gray, almost a mouse color. I felt like laughing at that irrelevant observation, but more than that I felt like turning and running. I felt like climbing and dashing all over the walls like a frustrated cat and yelling at the top of my lungs. I felt like anything but standing there and looking stupid, meeting her stare—
She looked down quickly and recorded my name. It took her a little longer than necessary. In that time she recovered. Somewhat.
"All right," she said finally, "I'll make a search."
She turned to a row of buttons on a console in the center of the desk and began to press them in various combinations. A typer clicked away. She tore off a slip of paper, consulted it, and said, "Information desired is in Bank 29. Please follow me."
Well, following her was a pleasure, anyway. I could watch the movement of her hips and torso as she walked. She was not tall, but long-legged and extremely lithe. Graceful and rhythmic. Very, very feminine, almost beyond standard in that respect. I felt blood throb in my temples and was heartily ashamed of myself.
I would like to be in a mating booth with her, I thought, the full authorized twenty minutes. And I knew I was unconformist and the realization hardly scared me at all.
She led me down one of the long passageways.
A few moments later I said, "Don't you sometimes get—well, pretty lonely working here?" Personal talk at a time like this wasn't approved behavior, but I couldn't help it.
She answered hesitantly, but at least she answered. She said, "Not terribly. The cybs are company enough most of the time."
"You don't get many visitors, then."
"Not right here. N. & I. isn't a very popular section. Most people who come to Govpub spend their time researching in the ancient manuscript room. The—er—social habits of the pre-atomic civilization."
I laughed. I knew what she meant, all right. Pre-atomics and their ideas about free mating always fascinated people. I moved up beside her. "What's your name, by the way?"
"L-A-R-A 339/827."
I pronounced it. "Lara. Lah-rah. That's beautiful. Fits you, too."
She didn't answer; she kept her eyes straight ahead and I saw the faint spot of color on her cheek.
I had a sudden impulse to ask her to meet me after hours at one of the rec centers. If it had been my danger alone, I might have, but I couldn't very well ask her to risk discovery of a haphazard, unauthorized arrangement like that and the possibility of going to the psycho-scan.
We came to a turn in the corridor and something happened; I'm not sure just how it happened. I keep telling myself that my movements were not actually deliberate. I was to the right of her. The turn was to the left. She turned quickly, and I didn't, so that I bumped into her, knocking her off balance. I grabbed her to keep her from falling.
For a moment we stood there, face to face, touching each other lightly. I held her by the arms. I felt the primitive warmth of her breath. Our eyes held together ... proton ... electron ... I felt her tremble.
She broke from my grip suddenly and started off again.
After that she was very business-like.
We came finally to the controls of Bank 29 and she stood before them and began to press button combinations. I watched her work; I watched her move. I had almost forgotten why I'd come here. The lights blinked on and off and the typers clacked softly as the machine sorted out information.
She had a long printed sheet from the roll presently. She frowned at it and turned to me. "You can take this along and study it," she said,
"but I'm afraid what you have in mind may be—a little difficult."
She must have guessed what I had in mind. I said, "I didn't think it would be easy."
"It seems that the only agency authorized to change a State Serial under any circumstances is Opsych."
"Opsych?" You can't keep up with all these departments.
"The Office of Psychological Adjustment. They can change you if you go from a lower to higher E.A.C."
"I don't get it, exactly."
As she spoke I had the idea that there was sympathy in her voice. Just an overtone. "Well," she said, "as you know, the post a person is qualified to hold often depends largely on his Emotional Adjustment Category. Now if he improves and passes from, let us say, Grade 3 to Grade 4, he will probably change his place of work. In order to protect him from any associative maladjustments developed under the old E.A.C, he is permitted a new number."
I groaned. "But I'm already in the highest E.A.C.!"
"It looks very uncertain then."
"Sometimes I think I'd be better off in the mines, or on Marscol—or—in the hell of the pre-atomics!"
She looked amused. "What did you say your E.A.C. was?"
"Oh, all right. Sorry." I controlled myself and grinned. "I guess this whole thing has been just a little too much for me. Maybe my E.A.C.'s even gone down."
"That might be your chance then."
"How do you mean?"
"If you could get to the top man in Opsych and demonstrate that your number has inadvertently changed your E.A.C., he might be able to justify a change."
"By the State, he might!" I punched my palm. "Only how do I get to him?"
"I can find his location on the cyb here. Center One, the capital, for a guess. You'll have to get a travel permit to go there, of course. Just a moment."
She worked at the machine again, trying it on general data. The printed slip came out a moment later and she read it to me. Chief, Opsych, was in the capital all right. It didn't give the exact location of his office, but it did tell how to find the underground bay in Center One containing the Opsych offices.
We headed back through the passageway then and she kept well ahead of me. I couldn't keep my eyes from her walk, from the way she walked with everything below her shoulders. My blood was pounding at my temples again.
I tried to keep the conversation going. "Do you think it'll be hard to get a travel permit?"
"Not impossible. My guess is that you'll be at Travbur all day tomorrow, maybe even the next day. But you ought to be able to swing it if you hold out long enough."
I sighed. "I know. It's that way everywhere in Northem. Our motto ought to be, 'Why make it difficult when with just a little more effort you can make it impossible?'"
She started to laugh, and then, as she emerged from the passageway into the big circular room, she cut her laugh short.
A second later, as I came along, I saw why.
There were two Deacons by the central desk. They were burly and had that hard, pinched-face look and wore the usual black belts. Electric clubs hung from the belts. Spidery looking pistols were at their sides.
I didn't know whether these two had heard my crack or not. I know they kept looking at me.
Lara and I crossed the room silently, she back to her desk, I to the exit door. The Deacons' remote, disapproving eyes swung in azimuth, tracking us.
I walked out and wanted to turn and smile at Lara, and get into my smile something of the hope that someday, somewhere, I'd see her again—but of course I didn't dare.
III
I had the usual difficulties at Travbur the next day. I won't go into them, except to say that I was batted from office to office like a ping pong ball, and that, when I finally got my travel permit, I was made to feel that I had stolen an original Picasso from the State Museum.
I made it in a day. Just. I got my permit thirty seconds before closing time. I was to take the jetcopter to Center One at 0700 hours the following morning.
In my living machine that evening, I was much too excited to work at theoretical research as I usually did after a hard day of tramping around. I bathed, I paced a while, I sat and hummed nervously and got up and paced again. I turned on the telepuppets. There was a drama about the space pilots who fly the nonconformist prisoners to the forests and pulp-acetate plants on Mars. Seemed that the Southem political prisoners who are confined to the southern hemisphere of Mars, wanted to attack and conquer the north. The nonconformists, led by our pilot, came through for the State in the end. Corn is thicker than water. Standard.
There were, however, some good stereofilm shots of the limitless forests of Mars, and I wondered what it would be like to live there, in a green, fresh-smelling land. Pleasant, I supposed, if you could put up with the no doubt revolting morality of a prison planet.
And the drama seemed to point out that there was no more security for the nonconformists out there than for us here on Earth. Maybe somewhere in the universe, I thought, there would be peace for men. Somewhere beyond the solar system, perhaps, someday when we had the means to go there....
Yet instinct told me that wasn't the answer, either. I thought of a verse by an ancient pre-atomic poet named Hoffenstein. (People had unwieldy, random combinations of letters for names in those days.) The poem went:
Wherever I go,
I
go too,
And spoil everything.
That was it. The story of mankind.
I turned the glowlight down and lay on the pneumo after a while, but I didn't sleep for a long, long time.
Then, when I did sleep, when I had been sleeping, I heard the voice again. The low, seductive woman's voice—the startling, shocking voice out of my unconscious.
" You have taken the first step ," she said. " You are on your way to freedom. Don't stop now. Don't sink back into the lifelessness of conformity. Go on ... on and on. Keep struggling, for that is the only answer.... "
I didn't exactly talk back, but in the queer way of the dream, I thought objections. I was in my thirties, at the mid-point of my life, and the whole of that life had been spent under the State. I knew no other way to act. Suppressing what little individuality I might have was, for me, a way of survival. I was chockful of prescribed, stereotyped reactions, and I held onto them even when something within me told me what they were. This wasn't easy, this breaking away, not even this slight departure from the secure, camouflaged norm....
" The woman, Lara, attracts you ," said the voice.
I suppose at that point I twitched or rolled in my sleep. Yes, the voice was right, the woman Lara attracted me. So much that I ached with it.
" Take her. Find a way. When you succeed in changing your name, and know that you can do things, then find a way. There will be a way. "
The idea at once thrilled and frightened me.
I woke writhing and in a sweat again.
It was morning.
I dressed and headed for the jetcopter stage and the ship for Center One.
The ship was comfortable and departed on time, a transport with seats for about twenty passengers. I sat near the tail and moodily busied myself watching the gaunt brown earth far below. Between Centers there was mostly desert, only occasional patches of green. Before the atomic decade, I had heard, nearly all the earth was green and teemed with life ... birds, insects, animals, people, too. It was hard rock and sand now, with a few scrubs hanging on for life. The pre-atomics, who hadn't mastered synthesization, would have a hard time scratching existence from the earth today.
I tried to break the sad mood, and started to look around at some of the other passengers. That was when I first noticed the prisoners in the forward seats. Man and woman, they were, a youngish, rather non-descript couple, thin, very quiet. They were manacled and two Deacons sat across from them. The Deacons' backs were turned to me and I could see the prisoners' faces.
They had curious faces. Their eyes were indescribably sad, and yet their lips seemed to be ready to smile at any moment.
They were holding hands, not seeming to care about this vulgar emotional display.
I had the sudden crazy idea that Lara and I were sitting there, holding hands like that, nonconforming in the highest, and that we were wonderfully happy. Our eyes were sad too, but we were really happy, quietly happy, and that was why our lips stayed upon the brink of a smile.
|
Describe the settings the story takes place in.
|
After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about Butterfly 9 by Donald Keith.
Relevant chunks:
Butterfly 9
By DONALD KEITH
Illustrated by GAUGHAN
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction January 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Jeff needed a job and this man had a job to offer—one where giant economy-size trouble had labels like fakemake, bumsy and peekage!
I
At first, Jeff scarcely noticed the bold-looking man at the next table. Nor did Ann. Their minds were busy with Jeff's troubles.
"You're still the smartest color engineer in television," Ann told Jeff as they dallied with their food. "You'll bounce back. Now eat your supper."
"This beanery is too noisy and hot," he grumbled. "I can't eat. Can't talk. Can't think." He took a silver pillbox from his pocket and fumbled for a black one. Those were vitamin pills; the big red and yellow ones were sleeping capsules. He gulped the pill.
Ann looked disapproving in a wifely way. "Lately you chew pills like popcorn," she said. "Do you really need so many?"
"I need something. I'm sure losing my grip."
Ann stared at him. "Baby! How silly! Nothing happened, except you lost your lease. You'll build up a better company in a new spot. We're young yet."
Jeff sighed and glanced around the crowded little restaurant. He wished he could fly away somewhere. At that moment, he met the gaze of the mustachioed man at the next table.
The fellow seemed to be watching him and Ann. Something in his confident gaze made Jeff uneasy. Had they met before?
Ann whispered, "So you noticed him, too. Maybe he's following us. I think I saw him on the parking lot where we left the car."
Jeff shrugged his big shoulders. "If he's following us, he's nuts. We've got no secrets and no money."
"It must be my maddening beauty," said Ann.
"I'll kick him cross-eyed if he starts anything," Jeff said. "I'm just in the mood."
Ann giggled. "Honey, what big veins you have! Forget him. Let's talk about the engineering lab you're going to start. And let's eat."
He groaned. "I lose my appetite every time I think about the building being sold. It isn't worth the twelve grand. I wouldn't buy it for that if I could. What burns me is that, five years ago, I could have bought it for two thousand."
"If only we could go back five years." She shrugged fatalistically.
"But since we can't—"
The character at the next table leaned over and spoke to them, grinning. "You like to get away? You wish to go back?"
Jeff glanced across in annoyance. The man was evidently a salesman, with extra gall.
"Not now, thanks," Jeff said. "Haven't time."
The man waved his thick hand at the clock, as if to abolish time.
"Time? That is nothing. Your little lady. She spoke of go back five years. Maybe I help you."
He spoke in an odd clipped way, obviously a foreigner. His shirt was yellow. His suit had a silky sheen. Its peculiar tailoring emphasized the bulges in his stubby, muscular torso.
Ann smiled back at him. "You talk as if you could take us back to 1952. Is that what you really mean?"
"Why not? You think this silly. But I can show you."
Jeff rose to go. "Mister, you better get to a doctor. Ann, it's time we started home."
Ann laid a hand on his sleeve. "I haven't finished eating. Let's chat with the gent." She added in an undertone to Jeff, "Must be a psycho—but sort of an inspired one."
The man said to Ann, "You are kind lady, I think. Good to crazy people. I join you."
He did not wait for consent, but slid into a seat at their table with an easy grace that was almost arrogant.
"You are unhappy in 1957," he went on. "Discouraged. Restless. Why not take trip to another time?"
"Why not?" Ann said gaily. "How much does it cost?"
"Free trial trip. Cost nothing. See whether you like. Then maybe we talk money." He handed Jeff a card made of a stiff plastic substance.
Jeff glanced at it, then handed it to Ann with a half-smile. It read:
4-D TRAVEL BEURO Greet Snader, Traffic Ajent
"Mr. Snader's bureau is different," Jeff said to his wife. "He even spells it different."
Snader chuckled. "I come from other time. We spell otherwise."
"You mean you come from the future?"
"Just different time. I show you. You come with me?"
"Come where?" Jeff asked, studying Snader's mocking eyes. The man didn't seem a mere eccentric. He had a peculiar suggestion of humor and force.
"Come on little trip to different time," invited Snader. He added persuasively, "Could be back here in hour."
"It would be painless, I suppose?" Jeff gave it a touch of derision.
"Maybe not. That is risk you take. But look at me. I make trips every day. I look damaged?"
As a matter of fact, he did. His thick-fleshed face bore a scar and his nose was broad and flat, as if it had been broken. But Jeff politely agreed that he did not look damaged.
Ann was enjoying this. "Tell me more, Mr. Snader. How does your time travel work?"
"Cannot explain. Same if you are asked how subway train works. Too complicated." He flashed his white teeth. "You think time travel not possible. Just like television not possible to your grandfather."
Ann said, "Why invite us? We're not rich enough for expensive trips."
"Invite many people," Snader said quickly. "Not expensive. You know Missing Persons lists, from police? Dozens people disappear. They go with me to other time. Many stay."
"Oh, sure," Jeff said. "But how do you select the ones to invite?"
"Find ones like you, Mr. Elliott. Ones who want change, escape."
Jeff was slightly startled. How did this fellow know his name was Elliott?
Before he could ask, Ann popped another question. "Mr. Snader, you heard us talking. You know we're in trouble because Jeff missed a good chance five years ago. Do you claim people can really go back into the past and correct mistakes they've made?"
"They can go back. What they do when arrive? Depends on them."
"Don't you wish it were true?" she sighed to Jeff.
"You afraid to believe," said Snader, a glimmer of amusement in his restless eyes. "Why not try? What you lose? Come on, look at station. Very near here."
Ann jumped up. "It might be fun, Jeff. Let's see what he means, if anything."
Jeff's pulse quickened. He too felt a sort of midsummer night's madness—a yearning to forget his troubles. "Okay, just for kicks. But we go in my car."
Snader moved ahead to the cashier's stand. Jeff watched the weasel-like grace of his short, broad body.
"This is no ordinary oddball," Jeff told Ann. "He's tricky. He's got some gimmick."
"First I just played him along, to see how loony he was," Ann said.
"Now I wonder who's kidding whom." She concluded thoughtfully, "He's kind of handsome, in a tough way."
II
Snader's "station" proved to be a middle-sized, middle-cost home in a good neighborhood. Lights glowed in the windows. Jeff could hear the whisper of traffic on a boulevard a few blocks away. Through the warm dusk, he could dimly see the mountains on the horizon. All was peaceful.
Snader unlocked the front door with a key which he drew from a fine metal chain around his neck. He swept open the front door with a flourish and beamed at them, but Ann drew back.
"'Walk into my parlor, said the spider to the fly,'" she murmured to Jeff. "This could be a gambling hell. Or a dope den."
"No matter what kind of clip joint, it can't clip us much," he said.
"There's only four bucks in my wallet. My guess is it's a 'temple' for some daffy religious sect."
They went in. A fat man smiled at them from a desk in the hall. Snader said, "Meet Peter Powers. Local agent of our bureau."
The man didn't get up, but nodded comfortably and waved them toward the next room, after a glance at Snader's key.
The key opened this room's door, too. Its spring lock snapped shut after them.
The room was like a doctor's waiting room, with easy chairs along the walls. Its only peculiar aspects were a sign hanging from the middle of the ceiling and two movie screens—or were they giant television screens?—occupying a whole wall at either end of the room.
The sign bore the number 701 in bright yellow on black. Beneath it, an arrow pointed to the screen on the left with the word Ante , and to the right with the word Post .
Jeff studied the big screens. On each, a picture was in motion. One appeared to be moving through a long corridor, lined with seats like a railroad club car. The picture seemed to rush at them from the left wall. When he turned to the right, a similar endless chair-lined corridor moved toward him from that direction.
"Somebody worked hard on this layout," he said to Snader. "What's it for?"
"Time travel," said Snader. "You like?"
"Almost as good as Disneyland. These movies represent the stream of time, I suppose?"
Instead of answering, Snader pointed to the screen. The picture showed a group of people chatting in a fast-moving corridor. As it hurtled toward them, Snader flipped his hand in a genial salute. Two people in the picture waved back.
Ann gasped. "It was just as if they saw us."
"They did," Snader said. "No movie. Time travelers. In fourth dimension. To you, they look like flat picture. To them, we look flat."
"What's he supposed to be?" Jeff asked as the onrushing picture showed them briefly a figure bound hand and foot, huddled in one of the chairs. He stared at them piteously for an instant before the picture surged past.
Snader showed his teeth. "That was convict from my time. We have criminals, like in your time. But we do not kill. We make them work. Where he going? To end of line. To earliest year this time groove reach. About 600 A.D., your calendar. Authorities pick up when he get there. Put him to work."
"What kind of work?" Jeff asked.
"Building the groove further back."
"Sounds like interesting work."
Snader chortled and slapped him on the back. "Maybe you see it some day, but forget that now. You come with me. Little trip."
Jeff was perspiring. This was odder than he expected. Whatever the fakery, it was clever. His curiosity as a technician made him want to know about it. He asked Snader, "Where do you propose to go? And how?"
Snader said, "Watch me. Then look at other wall."
He moved gracefully to the screen on the left wall, stepped into it and disappeared. It was as if he had slid into opaque water.
Jeff and Ann blinked in mystification. Then they remembered his instruction to watch the other screen. They turned. After a moment, in the far distance down the long moving corridor, they could see a stocky figure. The motion of the picture brought him nearer. In a few seconds, he was recognizable as Snader—and as the picture brought him forward, he stepped down out of it and was with them again.
"Simple," Snader said. "I rode to next station. Then crossed over. Took other carrier back here."
"Brother, that's the best trick I've seen in years," Jeff said. "How did you do it? Can I do it, too?"
"I show you." Grinning like a wildcat, Snader linked his arms with Ann and Jeff, and walked them toward the screen. "Now," he said. "Step in."
Jeff submitted to Snader's pressure and stepped cautiously into the screen. Amazingly, he felt no resistance at all, no sense of change or motion. It was like stepping through a fog-bank into another room.
In fact, that was what they seemed to have done. They were in the chair-lined corridor. As Snader turned them around and seated them, they faced another moving picture screen. It seemed to rush through a dark tunnel toward a lighted square in the far distance.
The square grew on the screen. Soon they saw it was another room like the waiting room they had left, except that the number hanging from the ceiling was 702. They seemed to glide through it. Then they were in the dark tunnel again.
Ann was clutching Jeff's arm. He patted her hand. "Fun, hey? Like Alice through the looking-glass."
"You really think we're going back in time?" she whispered.
"Hardly! But we're seeing a million-dollar trick. I can't even begin to figure it out yet."
Another lighted room grew out of the tunnel on the screen, and when they had flickered through it, another and then another.
"Mr. Snader," Ann said unsteadily, "how long—how many years back are you taking us?"
Snader was humming to himself. "Six years. Station 725 fine place to stop."
For a little while, Jeff let himself think it might be true. "Six years ago, your dad was alive," he mused to Ann. "If this should somehow be real, we could see him again."
"We could if we went to our house. He lived with us then, remember? Would we see ourselves, six years younger? Or would—"
Snader took Jeff's arm and pulled him to his feet. The screen was moving through a room numbered 724.
"Soon now," Snader grunted happily. "Then no more questions."
He took an arm of each as he had before. When the screen was filled by a room with the number 725, he propelled them forward into it.
Again there was no sense of motion. They had simply stepped through a bright wall they could not feel. They found themselves in a replica of the room they had left at 701. On the wall, a picture of the continuous club-car corridor rolled toward them in a silent, endless stream.
"The same room," Ann said in disappointment. "They just changed the number. We haven't been anywhere."
Snader was fishing under his shirt for the key. He gave Ann a glance that was almost a leer. Then he carefully unlocked the door.
In the hall, a motherly old lady bustled up, but Snader brushed past her. "Official," he said, showing her the key. "No lodging."
He unlocked the front door without another word and carefully shut it behind them as Jeff and Ann followed him out of the house.
"Hey, where's my car?" Jeff demanded, looking up and down the street.
The whole street looked different. Where he had parked his roadster, there was now a long black limousine.
"Your car is in future," Snader said briskly. "Where it belong. Get in." He opened the door of the limousine.
Jeff felt a little flame of excitement licking inside him. Something was happening, he felt. Something exciting and dangerous.
"Snader," he said, "if you're kidnaping us, you made a mistake. Nobody on Earth will pay ransom for us."
Snader seemed amused. "You are foolish fellow. Silly talk about ransom. You in different time now."
"When does this gag stop?" Jeff demanded irritably. "You haven't fooled us. We're still in 1957."
"You are? Look around."
Jeff looked at the street again. He secretly admitted to himself that these were different trees and houses than he remembered. Even the telephone poles and street lights seemed peculiar, vaguely foreign-looking. It must be an elaborate practical joke. Snader had probably ushered them into one house, then through a tunnel and out another house.
"Get in," Snader said curtly.
Jeff decided to go along with the hoax or whatever it was. He could see no serious risk. He helped Ann into the back seat and sat beside her. Snader slammed the door and slid into the driver's seat. He started the engine with a roar and they rocketed away from the curb, narrowly missing another car.
Jeff yelled, "Easy, man! Look where you're going!"
Snader guffawed. "Tonight, you look where you are going."
Ann clung to Jeff. "Did you notice the house we came out of?"
"What about it?"
"It looked as though they were afraid people might try to break in. There were bars at the windows."
"Lots of houses are built that way, honey. Let's see, where are we?" He glanced at house numbers. "This is the 800 block. Remember that. And the street—" He peered up at a sign as they whirled around a corner.
"The street is Green Thru-Way. I never heard of a street like that."
III
They were headed back toward what should have been the boulevard. The car zoomed through a cloverleaf turn and up onto a broad freeway. Jeff knew for certain there was no freeway there in 1957—nor in any earlier year. But on the horizon, he could see the familiar dark bulk of the mountains. The whole line of moonlit ridges was the same as always.
"Ann," he said slowly, "I think this is for real. Somehow I guess we escaped from 1957. We've been transported in time."
She squeezed his arm. "If I'm dreaming, don't wake me! I was scared a minute ago. But now, oh, boy!"
"Likewise. But I still wonder what Snader's angle is." He leaned forward and tapped the driver on his meaty shoulder. "You brought us into the future instead of the past, didn't you?"
It was hard to know whether Snader was sleepy or just bored, but he shrugged briefly to show there was no reply coming. Then he yawned.
Jeff smiled tightly. "I guess we'll find out in good time. Let's sit back and enjoy the strangest ride of our lives."
As the limousine swept along through the traffic, there were plenty of big signs for turn-offs, but none gave any hint where they were. The names were unfamiliar. Even the language seemed grotesque. "Rite Channel for Creepers," he read. "Yaw for Torrey Rushway" flared at him from a fork in the freeway.
"This can't be the future," Ann said. "This limousine is almost new, but it doesn't even have an automatic gear shift—"
She broke off as the car shot down a ramp off the freeway and pulled up in front of an apartment house. Just beyond was a big shopping center, ablaze with lights and swarming with shoppers. Jeff did not recognize it, in spite of his familiarity with the city.
Snader bounded out, pulled open the rear door and jerked his head in a commanding gesture. But Jeff did not get out. He told Snader, "Let's have some answers before we go any further."
Snader gave him a hard grin. "You hear everything upstairs."
The building appeared harmless enough. Jeff looked thoughtfully at Ann.
She said, "It's just an apartment house. We've come this far. Might as well go in and see what's there."
Snader led them in, up to the sixth floor in an elevator and along a corridor with heavy carpets and soft gold lights. He knocked on a door.
A tall, silver-haired, important-looking man opened it and greeted them heartily.
"Solid man, Greet!" he exclaimed. "You're a real scratcher! And is this our sharp?" He gave Jeff a friendly but appraising look.
"Just what you order," Snader said proudly. "His name—Jeff Elliott. Fine sharp. Best in his circuit. He brings his lifemate, too. Ann Elliott."
The old man rubbed his smooth hands together. "Prime! I wish joy," he said to Ann and Jeff. "I'm Septo Kersey. Come in. Bullen's waiting."
He led them into a spacious drawing room with great windows looking out on the lights of the city. There was a leather chair in a corner, and in it sat a heavy man with a grim mouth. He made no move, but grunted a perfunctory "Wish joy" when Kersey introduced them. His cold eyes studied Jeff while Kersey seated them in big chairs.
Snader did not sit down, however. "No need for me now," he said, and moved toward the door with a mocking wave at Ann.
Bullen nodded. "You get the rest of your pay when Elliott proves out."
"Here, wait a minute!" Jeff called. But Snader was gone.
"Sit still," Bullen growled to Jeff. "You understand radioptics?"
The blood went to Jeff's head. "My business is television, if that's what you mean. What's this about?"
"Tell him, Kersey," the big man said, and stared out the window.
Kersey began, "You understand, I think, that you have come back in time. About six years back."
"That's a matter of opinion, but go on."
"I am general manager of Continental Radioptic Combine, owned by Mr. Dumont Bullen." He nodded toward the big man. "Chromatics have not yet been developed here in connection with radioptics. They are well understood in your time, are they not?"
"What's chromatics? Color television?"
"Exactly. You are an expert in—ah—colored television, I think."
Jeff nodded. "So what?"
The old man beamed at him. "You are here to work for our company. You will enable us to be first with chromatics in this time wave."
Jeff stood up. "Don't tell me who I'll work for."
Bullen slapped a big fist on the arm of his chair. "No fog about this! You're bought and paid for, Elliott! You'll get a fair labor contract, but you do what I say!"
"Why, the man thinks he owns you." Ann laughed shakily.
"You'll find my barmen know their law," Bullen said. "This isn't the way I like to recruit. But it was only way to get a man with your knowledge."
Kersey said politely, "You are here illegally, with no immigrate permit or citizen file. Therefore you cannot get work. But Mr. Bullen has taken an interest in your trouble. Through his influence, you can make a living. We even set aside an apartment in this building for you to live in. You are really very luxe, do you see?"
Jeff's legs felt weak. These highbinders seemed brutally confident. He wondered how he and Ann would find their way home through the strange streets. But he put on a bold front.
"I don't believe your line about time travel and I don't plan to work for you," he said. "My wife and I are walking out right now. Try and stop us, legally or any other way."
Kersey's smooth old face turned hard. But, unexpectedly, Bullen chuckled deep in his throat. "Good pop and bang. Like to see it. Go on, walk out. You hang in trouble, call up here—Butterfly 9, ask for Bullen. Whole exchange us. I'll meet you here about eleven tomorrow pre-noon."
"Don't hold your breath. Let's go, Ann."
When they were on the sidewalk, Ann took a deep breath. "We made it. For a minute, I thought there'd be a brawl. Why did they let us go?"
"No telling. Maybe they're harmless lunatics—or practical jokers." He looked over his shoulder as they walked down the street, but there was no sign of pursuit. "It's a long time since supper."
Her hand was cold in his and her face was white. To take her mind off their problem, he ambled toward the lighted shop windows.
"Look at that sign," he said, pointing to a poster over a display of neckties. "'Sleek neck-sashes, only a Dick and a dollop!' How do they expect to sell stuff with that crazy lingo?"
"It's jive talk. They must cater to the high-school crowd." Ann glanced nervously at the strolling people around them. "Jeff, where are we? This isn't any part of the city I've ever seen. It doesn't even look much like America." Her voice rose. "The way the women are dressed—it's not old-fashioned, just different."
"Baby, don't be scared. This is an adventure. Let's have fun." He pressed her hand soothingly and pulled her toward a lunch counter.
If the haberdasher's sign was jive, the restaurant spoke the same jargon. The signs on the wall and the bill of fare were baffling. Jeff pondered the list of beef shingles, scorchers, smack sticks and fruit chills, until he noticed that a couple at the counter were eating what clearly were hamburgers—though the "buns" looked more like tortillas.
Jeff jerked his thumb at them and told the waitress, "Two, please."
When the sandwiches arrived, they were ordinary enough. He and Ann ate in silence. A feeling of foreboding hung over them.
When they finished, the clerk gave him a check marked 1/20. Jeff looked at it thoughtfully, shrugged and handed it to the cashier with two dollar bills.
The man at the desk glanced at them and laughed. "Stage money, eh?"
"No, that's good money," Jeff assured him with a rather hollow smile.
"They're just new bills, that's all."
The cashier picked one up and looked at it curiously. "I'm afraid it's no good here," he said, and pushed it back.
The bottom dropped out of Jeff's stomach. "What kind of money do you want? This is all I have."
The cashier's smile faded. He caught the eye of a man in uniform on one of the stools. The uniform was dark green, but the man acted like a policeman. He loomed up beside Jeff.
"What's the rasper?" he demanded. Other customers, waiting to pay their checks, eyed Jeff curiously.
"I guess I'm in trouble," Jeff told him. "I'm a stranger here and I got something to eat under the impression that my money was legal tender. Do you know where I can exchange it?"
The officer picked up the dollar bill and fingered it with evident interest. He turned it over and studied the printing. "United States of America," he read aloud. "What are those?"
"It's the name of the country I come from," Jeff said carefully.
"I—uh—got on the wrong train, apparently, and must have come further than I thought. What's the name of this place?"
"This is Costa, West Goodland, in the Continental Federation. Say, you must come from an umpty remote part of the world if you don't know about this country." His eyes narrowed. "Where'd you learn to speak Federal, if you come from so far?"
Jeff said helplessly, "I can't explain, if you don't know about the United States. Listen, can you take me to a bank, or some place where they know about foreign exchange?"
The policeman scowled. "How'd you get into this country, anyway? You got immigrate clearance?"
An angry muttering started among the bystanders.
The policeman made up his mind. "You come with me."
At the police station, Jeff put his elbows dejectedly on the high counter while the policeman talked to an officer in charge. Some men whom Jeff took for reporters got up from a table and eased over to listen.
"I don't know whether to charge them with fakemake, bumsy, peekage or lunate," the policeman said as he finished.
His superior gave Jeff a long puzzled stare.
Jeff sighed. "I know it sounds impossible, but a man brought me in something he claimed was a time traveler. You speak the same language I do—more or less—but everything else is kind of unfamiliar. I belong in the United States, a country in North America. I can't believe I'm so far in the future that the United States has been forgotten."
There ensued a long, confused, inconclusive interrogation.
The man behind the desk asked questions which seemed stupid to Jeff and got answers which probably seemed stupid to him.
The reporters quizzed Jeff gleefully. "Come out, what are you advertising?" they kept asking. "Who got you up to this?"
The police puzzled over his driver's license and the other cards in his wallet. They asked repeatedly about the lack of a "Work License," which Jeff took to be some sort of union card. Evidently there was grave doubt that he had any legal right to be in the country.
In the end, Jeff and Ann were locked in separate cells for the night. Jeff groaned and pounded the bars as he thought of his wife, imprisoned and alone in a smelly jail. After hours of pacing the cell, he lay down in the cot and reached automatically for his silver pillbox. Then he hesitated.
In past weeks, his insomnia had grown worse and worse, so that lately he had begun taking stronger pills. After a longing glance at the big red and yellow capsules, he put the box away. Whatever tomorrow brought, it wouldn't find him slow and drowsy.
IV
He passed a wakeful night. In the early morning, he looked up to see a little man with a briefcase at his cell door.
"Wish joy, Mr. Elliott," the man said coolly. "I am one of Mr. Bullen's barmen. You know, represent at law? He sent me to arrange your release, if you are ready to be reasonable."
Jeff lay there and put his hands behind his head. "I doubt if I'm ready. I'm comfortable here. By the way, how did you know where I was?"
"No problem. When we read in this morning's newspapers about a man claiming to be a time traveler, we knew."
"All right. Now start explaining. Until I understand where I am, Bullen isn't getting me out of here."
The lawyer smiled and sat down. "Mr. Kersey told you yesterday—you've gone back six years. But you'll need some mental gymnastics to understand. Time is a dimension, not a stream of events like a movie film. A film never changes. Space does—and time does. For example, if a movie showed a burning house at Sixth and Main, would you expect to find a house burning whenever you returned to that corner?"
"You mean to say that if I went back to 1865, I wouldn't find the Civil War was over and Lincoln had been assassinated?"
"If you go back to the time you call 1865—which is most easily done—you will find that the people there know nothing of a Lincoln or that war."
Jeff looked blank. "What are they doing then?"
The little man spread his hands. "What are the people doing now at Sixth and Main? Certainly not the same things they were doing the day of the fire. We're talking about a dimension, not an event. Don't you grasp the difference between the two?"
"Nope. To me, 1865 means the end of the Civil War. How else can you speak of a point in time except by the events that happened then?"
"Well, if you go to a place in three-dimensional space—say, a lake in the mountains—how do you identify that place? By looking for landmarks. It doesn't matter that an eagle is soaring over a mountain peak. That's only an event. The peak is the landmark. You follow me?"
"So far. Keep talking."
Question:
Describe the settings the story takes place in.
Answer:
|
[
"The story takes place on Earth, in the year 1957. It opens in a restaurant, and quickly transitions to Mr. Snader’s 4-D TRAVEL BEURO time travel station, inside of a “middle-sized, middle-cost home in a good neighborhood.” They could hear traffic dimly in the station and see mountains out the windows on the horizon. \n\nThe time travelling room appears like a doctor's waiting room, with chair lined walls. There is a station sign - 701 - that hangs on the ceiling and two movie screens on the far ends of the room. Stepping through one screen would take them forwards in time, and one backwards in time. The Elliotts go to station 725, which Mr. Snader tells them is six years in the past.\n\nThe past is very unfamiliar, more industrialized with more highways than they remember. After travelling in a limousine, they transition to a 6th floor apartment house of a building with heavy carpets and soft lighting.\nThe final settings are a lunch counter, with unfamiliar food to the Elliotts, and finally their jail cells.\n",
"Ann and Jeff meet Greet Snader in a restaurant where they are having dinner and discussing Jeff’s business troubles. After meeting Snader, they follow him to a place called a “station.” They are surprised to find that it’s actually a moderately-sized home in a residential neighborhood. It doesn’t look suspicious at all. Jeff notes the mountains on the horizon and the warm breeze he feels before he steps inside. Snader uses a key hanging from his necklace to unlock the door, and once inside, he leads the couple to an area that looks a lot like a doctor’s waiting room. However, there are two screens hanging from the ceiling, and they are both playing moving pictures. There is a large plaque that says “701”, and Jeff and Ann do not know what to make of it. They are even more dumbfounded when Snader salutes some of the people on screen, and they wave back at him. \n\nAfter Jeff and Ann time travel, they exit the screen and find that the room looks very similar to the one they were just in. For a moment, they believe that Snader has tricked them. However, when they leave the building, they find a limousine out front instead of Jeff’s car. They drive through the city they call home, but none of the signs and landmarks are even remotely the same. \n\nAfter leaving Mr. Bullen’s office, they walk around town a little bit and quickly realize that the language on all the signage is different from how they speak. One reads, “'Sleek neck-sashes, only a Dick and a dollop!” Ann also notes that the women dress strangely, and it’s unlike anything she’s ever seen before. After noticing that all of the food at the restaurant looks slightly different than what they’re used to, they learn that they are actually in the town of Costa, in the state of West Goodland, in the country of Continental Federation. The language they are speaking is called Federal, and the cash they are using appears to be counterfeit. Although Jeff and Ann believed they would be returning to the exact same world they knew six years ago when Ann’s father was alive and he lived with them, they were misled by Snader. The couple was actually taken to a different dimension where events have unfolded in completely different ways.\n",
"The first setting is 1957 in a small, crowded, noisy, and hot restaurant. Jeff and Ann are having dinner, and Snader’s table is near enough that he can overhear the couple talking. This enables him to join their conversation and eventually lure them into time travel.\nSnader takes the Elliotts to the second setting, the station where he begins their time travel. The station is located in a mid-sized house in a middle-class neighborhood. Lights are glowing in the windows as they arrive, and outside they can hear the traffic on the boulevard a few blocks away. It is dusk, the weather is warm, and Jeff can see the mountains on the horizon. Snader unlocks the door, and they are greeted by a man at a desk in the hallway who sends them to another room. \nThis room is the station. A sign with the number 701 hangs from the middle of the ceiling, and there are two big screens like movies screens hanging on one wall, showing movement through a corridor with rows of seats like a railroad car. There are easy chairs along the walls, making it look like a doctor’s office waiting room. \nWhen they enter the screen, they are in the chair-lined corridor. Snader tells the Elliotts to sit, and they face a screen like the one in the room they had just left. The image on the screen makes it look as if they are racing through a dark tunnel toward a light at the far end. As they approach the light, they see a room like 701, but this one is 702. They exit at room 725 by stepping through the screen.\nStation 725 looks much like 701, but when they leave the room, there is a motherly old lady outside. Snader tells them they aren’t there for lodging, and they leave the house. Outside, Jeff notices his car is missing. Snader tells him it’s in the future. The street outside the house has different trees and houses than he remembered in the neighborhood with the 701 station. Telephone poles and streetlights also seem different. As the limousine pulls away from the curb, Jeff makes it a point to remember the street name, Green Thru-Way, and the block number, 800. Ann notices bars on the windows of the house. The limo heads onto a freeway where the boulevard should be, but the mountains are the same as always. Signs are unfamiliar and have strange wording like Rite Channel for Creepers and Yaw for Torrey Rushway.\nSnader takes the Elliotts to an apartment building near a shopping center with bright lights and lots of shoppers, neither of which are familiar. Snader escorts them inside the apartment building, riding the elevator to the sixth floor and traversing a heavily carpeted hallway with soft gold lights. Later they eat at a restaurant with unfamiliar food names and monetary units; their check is for 1/20. Finally, the Elliotts are imprisoned in a jail with smelly cells.\n\n",
"The story starts in a restaurant, but quickly moves to a house that is known as the 4-D Travel Beuro. This is a fairly typical, mid-range house of average size in a good neighborhood, which keeps it from sticking out in any way because nobody would be suspicious of it. Inside the house there are a number of ornate rooms locked behind closed doors, guarded by a bureau agent known as Peter Powers. Behind one of these doors is the room that serves as station 701 on this particular time groove, that has two large screens that show moving images of people who seem to be aware of the people standing in the room. People can easily step into these rooms and find themselves traveling on a time groove, and this is how Jeff and Ann travel to the time Snader is from. Once they have traveled through time, they expect to see the same suburban neighborhood but much of the context has changed: a different highway, different cars, and different houses. The people in this time use different currency and have different vocabulary than the people Jeff and Ann are used to. After some time in lockup, Jeff and Ann also encounter an apartment building. On the sixth floor of this building, they meet the man who hired Snader to find Jeff. There is an ornate drawing room where Jeff and Ann have a meeting with Septo Kersey and a man named Bullen who are hoping they can use Jeff's expertise to move ahead of the technological developments of their own time. Refusing to help, Jeff and Ann leave and are eventually captured for not having legal money, and the story ends with them in a holding cell at a local police station."
] |
51167
|
Butterfly 9
By DONALD KEITH
Illustrated by GAUGHAN
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction January 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Jeff needed a job and this man had a job to offer—one where giant economy-size trouble had labels like fakemake, bumsy and peekage!
I
At first, Jeff scarcely noticed the bold-looking man at the next table. Nor did Ann. Their minds were busy with Jeff's troubles.
"You're still the smartest color engineer in television," Ann told Jeff as they dallied with their food. "You'll bounce back. Now eat your supper."
"This beanery is too noisy and hot," he grumbled. "I can't eat. Can't talk. Can't think." He took a silver pillbox from his pocket and fumbled for a black one. Those were vitamin pills; the big red and yellow ones were sleeping capsules. He gulped the pill.
Ann looked disapproving in a wifely way. "Lately you chew pills like popcorn," she said. "Do you really need so many?"
"I need something. I'm sure losing my grip."
Ann stared at him. "Baby! How silly! Nothing happened, except you lost your lease. You'll build up a better company in a new spot. We're young yet."
Jeff sighed and glanced around the crowded little restaurant. He wished he could fly away somewhere. At that moment, he met the gaze of the mustachioed man at the next table.
The fellow seemed to be watching him and Ann. Something in his confident gaze made Jeff uneasy. Had they met before?
Ann whispered, "So you noticed him, too. Maybe he's following us. I think I saw him on the parking lot where we left the car."
Jeff shrugged his big shoulders. "If he's following us, he's nuts. We've got no secrets and no money."
"It must be my maddening beauty," said Ann.
"I'll kick him cross-eyed if he starts anything," Jeff said. "I'm just in the mood."
Ann giggled. "Honey, what big veins you have! Forget him. Let's talk about the engineering lab you're going to start. And let's eat."
He groaned. "I lose my appetite every time I think about the building being sold. It isn't worth the twelve grand. I wouldn't buy it for that if I could. What burns me is that, five years ago, I could have bought it for two thousand."
"If only we could go back five years." She shrugged fatalistically.
"But since we can't—"
The character at the next table leaned over and spoke to them, grinning. "You like to get away? You wish to go back?"
Jeff glanced across in annoyance. The man was evidently a salesman, with extra gall.
"Not now, thanks," Jeff said. "Haven't time."
The man waved his thick hand at the clock, as if to abolish time.
"Time? That is nothing. Your little lady. She spoke of go back five years. Maybe I help you."
He spoke in an odd clipped way, obviously a foreigner. His shirt was yellow. His suit had a silky sheen. Its peculiar tailoring emphasized the bulges in his stubby, muscular torso.
Ann smiled back at him. "You talk as if you could take us back to 1952. Is that what you really mean?"
"Why not? You think this silly. But I can show you."
Jeff rose to go. "Mister, you better get to a doctor. Ann, it's time we started home."
Ann laid a hand on his sleeve. "I haven't finished eating. Let's chat with the gent." She added in an undertone to Jeff, "Must be a psycho—but sort of an inspired one."
The man said to Ann, "You are kind lady, I think. Good to crazy people. I join you."
He did not wait for consent, but slid into a seat at their table with an easy grace that was almost arrogant.
"You are unhappy in 1957," he went on. "Discouraged. Restless. Why not take trip to another time?"
"Why not?" Ann said gaily. "How much does it cost?"
"Free trial trip. Cost nothing. See whether you like. Then maybe we talk money." He handed Jeff a card made of a stiff plastic substance.
Jeff glanced at it, then handed it to Ann with a half-smile. It read:
4-D TRAVEL BEURO Greet Snader, Traffic Ajent
"Mr. Snader's bureau is different," Jeff said to his wife. "He even spells it different."
Snader chuckled. "I come from other time. We spell otherwise."
"You mean you come from the future?"
"Just different time. I show you. You come with me?"
"Come where?" Jeff asked, studying Snader's mocking eyes. The man didn't seem a mere eccentric. He had a peculiar suggestion of humor and force.
"Come on little trip to different time," invited Snader. He added persuasively, "Could be back here in hour."
"It would be painless, I suppose?" Jeff gave it a touch of derision.
"Maybe not. That is risk you take. But look at me. I make trips every day. I look damaged?"
As a matter of fact, he did. His thick-fleshed face bore a scar and his nose was broad and flat, as if it had been broken. But Jeff politely agreed that he did not look damaged.
Ann was enjoying this. "Tell me more, Mr. Snader. How does your time travel work?"
"Cannot explain. Same if you are asked how subway train works. Too complicated." He flashed his white teeth. "You think time travel not possible. Just like television not possible to your grandfather."
Ann said, "Why invite us? We're not rich enough for expensive trips."
"Invite many people," Snader said quickly. "Not expensive. You know Missing Persons lists, from police? Dozens people disappear. They go with me to other time. Many stay."
"Oh, sure," Jeff said. "But how do you select the ones to invite?"
"Find ones like you, Mr. Elliott. Ones who want change, escape."
Jeff was slightly startled. How did this fellow know his name was Elliott?
Before he could ask, Ann popped another question. "Mr. Snader, you heard us talking. You know we're in trouble because Jeff missed a good chance five years ago. Do you claim people can really go back into the past and correct mistakes they've made?"
"They can go back. What they do when arrive? Depends on them."
"Don't you wish it were true?" she sighed to Jeff.
"You afraid to believe," said Snader, a glimmer of amusement in his restless eyes. "Why not try? What you lose? Come on, look at station. Very near here."
Ann jumped up. "It might be fun, Jeff. Let's see what he means, if anything."
Jeff's pulse quickened. He too felt a sort of midsummer night's madness—a yearning to forget his troubles. "Okay, just for kicks. But we go in my car."
Snader moved ahead to the cashier's stand. Jeff watched the weasel-like grace of his short, broad body.
"This is no ordinary oddball," Jeff told Ann. "He's tricky. He's got some gimmick."
"First I just played him along, to see how loony he was," Ann said.
"Now I wonder who's kidding whom." She concluded thoughtfully, "He's kind of handsome, in a tough way."
II
Snader's "station" proved to be a middle-sized, middle-cost home in a good neighborhood. Lights glowed in the windows. Jeff could hear the whisper of traffic on a boulevard a few blocks away. Through the warm dusk, he could dimly see the mountains on the horizon. All was peaceful.
Snader unlocked the front door with a key which he drew from a fine metal chain around his neck. He swept open the front door with a flourish and beamed at them, but Ann drew back.
"'Walk into my parlor, said the spider to the fly,'" she murmured to Jeff. "This could be a gambling hell. Or a dope den."
"No matter what kind of clip joint, it can't clip us much," he said.
"There's only four bucks in my wallet. My guess is it's a 'temple' for some daffy religious sect."
They went in. A fat man smiled at them from a desk in the hall. Snader said, "Meet Peter Powers. Local agent of our bureau."
The man didn't get up, but nodded comfortably and waved them toward the next room, after a glance at Snader's key.
The key opened this room's door, too. Its spring lock snapped shut after them.
The room was like a doctor's waiting room, with easy chairs along the walls. Its only peculiar aspects were a sign hanging from the middle of the ceiling and two movie screens—or were they giant television screens?—occupying a whole wall at either end of the room.
The sign bore the number 701 in bright yellow on black. Beneath it, an arrow pointed to the screen on the left with the word Ante , and to the right with the word Post .
Jeff studied the big screens. On each, a picture was in motion. One appeared to be moving through a long corridor, lined with seats like a railroad club car. The picture seemed to rush at them from the left wall. When he turned to the right, a similar endless chair-lined corridor moved toward him from that direction.
"Somebody worked hard on this layout," he said to Snader. "What's it for?"
"Time travel," said Snader. "You like?"
"Almost as good as Disneyland. These movies represent the stream of time, I suppose?"
Instead of answering, Snader pointed to the screen. The picture showed a group of people chatting in a fast-moving corridor. As it hurtled toward them, Snader flipped his hand in a genial salute. Two people in the picture waved back.
Ann gasped. "It was just as if they saw us."
"They did," Snader said. "No movie. Time travelers. In fourth dimension. To you, they look like flat picture. To them, we look flat."
"What's he supposed to be?" Jeff asked as the onrushing picture showed them briefly a figure bound hand and foot, huddled in one of the chairs. He stared at them piteously for an instant before the picture surged past.
Snader showed his teeth. "That was convict from my time. We have criminals, like in your time. But we do not kill. We make them work. Where he going? To end of line. To earliest year this time groove reach. About 600 A.D., your calendar. Authorities pick up when he get there. Put him to work."
"What kind of work?" Jeff asked.
"Building the groove further back."
"Sounds like interesting work."
Snader chortled and slapped him on the back. "Maybe you see it some day, but forget that now. You come with me. Little trip."
Jeff was perspiring. This was odder than he expected. Whatever the fakery, it was clever. His curiosity as a technician made him want to know about it. He asked Snader, "Where do you propose to go? And how?"
Snader said, "Watch me. Then look at other wall."
He moved gracefully to the screen on the left wall, stepped into it and disappeared. It was as if he had slid into opaque water.
Jeff and Ann blinked in mystification. Then they remembered his instruction to watch the other screen. They turned. After a moment, in the far distance down the long moving corridor, they could see a stocky figure. The motion of the picture brought him nearer. In a few seconds, he was recognizable as Snader—and as the picture brought him forward, he stepped down out of it and was with them again.
"Simple," Snader said. "I rode to next station. Then crossed over. Took other carrier back here."
"Brother, that's the best trick I've seen in years," Jeff said. "How did you do it? Can I do it, too?"
"I show you." Grinning like a wildcat, Snader linked his arms with Ann and Jeff, and walked them toward the screen. "Now," he said. "Step in."
Jeff submitted to Snader's pressure and stepped cautiously into the screen. Amazingly, he felt no resistance at all, no sense of change or motion. It was like stepping through a fog-bank into another room.
In fact, that was what they seemed to have done. They were in the chair-lined corridor. As Snader turned them around and seated them, they faced another moving picture screen. It seemed to rush through a dark tunnel toward a lighted square in the far distance.
The square grew on the screen. Soon they saw it was another room like the waiting room they had left, except that the number hanging from the ceiling was 702. They seemed to glide through it. Then they were in the dark tunnel again.
Ann was clutching Jeff's arm. He patted her hand. "Fun, hey? Like Alice through the looking-glass."
"You really think we're going back in time?" she whispered.
"Hardly! But we're seeing a million-dollar trick. I can't even begin to figure it out yet."
Another lighted room grew out of the tunnel on the screen, and when they had flickered through it, another and then another.
"Mr. Snader," Ann said unsteadily, "how long—how many years back are you taking us?"
Snader was humming to himself. "Six years. Station 725 fine place to stop."
For a little while, Jeff let himself think it might be true. "Six years ago, your dad was alive," he mused to Ann. "If this should somehow be real, we could see him again."
"We could if we went to our house. He lived with us then, remember? Would we see ourselves, six years younger? Or would—"
Snader took Jeff's arm and pulled him to his feet. The screen was moving through a room numbered 724.
"Soon now," Snader grunted happily. "Then no more questions."
He took an arm of each as he had before. When the screen was filled by a room with the number 725, he propelled them forward into it.
Again there was no sense of motion. They had simply stepped through a bright wall they could not feel. They found themselves in a replica of the room they had left at 701. On the wall, a picture of the continuous club-car corridor rolled toward them in a silent, endless stream.
"The same room," Ann said in disappointment. "They just changed the number. We haven't been anywhere."
Snader was fishing under his shirt for the key. He gave Ann a glance that was almost a leer. Then he carefully unlocked the door.
In the hall, a motherly old lady bustled up, but Snader brushed past her. "Official," he said, showing her the key. "No lodging."
He unlocked the front door without another word and carefully shut it behind them as Jeff and Ann followed him out of the house.
"Hey, where's my car?" Jeff demanded, looking up and down the street.
The whole street looked different. Where he had parked his roadster, there was now a long black limousine.
"Your car is in future," Snader said briskly. "Where it belong. Get in." He opened the door of the limousine.
Jeff felt a little flame of excitement licking inside him. Something was happening, he felt. Something exciting and dangerous.
"Snader," he said, "if you're kidnaping us, you made a mistake. Nobody on Earth will pay ransom for us."
Snader seemed amused. "You are foolish fellow. Silly talk about ransom. You in different time now."
"When does this gag stop?" Jeff demanded irritably. "You haven't fooled us. We're still in 1957."
"You are? Look around."
Jeff looked at the street again. He secretly admitted to himself that these were different trees and houses than he remembered. Even the telephone poles and street lights seemed peculiar, vaguely foreign-looking. It must be an elaborate practical joke. Snader had probably ushered them into one house, then through a tunnel and out another house.
"Get in," Snader said curtly.
Jeff decided to go along with the hoax or whatever it was. He could see no serious risk. He helped Ann into the back seat and sat beside her. Snader slammed the door and slid into the driver's seat. He started the engine with a roar and they rocketed away from the curb, narrowly missing another car.
Jeff yelled, "Easy, man! Look where you're going!"
Snader guffawed. "Tonight, you look where you are going."
Ann clung to Jeff. "Did you notice the house we came out of?"
"What about it?"
"It looked as though they were afraid people might try to break in. There were bars at the windows."
"Lots of houses are built that way, honey. Let's see, where are we?" He glanced at house numbers. "This is the 800 block. Remember that. And the street—" He peered up at a sign as they whirled around a corner.
"The street is Green Thru-Way. I never heard of a street like that."
III
They were headed back toward what should have been the boulevard. The car zoomed through a cloverleaf turn and up onto a broad freeway. Jeff knew for certain there was no freeway there in 1957—nor in any earlier year. But on the horizon, he could see the familiar dark bulk of the mountains. The whole line of moonlit ridges was the same as always.
"Ann," he said slowly, "I think this is for real. Somehow I guess we escaped from 1957. We've been transported in time."
She squeezed his arm. "If I'm dreaming, don't wake me! I was scared a minute ago. But now, oh, boy!"
"Likewise. But I still wonder what Snader's angle is." He leaned forward and tapped the driver on his meaty shoulder. "You brought us into the future instead of the past, didn't you?"
It was hard to know whether Snader was sleepy or just bored, but he shrugged briefly to show there was no reply coming. Then he yawned.
Jeff smiled tightly. "I guess we'll find out in good time. Let's sit back and enjoy the strangest ride of our lives."
As the limousine swept along through the traffic, there were plenty of big signs for turn-offs, but none gave any hint where they were. The names were unfamiliar. Even the language seemed grotesque. "Rite Channel for Creepers," he read. "Yaw for Torrey Rushway" flared at him from a fork in the freeway.
"This can't be the future," Ann said. "This limousine is almost new, but it doesn't even have an automatic gear shift—"
She broke off as the car shot down a ramp off the freeway and pulled up in front of an apartment house. Just beyond was a big shopping center, ablaze with lights and swarming with shoppers. Jeff did not recognize it, in spite of his familiarity with the city.
Snader bounded out, pulled open the rear door and jerked his head in a commanding gesture. But Jeff did not get out. He told Snader, "Let's have some answers before we go any further."
Snader gave him a hard grin. "You hear everything upstairs."
The building appeared harmless enough. Jeff looked thoughtfully at Ann.
She said, "It's just an apartment house. We've come this far. Might as well go in and see what's there."
Snader led them in, up to the sixth floor in an elevator and along a corridor with heavy carpets and soft gold lights. He knocked on a door.
A tall, silver-haired, important-looking man opened it and greeted them heartily.
"Solid man, Greet!" he exclaimed. "You're a real scratcher! And is this our sharp?" He gave Jeff a friendly but appraising look.
"Just what you order," Snader said proudly. "His name—Jeff Elliott. Fine sharp. Best in his circuit. He brings his lifemate, too. Ann Elliott."
The old man rubbed his smooth hands together. "Prime! I wish joy," he said to Ann and Jeff. "I'm Septo Kersey. Come in. Bullen's waiting."
He led them into a spacious drawing room with great windows looking out on the lights of the city. There was a leather chair in a corner, and in it sat a heavy man with a grim mouth. He made no move, but grunted a perfunctory "Wish joy" when Kersey introduced them. His cold eyes studied Jeff while Kersey seated them in big chairs.
Snader did not sit down, however. "No need for me now," he said, and moved toward the door with a mocking wave at Ann.
Bullen nodded. "You get the rest of your pay when Elliott proves out."
"Here, wait a minute!" Jeff called. But Snader was gone.
"Sit still," Bullen growled to Jeff. "You understand radioptics?"
The blood went to Jeff's head. "My business is television, if that's what you mean. What's this about?"
"Tell him, Kersey," the big man said, and stared out the window.
Kersey began, "You understand, I think, that you have come back in time. About six years back."
"That's a matter of opinion, but go on."
"I am general manager of Continental Radioptic Combine, owned by Mr. Dumont Bullen." He nodded toward the big man. "Chromatics have not yet been developed here in connection with radioptics. They are well understood in your time, are they not?"
"What's chromatics? Color television?"
"Exactly. You are an expert in—ah—colored television, I think."
Jeff nodded. "So what?"
The old man beamed at him. "You are here to work for our company. You will enable us to be first with chromatics in this time wave."
Jeff stood up. "Don't tell me who I'll work for."
Bullen slapped a big fist on the arm of his chair. "No fog about this! You're bought and paid for, Elliott! You'll get a fair labor contract, but you do what I say!"
"Why, the man thinks he owns you." Ann laughed shakily.
"You'll find my barmen know their law," Bullen said. "This isn't the way I like to recruit. But it was only way to get a man with your knowledge."
Kersey said politely, "You are here illegally, with no immigrate permit or citizen file. Therefore you cannot get work. But Mr. Bullen has taken an interest in your trouble. Through his influence, you can make a living. We even set aside an apartment in this building for you to live in. You are really very luxe, do you see?"
Jeff's legs felt weak. These highbinders seemed brutally confident. He wondered how he and Ann would find their way home through the strange streets. But he put on a bold front.
"I don't believe your line about time travel and I don't plan to work for you," he said. "My wife and I are walking out right now. Try and stop us, legally or any other way."
Kersey's smooth old face turned hard. But, unexpectedly, Bullen chuckled deep in his throat. "Good pop and bang. Like to see it. Go on, walk out. You hang in trouble, call up here—Butterfly 9, ask for Bullen. Whole exchange us. I'll meet you here about eleven tomorrow pre-noon."
"Don't hold your breath. Let's go, Ann."
When they were on the sidewalk, Ann took a deep breath. "We made it. For a minute, I thought there'd be a brawl. Why did they let us go?"
"No telling. Maybe they're harmless lunatics—or practical jokers." He looked over his shoulder as they walked down the street, but there was no sign of pursuit. "It's a long time since supper."
Her hand was cold in his and her face was white. To take her mind off their problem, he ambled toward the lighted shop windows.
"Look at that sign," he said, pointing to a poster over a display of neckties. "'Sleek neck-sashes, only a Dick and a dollop!' How do they expect to sell stuff with that crazy lingo?"
"It's jive talk. They must cater to the high-school crowd." Ann glanced nervously at the strolling people around them. "Jeff, where are we? This isn't any part of the city I've ever seen. It doesn't even look much like America." Her voice rose. "The way the women are dressed—it's not old-fashioned, just different."
"Baby, don't be scared. This is an adventure. Let's have fun." He pressed her hand soothingly and pulled her toward a lunch counter.
If the haberdasher's sign was jive, the restaurant spoke the same jargon. The signs on the wall and the bill of fare were baffling. Jeff pondered the list of beef shingles, scorchers, smack sticks and fruit chills, until he noticed that a couple at the counter were eating what clearly were hamburgers—though the "buns" looked more like tortillas.
Jeff jerked his thumb at them and told the waitress, "Two, please."
When the sandwiches arrived, they were ordinary enough. He and Ann ate in silence. A feeling of foreboding hung over them.
When they finished, the clerk gave him a check marked 1/20. Jeff looked at it thoughtfully, shrugged and handed it to the cashier with two dollar bills.
The man at the desk glanced at them and laughed. "Stage money, eh?"
"No, that's good money," Jeff assured him with a rather hollow smile.
"They're just new bills, that's all."
The cashier picked one up and looked at it curiously. "I'm afraid it's no good here," he said, and pushed it back.
The bottom dropped out of Jeff's stomach. "What kind of money do you want? This is all I have."
The cashier's smile faded. He caught the eye of a man in uniform on one of the stools. The uniform was dark green, but the man acted like a policeman. He loomed up beside Jeff.
"What's the rasper?" he demanded. Other customers, waiting to pay their checks, eyed Jeff curiously.
"I guess I'm in trouble," Jeff told him. "I'm a stranger here and I got something to eat under the impression that my money was legal tender. Do you know where I can exchange it?"
The officer picked up the dollar bill and fingered it with evident interest. He turned it over and studied the printing. "United States of America," he read aloud. "What are those?"
"It's the name of the country I come from," Jeff said carefully.
"I—uh—got on the wrong train, apparently, and must have come further than I thought. What's the name of this place?"
"This is Costa, West Goodland, in the Continental Federation. Say, you must come from an umpty remote part of the world if you don't know about this country." His eyes narrowed. "Where'd you learn to speak Federal, if you come from so far?"
Jeff said helplessly, "I can't explain, if you don't know about the United States. Listen, can you take me to a bank, or some place where they know about foreign exchange?"
The policeman scowled. "How'd you get into this country, anyway? You got immigrate clearance?"
An angry muttering started among the bystanders.
The policeman made up his mind. "You come with me."
At the police station, Jeff put his elbows dejectedly on the high counter while the policeman talked to an officer in charge. Some men whom Jeff took for reporters got up from a table and eased over to listen.
"I don't know whether to charge them with fakemake, bumsy, peekage or lunate," the policeman said as he finished.
His superior gave Jeff a long puzzled stare.
Jeff sighed. "I know it sounds impossible, but a man brought me in something he claimed was a time traveler. You speak the same language I do—more or less—but everything else is kind of unfamiliar. I belong in the United States, a country in North America. I can't believe I'm so far in the future that the United States has been forgotten."
There ensued a long, confused, inconclusive interrogation.
The man behind the desk asked questions which seemed stupid to Jeff and got answers which probably seemed stupid to him.
The reporters quizzed Jeff gleefully. "Come out, what are you advertising?" they kept asking. "Who got you up to this?"
The police puzzled over his driver's license and the other cards in his wallet. They asked repeatedly about the lack of a "Work License," which Jeff took to be some sort of union card. Evidently there was grave doubt that he had any legal right to be in the country.
In the end, Jeff and Ann were locked in separate cells for the night. Jeff groaned and pounded the bars as he thought of his wife, imprisoned and alone in a smelly jail. After hours of pacing the cell, he lay down in the cot and reached automatically for his silver pillbox. Then he hesitated.
In past weeks, his insomnia had grown worse and worse, so that lately he had begun taking stronger pills. After a longing glance at the big red and yellow capsules, he put the box away. Whatever tomorrow brought, it wouldn't find him slow and drowsy.
IV
He passed a wakeful night. In the early morning, he looked up to see a little man with a briefcase at his cell door.
"Wish joy, Mr. Elliott," the man said coolly. "I am one of Mr. Bullen's barmen. You know, represent at law? He sent me to arrange your release, if you are ready to be reasonable."
Jeff lay there and put his hands behind his head. "I doubt if I'm ready. I'm comfortable here. By the way, how did you know where I was?"
"No problem. When we read in this morning's newspapers about a man claiming to be a time traveler, we knew."
"All right. Now start explaining. Until I understand where I am, Bullen isn't getting me out of here."
The lawyer smiled and sat down. "Mr. Kersey told you yesterday—you've gone back six years. But you'll need some mental gymnastics to understand. Time is a dimension, not a stream of events like a movie film. A film never changes. Space does—and time does. For example, if a movie showed a burning house at Sixth and Main, would you expect to find a house burning whenever you returned to that corner?"
"You mean to say that if I went back to 1865, I wouldn't find the Civil War was over and Lincoln had been assassinated?"
"If you go back to the time you call 1865—which is most easily done—you will find that the people there know nothing of a Lincoln or that war."
Jeff looked blank. "What are they doing then?"
The little man spread his hands. "What are the people doing now at Sixth and Main? Certainly not the same things they were doing the day of the fire. We're talking about a dimension, not an event. Don't you grasp the difference between the two?"
"Nope. To me, 1865 means the end of the Civil War. How else can you speak of a point in time except by the events that happened then?"
"Well, if you go to a place in three-dimensional space—say, a lake in the mountains—how do you identify that place? By looking for landmarks. It doesn't matter that an eagle is soaring over a mountain peak. That's only an event. The peak is the landmark. You follow me?"
"So far. Keep talking."
|
What is Gurn's role in the story?
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After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about Raiders of the Second Moon by Basil Wells.
Relevant chunks:
Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
Raiders of the Second Moon
By GENE ELLERMAN
A strange destiny had erased Noork's memory,
and had brought him to this tiny world—to
write an end to his first existence.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Summer 1945.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Beyond earth swings that airless pocked mass of fused rock and gray
volcanic dust that we know as Luna. Of this our naked eyes assure us.
But of the smaller satellite, hidden forever from the mundane view by
Luna's bulk, we know little.
Small is Sekk, that second moon, less than five hundred miles in
diameter, but the period of its revolution is thirty two hours, and its
meaner mass retains a breathable atmosphere. There is life on Sekk,
life that centers around the sunken star-shaped cavity where an oval
lake gleams softly in the depths. And the eleven radiating tips of the
starry abyss are valleys green with jungle growth.
In one of those green valleys the white savage that the Vasads called
Noork squatted in the ample crotch of a jungle giant and watched the
trail forty feet below. For down there moved alertly a golden skinned
girl, her only weapons a puny polished bow of yellow wood and a
sheathed dagger.
Sight of the girl's flowing brown hair and the graceful feminine
contours of her smooth-limbed body beneath its skin-halter and the
insignificant breech-clout, made his brow wrinkle with concentration.
Not forever had he lived in this jungle world of valleys and ragged
cliffs. Since he had learned the tongue of the hairy Vasads of forest,
and the tongue of their gold-skinned leader, Gurn, the renegade, he had
confirmed that belief.
For a huge gleaming bird had carried him in its talons to the top of
the cliff above their valley and from the rock fire had risen to devour
the great bird. Somehow he had been flung clear and escaped the death
of the mysterious bird-thing. And in his delirium he had babbled the
words that caused the apish Vasads to name him Noork. Now he repeated
them aloud.
"New York," he said, "good ol' New York."
The girl heard. She looked upward fearfully, her rounded bare arm going
back to the bow slung across her shoulder. Swiftly she fitted an arrow
and stepped back against the friendly bole of a shaggy barked jungle
giant. Noork grinned.
"Tako, woman," he greeted her.
"Tako," she replied fearfully. "Who speaks to Tholon Sarna? Be you
hunter or escaped slave?"
"A friend," said Noork simply. "It was I who killed the spotted
narl
last night when it attacked you."
Doubtfully the girl put away her bow. Her fingers, however, were never
far from the hilt of her hunting dagger.
Noork swung outward from his perch, and then downward along the ladder
of limbs to her side. The girl exclaimed at his brown skin.
"Your hair is the color of the sun!" she said. "Your garb is Vasad, yet
you speak the language of the true men." Her violet oddly slanting eyes
opened yet wider. "Who are you?"
"I am Noork," the man told her. "For many days have I dwelt among the
wild Vasads of the jungle with their golden-skinned chief, Gurn, for
my friend."
The girl impulsively took a step nearer. "Gurn!" she cried. "Is he tall
and strong? Has he a bracelet of golden discs linked together with
human hair? Does he talk with his own shadow when he thinks?"
"That is Gurn," admitted Noork shortly. "He is also an exile from the
walled city of Grath. The city rulers call him a traitor. He has told
me the reason. Perhaps you know it as well?"
"Indeed I do," cried Sarna. "My brother said that we should no longer
make slaves of the captured Zurans from the other valleys."
Noork smiled. "I am glad he is your brother," he said simply.
The girl's eyes fell before his admiring gaze and warm blood flooded
into her rounded neck and lovely cheeks.
"Brown-skinned one!" she cried with a stamp of her shapely little
sandalled foot. "I am displeased with the noises of your tongue. I will
listen to it no more."
But her eyes gave the provocative lie to her words. This brown-skinned
giant with the sunlit hair was very attractive....
The girl was still talking much later, as they walked together along
the game-trail. "When my captors were but one day's march from their
foul city of Bis the warriors of the city of Konto, through whose
fertile valley we had journeyed by night, fell upon the slavers.
"And in the confusion of the attack five of us escaped. We returned
toward the valley of Grath, but to avoid the intervening valley where
our enemies, the men of Konto, lived, we swung close to the Lake of
Uzdon. And the Misty Ones from the Temple of the Skull trailed us. I
alone escaped."
Noork lifted the short, broad-bladed sword that swung in its sheath
at his belt and let it drop back into place with a satisfying whisper
of flexible leather on steel. He looked toward the east where lay the
mysterious long lake of the Misty Ones.
"Some day," he said reflectively, "I am going to visit the island of
the unseen evil beings who stole away your friends. Perhaps after I
have taken you to your brother's hidden village, and from there to
your city of Grath...." He smiled.
The girl did not answer. His keen ears, now that he was no longer
speaking, caught the scuffing of feet into the jungle behind him. He
turned quickly to find the girl had vanished, and with an instinctive
reflex of motion he flung himself to one side into the dense wall of
the jungle. As it was the unseen club thudded down along his right arm,
numbing it so he felt nothing for some time.
One armed as he was temporarily, and with an unseen foe to reckon with,
Noork awkwardly swung up into the comparative safety of the trees. Once
there, perched in the crotch of a mighty jungle monarch, he peered down
at the apparently empty stretch of sunken trail beneath.
Noork
At first he saw nothing out of the ordinary. Apparently there was no
stir of life along that leaf-shadowed way. And then he caught a glimpse
of blurring shadowy shapes, blotches of cottony mist that blended all
too well with the foliage. One of the things from the island in the
Lake of Uzdon moved, and he saw briefly the bottom of a foot dirtied
with the mud of the trail.
Noork squinted. So the Misty Ones were not entirely invisible. Pain
was growing in his numbed arm now, but as it came so came strength. He
climbed further out on the great branch to where sticky and overripe
fruit hung heavy. With a grin he locked his legs upon the forking of
the great limb and filled his arms with fruit.
A barrage of the juicy fruit blanketed the misty shapes. Stains spread
and grew. Patchy outlines took on a new color and sharpness. Noork
found that he was pelting a half-dozen hooded and robed creatures whose
arms and legs numbered the same as his own, and the last remnant of
superstitious fear instilled in his bruised brain by the shaggy Vasads
vanished.
These Misty Ones were living breathing creatures like himself! They
were not gods, or demons, or even the ghostly servants of demons. He
strung his bow quickly, the short powerful bow that Gurn had given him,
and rained arrows down upon the cowering robed creatures.
And the monsters fled. They fled down the trail or faded away into the
jungle. All but one of them. The arrow had pierced a vital portion of
this Misty One's body. He fell and moved no more.
A moment later Noork was ripping the stained cloak and hood from the
fallen creature, curious to learn what ghastly brute-thing hid beneath
them. His lip curled at what he saw.
The Misty One was almost like himself. His skin was not so golden as
that of the other men of Zuran, and his forehead was low and retreating
in a bestial fashion. Upon his body there was more hair, and his face
was made hideous with swollen colored scars that formed an irregular
design. He wore a sleeveless tunic of light green and his only weapons
were two long knives and a club.
"So," said Noork, "the men of the island prey upon their own kind. And
the Temple of Uzdon in the lake is guarded by cowardly warriors like
this."
Noork shrugged his shoulders and set off at a mile-devouring pace down
the game trail toward the lake where the Temple of the Skull and its
unseen guardians lay. Once he stopped at a leaf-choked pool to wash the
stains from the dead man's foggy robe.
The jungle was thinning out. Noork's teeth flashed as he lifted the
drying fabric of the mantle and donned it.
Ud tasted the scent of a man and sluggishly rolled his bullet head from
shoulder to shoulder as he tried to catch sight of his ages-old enemy.
For between the hairy quarter-ton beast men of the jungles of Sekk and
the golden men of the valley cities who enslaved them there was eternal
war.
A growl rumbled deep in the hairy half-man's chest. He could see no
enemy and yet the scent grew stronger with every breath.
"You hunt too near the lake," called a voice. "The demons of the water
will trap you."
Ud's great nostrils quivered. He tasted the odor of a friend mingled
with that of a strange Zuran. He squatted.
"It's Noork," he grunted. "Why do I not see you?"
"I have stolen the skin of a demon," answered the invisible man. "Go to
Gurn. Tell him to fear the demons no longer. Tell him the Misty Ones
can be trapped and skinned."
"Why you want their skins?" Ud scratched his hairy gray skull.
"Go to save Gurn's ..." and here Noork was stumped for words. "To save
his father's woman woman," he managed at last. "Father's woman woman
called Sarna."
And the misty blob of nothingness was gone again, its goal now the
marshy lowlands that extended upward perhaps a thousand feet from the
jungle's ragged fringe to end at last in the muddy shallows of the Lake
of Uzdon.
To Noork it seemed that all the world must be like these savage jungle
fastnesses of the twelve valleys and their central lake. He knew that
the giant bird had carried him from some other place that his battered
brain could not remember, but to him it seemed incredible that men
could live elsewhere than in a jungle valley.
But Noork was wrong. The giant bird that he had ridden into the depths
of Sekk's fertile valleys had come from a far different world. And the
other bird, for which Noork had been searching when he came upon the
golden-skinned girl, was from another world also.
The other bird had come from space several days before that of Noork,
the Vasads had told him, and it had landed somewhere within the land
of sunken valleys. Perhaps, thought Noork, the bird had come from the
same valley that had once been his home. He would find the bird and
perhaps then he could remember better who he had been.
So it was, ironically enough, that Stephen Dietrich—whose memory was
gone completely—again took up the trail of Doctor Karl Von Mark, last
of the Axis criminals at large. The trail that had led the red-haired
young American flier from rebuilding Greece into Africa and the hidden
valley where Doctor Von Mark worked feverishly to restore the crumbled
structure of Nazidom, and then had sent him hurtling spaceward in the
second of the Doctor's crude space-ships was now drawing to an end.
The Doctor and the young American pilot were both trapped here on this
little blob of cosmic matter that hides beyond the Moon's cratered bulk.
The Doctor's ship had landed safely on Sekk, the wily scientist
preferring the lesser gravity of this fertile world to that of the
lifeless Moon in the event that he returned again to Earth, but
Dietrich's spacer had crashed.
Two words linked Noork with the past, the two words that the Vasads
had slurred into his name: New York. And the battered wrist watch, its
crystal and hands gone, were all that remained of his Earthly garb.
Noork paddled the long flat dugout strongly away from the twilight
shore toward the shadowy loom of the central island. Though he could
not remember ever having held a paddle before he handled the ungainly
blade well.
After a time the clumsy prow of the craft rammed into a yielding
cushion of mud, and Noork pulled the dugout out of the water into the
roofing shelter of a clump of drooping trees growing at the water's
edge.
Sword in hand he pushed inward from the shore and ended with a
smothered exclamation against an unseen wall. Trees grew close up to
the wall and a moment later he had climbed out along a horizontal
branch beyond the wall's top, and was lowering his body with the aid of
a braided leather rope to the ground beyond.
He was in a cultivated field his feet and hands told him. And perhaps
half a mile away, faintly illumined by torches and red clots of
bonfires, towered a huge weathered white skull!
Secure in the knowledge that he wore the invisible robes of a Misty
One he found a solitary tree growing within the wall and climbed to a
comfortable crotch. In less than a minute he was asleep.
"The new slave," a rough voice cut across his slumber abruptly, "is the
daughter of Tholon Dist the merchant."
Noork was fully awake now. They were speaking of Sarna. Her father's
name was Tholon Dist. It was early morning in the fields of the Misty
Ones and he could see the two golden-skinned slaves who talked together
beneath his tree.
"That matters not to the priests of Uzdon," the slighter of the
two slaves, his hair almost white, said. "If she be chosen for the
sacrifice to great Uzdon her blood will stain the altar no redder than
another's."
"But it is always the youngest and most beautiful," complained the
younger slave, "that the priests chose. I wish to mate with a beautiful
woman. Tholon Sarna is such a one."
The old man chuckled dryly. "If your wife be plain," he said, "neither
master nor fellow slave will steal her love. A slave should choose a
good woman—and ugly, my son."
"Some night," snarled the slave, "I'm going over the wall. Even the
Misty Ones will not catch me once I have crossed the lake."
"Silence," hissed the white-haired man. "Such talk is madness. We are
safe here from wild animals. There are no spotted narls on the island
of Manak. The priests of most holy Uzdon, and their invisible minions,
are not unkind.
"Get at your weeding of the field, Rold," he finished, "and I will
complete my checking of the gardens."
Noork waited until the old man was gone before he descended from the
tree. He walked along the row until he reached the slave's bent back,
and he knew by the sudden tightening of the man's shoulder muscles
that his presence was known. He looked down and saw that his feet made
clear-cut depressions in the soft rich soil of the field.
"Continue to work," he said to the young man. "Do not be too surprised
at what I am about to tell you, Rold." He paused and watched the golden
man's rather stupid face intently.
"I am not a Misty One," Noork said. "I killed the owner of this strange
garment I wear yesterday on the mainland. I have come to rescue the
girl, Tholon Sarna, of whom you spoke."
Rold's mouth hung open but his hard blunt fingers continued to work.
"The Misty Ones, then," he said slowly, "are not immortal demons!" He
nodded his long-haired head. "They are but men. They too can die."
"If you will help me, Rold," said Noork, "to rescue the girl and escape
from the island I will take you along."
Rold was slow in answering. He had been born on the island and yet his
people were from the valley city of Konto. He knew that they would
welcome the news that the Misty Ones were not demons. And the girl from
the enemy city of Grath was beautiful. Perhaps she would love him for
helping to rescue her and come willingly with him to Konto.
"I will help you, stranger," he agreed.
"Then tell me of the Skull, and of the priests, and of the prison where
Tholon Sarna is held."
The slave's fingers flew. "All the young female slaves are caged
together in the pit beneath the Skull. When the sun is directly
overhead the High Priest will choose one of them for sacrifice to
mighty Uzdon, most potent of all gods. And with the dawning of the
next day the chosen one will be bound across the altar before great
Uzdon's image and her heart torn from her living breast." The slave's
mismatched eyes, one blue and the other brown, lifted from his work.
"Tholon Sarna is in the pit beneath the Temple with the other female
slaves. And the Misty Ones stand guard over the entrance to the temple
pits."
"It is enough," said Noork. "I will go to rescue her now. Be prepared
to join us as we return. I will have a robe for you if all goes well."
"If you are captured," cried Rold nervously, "you will not tell them I
talked with you?"
Noork laughed. "You never saw me," he told the slave.
The skull was a gigantic dome of shaped white stone. Where the
eye-sockets and gaping nose-hole should have been, black squares of
rock gave the illusion of vacancy. Slitted apertures that served for
windows circled the grisly whiteness of the temple's curving walls at
three distinct levels.
Noork drifted slowly up the huge series of long bench-like steps
that led up to the gaping jaws of the Skull. He saw red and
purple-robed priests with nodding head-dresses of painted plumes and
feathers climbing and descending the stairs. Among them moved the
squatty gnarled shapes of burdened Vasads, their shaggy bowed legs
fettered together with heavy copper or bronze chains, and cringing
golden-skinned slaves slipped furtively through the press of the
brilliant-robed ones. The stale sweaty odor of the slaves and the beast
men mingled with the musky stench of the incense from the temple.
Other misty blobs, the invisible guards of the ghastly temple, were
stationed at regular intervals across the great entrance into the
Skull's interior, but they paid Noork no heed. To them he was another
of their number.
He moved swiftly to cross the wide stone-slabbed entry within the
jaws, and a moment later was looking down into a sunken bowl whose
rocky floor was a score of feet below where he stood. Now he saw the
central raised altar where the gleam of precious stones and cunningly
worked metal—gold, silver and brass—vied with the faded garish
colors of the draperies beneath it. And on the same dais there loomed
two beast-headed stone images, the lion-headed god a male and the
wolf-headed shape a female.
These then were the two blood hungry deities that the men of Zura
worshipped—mighty Uzdon and his mate, Lornu!
Noork joined the descending throng that walked slowly down the central
ramp toward the altar. As he searched for the entrance to the lower
pits his eyes took in the stone steps that led upward into the two
upper levels. Only priests and the vague shapelessness of the Misty
Ones climbed those steps. The upper levels, then, were forbidden to
the slaves and common citizens of the island.
As he circled the curving inner wall a foul dank odor reached his
sensitive nostrils, and his eyes searched for its origin. He found it
there just before him, the opening that gave way to a descending flight
of clammy stone steps. He darted toward the door and from nowhere two
short swords rose to bar his way.
"None are to pass save the priests," spoke a voice from nowhere
gruffly. "The High Priest knows that we of the temple guards covet the
most beautiful of the slave women, but we are not to see them until the
sacrifice is chosen."
Noork moved backward a pace. He grumbled something inaudible and drew
his sword. Before him the two swords slowly drew aside.
In that instant Noork attacked. His keen sword, whetted to razor
sharpness on abrasive bits of rock, bit through the hidden neck and
shoulder of the guard on his right hand, and with the same forward
impetus of attack he smashed into the body of the startled guard on his
left.
His sword had wrenched from his hand as it jammed into the bony
structure of the decapitated Misty One's shoulder, and now both his
hands sought the throat of the guard. The unseen man's cry of warning
gurgled and died in his throat as Noork clamped his fingers shut upon
it, and his shortened sword stabbed at Noork's back.
The struggle overbalanced them. They rolled over and over down the
shadowy stair, the stone smashing at their softer flesh unmercifully.
For a moment the battling men brought up with a jolt as the obstruction
of the first guard's corpse arrested their downward course, and then
they jolted and jarred onward again from blood-slippery step to
blood-slippery step.
The sword clattered from the guardian Misty One's clutch and in the
same instant Noork's steel fingers snapped the neck of the other man
with a pistol-like report. The limp body beneath him struggled no more.
He sprang to his feet and became aware of a torch-lighted doorway but a
half-dozen paces further down along the descending shaft of steps.
In a moment, he thought, the fellows of this guard would come charging
out, swords in hand. They could not have failed to hear the struggle
on the stairs of stone, he reasoned, for here the noise and confusion
of the upper temple was muted to a murmur.
So it was that he ran quickly to the door, in his hand the sword that
had dropped from the dead man's fingers, and sprang inside, prepared to
battle there the Misty Ones, lest one escape to give the alarm.
He looked about the narrow stone-walled room with puzzled eyes. Two
warriors lay on a pallet of straw, one of them emitting hideous
gurgling sounds that filled the little room with unpleasing echoes.
Noork grinned.
From the floor beside the fatter of the two men, the guard who did not
snore, he took a club. Twice he struck and the gurgling sound changed
to a steady deep breathing. Noork knew that now the two guards would
not give the alarm for several hours. Thoughtfully he looked about the
room. There were several of the hooded cloaks hanging from pegs wedged
into the crevices of the chamber's wall, their outlines much plainer
here in the artificial light of the flickering torch.
Noork shed his own blood-stained robe quickly and donned one of the
others. The cloaks were rather bulky and so he could carry but two
others, rolled up, beneath his own protective covering.
The matter of his disguise thus taken care of he dragged the two bodies
from the stairway and hid them beneath their own fouled robes in the
chamber of the sleeping guards. Not until then did he hurry on down the
stone steps toward the prison pit where Tholon Sarna, the golden girl,
was held prisoner.
The steps opened into a dimly lit cavern. Pools of foul black water
dotted the uneven floor and reflected back faintly the light of the two
sputtering torches beside the entrance. One corner of the cavern was
walled off, save for a narrow door of interlocking brass strips, and
toward this Noork made his way.
He stood beside the door. "Sarna," he called softly, "Tholon Sarna."
There were a score of young women, lately captured from the mainland
by the Misty Ones, sitting dejectedly upon the foul dampness of the
rotting grass that was their bed. Most of them were clad in the simple
skirt and brief jacket, reaching but to the lower ribs, that is the
mark of the golden people who dwell in the city-states of Zura's
valleys, but a few wore a simple band of cloth about their hips and
confined their breasts with a strip of well-cured leopard or antelope
hide.
One of the women now came to her feet and as she neared the
metal-barred entrance Noork saw that she was indeed Sarna. He examined
the outer lock of the door and found it to be barred with a massive
timber and the timber locked in place with a metal spike slipped into a
prepared cavity in the prison's rocky wall.
"It is Noork," he said softly as she came closer. He saw her eyes go
wide with fear and sudden hope, and then reached for the spike.
"The priest," hissed the girl.
Noork had already heard the sound of approaching feet. He dropped the
spike and whirled. His sword was in his hand as though by magic, as he
faced the burly priest of the Skull.
Across the forehead and upper half of the priest's face a curved shield
of transparent tinted material was fastened. Noork's eyes narrowed as
he saw the sword and shield of the gigantic holy man.
"So," he said, "to the priests of Uzdon we are not invisible. You do
not trust your guards, then."
The priest laughed. "We also have robes of invisibility," he said, "and
the sacred window of Uzdon before our eyes." He snarled suddenly at the
silent figure of the white man. "Down on your knees, guard, and show me
your face before I kill you!"
Noork raised his sword. "Take my hood off if you dare, priest," he
offered.
The burly priest's answer was a bellow of rage and a lunge forward of
his sword arm. Their swords clicked together and slid apart with the
velvety smoothness of bronze on bronze. Noork's blade bit a chunk from
the priest's conical shield, and in return received a slashing cut that
drew blood from left shoulder to elbow.
The fighting grew more furious as the priest pressed the attack. He
was a skilled swordsman and only the superior agility of the white
man's legs kept Noork away from that darting priestly blade. Even so
his robe was slashed in a dozen places and blood reddened his bronzed
body. Once he slipped in a puddle of foul cavern water and only by the
slightest of margins did he escape death by the priest's weapon.
The priest was tiring rapidly, however. The soft living of the temple,
and the rich wines and over-cooked meats that served to pad his paunch
so well with fat, now served to rob him of breath. He opened his
mouth to bawl for assistance from the guard, although it is doubtful
whether any sound could have penetrated up into the madhouse of the
main temple's floor, and in that instant Noork flipped his sword at his
enemy.
Between the shield and the transparent bit of curving material the
sword drove, and buried itself deep in the priest's thick neck. Noork
leaped forward; he snatched the tinted face shield and his sword, and a
moment later he had torn the great wooden timber from its sockets.
Tholon Sarna stumbled through the door and he caught her in his arms.
Hurriedly he loosed one of the two robes fastened about his waist and
slipped it around her slim shivering shoulders.
"Are there other priests hidden here in the pits?" Noork asked tensely.
"No," came the girl's low voice, "I do not think so. I did not know
that this priest was here until he appeared behind you." A slow smile
crossed Noork's hidden features. "His robe must be close by," he told
the girl. "He must have been stationed here because the priests feared
the guards might spirit away some of the prisoners."
Slowly he angled back and forth across the floor until his foot touched
the soft material of the priest's discarded robe near the stairway
entrance. He slipped the thongs of the transparent mask, called by the
priest "Uzdon's window" over his hood, and then proceeded to don the
new robe.
"My own robe is slit in a dozen places," he explained to the girl's
curious violet eyes—-all that was visible through the narrow vision
slot of her hood. He finished adjusting the outer robe and took the
girl's hand.
"Come," he said, "let us escape over the wall before the alarm is
given."
Without incident they reached the field where Rold toiled among the
rows of vegetables. Another slave was working in a nearby field,
his crude wooden plow pulled by two sweating Vasads, but he was not
watching when Rold abruptly faded from view.
Noork was sweating with the weight of two cloaks and the airlessness of
the vision shield as they crossed the field toward his rope, but he had
no wish to discard them yet. The tinted shield had revealed that dozens
of the Misty Ones were stationed about the wall to guard against the
escape of the slaves.
They came to the wall and to Noork's great joy found the rope hanging
as he had left it. He climbed the wall first and then with Rold helping
from below, drew Sarna to his side. A moment later saw the three of
them climbing along the limb to the bole of the tree and so to the
jungle matted ground outside the wall.
"Will we hide here in the trees until night?" asked the girl's full
voice.
Noork held aside a mossy creeper until the girl had passed. "I think
not," he said. "The Misty Ones are continually passing from the island
to the shore. We are Misty Ones to any that watch from the wall. So we
will paddle boldly across the water."
"That is good," agreed the slave, "unless they see us put out from the
shore. Their two landing stages are further along the beach, opposite
the Temple of Uzdon."
"Then we must hug to the shore until we pass the tip of the island,"
said Noork thoughtfully. "In that way even if they detect us we will
have put a safe distance between us."
Shortly after midday Noork felt the oozy slime of the marshy lowlands
of the mainland beneath his paddle and the dugout ran ashore in the
grassy inlet for which they had been heading. His palms were blistered
and the heavy robes he yet wore were soaked with sweat.
"Once we reach the jungle," he told the girl, "off come these robes. I
am broiled alive."
Suddenly Noork froze in his tracks. He thrust the girl behind him.
"Misty Ones!" he hissed to Rold. "They crouch among the reeds. They
carry nets and clubs to trap us."
Rold turned back toward the boat with Noork and Sarna close at his
heels. But the Misty Ones were upon them and by sheer numbers they bore
them to the ground. Noork's mightier muscles smashed more than one
hooded face but in the end he too lay smothered beneath the nets and
bodies of the enemy.
A misty shape came to stand beside these three new captives as they
were stripped of their robes. His foot nudged at Noork's head curiously
and a guttural voice commanded the shield be removed. Then his voice
changed—thickened—as he saw the features of Noork.
"So," he barked in a tongue that should have been strange to Noork but
was not, "it is the trapper's turn to be trapped, eh Captain Dietrich?"
A fat, square-jawed face, harsh lines paralleling the ugly blob of a
nose, showed through the opened robe of the leader. The face was that
of Doctor Von Mark the treacherous Nazi scientist that Stephen Dietrich
had trailed across space to Sekk! But Noork knew nothing of that chase.
The man's face seemed familiar, and hateful, but that was all he
remembered.
"I see you have come from the island," said the Doctor. "Perhaps you
can tell me the secret of this invisible material I wear. With the
secret of invisibility I, Karl Von Mark, can again conquer Earth and
make the Fatherland invincible."
"I do not understand too well," said Noork hesitantly. "Are we enemies?
There is so much I have forgotten." He regarded the brutal face
thoughtfully.
"Perhaps you know from what valley the great bird brought me," he said.
"Or perhaps the other bird brought you here."
Von Mark's blue eyes widened and then he roared with a great noise
that was intended to be mirth. His foot slammed harder into Noork's
defenseless ribs.
"Perhaps you have forgotten, swine of an American," he roared suddenly,
and in his hand was an ugly looking automatic. He flung back his robe
and Noork saw the dress uniform of a general. "Perhaps," the scientist
repeated, "but I will take no chances. The amnesia is often but a
pretense."
His lip curled. "This is something for you to remember, Captain
Dietrich," he said as the ugly black muzzle of the gun centered on
Noork's bronzed chest.
And then Doctor Von Mark cursed as the gun dropped from his nerveless
fingers and his hands clawed weakly at the arrow buried in his wide
belly. He stumbled backward.
Arrows rained from the mistiness that had closed in about Von Mark and
his men. The men from Wari, their faces unshielded, fell like flies.
In a moment those yet alive had taken to their heels, and Noork felt
invisible fingers tearing at the nets that bound him.
As he rose to his feet the robed figure let its misty covering drop
aside. A handsome golden-skinned warrior stood revealed.
"Gurn!" cried Noork.
A glad cry came from the throat of Tholon Sarna as she saw her brother.
And then she crept closer to Noork's side as the invisible mantles
of Gurn's loyal Vasads opened to reveal the hairy beast men they
concealed. Rold whimpered fearfully.
"The message that Ud carried to me was good," laughed Gurn. "The Misty
Ones skin easily. We were trapping the Misty Ones as they came across
the lake," he looked at the dying Von Mark, "as were these others. Soon
we would have come to your rescue, Noork, my friend."
"Lucky I escaped first," Noork told him. "The priests of Uzdon would
have trapped you. To them the Misty Ones are visible."
He picked up the fallen vision shield that lay beside their feet. His
chest expanded proudly.
"No longer," he told Gurn, "am I a man without a name. I am Captain
Dietrich from a distant valley called America. I was hunting this evil
man when my bird died."
He smiled and his brown arm tightened around Sarna's golden body. "The
evil man is dead. My native valley is safe. Now I can live in peace
with you, Gurn, and with your sister, here in the jungle."
"It is good, Noork," smiled Tholon Sarna.
End of Project Gutenberg's Raiders of the Second Moon, by Gene Ellerman
Question:
What is Gurn's role in the story?
Answer:
|
[
"We first hear Gurn's name mentioned by Noork in his initial meeting with Sarna. He tells her that he has been living with the wild Vasads of the jungle with Gurn, his friend and their chief. Noork goes on to say that Gurn is an exile from the walled city of Grath and asks Sarna if she knows why this is. Sarna says that her brother says they should no longer enslave Zurans they capture from other valleys. In this way, their relationships with Gurn build a bridge between them, allowing them to consider a relationship with one another.\n\nGurn is next mentioned when Noork encounters his friend Ud near the central lake of Sekk, the moon they are on. Noork asks Ud to go to their mutual friend Gurn and pass on a message. Noork asks Ud to tell Gurn that the Misty Ones can be trapped and skinned. When Ud wonders why anyone would want to do such a thing, Noork tells him that Noork is trying to save Gurn's \"father's woman woman\", as he describes Gurn's sister Sarna.\n\nGurn then arrives as something between a hero and a deus ex machina at the very end of the story. Noork, Sarna, and Rold, an enslaved man who helped Noork free Sarna, are about to be murdered by Doctor Von Mark and the Misty Ones, when Gurn and his allies arrive and shoot the enemy full of arrows, saving all their lives. Gurn reveals that he received Ud's messages and they were trapping the Misty Ones as they came across the lake and stealing their robes so they could come to Noork's rescue. Without Gurn, Noork and Sarna would never have traveled together in the first place, nor would they have been rescued at the end.",
"Gurn is described as a renegade and the leader of the Vasad, a hairy people living in the jungle on Sekk. He is tall, strong, golden-skinned, and has proven to be a friend to Noork. He wears bracelets connected by human hair. He has been exiled from the city of Grath because he spoke out against keeping the captured people from other valleys as slaves. He is Sarna’s brother, and she seems to trust Noork more when he mentions Gurn. After he and Sarna are attacked, Noork passes a message to another Vasad, Ud, to tell Gurn that the “misty people” they fear can be killed and their skins used to conceal them, and that he’s going to save Sarna. Later, after Noork and Sarna are captured by the Nazi Doctor Von Mark, Gurn and some warriors show up just in time to save them. \n",
"Gurn is Tholon Sarna’s brother and the leader of a group of Vasads. He is tall and strong, wears a bracelet made of gold discs linked together with human hair, and talks with his own shadow when he thinks. Gurn was exiled from the city of Grath, whose leaders called him a traitor for voicing his opinion that they should not make their captured Zurans slaves. When Noork leaves to rescue Tholon from the Misty Ones, he sends word to Gurn via Ud that the Misty Ones are not demons but flesh and bone beings who can be trapped and skinned and that he is going to rescue Gurn’s sister from the Misty Ones. At the end of the story, when Von Mark and his men have captured Noork, Tholon, and Rold, Gurn and his men arrive and pelt the Waris with arrows to rescue Noork and the others. Gurn and his men had been trapping Misty Ones on their way to the Misty Ones’ city of Uzdon to rescue Noork when they came across Von Mark and the Waris holding Noork and the others. ",
"Gurn is the golden-skinned leader of the Vasads and Tholon Sarna’s brother. Gurn discovers Noork when he first lands on Sekk and reminds him that he has not always lived in the valleys of the moon. As leader of the Vasads, Gurn has been exiled from his home city of Grath for speaking out against the enslavement of the people of Zura. Gurn and the Vasads fear the Misty Ones that make sacrifices to Uzdon at the Temple of the Skull, believing they are gods or demons. When Noork discovers the Misty Ones can be shed of their invisibility, he sends his friend Ud to inform Gurn. Upon hearing this news, Gurn brings the Vasads to rescue his sister, Tholon Sarna, and they arrive just in time to prevent Dr. Von Mark from killing Noork. Instead, Gurn kills Dr. Von Mark by shooting him with arrows, and Noork decides to live in peace with him, the Vasads, and Tholon Sarna."
] |
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Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
Raiders of the Second Moon
By GENE ELLERMAN
A strange destiny had erased Noork's memory,
and had brought him to this tiny world—to
write an end to his first existence.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Summer 1945.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Beyond earth swings that airless pocked mass of fused rock and gray
volcanic dust that we know as Luna. Of this our naked eyes assure us.
But of the smaller satellite, hidden forever from the mundane view by
Luna's bulk, we know little.
Small is Sekk, that second moon, less than five hundred miles in
diameter, but the period of its revolution is thirty two hours, and its
meaner mass retains a breathable atmosphere. There is life on Sekk,
life that centers around the sunken star-shaped cavity where an oval
lake gleams softly in the depths. And the eleven radiating tips of the
starry abyss are valleys green with jungle growth.
In one of those green valleys the white savage that the Vasads called
Noork squatted in the ample crotch of a jungle giant and watched the
trail forty feet below. For down there moved alertly a golden skinned
girl, her only weapons a puny polished bow of yellow wood and a
sheathed dagger.
Sight of the girl's flowing brown hair and the graceful feminine
contours of her smooth-limbed body beneath its skin-halter and the
insignificant breech-clout, made his brow wrinkle with concentration.
Not forever had he lived in this jungle world of valleys and ragged
cliffs. Since he had learned the tongue of the hairy Vasads of forest,
and the tongue of their gold-skinned leader, Gurn, the renegade, he had
confirmed that belief.
For a huge gleaming bird had carried him in its talons to the top of
the cliff above their valley and from the rock fire had risen to devour
the great bird. Somehow he had been flung clear and escaped the death
of the mysterious bird-thing. And in his delirium he had babbled the
words that caused the apish Vasads to name him Noork. Now he repeated
them aloud.
"New York," he said, "good ol' New York."
The girl heard. She looked upward fearfully, her rounded bare arm going
back to the bow slung across her shoulder. Swiftly she fitted an arrow
and stepped back against the friendly bole of a shaggy barked jungle
giant. Noork grinned.
"Tako, woman," he greeted her.
"Tako," she replied fearfully. "Who speaks to Tholon Sarna? Be you
hunter or escaped slave?"
"A friend," said Noork simply. "It was I who killed the spotted
narl
last night when it attacked you."
Doubtfully the girl put away her bow. Her fingers, however, were never
far from the hilt of her hunting dagger.
Noork swung outward from his perch, and then downward along the ladder
of limbs to her side. The girl exclaimed at his brown skin.
"Your hair is the color of the sun!" she said. "Your garb is Vasad, yet
you speak the language of the true men." Her violet oddly slanting eyes
opened yet wider. "Who are you?"
"I am Noork," the man told her. "For many days have I dwelt among the
wild Vasads of the jungle with their golden-skinned chief, Gurn, for
my friend."
The girl impulsively took a step nearer. "Gurn!" she cried. "Is he tall
and strong? Has he a bracelet of golden discs linked together with
human hair? Does he talk with his own shadow when he thinks?"
"That is Gurn," admitted Noork shortly. "He is also an exile from the
walled city of Grath. The city rulers call him a traitor. He has told
me the reason. Perhaps you know it as well?"
"Indeed I do," cried Sarna. "My brother said that we should no longer
make slaves of the captured Zurans from the other valleys."
Noork smiled. "I am glad he is your brother," he said simply.
The girl's eyes fell before his admiring gaze and warm blood flooded
into her rounded neck and lovely cheeks.
"Brown-skinned one!" she cried with a stamp of her shapely little
sandalled foot. "I am displeased with the noises of your tongue. I will
listen to it no more."
But her eyes gave the provocative lie to her words. This brown-skinned
giant with the sunlit hair was very attractive....
The girl was still talking much later, as they walked together along
the game-trail. "When my captors were but one day's march from their
foul city of Bis the warriors of the city of Konto, through whose
fertile valley we had journeyed by night, fell upon the slavers.
"And in the confusion of the attack five of us escaped. We returned
toward the valley of Grath, but to avoid the intervening valley where
our enemies, the men of Konto, lived, we swung close to the Lake of
Uzdon. And the Misty Ones from the Temple of the Skull trailed us. I
alone escaped."
Noork lifted the short, broad-bladed sword that swung in its sheath
at his belt and let it drop back into place with a satisfying whisper
of flexible leather on steel. He looked toward the east where lay the
mysterious long lake of the Misty Ones.
"Some day," he said reflectively, "I am going to visit the island of
the unseen evil beings who stole away your friends. Perhaps after I
have taken you to your brother's hidden village, and from there to
your city of Grath...." He smiled.
The girl did not answer. His keen ears, now that he was no longer
speaking, caught the scuffing of feet into the jungle behind him. He
turned quickly to find the girl had vanished, and with an instinctive
reflex of motion he flung himself to one side into the dense wall of
the jungle. As it was the unseen club thudded down along his right arm,
numbing it so he felt nothing for some time.
One armed as he was temporarily, and with an unseen foe to reckon with,
Noork awkwardly swung up into the comparative safety of the trees. Once
there, perched in the crotch of a mighty jungle monarch, he peered down
at the apparently empty stretch of sunken trail beneath.
Noork
At first he saw nothing out of the ordinary. Apparently there was no
stir of life along that leaf-shadowed way. And then he caught a glimpse
of blurring shadowy shapes, blotches of cottony mist that blended all
too well with the foliage. One of the things from the island in the
Lake of Uzdon moved, and he saw briefly the bottom of a foot dirtied
with the mud of the trail.
Noork squinted. So the Misty Ones were not entirely invisible. Pain
was growing in his numbed arm now, but as it came so came strength. He
climbed further out on the great branch to where sticky and overripe
fruit hung heavy. With a grin he locked his legs upon the forking of
the great limb and filled his arms with fruit.
A barrage of the juicy fruit blanketed the misty shapes. Stains spread
and grew. Patchy outlines took on a new color and sharpness. Noork
found that he was pelting a half-dozen hooded and robed creatures whose
arms and legs numbered the same as his own, and the last remnant of
superstitious fear instilled in his bruised brain by the shaggy Vasads
vanished.
These Misty Ones were living breathing creatures like himself! They
were not gods, or demons, or even the ghostly servants of demons. He
strung his bow quickly, the short powerful bow that Gurn had given him,
and rained arrows down upon the cowering robed creatures.
And the monsters fled. They fled down the trail or faded away into the
jungle. All but one of them. The arrow had pierced a vital portion of
this Misty One's body. He fell and moved no more.
A moment later Noork was ripping the stained cloak and hood from the
fallen creature, curious to learn what ghastly brute-thing hid beneath
them. His lip curled at what he saw.
The Misty One was almost like himself. His skin was not so golden as
that of the other men of Zuran, and his forehead was low and retreating
in a bestial fashion. Upon his body there was more hair, and his face
was made hideous with swollen colored scars that formed an irregular
design. He wore a sleeveless tunic of light green and his only weapons
were two long knives and a club.
"So," said Noork, "the men of the island prey upon their own kind. And
the Temple of Uzdon in the lake is guarded by cowardly warriors like
this."
Noork shrugged his shoulders and set off at a mile-devouring pace down
the game trail toward the lake where the Temple of the Skull and its
unseen guardians lay. Once he stopped at a leaf-choked pool to wash the
stains from the dead man's foggy robe.
The jungle was thinning out. Noork's teeth flashed as he lifted the
drying fabric of the mantle and donned it.
Ud tasted the scent of a man and sluggishly rolled his bullet head from
shoulder to shoulder as he tried to catch sight of his ages-old enemy.
For between the hairy quarter-ton beast men of the jungles of Sekk and
the golden men of the valley cities who enslaved them there was eternal
war.
A growl rumbled deep in the hairy half-man's chest. He could see no
enemy and yet the scent grew stronger with every breath.
"You hunt too near the lake," called a voice. "The demons of the water
will trap you."
Ud's great nostrils quivered. He tasted the odor of a friend mingled
with that of a strange Zuran. He squatted.
"It's Noork," he grunted. "Why do I not see you?"
"I have stolen the skin of a demon," answered the invisible man. "Go to
Gurn. Tell him to fear the demons no longer. Tell him the Misty Ones
can be trapped and skinned."
"Why you want their skins?" Ud scratched his hairy gray skull.
"Go to save Gurn's ..." and here Noork was stumped for words. "To save
his father's woman woman," he managed at last. "Father's woman woman
called Sarna."
And the misty blob of nothingness was gone again, its goal now the
marshy lowlands that extended upward perhaps a thousand feet from the
jungle's ragged fringe to end at last in the muddy shallows of the Lake
of Uzdon.
To Noork it seemed that all the world must be like these savage jungle
fastnesses of the twelve valleys and their central lake. He knew that
the giant bird had carried him from some other place that his battered
brain could not remember, but to him it seemed incredible that men
could live elsewhere than in a jungle valley.
But Noork was wrong. The giant bird that he had ridden into the depths
of Sekk's fertile valleys had come from a far different world. And the
other bird, for which Noork had been searching when he came upon the
golden-skinned girl, was from another world also.
The other bird had come from space several days before that of Noork,
the Vasads had told him, and it had landed somewhere within the land
of sunken valleys. Perhaps, thought Noork, the bird had come from the
same valley that had once been his home. He would find the bird and
perhaps then he could remember better who he had been.
So it was, ironically enough, that Stephen Dietrich—whose memory was
gone completely—again took up the trail of Doctor Karl Von Mark, last
of the Axis criminals at large. The trail that had led the red-haired
young American flier from rebuilding Greece into Africa and the hidden
valley where Doctor Von Mark worked feverishly to restore the crumbled
structure of Nazidom, and then had sent him hurtling spaceward in the
second of the Doctor's crude space-ships was now drawing to an end.
The Doctor and the young American pilot were both trapped here on this
little blob of cosmic matter that hides beyond the Moon's cratered bulk.
The Doctor's ship had landed safely on Sekk, the wily scientist
preferring the lesser gravity of this fertile world to that of the
lifeless Moon in the event that he returned again to Earth, but
Dietrich's spacer had crashed.
Two words linked Noork with the past, the two words that the Vasads
had slurred into his name: New York. And the battered wrist watch, its
crystal and hands gone, were all that remained of his Earthly garb.
Noork paddled the long flat dugout strongly away from the twilight
shore toward the shadowy loom of the central island. Though he could
not remember ever having held a paddle before he handled the ungainly
blade well.
After a time the clumsy prow of the craft rammed into a yielding
cushion of mud, and Noork pulled the dugout out of the water into the
roofing shelter of a clump of drooping trees growing at the water's
edge.
Sword in hand he pushed inward from the shore and ended with a
smothered exclamation against an unseen wall. Trees grew close up to
the wall and a moment later he had climbed out along a horizontal
branch beyond the wall's top, and was lowering his body with the aid of
a braided leather rope to the ground beyond.
He was in a cultivated field his feet and hands told him. And perhaps
half a mile away, faintly illumined by torches and red clots of
bonfires, towered a huge weathered white skull!
Secure in the knowledge that he wore the invisible robes of a Misty
One he found a solitary tree growing within the wall and climbed to a
comfortable crotch. In less than a minute he was asleep.
"The new slave," a rough voice cut across his slumber abruptly, "is the
daughter of Tholon Dist the merchant."
Noork was fully awake now. They were speaking of Sarna. Her father's
name was Tholon Dist. It was early morning in the fields of the Misty
Ones and he could see the two golden-skinned slaves who talked together
beneath his tree.
"That matters not to the priests of Uzdon," the slighter of the
two slaves, his hair almost white, said. "If she be chosen for the
sacrifice to great Uzdon her blood will stain the altar no redder than
another's."
"But it is always the youngest and most beautiful," complained the
younger slave, "that the priests chose. I wish to mate with a beautiful
woman. Tholon Sarna is such a one."
The old man chuckled dryly. "If your wife be plain," he said, "neither
master nor fellow slave will steal her love. A slave should choose a
good woman—and ugly, my son."
"Some night," snarled the slave, "I'm going over the wall. Even the
Misty Ones will not catch me once I have crossed the lake."
"Silence," hissed the white-haired man. "Such talk is madness. We are
safe here from wild animals. There are no spotted narls on the island
of Manak. The priests of most holy Uzdon, and their invisible minions,
are not unkind.
"Get at your weeding of the field, Rold," he finished, "and I will
complete my checking of the gardens."
Noork waited until the old man was gone before he descended from the
tree. He walked along the row until he reached the slave's bent back,
and he knew by the sudden tightening of the man's shoulder muscles
that his presence was known. He looked down and saw that his feet made
clear-cut depressions in the soft rich soil of the field.
"Continue to work," he said to the young man. "Do not be too surprised
at what I am about to tell you, Rold." He paused and watched the golden
man's rather stupid face intently.
"I am not a Misty One," Noork said. "I killed the owner of this strange
garment I wear yesterday on the mainland. I have come to rescue the
girl, Tholon Sarna, of whom you spoke."
Rold's mouth hung open but his hard blunt fingers continued to work.
"The Misty Ones, then," he said slowly, "are not immortal demons!" He
nodded his long-haired head. "They are but men. They too can die."
"If you will help me, Rold," said Noork, "to rescue the girl and escape
from the island I will take you along."
Rold was slow in answering. He had been born on the island and yet his
people were from the valley city of Konto. He knew that they would
welcome the news that the Misty Ones were not demons. And the girl from
the enemy city of Grath was beautiful. Perhaps she would love him for
helping to rescue her and come willingly with him to Konto.
"I will help you, stranger," he agreed.
"Then tell me of the Skull, and of the priests, and of the prison where
Tholon Sarna is held."
The slave's fingers flew. "All the young female slaves are caged
together in the pit beneath the Skull. When the sun is directly
overhead the High Priest will choose one of them for sacrifice to
mighty Uzdon, most potent of all gods. And with the dawning of the
next day the chosen one will be bound across the altar before great
Uzdon's image and her heart torn from her living breast." The slave's
mismatched eyes, one blue and the other brown, lifted from his work.
"Tholon Sarna is in the pit beneath the Temple with the other female
slaves. And the Misty Ones stand guard over the entrance to the temple
pits."
"It is enough," said Noork. "I will go to rescue her now. Be prepared
to join us as we return. I will have a robe for you if all goes well."
"If you are captured," cried Rold nervously, "you will not tell them I
talked with you?"
Noork laughed. "You never saw me," he told the slave.
The skull was a gigantic dome of shaped white stone. Where the
eye-sockets and gaping nose-hole should have been, black squares of
rock gave the illusion of vacancy. Slitted apertures that served for
windows circled the grisly whiteness of the temple's curving walls at
three distinct levels.
Noork drifted slowly up the huge series of long bench-like steps
that led up to the gaping jaws of the Skull. He saw red and
purple-robed priests with nodding head-dresses of painted plumes and
feathers climbing and descending the stairs. Among them moved the
squatty gnarled shapes of burdened Vasads, their shaggy bowed legs
fettered together with heavy copper or bronze chains, and cringing
golden-skinned slaves slipped furtively through the press of the
brilliant-robed ones. The stale sweaty odor of the slaves and the beast
men mingled with the musky stench of the incense from the temple.
Other misty blobs, the invisible guards of the ghastly temple, were
stationed at regular intervals across the great entrance into the
Skull's interior, but they paid Noork no heed. To them he was another
of their number.
He moved swiftly to cross the wide stone-slabbed entry within the
jaws, and a moment later was looking down into a sunken bowl whose
rocky floor was a score of feet below where he stood. Now he saw the
central raised altar where the gleam of precious stones and cunningly
worked metal—gold, silver and brass—vied with the faded garish
colors of the draperies beneath it. And on the same dais there loomed
two beast-headed stone images, the lion-headed god a male and the
wolf-headed shape a female.
These then were the two blood hungry deities that the men of Zura
worshipped—mighty Uzdon and his mate, Lornu!
Noork joined the descending throng that walked slowly down the central
ramp toward the altar. As he searched for the entrance to the lower
pits his eyes took in the stone steps that led upward into the two
upper levels. Only priests and the vague shapelessness of the Misty
Ones climbed those steps. The upper levels, then, were forbidden to
the slaves and common citizens of the island.
As he circled the curving inner wall a foul dank odor reached his
sensitive nostrils, and his eyes searched for its origin. He found it
there just before him, the opening that gave way to a descending flight
of clammy stone steps. He darted toward the door and from nowhere two
short swords rose to bar his way.
"None are to pass save the priests," spoke a voice from nowhere
gruffly. "The High Priest knows that we of the temple guards covet the
most beautiful of the slave women, but we are not to see them until the
sacrifice is chosen."
Noork moved backward a pace. He grumbled something inaudible and drew
his sword. Before him the two swords slowly drew aside.
In that instant Noork attacked. His keen sword, whetted to razor
sharpness on abrasive bits of rock, bit through the hidden neck and
shoulder of the guard on his right hand, and with the same forward
impetus of attack he smashed into the body of the startled guard on his
left.
His sword had wrenched from his hand as it jammed into the bony
structure of the decapitated Misty One's shoulder, and now both his
hands sought the throat of the guard. The unseen man's cry of warning
gurgled and died in his throat as Noork clamped his fingers shut upon
it, and his shortened sword stabbed at Noork's back.
The struggle overbalanced them. They rolled over and over down the
shadowy stair, the stone smashing at their softer flesh unmercifully.
For a moment the battling men brought up with a jolt as the obstruction
of the first guard's corpse arrested their downward course, and then
they jolted and jarred onward again from blood-slippery step to
blood-slippery step.
The sword clattered from the guardian Misty One's clutch and in the
same instant Noork's steel fingers snapped the neck of the other man
with a pistol-like report. The limp body beneath him struggled no more.
He sprang to his feet and became aware of a torch-lighted doorway but a
half-dozen paces further down along the descending shaft of steps.
In a moment, he thought, the fellows of this guard would come charging
out, swords in hand. They could not have failed to hear the struggle
on the stairs of stone, he reasoned, for here the noise and confusion
of the upper temple was muted to a murmur.
So it was that he ran quickly to the door, in his hand the sword that
had dropped from the dead man's fingers, and sprang inside, prepared to
battle there the Misty Ones, lest one escape to give the alarm.
He looked about the narrow stone-walled room with puzzled eyes. Two
warriors lay on a pallet of straw, one of them emitting hideous
gurgling sounds that filled the little room with unpleasing echoes.
Noork grinned.
From the floor beside the fatter of the two men, the guard who did not
snore, he took a club. Twice he struck and the gurgling sound changed
to a steady deep breathing. Noork knew that now the two guards would
not give the alarm for several hours. Thoughtfully he looked about the
room. There were several of the hooded cloaks hanging from pegs wedged
into the crevices of the chamber's wall, their outlines much plainer
here in the artificial light of the flickering torch.
Noork shed his own blood-stained robe quickly and donned one of the
others. The cloaks were rather bulky and so he could carry but two
others, rolled up, beneath his own protective covering.
The matter of his disguise thus taken care of he dragged the two bodies
from the stairway and hid them beneath their own fouled robes in the
chamber of the sleeping guards. Not until then did he hurry on down the
stone steps toward the prison pit where Tholon Sarna, the golden girl,
was held prisoner.
The steps opened into a dimly lit cavern. Pools of foul black water
dotted the uneven floor and reflected back faintly the light of the two
sputtering torches beside the entrance. One corner of the cavern was
walled off, save for a narrow door of interlocking brass strips, and
toward this Noork made his way.
He stood beside the door. "Sarna," he called softly, "Tholon Sarna."
There were a score of young women, lately captured from the mainland
by the Misty Ones, sitting dejectedly upon the foul dampness of the
rotting grass that was their bed. Most of them were clad in the simple
skirt and brief jacket, reaching but to the lower ribs, that is the
mark of the golden people who dwell in the city-states of Zura's
valleys, but a few wore a simple band of cloth about their hips and
confined their breasts with a strip of well-cured leopard or antelope
hide.
One of the women now came to her feet and as she neared the
metal-barred entrance Noork saw that she was indeed Sarna. He examined
the outer lock of the door and found it to be barred with a massive
timber and the timber locked in place with a metal spike slipped into a
prepared cavity in the prison's rocky wall.
"It is Noork," he said softly as she came closer. He saw her eyes go
wide with fear and sudden hope, and then reached for the spike.
"The priest," hissed the girl.
Noork had already heard the sound of approaching feet. He dropped the
spike and whirled. His sword was in his hand as though by magic, as he
faced the burly priest of the Skull.
Across the forehead and upper half of the priest's face a curved shield
of transparent tinted material was fastened. Noork's eyes narrowed as
he saw the sword and shield of the gigantic holy man.
"So," he said, "to the priests of Uzdon we are not invisible. You do
not trust your guards, then."
The priest laughed. "We also have robes of invisibility," he said, "and
the sacred window of Uzdon before our eyes." He snarled suddenly at the
silent figure of the white man. "Down on your knees, guard, and show me
your face before I kill you!"
Noork raised his sword. "Take my hood off if you dare, priest," he
offered.
The burly priest's answer was a bellow of rage and a lunge forward of
his sword arm. Their swords clicked together and slid apart with the
velvety smoothness of bronze on bronze. Noork's blade bit a chunk from
the priest's conical shield, and in return received a slashing cut that
drew blood from left shoulder to elbow.
The fighting grew more furious as the priest pressed the attack. He
was a skilled swordsman and only the superior agility of the white
man's legs kept Noork away from that darting priestly blade. Even so
his robe was slashed in a dozen places and blood reddened his bronzed
body. Once he slipped in a puddle of foul cavern water and only by the
slightest of margins did he escape death by the priest's weapon.
The priest was tiring rapidly, however. The soft living of the temple,
and the rich wines and over-cooked meats that served to pad his paunch
so well with fat, now served to rob him of breath. He opened his
mouth to bawl for assistance from the guard, although it is doubtful
whether any sound could have penetrated up into the madhouse of the
main temple's floor, and in that instant Noork flipped his sword at his
enemy.
Between the shield and the transparent bit of curving material the
sword drove, and buried itself deep in the priest's thick neck. Noork
leaped forward; he snatched the tinted face shield and his sword, and a
moment later he had torn the great wooden timber from its sockets.
Tholon Sarna stumbled through the door and he caught her in his arms.
Hurriedly he loosed one of the two robes fastened about his waist and
slipped it around her slim shivering shoulders.
"Are there other priests hidden here in the pits?" Noork asked tensely.
"No," came the girl's low voice, "I do not think so. I did not know
that this priest was here until he appeared behind you." A slow smile
crossed Noork's hidden features. "His robe must be close by," he told
the girl. "He must have been stationed here because the priests feared
the guards might spirit away some of the prisoners."
Slowly he angled back and forth across the floor until his foot touched
the soft material of the priest's discarded robe near the stairway
entrance. He slipped the thongs of the transparent mask, called by the
priest "Uzdon's window" over his hood, and then proceeded to don the
new robe.
"My own robe is slit in a dozen places," he explained to the girl's
curious violet eyes—-all that was visible through the narrow vision
slot of her hood. He finished adjusting the outer robe and took the
girl's hand.
"Come," he said, "let us escape over the wall before the alarm is
given."
Without incident they reached the field where Rold toiled among the
rows of vegetables. Another slave was working in a nearby field,
his crude wooden plow pulled by two sweating Vasads, but he was not
watching when Rold abruptly faded from view.
Noork was sweating with the weight of two cloaks and the airlessness of
the vision shield as they crossed the field toward his rope, but he had
no wish to discard them yet. The tinted shield had revealed that dozens
of the Misty Ones were stationed about the wall to guard against the
escape of the slaves.
They came to the wall and to Noork's great joy found the rope hanging
as he had left it. He climbed the wall first and then with Rold helping
from below, drew Sarna to his side. A moment later saw the three of
them climbing along the limb to the bole of the tree and so to the
jungle matted ground outside the wall.
"Will we hide here in the trees until night?" asked the girl's full
voice.
Noork held aside a mossy creeper until the girl had passed. "I think
not," he said. "The Misty Ones are continually passing from the island
to the shore. We are Misty Ones to any that watch from the wall. So we
will paddle boldly across the water."
"That is good," agreed the slave, "unless they see us put out from the
shore. Their two landing stages are further along the beach, opposite
the Temple of Uzdon."
"Then we must hug to the shore until we pass the tip of the island,"
said Noork thoughtfully. "In that way even if they detect us we will
have put a safe distance between us."
Shortly after midday Noork felt the oozy slime of the marshy lowlands
of the mainland beneath his paddle and the dugout ran ashore in the
grassy inlet for which they had been heading. His palms were blistered
and the heavy robes he yet wore were soaked with sweat.
"Once we reach the jungle," he told the girl, "off come these robes. I
am broiled alive."
Suddenly Noork froze in his tracks. He thrust the girl behind him.
"Misty Ones!" he hissed to Rold. "They crouch among the reeds. They
carry nets and clubs to trap us."
Rold turned back toward the boat with Noork and Sarna close at his
heels. But the Misty Ones were upon them and by sheer numbers they bore
them to the ground. Noork's mightier muscles smashed more than one
hooded face but in the end he too lay smothered beneath the nets and
bodies of the enemy.
A misty shape came to stand beside these three new captives as they
were stripped of their robes. His foot nudged at Noork's head curiously
and a guttural voice commanded the shield be removed. Then his voice
changed—thickened—as he saw the features of Noork.
"So," he barked in a tongue that should have been strange to Noork but
was not, "it is the trapper's turn to be trapped, eh Captain Dietrich?"
A fat, square-jawed face, harsh lines paralleling the ugly blob of a
nose, showed through the opened robe of the leader. The face was that
of Doctor Von Mark the treacherous Nazi scientist that Stephen Dietrich
had trailed across space to Sekk! But Noork knew nothing of that chase.
The man's face seemed familiar, and hateful, but that was all he
remembered.
"I see you have come from the island," said the Doctor. "Perhaps you
can tell me the secret of this invisible material I wear. With the
secret of invisibility I, Karl Von Mark, can again conquer Earth and
make the Fatherland invincible."
"I do not understand too well," said Noork hesitantly. "Are we enemies?
There is so much I have forgotten." He regarded the brutal face
thoughtfully.
"Perhaps you know from what valley the great bird brought me," he said.
"Or perhaps the other bird brought you here."
Von Mark's blue eyes widened and then he roared with a great noise
that was intended to be mirth. His foot slammed harder into Noork's
defenseless ribs.
"Perhaps you have forgotten, swine of an American," he roared suddenly,
and in his hand was an ugly looking automatic. He flung back his robe
and Noork saw the dress uniform of a general. "Perhaps," the scientist
repeated, "but I will take no chances. The amnesia is often but a
pretense."
His lip curled. "This is something for you to remember, Captain
Dietrich," he said as the ugly black muzzle of the gun centered on
Noork's bronzed chest.
And then Doctor Von Mark cursed as the gun dropped from his nerveless
fingers and his hands clawed weakly at the arrow buried in his wide
belly. He stumbled backward.
Arrows rained from the mistiness that had closed in about Von Mark and
his men. The men from Wari, their faces unshielded, fell like flies.
In a moment those yet alive had taken to their heels, and Noork felt
invisible fingers tearing at the nets that bound him.
As he rose to his feet the robed figure let its misty covering drop
aside. A handsome golden-skinned warrior stood revealed.
"Gurn!" cried Noork.
A glad cry came from the throat of Tholon Sarna as she saw her brother.
And then she crept closer to Noork's side as the invisible mantles
of Gurn's loyal Vasads opened to reveal the hairy beast men they
concealed. Rold whimpered fearfully.
"The message that Ud carried to me was good," laughed Gurn. "The Misty
Ones skin easily. We were trapping the Misty Ones as they came across
the lake," he looked at the dying Von Mark, "as were these others. Soon
we would have come to your rescue, Noork, my friend."
"Lucky I escaped first," Noork told him. "The priests of Uzdon would
have trapped you. To them the Misty Ones are visible."
He picked up the fallen vision shield that lay beside their feet. His
chest expanded proudly.
"No longer," he told Gurn, "am I a man without a name. I am Captain
Dietrich from a distant valley called America. I was hunting this evil
man when my bird died."
He smiled and his brown arm tightened around Sarna's golden body. "The
evil man is dead. My native valley is safe. Now I can live in peace
with you, Gurn, and with your sister, here in the jungle."
"It is good, Noork," smiled Tholon Sarna.
End of Project Gutenberg's Raiders of the Second Moon, by Gene Ellerman
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Who is Fred Walton, and what is his significance in the story?
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After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about Master of Life and Death by Robert Silverberg.
Relevant chunks:
MASTER of Life and Death
by ROBERT SILVERBERG
ACE BOOKS A Division of A. A. Wyn, Inc. 23 West 47th Street, New York 36, N. Y.
MASTER OF LIFE AND DEATH
Copyright 1957, by A. A. Wyn, Inc. All Rights Reserved
For Antigone— Who Thinks We're Property
Printed in U.S.A.
[Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
THE MAN WHO RATIONED BABIES
By the 23rd century Earth's population had reached seven billion. Mankind was in danger of perishing for lack of elbow room—unless prompt measures were taken. Roy Walton had the power to enforce those measures. But though his job was in the service of humanity, he soon found himself the most hated man in the world.
For it was his job to tell parents their children were unfit to live; he had to uproot people from their homes and send them to remote areas of the world. Now, threatened by mobs of outraged citizens, denounced and blackened by the press, Roy Walton had to make a decision: resign his post, or use his power to destroy his enemies, become a dictator in the hopes of saving humanity from its own folly. In other words, should he become the MASTER OF LIFE AND DEATH?
CAST OF CHARACTERS
ROY WALTON
He had to adopt the motto— the ends justify the means .
FITZMAUGHAM
His reward for devoted service was—an assassin's bullet.
FRED WALTON
His ambition was to fill his brother's shoes—but he underestimated their size.
LEE PERCY
His specialty was sugarcoating bitter pills.
PRIOR
With the pen as his only weapon, could he save his son?
DR. LAMARRE
He died for discovering the secret of immortality.
Contents
I
The offices of the Bureau of Population Equalization, vulgarly known as Popeek, were located on the twentieth through twenty-ninth floors of the Cullen Building, a hundred-story monstrosity typical of twenty-second-century neo-Victorian at its overdecorated worst. Roy Walton, Popeek's assistant administrator, had to apologize to himself each morning as he entered the hideous place.
Since taking the job, he had managed to redecorate his own office—on the twenty-eighth floor, immediately below Director FitzMaugham's—but that had created only one minor oasis in the esthetically repugnant building. It couldn't be helped, though; Popeek was unpopular, though necessary; and, like the public hangman of some centuries earlier, the Bureau did not rate attractive quarters.
So Walton had removed some of the iridescent chrome scalloping that trimmed the walls, replaced the sash windows with opaquers, and changed the massive ceiling fixture to more subtle electroluminescents. But the mark of the last century was stamped irrevocably on both building and office.
Which was as it should be, Walton had finally realized. It was the last century's foolishness that had made Popeek necessary, after all.
His desk was piled high with reports, and more kept arriving via pneumochute every minute. The job of assistant administrator was a thankless one, he thought; as much responsibility as Director FitzMaugham, and half the pay.
He lifted a report from one eyebrow-high stack, smoothed the crinkly paper carefully, and read it.
It was a despatch from Horrocks, the Popeek agent currently on duty in Patagonia. It was dated 4 June 2232 , six days before, and after a long and rambling prologue in the usual Horrocks manner it went on to say, Population density remains low here: 17.3 per square mile, far below optimum. Looks like a prime candidate for equalization.
Walton agreed. He reached for his voicewrite and said sharply, "Memo from Assistant Administrator Walton, re equalization of ..." He paused, picking a trouble-spot at random, "... central Belgium. Will the section chief in charge of this area please consider the advisability of transferring population excess to fertile areas in Patagonia? Recommendation: establishment of industries in latter region, to ease transition."
He shut his eyes, dug his thumbs into them until bright flares of light shot across his eyeballs, and refused to let himself be bothered by the multiple problems involved in dumping several hundred thousand Belgians into Patagonia. He forced himself to cling to one of Director FitzMaugham's oft-repeated maxims, If you want to stay sane, think of these people as pawns in a chess game—not as human beings.
Walton sighed. This was the biggest chess problem in the history of humanity, and the way it looked now, all the solutions led to checkmate in a century or less. They could keep equalizing population only so long, shifting like loggers riding logs in a rushing river, before trouble came.
There was another matter to be attended to now. He picked up the voicewrite again. "Memo from the assistant administrator, re establishment of new policy on reports from local agents: hire a staff of three clever girls to make a précis of each report, eliminating irrelevant data."
It was a basic step, one that should have been taken long ago. Now, with three feet of reports stacked on his desk, it was mandatory. One of the troubles with Popeek was its newness; it had been established so suddenly that most of its procedures were still in the formative stage.
He took another report from the heap. This one was the data sheet of the Zurich Euthanasia Center, and he gave it a cursory scanning. During the past week, eleven substandard children and twenty-three substandard adults had been sent on to Happysleep.
That was the grimmest form of population equalization. Walton initialed the report, earmarked it for files, and dumped it in the pneumochute.
The annunciator chimed.
"I'm busy," Walton said immediately.
"There's a Mr. Prior to see you," the annunciator's calm voice said.
"He insists it's an emergency."
"Tell Mr. Prior I can't see anyone for at least three hours." Walton stared gloomily at the growing pile of paper on his desk. "Tell him he can have ten minutes with me at—oh, say, 1300."
Walton heard an angry male voice muttering something in the outer office, and then the annunciator said, "He insists he must see you immediately in reference to a Happysleep commitment."
"Commitments are irrevocable," Walton said heavily. The last thing in the world he wanted was to see a man whose child or parent had just been committed. "Tell Mr. Prior I can't see him at all."
Walton found his fingers trembling; he clamped them tight to the edge of his desk to steady himself. It was all right sitting up here in this ugly building and initialing commitment papers, but actually to see one of those people and try to convince him of the need—
The door burst open.
A tall, dark-haired man in an open jacket came rushing through and paused dramatically just over the threshold. Immediately behind him came three unsmiling men in the gray silk-sheen uniforms of security. They carried drawn needlers.
"Are you Administrator Walton?" the big man asked, in an astonishingly deep, rich voice. "I have to see you. I'm Lyle Prior."
The three security men caught up and swarmed all over Prior. One of them turned apologetically to Walton. "We're terribly sorry about this, sir. He just broke away and ran. We can't understand how he got in here, but he did."
"Ah—yes. So I noticed," Walton remarked drily. "See if he's planning to assassinate anybody, will you?"
"Administrator Walton!" Prior protested. "I'm a man of peace! How can you accuse me of—"
One of the security men hit him. Walton stiffened and resisted the urge to reprimand the man. He was only doing his job, after all.
"Search him," Walton said.
They gave Prior an efficient going-over. "He's clean, Mr. Walton. Should we take him to security, or downstairs to health?"
"Neither. Leave him here with me."
"Are you sure you—"
"Get out of here," Walton snapped. As the three security men slinked away, he added, "And figure out some more efficient system for protecting me. Some day an assassin is going to sneak through here and get me. Not that I give a damn about myself, you understand; it's simply that I'm indispensable. There isn't another lunatic in the world who'd take this job. Now get out !"
They wasted no time in leaving. Walton waited until the door closed and jammed down hard on the lockstud. His tirade, he knew, was wholly unjustified; if he had remembered to lock his door as regulations prescribed, Prior would never have broken in. But he couldn't admit that to the guards.
"Take a seat, Mr. Prior."
"I have to thank you for granting me this audience," Prior said, without a hint of sarcasm in his booming voice. "I realize you're a terribly busy man."
"I am." Another three inches of paper had deposited itself on Walton's desk since Prior had entered. "You're very lucky to have hit the psychological moment for your entrance. At any other time I'd have had you brigged for a month, but just now I'm in need of a little diversion. Besides, I very much admire your work, Mr. Prior."
"Thank you." Again that humility, startling in so big and commanding a man. "I hadn't expected to find—I mean that you—"
"That a bureaucrat should admire poetry? Is that what you're groping for?"
Prior reddened. "Yes," he admitted.
Grinning, Walton said, "I have to do something when I go home at night. I don't really read Popeek reports twenty-four hours a day. No more than twenty; that's my rule. I thought your last book was quite remarkable."
"The critics didn't," Prior said diffidently.
"Critics! What do they know?" Walton demanded. "They swing in cycles. Ten years ago it was form and technique, and you got the Melling Prize. Now it's message, political content that counts. That's not poetry, Mr. Prior—and there are still a few of us who recognize what poetry is. Take Yeats, for instance—"
Walton was ready to launch into a discussion of every poet from Prior back to Surrey and Wyatt; anything to keep from the job at hand, anything to keep his mind from Popeek. But Prior interrupted him.
"Mr. Walton...."
"Yes?"
"My son Philip ... he's two weeks old now...."
Walton understood. "No, Prior. Please don't ask." Walton's skin felt cold; his hands, tightly clenched, were clammy.
"He was committed to Happysleep this morning—potentially tubercular. The boy's perfectly sound, Mr. Walton. Couldn't you—"
Walton rose. " No ," he said, half-commanding, half-pleading. "Don't ask me to do it. I can't make any exceptions, not even for you. You're an intelligent man; you understand our program."
"I voted for Popeek. I know all about Weeding the Garden and the Euthanasia Plan. But I hadn't expected—"
"You thought euthanasia was a fine thing for other people. So did everyone else," Walton said. "That's how the act was passed." Tenderly he said, "I can't do it. I can't spare your son. Our doctors give a baby every chance to live."
" I was tubercular. They cured me. What if they had practiced euthanasia a generation ago? Where would my poems be now?"
It was an unanswerable question; Walton tried to ignore it.
"Tuberculosis is an extremely rare disease, Mr. Prior. We can wipe it out completely if we strike at those with TB-susceptible genetic traits."
"Meaning you'll kill any children I have?" Prior asked.
"Those who inherit your condition," Walton said gently. "Go home, Mr. Prior. Burn me in effigy. Write a poem about me. But don't ask me to do the impossible. I can't catch any falling stars for you."
Prior rose. He was immense, a hulking tragic figure staring broodingly at Walton. For the first time since the poet's abrupt entry, Walton feared violence. His fingers groped for the needle gun he kept in his upper left desk drawer.
But Prior had no violence in him. "I'll leave you," he said somberly.
"I'm sorry, sir. Deeply sorry. For both of us."
Walton pressed the doorlock to let him out, then locked it again and slipped heavily into his chair. Three more reports slid out of the chute and landed on his desk. He stared at them as if they were three basilisks.
In the six weeks of Popeek's existence, three thousand babies had been ticketed for Happysleep, and three thousand sets of degenerate genes had been wiped from the race. Ten thousand subnormal males had been sterilized. Eight thousand dying oldsters had reached their graves ahead of time.
It was a tough-minded program. But why transmit palsy to unborn generations? Why let an adult idiot litter the world with subnormal progeny? Why force a man hopelessly cancerous to linger on in pain, consuming precious food?
Unpleasant? Sure. But the world had voted for it. Until Lang and his team succeeded in terraforming Venus, or until the faster-than-light outfit opened the stars to mankind, something had to be done about Earth's overpopulation. There were seven billion now and the figure was still growing.
Prior's words haunted him. I was tubercular ... where would my poems be now?
The big humble man was one of the great poets. Keats had been tubercular too.
What good are poets? he asked himself savagely.
The reply came swiftly: What good is anything, then? Keats, Shakespeare, Eliot, Yeats, Donne, Pound, Matthews ... and Prior. How much duller life would be without them, Walton thought, picturing his bookshelf—his one bookshelf, in his crowded little cubicle of a one-room home.
Sweat poured down his back as he groped toward his decision.
The step he was considering would disqualify him from his job if he admitted it, though he wouldn't do that. Under the Equalization Law, it would be a criminal act.
But just one baby wouldn't matter. Just one.
Prior's baby.
With nervous fingers he switched on the annunciator and said, "If there are any calls for me, take the message. I'll be out of my office for the next half-hour."
II
He stepped out of the office, glancing around furtively. The outer office was busy: half a dozen girls were answering calls, opening letters, coordinating activities. Walton slipped quickly past them into the hallway.
There was a knot of fear in his stomach as he turned toward the lift tube. Six weeks of pressure, six weeks of tension since Popeek was organized and old man FitzMaugham had tapped him for the second-in-command post ... and now, a rebellion. The sparing of a single child was a small rebellion, true, but he knew he was striking as effectively at the base of Popeek this way as if he had brought about repeal of the entire Equalization Law.
Well, just one lapse, he promised himself. I'll spare Prior's child, and after that I'll keep within the law.
He jabbed the lift tube indicator and the tube rose in its shaft. The clinic was on the twentieth floor.
"Roy."
At the sound of the quiet voice behind him, Walton jumped in surprise. He steadied himself, forcing himself to turn slowly. The director stood there.
"Good morning, Mr. FitzMaugham."
The old man was smiling serenely, his unlined face warm and friendly, his mop of white hair bright and full. "You look preoccupied, boy. Something the matter?"
Walton shook his head quickly. "Just a little tired, sir. There's been a lot of work lately."
As he said it, he knew how foolish it sounded. If anyone in Popeek worked harder than he did, it was the elderly director. FitzMaugham had striven for equalization legislature for fifty years, and now, at the age of eighty, he put in a sixteen-hour day at the task of saving mankind from itself.
The director smiled. "You never did learn how to budget your strength, Roy. You'll be a worn-out wreck before you're half my age. I'm glad you're adopting my habit of taking a coffee break in the morning, though. Mind if I join you?"
"I'm—not taking a break, sir. I have some work to do downstairs."
"Oh? Can't you take care of it by phone?"
"No, Mr. FitzMaugham." Walton felt as though he'd already been tried, drawn, and quartered. "It requires personal attention."
"I see." The deep, warm eyes bored into his. "You ought to slow down a little, I think."
"Yes, sir. As soon as the work eases up a little."
FitzMaugham chuckled. "In another century or two, you mean. I'm afraid you'll never learn how to relax, my boy."
The lift tube arrived. Walton stepped to one side, allowed the Director to enter, and got in himself. FitzMaugham pushed Fourteen ; there was a coffee shop down there. Hesitantly, Walton pushed twenty , covering the panel with his arm so the old man would be unable to see his destination.
As the tube began to descend, FitzMaugham said, "Did Mr. Prior come to see you this morning?"
"Yes," Walton said.
"He's the poet, isn't he? The one you say is so good?"
"That's right, sir," Walton said tightly.
"He came to see me first, but I had him referred down to you. What was on his mind?"
Walton hesitated. "He—he wanted his son spared from Happysleep. Naturally, I had to turn him down."
"Naturally," FitzMaugham agreed solemnly. "Once we make even one exception, the whole framework crumbles."
"Of course, sir."
The lift tube halted and rocked on its suspension. The door slid back, revealing a neat, gleaming sign:
FLOOR 20 Euthanasia Clinic and Files
Walton had forgotten the accursed sign. He began to wish he had avoided traveling down with the director. He felt that his purpose must seem nakedly obvious now.
The old man's eyes were twinkling amusedly. "I guess you get off here," he said. "I hope you catch up with your work soon, Roy. You really should take some time off for relaxation each day."
"I'll try, sir."
Walton stepped out of the tube and returned FitzMaugham's smile as the door closed again. Bitter thoughts assailed him as soon as he was alone.
Some fine criminal you are. You've given the show away already! And damn that smooth paternal smile. FitzMaugham knows! He must know!
Walton wavered, then abruptly made his decision. He sucked in a deep breath and walked briskly toward the big room where the euthanasia files were kept.
The room was large, as rooms went nowadays—thirty by twenty, with deck upon deck of Donnerson micro-memory-tubes racked along one wall and a bank of microfilm records along the other. In six weeks of life Popeek had piled up an impressive collection of data.
While he stood there, the computer chattered, lights flashed. New facts poured into the memory banks. It probably went on day and night.
"Can I help—oh, it's you, Mr. Walton," a white-smocked technician said. Popeek employed a small army of technicians, each one faceless and without personality, but always ready to serve. "Is there anything I can do?"
"I'm simply running a routine checkup. Mind if I use the machine?"
"Not at all, sir. Go right ahead."
Walton grinned lightly and stepped forward. The technician practically backed out of his presence.
No doubt I must radiate charisma , he thought. Within the building he wore a sort of luminous halo, by virtue of being Director FitzMaugham's protégé and second-in-command. Outside, in the colder reality of the crowded metropolis, he kept his identity and Popeek rank quietly to himself.
Frowning, he tried to remember the Prior boy's name. Ah ... Philip, wasn't it? He punched out a request for the card on Philip Prior.
A moment's pause followed, while the millions of tiny cryotronic circuits raced with information pulses, searching the Donnerson tubes for Philip Prior's record. Then, a brief squeaking sound and a yellow-brown card dropped out of the slot:
3216847AB1
PRIOR, Philip Hugh. Born 31 May 2232, New York General Hospital, New York. First son of Prior, Lyle Martin and Prior, Ava Leonard. Wgt. at birth 5lb. 3oz.
An elaborate description of the boy in great detail followed, ending with blood type, agglutinating characteristic, and gene-pattern, codified. Walton skipped impatiently through that and came to the notification typed in curt, impersonal green capital letters at the bottom of the card:
EXAMINED AT N Y EUTH CLINIC 10 JUNE 2332 EUTHANASIA RECOMMENDED
He glanced at his watch: the time was 1026. The boy was probably still somewhere in the clinic lab, waiting for the figurative axe to descend.
Walton had set up the schedule himself: the gas chamber delivered Happysleep each day at 1100 and 1500. He had about half an hour to save Philip Prior.
He peered covertly over his shoulder; no one was in sight. He slipped the baby's card into his breast pocket.
That done, he typed out a requisition for explanation of the gene-sorting code the clinic used. Symbols began pouring forth, and Walton puzzledly correlated them with the line of gibberish on Phillip Prior's record card. Finally he found the one he wanted: 3f2, tubercular-prone .
He scrapped the guide sheet he had and typed out a message to the machine. Revision of card number 3216847AB1 follows. Please alter in all circuits.
He proceeded to retype the child's card, omitting both the fatal symbol 3f2 and the notation recommending euthanasia from the new version. The machine beeped an acknowledgement. Walton smiled. So far, so good.
Then, he requested the boy's file all over again. After the customary pause, a card numbered 3216847AB1 dropped out of the slot. He read it.
The deletions had been made. As far as the machine was concerned, Philip Prior was a normal, healthy baby.
He glanced at his watch. 1037. Still twenty-three minutes before this morning's haul of unfortunates was put away.
Now came the real test: could he pry the baby away from the doctors without attracting too much attention to himself in the process?
Five doctors were bustling back and forth as Walton entered the main section of the clinic. There must have been a hundred babies there, each in a little pen of its own, and the doctors were humming from one to the next, while anxious parents watched from screens above.
The Equalization Law provided that every child be presented at its local clinic within two weeks of birth, for an examination and a certificate. Perhaps one in ten thousand would be denied a certificate ... and life.
"Hello, Mr. Walton. What brings you down here?"
Walton smiled affably. "Just a routine investigation, Doctor. I try to keep in touch with every department we have, you know."
"Mr. FitzMaugham was down here to look around a little while ago. We're really getting a going-over today, Mr. Walton!"
"Umm. Yes." Walton didn't like that, but there was nothing he could do about it. He'd have to rely on the old man's abiding faith in his protégé to pull him out of any possible stickiness that arose.
"Seen my brother around?" he asked.
"Fred? He's working in room seven, running analyses. Want me to get him for you, Mr. Walton?"
"No—no, don't bother him, thanks. I'll find him later." Inwardly, Walton felt relieved. Fred Walton, his younger brother, was a doctor in the employ of Popeek. Little love was lost between the brothers, and Roy did not care to have Fred know he was down there.
Strolling casually through the clinic, he peered at a few plump, squalling babies, and said, "Find many sour ones today?"
"Seven so far. They're scheduled for the 1100 chamber. Three tuberc, two blind, one congenital syph."
"That only makes six," Walton said.
"Oh, and a spastic," the doctor said. "Biggest haul we've had yet. Seven in one morning."
"Have any trouble with the parents?"
"What do you think?" the doctor asked. "But some of them seemed to understand. One of the tuberculars nearly raised the roof, though."
Walton shuddered. "You remember his name?" he asked, with feigned calm.
Silence for a moment. "No. Darned if I can think of it. I can look it up for you if you like."
"Don't bother," Walton said hurriedly.
He moved on, down the winding corridor that led to the execution chamber. Falbrough, the executioner, was studying a list of names at his desk when Walton appeared.
Falbrough didn't look like the sort of man who would enjoy his work. He was short and plump, with a high-domed bald head and glittering contact lenses in his weak blue eyes. "Morning, Mr. Walton."
"Good morning, Doctor Falbrough. You'll be operating soon, won't you?"
"Eleven hundred, as usual."
"Good. There's a new regulation in effect from now on," Walton said.
"To keep public opinion on our side."
"Sir?"
"Henceforth, until further notice, you're to check each baby that comes to you against the main file, just to make sure there's been no mistake. Got that?"
" Mistake? But how—"
"Never mind that, Falbrough. There was quite a tragic slip-up at one of the European centers yesterday. We may all hang for it if news gets out." How glibly I reel this stuff off , Walton thought in amazement.
Falbrough looked grave. "I see, sir. Of course. We'll double-check everything from now on."
"Good. Begin with the 1100 batch."
Walton couldn't bear to remain down in the clinic any longer. He left via a side exit, and signaled for a lift tube.
Minutes later he was back in his office, behind the security of a towering stack of work. His pulse was racing; his throat was dry. He remembered what FitzMaugham had said: Once we make even one exception, the whole framework crumbles.
Well, the framework had begun crumbling, then. And there was little doubt in Walton's mind that FitzMaugham knew or would soon know what he had done. He would have to cover his traces, somehow.
The annunciator chimed and said, "Dr. Falbrough of Happysleep calling you, sir."
"Put him on."
The screen lit and Falbrough's face appeared; its normal blandness had given way to wild-eyed tenseness.
"What is it, Doctor?"
"It's a good thing you issued that order when you did, sir! You'll never guess what just happened—"
"No guessing games, Falbrough. Speak up."
"I—well, sir, I ran checks on the seven babies they sent me this morning. And guess—I mean—well, one of them shouldn't have been sent to me!"
"No!"
"It's the truth, sir. A cute little baby indeed. I've got his card right here. The boy's name is Philip Prior, and his gene-pattern is fine."
"Any recommendation for euthanasia on the card?" Walton asked.
"No, sir."
Walton chewed at a ragged cuticle for a moment, counterfeiting great anxiety. "Falbrough, we're going to have to keep this very quiet. Someone slipped up in the examining room, and if word gets out that there's been as much as one mistake, we'll have a mob swarming over us in half an hour."
"Yes, sir." Falbrough looked terribly grave. "What should I do, sir?"
"Don't say a word about this to anyone , not even the men in the examining room. Fill out a certificate for the boy, find his parents, apologize and return him to them. And make sure you keep checking for any future cases of this sort."
"Certainly, sir. Is that all?"
"It is," Walton said crisply, and broke the contact. He took a deep breath and stared bleakly at the far wall.
The Prior boy was safe. And in the eyes of the law—the Equalization Law—Roy Walton was now a criminal. He was every bit as much a criminal as the man who tried to hide his dying father from the investigators, or the anxious parents who attempted to bribe an examining doctor.
He felt curiously dirty. And, now that he had betrayed FitzMaugham and the Cause, now that it was done, he had little idea why he had done it, why he had jeopardized the Popeek program, his position—his life, even—for the sake of one potentially tubercular baby.
Well, the thing was done.
No. Not quite. Later, when things had quieted down, he would have to finish the job by transferring all the men in the clinic to distant places and by obliterating the computer's memories of this morning's activities.
The annunciator chimed again. "Your brother is on the wire, sir."
Walton trembled imperceptibly as he said, "Put him on." Somehow, Fred never called unless he could say or do something unpleasant. And Walton was very much afraid that his brother meant no good by this call. No good at all.
III
Roy Walton watched his brother's head and shoulders take form out of the swirl of colors on the screen. Fred Walton was more compact, built closer to the ground than his rangy brother; he was a squat five-seven, next to Roy's lean six-two. Fred had always threatened to "get even" with his older brother as soon as they were the same size, but to Fred's great dismay he had never managed to catch up with Roy in height.
Even on the screen, Fred's neck and shoulders gave an impression of tremendous solidity and force. Walton waited for his brother's image to take shape, and when the time lag was over he said, "Well, Fred? What goes?"
His brother's eyes flickered sleepily. "They tell me you were down here a little while ago, Roy. How come I didn't rate a visit?"
"I wasn't in your section. It was official business, anyway. I didn't have time."
Walton fixed his eyes sharply on the caduceus emblem gleaming on Fred's lapel, and refused to look anywhere else.
Fred said slowly, "You had time to tinker with our computer, though."
"Official business!"
"Really, Roy?" His brother's tone was venomous. "I happened to be using the computer shortly after you this morning. I was curious—unpardonably so, dear brother. I requested a transcript of your conversation with the machine."
Sparks seemed to flow from the screen. Walton sat back, feeling numb. He managed to pull his sagging mouth back into a stiff hard line and say, "That's a criminal offense, Fred. Any use I make of a Popeek computer outlet is confidential."
"Criminal offence? Maybe so ... but that makes two of us, then. Eh, Roy?"
"How much do you know?"
"You wouldn't want me to recite it over a public communications system, would you? Your friend FitzMaugham might be listening to every word of this, and I have too much fraternal feeling for that. Ole Doc Walton doesn't want to get his bigwig big brother in trouble—oh, no!"
"Thanks for small blessings," Roy said acidly.
"You got me this job. You can take it away. Let's call it even for now, shall we?"
"Anything you like," Walton said. He was drenched in sweat, though the ingenious executive filter in the sending apparatus of the screen cloaked that fact and presented him as neat and fresh. "I have some work to do now." His voice was barely audible.
"I won't keep you any longer, then," Fred said.
The screen went dead.
Walton killed the contact at his end, got up, walked to the window. He nudged the opaquer control and the frosty white haze over the glass cleared away, revealing the fantastic beehive of the city outside.
Idiot! he thought. Fool!
He had risked everything to save one baby, one child probably doomed to an early death anyway. And FitzMaugham knew—the old man could see through Walton with ease—and Fred knew, too. His brother, and his father-substitute.
FitzMaugham might well choose to conceal Roy's defection this time, but would surely place less trust in him in the future. And as for Fred....
There was no telling what Fred might do. They had never been particularly close as brothers; they had lived with their parents (now almost totally forgotten) until Roy was nine and Fred seven. Their parents had gone down off Maracaibo in a jet crash; Roy and Fred had been sent to the public crèche.
After that it had been separate paths for the brothers. For Roy, an education in the law, a short spell as Senator FitzMaugham's private secretary, followed last month by his sudden elevation to assistant administrator of the newly-created Popeek Bureau. For Fred, medicine, unsuccessful private practice, finally a job in the Happysleep section of Popeek, thanks to Roy.
Question:
Who is Fred Walton, and what is his significance in the story?
Answer:
|
[
"Fred Walton is the brother of Roy Walton, Assistant Administrator of the Bureau of Population Equalization. Fred Walton is a physician with a vaguely unsuccessful career history: medical school, a failed private practice, and finally becoming a doctor in the euthanizing section of Bureau of Population Equalization (or Popeek) thanks to his brother. Their childhood was tense and difficult. They were orphaned at 7 and 9 respectively when their parents died in a jet crash. Fred Walton and Roy have a very contentious relationship now, shown through Roy’s hindrance to visiting his brother when in his section of the building. \nFred Walton is significant because he discovered what Roy Walton had done after breaking into the office computers and looking up confidential information. He uses his knowledge of Roy’s felony and leverages it over his head. Essentially, he offers an ultimatum: Fred will keep quiet, so long as Roy does too. Plus, Roy now owes Fred. \n",
"Fred Walton is the younger brother of Roy Walton, the assistant administrator of the Bureau of Population Equalization (Popeek). The brothers are not close—they have never been. Fred always told Roy he would get even with him when they were the same size, but he never caught up to Roy’s height when they were younger. When they were seven and nine, their parents died in a jet crash, and the boys were placed in public care facilities. Afterward, they went in different directions, Roy to study law and Fred to study medicine. Fred had opened his private medical practice but wasn’t successful, and Roy got him the job in the Happysleep section of Popeek. When Roy visits the Euthanasia Clinic, he asks if Fred is there but learns he is working on analyses, so he doesn’t disturb him. Later, when Fred learns that Roy had been there, he is curious about what his brother was doing and requests a transcript of his work with the computer. Roy reminds Fred that doing so is a criminal offense, and Fred reminds him that makes the two of them criminals. Fred tells Roy he won’t say anything about what Roy did and says they are even now. However, Roy now worries about what Fred will do. It is entirely possible that Fred will hold this knowledge over Roy’s head in the future and use it to blackmail Roy. Fred undermines Roy's hope of getting away with what he had done.\n",
"Fred Walton is a doctor who works for the Bureau of Population Equalization, and is the younger brother of Roy Walton, the assistant director of the bureau. He is built bigger than Roy and over half a foot shorter. The two of them lived together with their parents until Roy was nine and Fred was seven years of age, but once their parents died in a plane crash, they led separate lives--eventually, Roy had gotten Fred his job with Happysleep, which reconnected them in some way. Fred noticed that Roy had been poking around the computer system when he visited the clinic, and took a look at what Roy had been doing. Fred confronted Roy about what had happened, which made Roy realize how dangerous of a situation this was, and that it could be escalating quickly now that both of them had committed criminal offenses. ",
"Fred Walton is Roy's younger brother, and he works as a doctor in the Euthanasia Clinic at Popeek. They do not like each other very much. When Roy was nine and Fred was seven, their parents died in a plane crash off Maracaibo, and they had been sent to live in a nursery. Roy received a law education and served as FitzMaugham's private secretary back when he was a senator. Fred studied medicine and spent some time in a failed private practice until Roy got him the job at Popeek. Fred is smaller than Roy at 5'7\" and compact. Roy believes that Fred's inability to catch up with Roy's height explains at least some of the resentment he harbors against him. When Fred calls him in his office after Roy returns from editing Philip Prior's record, Roy knows he is in trouble because Fred never calls unless he has something unpleasant to say. Fred reveals he had read through the history of Roy's use of the clinic's computer and suggests he knows exactly what he did to save Philip. However, he decides not to tell FitzMaugham because Roy had secured his position at the clinic for him. He decides to call it even."
] |
50441
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MASTER of Life and Death
by ROBERT SILVERBERG
ACE BOOKS A Division of A. A. Wyn, Inc. 23 West 47th Street, New York 36, N. Y.
MASTER OF LIFE AND DEATH
Copyright 1957, by A. A. Wyn, Inc. All Rights Reserved
For Antigone— Who Thinks We're Property
Printed in U.S.A.
[Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
THE MAN WHO RATIONED BABIES
By the 23rd century Earth's population had reached seven billion. Mankind was in danger of perishing for lack of elbow room—unless prompt measures were taken. Roy Walton had the power to enforce those measures. But though his job was in the service of humanity, he soon found himself the most hated man in the world.
For it was his job to tell parents their children were unfit to live; he had to uproot people from their homes and send them to remote areas of the world. Now, threatened by mobs of outraged citizens, denounced and blackened by the press, Roy Walton had to make a decision: resign his post, or use his power to destroy his enemies, become a dictator in the hopes of saving humanity from its own folly. In other words, should he become the MASTER OF LIFE AND DEATH?
CAST OF CHARACTERS
ROY WALTON
He had to adopt the motto— the ends justify the means .
FITZMAUGHAM
His reward for devoted service was—an assassin's bullet.
FRED WALTON
His ambition was to fill his brother's shoes—but he underestimated their size.
LEE PERCY
His specialty was sugarcoating bitter pills.
PRIOR
With the pen as his only weapon, could he save his son?
DR. LAMARRE
He died for discovering the secret of immortality.
Contents
I
The offices of the Bureau of Population Equalization, vulgarly known as Popeek, were located on the twentieth through twenty-ninth floors of the Cullen Building, a hundred-story monstrosity typical of twenty-second-century neo-Victorian at its overdecorated worst. Roy Walton, Popeek's assistant administrator, had to apologize to himself each morning as he entered the hideous place.
Since taking the job, he had managed to redecorate his own office—on the twenty-eighth floor, immediately below Director FitzMaugham's—but that had created only one minor oasis in the esthetically repugnant building. It couldn't be helped, though; Popeek was unpopular, though necessary; and, like the public hangman of some centuries earlier, the Bureau did not rate attractive quarters.
So Walton had removed some of the iridescent chrome scalloping that trimmed the walls, replaced the sash windows with opaquers, and changed the massive ceiling fixture to more subtle electroluminescents. But the mark of the last century was stamped irrevocably on both building and office.
Which was as it should be, Walton had finally realized. It was the last century's foolishness that had made Popeek necessary, after all.
His desk was piled high with reports, and more kept arriving via pneumochute every minute. The job of assistant administrator was a thankless one, he thought; as much responsibility as Director FitzMaugham, and half the pay.
He lifted a report from one eyebrow-high stack, smoothed the crinkly paper carefully, and read it.
It was a despatch from Horrocks, the Popeek agent currently on duty in Patagonia. It was dated 4 June 2232 , six days before, and after a long and rambling prologue in the usual Horrocks manner it went on to say, Population density remains low here: 17.3 per square mile, far below optimum. Looks like a prime candidate for equalization.
Walton agreed. He reached for his voicewrite and said sharply, "Memo from Assistant Administrator Walton, re equalization of ..." He paused, picking a trouble-spot at random, "... central Belgium. Will the section chief in charge of this area please consider the advisability of transferring population excess to fertile areas in Patagonia? Recommendation: establishment of industries in latter region, to ease transition."
He shut his eyes, dug his thumbs into them until bright flares of light shot across his eyeballs, and refused to let himself be bothered by the multiple problems involved in dumping several hundred thousand Belgians into Patagonia. He forced himself to cling to one of Director FitzMaugham's oft-repeated maxims, If you want to stay sane, think of these people as pawns in a chess game—not as human beings.
Walton sighed. This was the biggest chess problem in the history of humanity, and the way it looked now, all the solutions led to checkmate in a century or less. They could keep equalizing population only so long, shifting like loggers riding logs in a rushing river, before trouble came.
There was another matter to be attended to now. He picked up the voicewrite again. "Memo from the assistant administrator, re establishment of new policy on reports from local agents: hire a staff of three clever girls to make a précis of each report, eliminating irrelevant data."
It was a basic step, one that should have been taken long ago. Now, with three feet of reports stacked on his desk, it was mandatory. One of the troubles with Popeek was its newness; it had been established so suddenly that most of its procedures were still in the formative stage.
He took another report from the heap. This one was the data sheet of the Zurich Euthanasia Center, and he gave it a cursory scanning. During the past week, eleven substandard children and twenty-three substandard adults had been sent on to Happysleep.
That was the grimmest form of population equalization. Walton initialed the report, earmarked it for files, and dumped it in the pneumochute.
The annunciator chimed.
"I'm busy," Walton said immediately.
"There's a Mr. Prior to see you," the annunciator's calm voice said.
"He insists it's an emergency."
"Tell Mr. Prior I can't see anyone for at least three hours." Walton stared gloomily at the growing pile of paper on his desk. "Tell him he can have ten minutes with me at—oh, say, 1300."
Walton heard an angry male voice muttering something in the outer office, and then the annunciator said, "He insists he must see you immediately in reference to a Happysleep commitment."
"Commitments are irrevocable," Walton said heavily. The last thing in the world he wanted was to see a man whose child or parent had just been committed. "Tell Mr. Prior I can't see him at all."
Walton found his fingers trembling; he clamped them tight to the edge of his desk to steady himself. It was all right sitting up here in this ugly building and initialing commitment papers, but actually to see one of those people and try to convince him of the need—
The door burst open.
A tall, dark-haired man in an open jacket came rushing through and paused dramatically just over the threshold. Immediately behind him came three unsmiling men in the gray silk-sheen uniforms of security. They carried drawn needlers.
"Are you Administrator Walton?" the big man asked, in an astonishingly deep, rich voice. "I have to see you. I'm Lyle Prior."
The three security men caught up and swarmed all over Prior. One of them turned apologetically to Walton. "We're terribly sorry about this, sir. He just broke away and ran. We can't understand how he got in here, but he did."
"Ah—yes. So I noticed," Walton remarked drily. "See if he's planning to assassinate anybody, will you?"
"Administrator Walton!" Prior protested. "I'm a man of peace! How can you accuse me of—"
One of the security men hit him. Walton stiffened and resisted the urge to reprimand the man. He was only doing his job, after all.
"Search him," Walton said.
They gave Prior an efficient going-over. "He's clean, Mr. Walton. Should we take him to security, or downstairs to health?"
"Neither. Leave him here with me."
"Are you sure you—"
"Get out of here," Walton snapped. As the three security men slinked away, he added, "And figure out some more efficient system for protecting me. Some day an assassin is going to sneak through here and get me. Not that I give a damn about myself, you understand; it's simply that I'm indispensable. There isn't another lunatic in the world who'd take this job. Now get out !"
They wasted no time in leaving. Walton waited until the door closed and jammed down hard on the lockstud. His tirade, he knew, was wholly unjustified; if he had remembered to lock his door as regulations prescribed, Prior would never have broken in. But he couldn't admit that to the guards.
"Take a seat, Mr. Prior."
"I have to thank you for granting me this audience," Prior said, without a hint of sarcasm in his booming voice. "I realize you're a terribly busy man."
"I am." Another three inches of paper had deposited itself on Walton's desk since Prior had entered. "You're very lucky to have hit the psychological moment for your entrance. At any other time I'd have had you brigged for a month, but just now I'm in need of a little diversion. Besides, I very much admire your work, Mr. Prior."
"Thank you." Again that humility, startling in so big and commanding a man. "I hadn't expected to find—I mean that you—"
"That a bureaucrat should admire poetry? Is that what you're groping for?"
Prior reddened. "Yes," he admitted.
Grinning, Walton said, "I have to do something when I go home at night. I don't really read Popeek reports twenty-four hours a day. No more than twenty; that's my rule. I thought your last book was quite remarkable."
"The critics didn't," Prior said diffidently.
"Critics! What do they know?" Walton demanded. "They swing in cycles. Ten years ago it was form and technique, and you got the Melling Prize. Now it's message, political content that counts. That's not poetry, Mr. Prior—and there are still a few of us who recognize what poetry is. Take Yeats, for instance—"
Walton was ready to launch into a discussion of every poet from Prior back to Surrey and Wyatt; anything to keep from the job at hand, anything to keep his mind from Popeek. But Prior interrupted him.
"Mr. Walton...."
"Yes?"
"My son Philip ... he's two weeks old now...."
Walton understood. "No, Prior. Please don't ask." Walton's skin felt cold; his hands, tightly clenched, were clammy.
"He was committed to Happysleep this morning—potentially tubercular. The boy's perfectly sound, Mr. Walton. Couldn't you—"
Walton rose. " No ," he said, half-commanding, half-pleading. "Don't ask me to do it. I can't make any exceptions, not even for you. You're an intelligent man; you understand our program."
"I voted for Popeek. I know all about Weeding the Garden and the Euthanasia Plan. But I hadn't expected—"
"You thought euthanasia was a fine thing for other people. So did everyone else," Walton said. "That's how the act was passed." Tenderly he said, "I can't do it. I can't spare your son. Our doctors give a baby every chance to live."
" I was tubercular. They cured me. What if they had practiced euthanasia a generation ago? Where would my poems be now?"
It was an unanswerable question; Walton tried to ignore it.
"Tuberculosis is an extremely rare disease, Mr. Prior. We can wipe it out completely if we strike at those with TB-susceptible genetic traits."
"Meaning you'll kill any children I have?" Prior asked.
"Those who inherit your condition," Walton said gently. "Go home, Mr. Prior. Burn me in effigy. Write a poem about me. But don't ask me to do the impossible. I can't catch any falling stars for you."
Prior rose. He was immense, a hulking tragic figure staring broodingly at Walton. For the first time since the poet's abrupt entry, Walton feared violence. His fingers groped for the needle gun he kept in his upper left desk drawer.
But Prior had no violence in him. "I'll leave you," he said somberly.
"I'm sorry, sir. Deeply sorry. For both of us."
Walton pressed the doorlock to let him out, then locked it again and slipped heavily into his chair. Three more reports slid out of the chute and landed on his desk. He stared at them as if they were three basilisks.
In the six weeks of Popeek's existence, three thousand babies had been ticketed for Happysleep, and three thousand sets of degenerate genes had been wiped from the race. Ten thousand subnormal males had been sterilized. Eight thousand dying oldsters had reached their graves ahead of time.
It was a tough-minded program. But why transmit palsy to unborn generations? Why let an adult idiot litter the world with subnormal progeny? Why force a man hopelessly cancerous to linger on in pain, consuming precious food?
Unpleasant? Sure. But the world had voted for it. Until Lang and his team succeeded in terraforming Venus, or until the faster-than-light outfit opened the stars to mankind, something had to be done about Earth's overpopulation. There were seven billion now and the figure was still growing.
Prior's words haunted him. I was tubercular ... where would my poems be now?
The big humble man was one of the great poets. Keats had been tubercular too.
What good are poets? he asked himself savagely.
The reply came swiftly: What good is anything, then? Keats, Shakespeare, Eliot, Yeats, Donne, Pound, Matthews ... and Prior. How much duller life would be without them, Walton thought, picturing his bookshelf—his one bookshelf, in his crowded little cubicle of a one-room home.
Sweat poured down his back as he groped toward his decision.
The step he was considering would disqualify him from his job if he admitted it, though he wouldn't do that. Under the Equalization Law, it would be a criminal act.
But just one baby wouldn't matter. Just one.
Prior's baby.
With nervous fingers he switched on the annunciator and said, "If there are any calls for me, take the message. I'll be out of my office for the next half-hour."
II
He stepped out of the office, glancing around furtively. The outer office was busy: half a dozen girls were answering calls, opening letters, coordinating activities. Walton slipped quickly past them into the hallway.
There was a knot of fear in his stomach as he turned toward the lift tube. Six weeks of pressure, six weeks of tension since Popeek was organized and old man FitzMaugham had tapped him for the second-in-command post ... and now, a rebellion. The sparing of a single child was a small rebellion, true, but he knew he was striking as effectively at the base of Popeek this way as if he had brought about repeal of the entire Equalization Law.
Well, just one lapse, he promised himself. I'll spare Prior's child, and after that I'll keep within the law.
He jabbed the lift tube indicator and the tube rose in its shaft. The clinic was on the twentieth floor.
"Roy."
At the sound of the quiet voice behind him, Walton jumped in surprise. He steadied himself, forcing himself to turn slowly. The director stood there.
"Good morning, Mr. FitzMaugham."
The old man was smiling serenely, his unlined face warm and friendly, his mop of white hair bright and full. "You look preoccupied, boy. Something the matter?"
Walton shook his head quickly. "Just a little tired, sir. There's been a lot of work lately."
As he said it, he knew how foolish it sounded. If anyone in Popeek worked harder than he did, it was the elderly director. FitzMaugham had striven for equalization legislature for fifty years, and now, at the age of eighty, he put in a sixteen-hour day at the task of saving mankind from itself.
The director smiled. "You never did learn how to budget your strength, Roy. You'll be a worn-out wreck before you're half my age. I'm glad you're adopting my habit of taking a coffee break in the morning, though. Mind if I join you?"
"I'm—not taking a break, sir. I have some work to do downstairs."
"Oh? Can't you take care of it by phone?"
"No, Mr. FitzMaugham." Walton felt as though he'd already been tried, drawn, and quartered. "It requires personal attention."
"I see." The deep, warm eyes bored into his. "You ought to slow down a little, I think."
"Yes, sir. As soon as the work eases up a little."
FitzMaugham chuckled. "In another century or two, you mean. I'm afraid you'll never learn how to relax, my boy."
The lift tube arrived. Walton stepped to one side, allowed the Director to enter, and got in himself. FitzMaugham pushed Fourteen ; there was a coffee shop down there. Hesitantly, Walton pushed twenty , covering the panel with his arm so the old man would be unable to see his destination.
As the tube began to descend, FitzMaugham said, "Did Mr. Prior come to see you this morning?"
"Yes," Walton said.
"He's the poet, isn't he? The one you say is so good?"
"That's right, sir," Walton said tightly.
"He came to see me first, but I had him referred down to you. What was on his mind?"
Walton hesitated. "He—he wanted his son spared from Happysleep. Naturally, I had to turn him down."
"Naturally," FitzMaugham agreed solemnly. "Once we make even one exception, the whole framework crumbles."
"Of course, sir."
The lift tube halted and rocked on its suspension. The door slid back, revealing a neat, gleaming sign:
FLOOR 20 Euthanasia Clinic and Files
Walton had forgotten the accursed sign. He began to wish he had avoided traveling down with the director. He felt that his purpose must seem nakedly obvious now.
The old man's eyes were twinkling amusedly. "I guess you get off here," he said. "I hope you catch up with your work soon, Roy. You really should take some time off for relaxation each day."
"I'll try, sir."
Walton stepped out of the tube and returned FitzMaugham's smile as the door closed again. Bitter thoughts assailed him as soon as he was alone.
Some fine criminal you are. You've given the show away already! And damn that smooth paternal smile. FitzMaugham knows! He must know!
Walton wavered, then abruptly made his decision. He sucked in a deep breath and walked briskly toward the big room where the euthanasia files were kept.
The room was large, as rooms went nowadays—thirty by twenty, with deck upon deck of Donnerson micro-memory-tubes racked along one wall and a bank of microfilm records along the other. In six weeks of life Popeek had piled up an impressive collection of data.
While he stood there, the computer chattered, lights flashed. New facts poured into the memory banks. It probably went on day and night.
"Can I help—oh, it's you, Mr. Walton," a white-smocked technician said. Popeek employed a small army of technicians, each one faceless and without personality, but always ready to serve. "Is there anything I can do?"
"I'm simply running a routine checkup. Mind if I use the machine?"
"Not at all, sir. Go right ahead."
Walton grinned lightly and stepped forward. The technician practically backed out of his presence.
No doubt I must radiate charisma , he thought. Within the building he wore a sort of luminous halo, by virtue of being Director FitzMaugham's protégé and second-in-command. Outside, in the colder reality of the crowded metropolis, he kept his identity and Popeek rank quietly to himself.
Frowning, he tried to remember the Prior boy's name. Ah ... Philip, wasn't it? He punched out a request for the card on Philip Prior.
A moment's pause followed, while the millions of tiny cryotronic circuits raced with information pulses, searching the Donnerson tubes for Philip Prior's record. Then, a brief squeaking sound and a yellow-brown card dropped out of the slot:
3216847AB1
PRIOR, Philip Hugh. Born 31 May 2232, New York General Hospital, New York. First son of Prior, Lyle Martin and Prior, Ava Leonard. Wgt. at birth 5lb. 3oz.
An elaborate description of the boy in great detail followed, ending with blood type, agglutinating characteristic, and gene-pattern, codified. Walton skipped impatiently through that and came to the notification typed in curt, impersonal green capital letters at the bottom of the card:
EXAMINED AT N Y EUTH CLINIC 10 JUNE 2332 EUTHANASIA RECOMMENDED
He glanced at his watch: the time was 1026. The boy was probably still somewhere in the clinic lab, waiting for the figurative axe to descend.
Walton had set up the schedule himself: the gas chamber delivered Happysleep each day at 1100 and 1500. He had about half an hour to save Philip Prior.
He peered covertly over his shoulder; no one was in sight. He slipped the baby's card into his breast pocket.
That done, he typed out a requisition for explanation of the gene-sorting code the clinic used. Symbols began pouring forth, and Walton puzzledly correlated them with the line of gibberish on Phillip Prior's record card. Finally he found the one he wanted: 3f2, tubercular-prone .
He scrapped the guide sheet he had and typed out a message to the machine. Revision of card number 3216847AB1 follows. Please alter in all circuits.
He proceeded to retype the child's card, omitting both the fatal symbol 3f2 and the notation recommending euthanasia from the new version. The machine beeped an acknowledgement. Walton smiled. So far, so good.
Then, he requested the boy's file all over again. After the customary pause, a card numbered 3216847AB1 dropped out of the slot. He read it.
The deletions had been made. As far as the machine was concerned, Philip Prior was a normal, healthy baby.
He glanced at his watch. 1037. Still twenty-three minutes before this morning's haul of unfortunates was put away.
Now came the real test: could he pry the baby away from the doctors without attracting too much attention to himself in the process?
Five doctors were bustling back and forth as Walton entered the main section of the clinic. There must have been a hundred babies there, each in a little pen of its own, and the doctors were humming from one to the next, while anxious parents watched from screens above.
The Equalization Law provided that every child be presented at its local clinic within two weeks of birth, for an examination and a certificate. Perhaps one in ten thousand would be denied a certificate ... and life.
"Hello, Mr. Walton. What brings you down here?"
Walton smiled affably. "Just a routine investigation, Doctor. I try to keep in touch with every department we have, you know."
"Mr. FitzMaugham was down here to look around a little while ago. We're really getting a going-over today, Mr. Walton!"
"Umm. Yes." Walton didn't like that, but there was nothing he could do about it. He'd have to rely on the old man's abiding faith in his protégé to pull him out of any possible stickiness that arose.
"Seen my brother around?" he asked.
"Fred? He's working in room seven, running analyses. Want me to get him for you, Mr. Walton?"
"No—no, don't bother him, thanks. I'll find him later." Inwardly, Walton felt relieved. Fred Walton, his younger brother, was a doctor in the employ of Popeek. Little love was lost between the brothers, and Roy did not care to have Fred know he was down there.
Strolling casually through the clinic, he peered at a few plump, squalling babies, and said, "Find many sour ones today?"
"Seven so far. They're scheduled for the 1100 chamber. Three tuberc, two blind, one congenital syph."
"That only makes six," Walton said.
"Oh, and a spastic," the doctor said. "Biggest haul we've had yet. Seven in one morning."
"Have any trouble with the parents?"
"What do you think?" the doctor asked. "But some of them seemed to understand. One of the tuberculars nearly raised the roof, though."
Walton shuddered. "You remember his name?" he asked, with feigned calm.
Silence for a moment. "No. Darned if I can think of it. I can look it up for you if you like."
"Don't bother," Walton said hurriedly.
He moved on, down the winding corridor that led to the execution chamber. Falbrough, the executioner, was studying a list of names at his desk when Walton appeared.
Falbrough didn't look like the sort of man who would enjoy his work. He was short and plump, with a high-domed bald head and glittering contact lenses in his weak blue eyes. "Morning, Mr. Walton."
"Good morning, Doctor Falbrough. You'll be operating soon, won't you?"
"Eleven hundred, as usual."
"Good. There's a new regulation in effect from now on," Walton said.
"To keep public opinion on our side."
"Sir?"
"Henceforth, until further notice, you're to check each baby that comes to you against the main file, just to make sure there's been no mistake. Got that?"
" Mistake? But how—"
"Never mind that, Falbrough. There was quite a tragic slip-up at one of the European centers yesterday. We may all hang for it if news gets out." How glibly I reel this stuff off , Walton thought in amazement.
Falbrough looked grave. "I see, sir. Of course. We'll double-check everything from now on."
"Good. Begin with the 1100 batch."
Walton couldn't bear to remain down in the clinic any longer. He left via a side exit, and signaled for a lift tube.
Minutes later he was back in his office, behind the security of a towering stack of work. His pulse was racing; his throat was dry. He remembered what FitzMaugham had said: Once we make even one exception, the whole framework crumbles.
Well, the framework had begun crumbling, then. And there was little doubt in Walton's mind that FitzMaugham knew or would soon know what he had done. He would have to cover his traces, somehow.
The annunciator chimed and said, "Dr. Falbrough of Happysleep calling you, sir."
"Put him on."
The screen lit and Falbrough's face appeared; its normal blandness had given way to wild-eyed tenseness.
"What is it, Doctor?"
"It's a good thing you issued that order when you did, sir! You'll never guess what just happened—"
"No guessing games, Falbrough. Speak up."
"I—well, sir, I ran checks on the seven babies they sent me this morning. And guess—I mean—well, one of them shouldn't have been sent to me!"
"No!"
"It's the truth, sir. A cute little baby indeed. I've got his card right here. The boy's name is Philip Prior, and his gene-pattern is fine."
"Any recommendation for euthanasia on the card?" Walton asked.
"No, sir."
Walton chewed at a ragged cuticle for a moment, counterfeiting great anxiety. "Falbrough, we're going to have to keep this very quiet. Someone slipped up in the examining room, and if word gets out that there's been as much as one mistake, we'll have a mob swarming over us in half an hour."
"Yes, sir." Falbrough looked terribly grave. "What should I do, sir?"
"Don't say a word about this to anyone , not even the men in the examining room. Fill out a certificate for the boy, find his parents, apologize and return him to them. And make sure you keep checking for any future cases of this sort."
"Certainly, sir. Is that all?"
"It is," Walton said crisply, and broke the contact. He took a deep breath and stared bleakly at the far wall.
The Prior boy was safe. And in the eyes of the law—the Equalization Law—Roy Walton was now a criminal. He was every bit as much a criminal as the man who tried to hide his dying father from the investigators, or the anxious parents who attempted to bribe an examining doctor.
He felt curiously dirty. And, now that he had betrayed FitzMaugham and the Cause, now that it was done, he had little idea why he had done it, why he had jeopardized the Popeek program, his position—his life, even—for the sake of one potentially tubercular baby.
Well, the thing was done.
No. Not quite. Later, when things had quieted down, he would have to finish the job by transferring all the men in the clinic to distant places and by obliterating the computer's memories of this morning's activities.
The annunciator chimed again. "Your brother is on the wire, sir."
Walton trembled imperceptibly as he said, "Put him on." Somehow, Fred never called unless he could say or do something unpleasant. And Walton was very much afraid that his brother meant no good by this call. No good at all.
III
Roy Walton watched his brother's head and shoulders take form out of the swirl of colors on the screen. Fred Walton was more compact, built closer to the ground than his rangy brother; he was a squat five-seven, next to Roy's lean six-two. Fred had always threatened to "get even" with his older brother as soon as they were the same size, but to Fred's great dismay he had never managed to catch up with Roy in height.
Even on the screen, Fred's neck and shoulders gave an impression of tremendous solidity and force. Walton waited for his brother's image to take shape, and when the time lag was over he said, "Well, Fred? What goes?"
His brother's eyes flickered sleepily. "They tell me you were down here a little while ago, Roy. How come I didn't rate a visit?"
"I wasn't in your section. It was official business, anyway. I didn't have time."
Walton fixed his eyes sharply on the caduceus emblem gleaming on Fred's lapel, and refused to look anywhere else.
Fred said slowly, "You had time to tinker with our computer, though."
"Official business!"
"Really, Roy?" His brother's tone was venomous. "I happened to be using the computer shortly after you this morning. I was curious—unpardonably so, dear brother. I requested a transcript of your conversation with the machine."
Sparks seemed to flow from the screen. Walton sat back, feeling numb. He managed to pull his sagging mouth back into a stiff hard line and say, "That's a criminal offense, Fred. Any use I make of a Popeek computer outlet is confidential."
"Criminal offence? Maybe so ... but that makes two of us, then. Eh, Roy?"
"How much do you know?"
"You wouldn't want me to recite it over a public communications system, would you? Your friend FitzMaugham might be listening to every word of this, and I have too much fraternal feeling for that. Ole Doc Walton doesn't want to get his bigwig big brother in trouble—oh, no!"
"Thanks for small blessings," Roy said acidly.
"You got me this job. You can take it away. Let's call it even for now, shall we?"
"Anything you like," Walton said. He was drenched in sweat, though the ingenious executive filter in the sending apparatus of the screen cloaked that fact and presented him as neat and fresh. "I have some work to do now." His voice was barely audible.
"I won't keep you any longer, then," Fred said.
The screen went dead.
Walton killed the contact at his end, got up, walked to the window. He nudged the opaquer control and the frosty white haze over the glass cleared away, revealing the fantastic beehive of the city outside.
Idiot! he thought. Fool!
He had risked everything to save one baby, one child probably doomed to an early death anyway. And FitzMaugham knew—the old man could see through Walton with ease—and Fred knew, too. His brother, and his father-substitute.
FitzMaugham might well choose to conceal Roy's defection this time, but would surely place less trust in him in the future. And as for Fred....
There was no telling what Fred might do. They had never been particularly close as brothers; they had lived with their parents (now almost totally forgotten) until Roy was nine and Fred seven. Their parents had gone down off Maracaibo in a jet crash; Roy and Fred had been sent to the public crèche.
After that it had been separate paths for the brothers. For Roy, an education in the law, a short spell as Senator FitzMaugham's private secretary, followed last month by his sudden elevation to assistant administrator of the newly-created Popeek Bureau. For Fred, medicine, unsuccessful private practice, finally a job in the Happysleep section of Popeek, thanks to Roy.
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What is the significance of the mountain?
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After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about The Highest Mountain by Bryce Walton.
Relevant chunks:
THE HIGHEST MOUNTAIN
By BRYCE WALTON
Illustrated by BOB HAYES
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
First one up this tallest summit in the Solar System was a rotten egg ... a very rotten egg!
Bruce heard their feet on the gravel outside and got up reluctantly to open the door for them. He'd been reading some of Byron's poems he'd sneaked aboard the ship; after that he had been on the point of dozing off, and now one of those strangely realistic dreams would have to be postponed for a while. Funny, those dreams. There were faces in them of human beings, or of ghosts, and other forms that weren't human at all, but seemed real and alive—except that they were also just parts of a last unconscious desire to escape death. Maybe that was it.
"'Oh that my young life were a lasting dream, my spirit not awakening till the beam of an eternity should bring the 'morrow," Bruce said. He smiled without feeling much of anything and added, "Thanks, Mr. Poe."
Jacobs and Anhauser stood outside. The icy wind cut through and into Bruce, but he didn't seem to notice. Anhauser's bulk loomed even larger in the special cold-resisting suiting. Jacobs' thin face frowned slyly at Bruce.
"Come on in, boys, and get warm," Bruce invited.
"Hey, poet, you're still here!" Anhauser said, looking astonished.
"We thought you'd be running off somewhere," Jacobs said.
Bruce reached for the suit on its hook, started climbing into it.
"Where?" he asked. "Mars looks alike wherever you go. Where did you think I'd be running to?"
"Any place just so it was away from here and us," Anhauser said.
"I don't have to do that. You are going away from me. That takes care of that, doesn't it?"
"Ah, come on, get the hell out of there," Jacobs said. He pulled the revolver from its holster and pointed it at Bruce. "We got to get some sleep. We're starting up that mountain at five in the morning."
"I know," Bruce said. "I'll be glad to see you climb the mountain."
Outside, in the weird light of the double moons, Bruce looked up at the gigantic overhang of the mountain. It was unbelievable. The mountain didn't seem to belong here. He'd thought so when they'd first hit Mars eight months back and discovered the other four rockets that had never got back to Earth—all lying side by side under the mountain's shadow, like little white chalk marks on a tallyboard.
They'd estimated its height at over 45,000 feet, which was a lot higher than any mountain on Earth. Yet Mars was much older, geologically. The entire face of the planet was smoothed into soft, undulating red hills by erosion. And there in the middle of barren nothingness rose that one incredible mountain. On certain nights when the stars were right, it had seemed to Bruce as though it were pointing an accusing finger at Earth—or a warning one.
With Jacobs and Anhauser and the remainder of the crew of the ship, Mars V , seven judges sat in a semi-circle and Bruce stood there in front of them for the inquest.
In the middle of the half-moon of inquisition, with his long legs stretched out and his hands folded on his belly, sat Captain Terrence. His uniform was black. On his arm was the silver fist insignia of the Conqueror Corps. Marsha Rennels sat on the extreme right and now there was no emotion at all on her trim, neat face.
He remembered her as she had been years ago, but at the moment he wasn't looking very hard to see anything on her face. It was too late. They had gotten her young and it was too late.
Terrence's big, square face frowned a little. Bruce was aware suddenly of the sound of the bleak, never-ending wind against the plastilene shelter. He remembered the strange misty shapes that had come to him in his dreams, the voices that had called to him, and how disappointed he had been when he woke from them.
"This is a mere formality," Terrence finally said, "since we all know you killed Lieutenant Doran a few hours ago. Marsha saw you kill him. Whatever you say goes on the record, of course."
"For whom?" Bruce asked.
"What kind of question is that? For the authorities on Earth when we get back."
"When you get back? Like the crews of those other four ships out there?" Bruce laughed without much humor.
Terrence rubbed a palm across his lips, dropped the hand quickly again to his belly. "You want to make a statement or not? You shot Doran in the head with a rifle. No provocation for the attack. You've wasted enough of my time with your damn arguments and anti-social behavior. This is a democratic group. Everyone has his say. But you've said too much, and done too much. Freedom doesn't allow you to go around killing fellow crew-members!"
"Any idea that there was any democracy or freedom left died on Venus," Bruce said.
"Now we get another lecture!" Terrence exploded. He leaned forward.
"You're sick, Bruce. They did a bad psych job on you. They should never have sent you on this trip. We need strength, all the strength we can find. You don't belong here."
"I know," Bruce agreed indifferently. "I was drafted for this trip. I told them I shouldn't be brought along. I said I didn't want any part of it."
"Because you're afraid. You're not Conqueror material. That's why you backed down when we all voted to climb the mountain. And what the devil does Venus—?"
Max Drexel's freckles slipped into the creases across his high forehead. "Haven't you heard him expounding on the injustice done to the Venusian aborigines, Captain? If you haven't, you aren't thoroughly educated to the crackpot idealism still infecting certain people."
"I haven't heard it," Terrence admitted. "What injustice?"
Bruce said, "I guess it couldn't really be considered an injustice any longer. Values have changed too much. Doran and I were part of the crew of that first ship to hit Venus, five years ago. Remember? One of the New Era's more infamous dates. Drexel says the Venusians were aborigines. No one ever got a chance to find out. We ran into this village. No one knows how old it was. There were intelligent beings there. One community left on the whole planet, maybe a few thousand inhabitants. They made their last mistake when they came out to greet us. Without even an attempt at communication, they were wiped out. The village was burned and everything alive in it was destroyed."
Bruce felt the old weakness coming into his knees, the sweat beginning to run down his face. He took a deep breath and stood there before the cold nihilistic stares of fourteen eyes.
"No," Bruce said. "I apologize. None of you know what I'm talking about."
Terrence nodded. "You're psycho. It's as simple as that. They pick the most capable for these conquests. Even the flights are processes of elimination. Eventually we get the very best, the most resilient, the real conquering blood. You just don't pass, Bruce. Listen, what do you think gives you the right to stand here in judgment against the laws of the whole Solar System?"
"There are plenty on Earth who agree with me," Bruce said. "I can say what I think now because you can't do more than kill me and you'll do that regardless...."
He stopped. This was ridiculous, a waste of his time. And theirs. They had established a kind of final totalitarianism since the New Era. The psychologists, the Pavlovian Reflex boys, had done that. If you didn't want to be reconditioned to fit into the social machine like a human vacuum tube, you kept your mouth shut. And for many, when the mouth was kept shut long enough, the mind pretty well forgot what it had wanted to open the mouth for in the first place.
A minority in both segments of a world split into two factions. Both had been warring diplomatically and sometimes physically, for centuries, clung to old ideas of freedom, democracy, self-determinism, individualism. To most, the words had no meaning now. It was a question of which set of conquering heroes could conquer the most space first. So far, only Venus had fallen. They had done a good, thorough job there. Four ships had come to Mars and their crews had disappeared. This was the fifth attempt—
Terrence said, "why did you shoot Doran?"
"I didn't like him enough to take the nonsense he was handing me, and when he shot the—" Bruce hesitated.
"What? When he shot what?"
Bruce felt an odd tingling in his stomach. The wind's voice seemed to sharpen and rise to a kind of wail.
"All right, I'll tell you. I was sleeping, having a dream. Doran woke me up. Marsha was with him. I'd forgotten about that geological job we were supposed to be working on. I've had these dreams ever since we got here."
"What kind of dreams?"
Someone laughed.
"Just fantastic stuff. Ask your Pavlovian there," Bruce said. "People talk to me, and there are other things in the dreams. Voices and some kind of shapes that aren't what you would call human at all."
Someone coughed. There was obvious embarrassment in the room.
"It's peculiar, but many faces and voices are those of crew members of some of the ships out there, the ones that never got back to Earth."
Terrence grinned. "Ghosts, Bruce?"
"Maybe. This planet may not be a dead ball of clay. I've had a feeling there's something real in the dreams, but I can't figure it out. You're still interested?"
Terrence nodded and glanced to either side.
"We've seen no indication of any kind of life whatsoever," Bruce pointed out. "Not even an insect, or any kind of plant life except some fungi and lichen down in the crevices. That never seemed logical to me from the start. We've covered the planet everywhere except one place—"
"The mountain," Terrence said. "You've been afraid even to talk about scaling it."
"Not afraid," Bruce objected. "I don't see any need to climb it. Coming to Mars, conquering space, isn't that enough? It happens that the crew of the first ship here decided to climb the mountain, and that set a precedent. Every ship that has come here has had to climb it. Why? Because they had to accept the challenge. And what's happened to them? Like you, they all had the necessary equipment to make a successful climb, but no one's ever come back down. No contact with anything up there.
"Captain, I'm not accepting a ridiculous challenge like that. Why should I? I didn't come here to conquer anything, even a mountain. The challenge of coming to Mars, of going on to where ever you guys intend going before something bigger than you are stops you—it doesn't interest me."
"Nothing's bigger than the destiny of Earth!" Terrence said, sitting up straight and rigid.
"I know," Bruce said. "Anyway, I got off the track. As I was saying, I woke up from this dream and Marsha and Doran were there. Doran was shaking me. But I didn't seem to have gotten entirely awake; either that or some part of the dream was real, because I looked out the window—something was out there, looking at me. It was late, and at first I thought it might be a shadow. But it wasn't. It was misty, almost translucent, but I think it was something alive. I had a feeling it was intelligent, maybe very intelligent. I could feel something in my mind. A kind of beauty and softness and warmth. I kept looking—"
His throat was getting tight. He had difficulty talking. "Doran asked me what I was looking at, and I told him. He laughed. But he looked. Then I realized that maybe I wasn't still dreaming. Doran saw it, too, or thought he did. He kept looking and finally he jumped and grabbed up his rifle and ran outside. I yelled at him. I kept on yelling and ran after him. 'It's intelligent, whatever it is!' I kept saying. 'How do you know it means any harm?' But I heard Doran's rifle go off before I could get to him. And whatever it was we saw, I didn't see it any more. Neither did Doran. Maybe he killed it. I don't know. He had to kill it. That's the way you think."
"What? Explain that remark."
"That's the philosophy of conquest—don't take any chances with aliens. They might hinder our advance across the Universe. So we kill everything. Doran acted without thinking at all. Conditioned to kill everything that doesn't look like us. So I hit Doran and took the gun away from him and killed him. I felt sick, crazy with rage. Maybe that's part of it. All I know is that I thought he deserved to die and that I had to kill him, so I did."
"Is that all, Bruce?"
"That's about all. Except that I'd like to kill all of you. And I would if I had the chance."
"That's what I figured." Terrence turned to the psychologist, a small wiry man who sat there constantly fingering his ear. "Stromberg, what do you think of this gobbledegook? We know he's crazy. But what hit him? You said his record was good up until a year ago."
Stromberg's voice was monotonous, like a voice off of a tape.
"Schizophrenia with mingled delusions of persecution. The schizophrenia is caused by inner conflict—indecision between the older values and our present ones which he hasn't been able to accept. A complete case history would tell why he can't accept our present attitudes. I would say that he has an incipient fear of personal inadequacy, which is why he fears our desire for conquest. He's rationalized, built up a defense which he's structured with his idealism, foundationed with Old Era values. Retreat into the past, an escape from his own present feelings of inadequacy. Also, he escapes into these dream fantasies."
"Yes," Terrence said. "But how does that account for Doran's action? Doran must have seen something—"
"Doran's charts show high suggestibility under stress. Another weak personality eliminated. Let's regard it that way. He imagined he saw something." He glanced at Marsha. "Did you see anything?"
She hesitated, avoiding Bruce's eyes. "Nothing at all. There wasn't anything out there to see, except the dust and rocks. That's all there is to see here. We could stay a million years and never see anything else. A shadow maybe—"
"All right," Terrence interrupted. "Now, Bruce, you know the law regulating the treatment of serious psycho cases in space?"
"Yes. Execution."
"No facilities for handling such cases en route back to Earth."
"I understand. No apologies necessary, Captain."
Terrence shifted his position. "However, we've voted to grant you a kind of leniency. In exchange for a little further service from you, you can remain here on Mars after we leave. You'll be left food-concentrates to last a long time."
"What kind of service?"
"Stay by the radio and take down what we report as we go up the mountain."
"Why not?" Bruce said. "You aren't certain you're coming back, then?"
"We might not," Terrence admitted calmly. "Something's happened to the others. We're going to find out what and we want it recorded. None of us want to back down and stay here. You can take our reports as they come in."
"I'll do that," Bruce said. "It should be interesting."
Bruce watched them go, away and up and around the immediate face of the mountain in the bleak cold of the Martian morning. He watched them disappear behind a high ledge, tied together with plastic rope like convicts.
He stayed by the radio. He lost track of time and didn't care much if he did. Sometimes he took a heavy sedative and slept. The sedative prevented the dreams. He had an idea that the dreams might be so pleasant that he wouldn't wake up. He wanted to listen to Terrence as long as the captain had anything to say. It was nothing but curiosity.
At fifteen thousand feet, Terrence reported only that they were climbing.
At twenty thousand feet, Terrence said, "We're still climbing, and that's all I can report, Bruce. It's worth coming to Mars for—to accept a challenge like this!"
At twenty-five thousand feet, Terrence reported, "We've put on oxygen masks. Jacobs and Drexel have developed some kind of altitude sickness and we're taking a little time out. It's a magnificent sight up here. I can imagine plenty of tourists coming to Mars one of these days, just to climb this mountain! Mt. Everest is a pimple compared with this! What a feeling of power, Bruce!"
From forty thousand feet, Terrence said, "We gauged this mountain at forty-five thousand. But here we are at forty and there doesn't seem to be any top. We can see up and up and the mountain keeps on going. I don't understand how we could have made such an error in our computations. I talked with Burton. He doesn't see how a mountain this high could still be here when the rest of the planet has been worn so smooth."
And then from fifty-three thousand feet, Terrence said with a voice that seemed slightly strained: "No sign of any of the crew of the other four ships yet. Ten in each crew, that makes fifty. Not a sign of any of them so far, but then we seem to have a long way left to climb—"
Bruce listened and noted and took sedatives and opened cans of food concentrates. He smoked and ate and slept. He had plenty of time. He had only time and the dreams which he knew he could utilize later to take care of the time.
From sixty thousand feet, Terrence reported, "I had to shoot Anhauser a few minutes ago! He was dissenting. Hear that, Bruce? One of my most dependable men. We took a vote. A mere formality, of course, whether we should continue climbing or not. We knew we'd all vote to keep on climbing. And then Anhauser dissented. He was hysterical. He refused to accept the majority decision. 'I'm going back down!' he yelled. So I had to shoot him. Imagine a man of his apparent caliber turning anti-democratic like that! This mountain will be a great tester for us in the future. We'll test everybody, find out quickly who the weaklings are."
Bruce listened to the wind. It seemed to rise higher and higher. Terrence, who had climbed still higher, was calling. "Think of it! What a conquest! No man's ever done a thing like this. Like Stromberg says, it's symbolic! We can build spaceships and reach other planets, but that's not actual physical conquest. We feel like gods up here. We can see what we are now. We can see how it's going to be—"
Once in a while Terrence demanded that Bruce say something to prove he was still there taking down what Terrence said. Bruce obliged. A long time passed, the way time does when no one cares. Bruce stopped taking the sedatives finally. The dreams came back and became, somehow, more real each time. He needed the companionship of the dreams.
It was very lonely sitting there without the dreams, with nothing but Terrence's voice ranting excitedly on and on. Terrence didn't seem real any more; certainly not as real as the dreams.
The problem of where to put the line between dream and reality began to worry Bruce. He would wake up and listen and take down what Terrence was saying, and then go to sleep again with increasing expectancy. His dream took on continuity. He could return to the point where he had left it, and it was the same—allowing even for the time difference necessitated by his periods of sleep.
He met people in the dreams, two girls and a man. They had names: Pietro, Marlene, Helene.
Helene he had seen from the beginning, but she became more real to him all the time, until he could talk with her. After that, he could also talk with Marlene and Pietro, and the conversations made sense. Consistently, they made sense.
The Martian landscape was entirely different in the dreams. Green valleys and rivers, or actually wide canals, with odd trees trailing their branches on the slow, peacefully gliding currents. Here and there were pastel-colored cities and there were things drifting through them that were alive and intelligent and soft and warm and wonderful to know.
' ... dreams, in their vivid coloring of life, as in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife of semblance with reality which brings to the delirious eye more lovely things of paradise and love—and all our own!—than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known.... '
So sometimes he read poetry, but even that was hardly equal to the dreams.
And then he would wake up and listen to Terrence's voice. He would look out the window over the barren frigid land where there was nothing but seams of worn land, like scabs under the brazen sky.
"If I had a choice," he thought, "I wouldn't ever wake up at all again. The dreams may not be more real, but they're preferable."
Dreams were supposed to be wishful thinking, primarily, but he couldn't live in them very long. His body would dry up and he would die. He had to stay awake enough to put a little energy back into himself. Of course, if he died and lost the dreams, there would be one compensation—he would also be free of Terrence and the rest of them who had learned that the only value in life lay in killing one's way across the Cosmos.
But then he had a feeling Terrence's voice wouldn't be annoying him much more anyway. The voice was unreal, coming out of some void. He could switch off Terrence any time now, but he was still curious.
"Bruce—Bruce, you still there? Listen, we're up here at what we figure to be five hundred thousand feet! It is impossible. We keep climbing and now we look up and we can see up and up and there the mountain is going up and up—"
And some time later: "Bruce, Marsha's dying! We don't know what's the matter. We can't find any reason for it. She's lying here and she keeps laughing and calling your name. She's a woman, so that's probably it. Women don't have real guts."
Bruce bent toward the radio. Outside the shelter, the wind whistled softly at the door.
"Marsha," he said.
"Bruce—"
She hadn't said his name that way for a long time.
"Marsha, remember how we used to talk about human values? I remember how you seemed to have something maybe different from the others. I never thought you'd really buy this will to conquer, and now it doesn't matter...."
He listened to her voice, first the crazy laughter, and then a whisper.
"Bruce, hello down there." Her voice was all mixed up with fear and hysteria and mockery. "Bruce darling, are you lonely down there? I wish I were with you, safe ... free ... warm. I love you. Do you hear that? I really love you, after all. After all...."
Her voice drifted away, came back to him. "We're climbing the highest mountain. What are you doing there, relaxing where it's peaceful and warm and sane? You always were such a calm guy. I remember now. What are you doing—reading poetry while we climb the mountain? What was that, Bruce—that one about the mountain you tried to quote to me last night before you ... I can't remember it now. Darling, what...?"
He stared at the radio. He hesitated, reached out and switched on the mike. He got through to her.
"Hello, hello, darling," he whispered. "Marsha, can you hear me?"
"Yes, yes. You down there, all warm and cozy, reading poetry, darling. Where you can see both ways instead of just up and down, up and down."
He tried to imagine where she was now as he spoke to her, how she looked. He thought of Earth and how it had been there, years ago, with Marsha. Things had seemed so different then. There was something of that hope in his voice now as he spoke to her, yet not directly to her, as he looked out the window at the naked frigid sky and the barren rocks.
"'... and there is nowhere to go from the top of a mountain,
But down, my dear;
And the springs that flow on the floor of the valley
Will never seem fresh or clear
For thinking of the glitter of the mountain water
In the feathery green of the year....'"
The wind stormed over the shelter in a burst of power, buried the sound of his own voice.
"Marsha, are you still there?"
"What the devil's the idea, poetry at a time like this, or any time?" Terrence demanded. "Listen, you taking this down? We haven't run into any signs of the others. Six hundred thousand feet, Bruce! We feel our destiny. We conquer the Solar System. And we'll go out and out, and we'll climb the highest mountain, the highest mountain anywhere. We're going up and up. We've voted on it. Unanimous. We go on. On to the top, Bruce! Nothing can stop us. If it takes ten years, a hundred, a thousand years, we'll find it. We'll find the top! Not the top of this world—the top of everything . The top of the
UNIVERSE
!"
Later, Terrence's voice broke off in the middle of something or other—Bruce couldn't make any sense out of it at all—and turned into crazy yells that faded out and never came back.
Bruce figured the others might still be climbing somewhere, or maybe they were dead. Either way it wouldn't make any difference to him. He knew they would never come back down.
He was switching off the radio for good when he saw the coloration break over the window. It was the same as the dream, but for an instant, dream and reality seemed fused like two superimposed film negatives.
He went to the window and looked out. The comfortable little city was out there, and the canal flowing past through a pleasantly cool yet sunny afternoon. Purple mist blanketed the knees of low hills and there was a valley, green and rich with the trees high and full beside the softly flowing canal water.
The filmy shapes that seemed alive, that were partly translucent, drifted along the water's edge, and birds as delicate as colored glass wavered down the wind.
He opened the shelter door and went out. The shelter looked the same, but useless now. How did the shelter of that bleak world get into this one, where the air was warm and fragrant, where there was no cold, from that world into this one of his dreams?
The girl—Helene—was standing there leaning against a tree, smoking a cigarette.
He walked toward her, and stopped. In the dream it had been easy, but now he was embarrassed, in spite of the intimacy that had grown between them. She wore the same casual slacks and sandals. Her hair was brown. She was not particularly beautiful, but she was comfortable to look at because she seemed so peaceful. Content, happy with what was and only what was.
He turned quickly. The shelter was still there, and behind it the row of spaceships—not like chalk marks on a tallyboard now, but like odd relics that didn't belong there in the thick green grass. Five ships instead of four.
There was his own individual shelter beyond the headquarters building, and the other buildings. He looked up.
There was no mountain.
For one shivery moment he knew fear. And then the fear went away, and he was ashamed of what he had felt. What he had feared was gone now, and he knew it was gone for good and he would never have to fear it again.
"Look here, Bruce. I wondered how long it would take to get it through that thick poetic head of yours!"
"Get what?" He began to suspect what it was all about now, but he wasn't quite sure yet.
"Smoke?" she said.
He took one of the cigarettes and she lighted it for him and put the lighter back into her pocket.
"It's real nice here," she said. "Isn't it?"
"I guess it's about perfect."
"It'll be easy. Staying here, I mean. We won't be going to Earth ever again, you know."
"I didn't know that, but I didn't think we ever would again."
"We wouldn't want to anyway, would we, Bruce?"
"No."
He kept on looking at the place where the mountain had been. Or maybe it still was; he couldn't make up his mind yet. Which was and which was not? That barren icy world without life, or this?
"' Is all that we see or seem ,'" he whispered, half to himself, "' but a dream within a dream? '"
She laughed softly. "Poe was ahead of his time," she said. "You still don't get it, do you? You don't know what's been happening?"
"Maybe I don't."
She shrugged, and looked in the direction of the ships. "Poor guys. I can't feel much hatred toward them now. The Martians give you a lot of understanding of the human mind—after they've accepted you, and after you've lived with them awhile. But the mountain climbers—we can see now—it's just luck, chance, we weren't like them. A deviant is a child of chance."
"Yes," Bruce said. "There's a lot of people like us on Earth, but they'll never get the chance—the chance we seem to have here, to live decently...."
"You're beginning to see now which was the dream," she said and smiled. "But don't be pessimistic. Those people on Earth will get their chance, too, one of these fine days. The Conquerors aren't getting far. Venus, and then Mars, and Mars is where they stop. They'll keep coming here and climbing the mountain and finally there won't be any more. It won't take so long."
She rose to her toes and waved and yelled. Bruce saw Pietro and Marlene walking hand in hand up the other side of the canal. They waved back and called and then pushed off into the water in a small boat, and drifted away and out of sight around a gentle turn.
She took his arm and they walked along the canal toward where the mountain had been, or still was—he didn't know.
A quarter of a mile beyond the canal, he saw the high mound of red, naked hill, corroded and ugly, rising up like a scar of the surrounding green.
She wasn't smiling now. There were shadows on her face as the pressure on his arm stopped him.
"I was on the first ship and Marlene on the second. None like us on the third, and on the fourth ship was Pietro. All the others had to climb the mountain—" She stopped talking for a moment, and then he felt the pressure of her fingers on his arm. "I'm very glad you came on the fifth," she whispered. "Are you glad now?"
"I'm very glad," he said.
"The Martians tested us," she explained. "They're masters of the mind. I guess they've been grinding along through the evolutionary mill a darn long time, longer than we could estimate now. They learned the horror we're capable of from the first ship—the Conquerors, the climbers. The Martians knew more like them would come and go on into space, killing, destroying for no other reason than their own sickness. Being masters of the mind, the Martians are also capable of hypnosis—no, that's not really the word, only the closest our language comes to naming it. Suggestion so deep and strong that it seems real to one human or a million or a billion; there's no limit to the number that can be influenced. What the people who came off those ships saw wasn't real. It was partly what the Martians wanted them to see and feel—but most of it, like the desire to climb the mountain, was as much a part of the Conquerors' own psychic drive as it was the suggestion of the Martians."
She waved her arm slowly to describe a peak. "The Martians made the mountain real. So real that it could be seen from space, measured by instruments ... even photographed and chipped for rock samples. But you'll see how that was done, Bruce, and realize that this and not the mountain of the Conquerors is the reality of Mars. This is the Mars no Conqueror will ever see."
They walked toward the ugly red mound that jutted above the green. When they came close enough, he saw the bodies lying there ... the remains, actually, of what had once been bodies. He felt too sickened to go on walking.
"It may seem cruel now," she said, "but the Martians realized that there is no cure for the will to conquer. There is no safety from it, either, as the people of Earth and Venus discovered, unless it is given an impossible obstacle to overcome. So the Martians provided the Conquerors with a mountain. They themselves wanted to climb. They had to."
He was hardly listening as he walked away from Helene toward the eroded hills. The crew members of the first four ships were skeletons tied together with imperishably strong rope about their waists. Far beyond them were those from Mars V , too freshly dead to have decayed much ... Anhauser with his rope cut, a bullet in his head; Jacobs and Marsha and the others ... Terrence much past them all. He had managed to climb higher than anyone else and he lay with his arms stretched out, his fingers still clutching at rock outcroppings.
The trail they left wound over the ground, chipped in places for holds, red elsewhere with blood from torn hands. Terrence was more than twelve miles from the ship—horizontally.
Bruce lifted Marsha and carried her back over the rocky dust, into the fresh fragrance of the high grass, and across it to the shade and peace beside the canal.
He put her down. She looked peaceful enough, more peaceful than that other time, years ago, when the two of them seemed to have shared so much, when the future had not yet destroyed her. He saw the shadow of Helene bend across Marsha's face against the background of the silently flowing water of the cool, green canal.
"You loved her?"
"Once," Bruce said. "She might have been sane. They got her when she was young. Too young to fight. But she would have, I think, if she'd been older when they got her."
He sat looking down at Marsha's face, and then at the water with the leaves floating down it.
"'... And the springs that flow on the floor of the valley will never seem fresh or clear for thinking of the glitter of the mountain water in the feathery green of the year....'"
He stood up, walked back with Helene along the canal toward the calm city. He didn't look back.
"They've all been dead quite a while," Bruce said wonderingly. "Yet I seemed to be hearing from Terrence until only a short time ago. Are—are the climbers still climbing—somewhere, Helene?"
"Who knows?" Helene answered softly. "Maybe. I doubt if even the Martians have the answer to that."
They entered the city.
Question:
What is the significance of the mountain?
Answer:
|
[
"The mountain is a sign of an impossible obstacle that the conquerors from Earth want to overcome, topple. Their urge to expand their territories and own the entire Solar System forces the Martians to come up with an illusion of something that can stop the destruction humans are spreading. The Martian mountain is a part of the hypnotic vision the conquered had access to, but they never saw the Martian city. They all ultimately died trying to climb it, from their drive to conquer everything they could find. The mountain is a perfect symbol of humans’ greed for territories and power, and it is also what stops them all from expanding their so-called empire. ",
"The mountain is significant because it is the ultimate challenge that the Martians laid out for the humans. Since they are aware of the Conquerors and horrors on Venus, the mountain is an illusion that was made to stop the humans and let only the good ones live. Helene explains that the people on Earth will get the opportunity to live on Mars too, but the terrible ones must be destroyed so that civilization can be preserved on Mars. Even though everybody wants to scale the mountain in hopes of finding some sort of new discovery or territory for the totalitarian Earth, the mountain serves as a trap that kills all of the ones who try to conquer it. The mountain is what also hides the Martian world away, only fading away when there is only one sane human from each crew left. ",
"The mountain, placed there intentionally by the Martians, acted as a test for the Conquerers. Most of the people coming from Earth had a will to conquer, and the Mountain served as a physical manifestation of this desire. It becomes evident throughout the climb that the Mountain continuously rises above the initial estimate, and yet humans overtaken by their desire to conquer this will continue to stride on. By doing so, they have failed the test. \n\nIt is significant because it demonstrates the supposedly innate and greedy determination of humans to be the Conquerer and be at the top - figuratively and literally. Even when a task seems improbable, a human's ego will feed this determination. This will to conquer that is fuelled without reason or morality. And it's only through this test that the Martians are able to identify which humans do not have this senseless will, that they are rewarded with the supposed oasis that the Conquers themselves desired to take over. ",
"The mountain symbolizes a challenge to be conquered. It plays a significant role in the story as every Earthmen coming from Earth with the will of conquest would climb the mountain. The mountain is very high that Earthmen can see it from the space and that Earthmen with the will of domination would want to climb to the top, which they will never succeed. Everyone who climbs the mountain will eventually die as it is a hypnotic-like phenomenon, which cannot be described in human language, created by Martians. Martians make this mountain because they know that Earthmen with the will of conquest cannot bear not to climb it since they enjoy the feeling of belittling others and the power of conquering, which is shown through their actions of killing anything or anyone in their ways even though those killed species may not have any intention to harm them. The story also plays a crucial role in distinguishing between people with the will to conquest and people who has no desire to conquer. Those who have no will to dominate will not climb the mountain, and they will be sent to the reality of Mars, where everything is adorable and peaceful. In the story, only four people out of five flights can get to the Martian reality, which again shows the significance of the mountain. Using the mountain phenomenon, Martian will be able to stop the Earthmen’s interplanetary conquest that Mars will be the furthest they can reach as they will keep climbing the mountain until they die."
] |
50868
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THE HIGHEST MOUNTAIN
By BRYCE WALTON
Illustrated by BOB HAYES
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
First one up this tallest summit in the Solar System was a rotten egg ... a very rotten egg!
Bruce heard their feet on the gravel outside and got up reluctantly to open the door for them. He'd been reading some of Byron's poems he'd sneaked aboard the ship; after that he had been on the point of dozing off, and now one of those strangely realistic dreams would have to be postponed for a while. Funny, those dreams. There were faces in them of human beings, or of ghosts, and other forms that weren't human at all, but seemed real and alive—except that they were also just parts of a last unconscious desire to escape death. Maybe that was it.
"'Oh that my young life were a lasting dream, my spirit not awakening till the beam of an eternity should bring the 'morrow," Bruce said. He smiled without feeling much of anything and added, "Thanks, Mr. Poe."
Jacobs and Anhauser stood outside. The icy wind cut through and into Bruce, but he didn't seem to notice. Anhauser's bulk loomed even larger in the special cold-resisting suiting. Jacobs' thin face frowned slyly at Bruce.
"Come on in, boys, and get warm," Bruce invited.
"Hey, poet, you're still here!" Anhauser said, looking astonished.
"We thought you'd be running off somewhere," Jacobs said.
Bruce reached for the suit on its hook, started climbing into it.
"Where?" he asked. "Mars looks alike wherever you go. Where did you think I'd be running to?"
"Any place just so it was away from here and us," Anhauser said.
"I don't have to do that. You are going away from me. That takes care of that, doesn't it?"
"Ah, come on, get the hell out of there," Jacobs said. He pulled the revolver from its holster and pointed it at Bruce. "We got to get some sleep. We're starting up that mountain at five in the morning."
"I know," Bruce said. "I'll be glad to see you climb the mountain."
Outside, in the weird light of the double moons, Bruce looked up at the gigantic overhang of the mountain. It was unbelievable. The mountain didn't seem to belong here. He'd thought so when they'd first hit Mars eight months back and discovered the other four rockets that had never got back to Earth—all lying side by side under the mountain's shadow, like little white chalk marks on a tallyboard.
They'd estimated its height at over 45,000 feet, which was a lot higher than any mountain on Earth. Yet Mars was much older, geologically. The entire face of the planet was smoothed into soft, undulating red hills by erosion. And there in the middle of barren nothingness rose that one incredible mountain. On certain nights when the stars were right, it had seemed to Bruce as though it were pointing an accusing finger at Earth—or a warning one.
With Jacobs and Anhauser and the remainder of the crew of the ship, Mars V , seven judges sat in a semi-circle and Bruce stood there in front of them for the inquest.
In the middle of the half-moon of inquisition, with his long legs stretched out and his hands folded on his belly, sat Captain Terrence. His uniform was black. On his arm was the silver fist insignia of the Conqueror Corps. Marsha Rennels sat on the extreme right and now there was no emotion at all on her trim, neat face.
He remembered her as she had been years ago, but at the moment he wasn't looking very hard to see anything on her face. It was too late. They had gotten her young and it was too late.
Terrence's big, square face frowned a little. Bruce was aware suddenly of the sound of the bleak, never-ending wind against the plastilene shelter. He remembered the strange misty shapes that had come to him in his dreams, the voices that had called to him, and how disappointed he had been when he woke from them.
"This is a mere formality," Terrence finally said, "since we all know you killed Lieutenant Doran a few hours ago. Marsha saw you kill him. Whatever you say goes on the record, of course."
"For whom?" Bruce asked.
"What kind of question is that? For the authorities on Earth when we get back."
"When you get back? Like the crews of those other four ships out there?" Bruce laughed without much humor.
Terrence rubbed a palm across his lips, dropped the hand quickly again to his belly. "You want to make a statement or not? You shot Doran in the head with a rifle. No provocation for the attack. You've wasted enough of my time with your damn arguments and anti-social behavior. This is a democratic group. Everyone has his say. But you've said too much, and done too much. Freedom doesn't allow you to go around killing fellow crew-members!"
"Any idea that there was any democracy or freedom left died on Venus," Bruce said.
"Now we get another lecture!" Terrence exploded. He leaned forward.
"You're sick, Bruce. They did a bad psych job on you. They should never have sent you on this trip. We need strength, all the strength we can find. You don't belong here."
"I know," Bruce agreed indifferently. "I was drafted for this trip. I told them I shouldn't be brought along. I said I didn't want any part of it."
"Because you're afraid. You're not Conqueror material. That's why you backed down when we all voted to climb the mountain. And what the devil does Venus—?"
Max Drexel's freckles slipped into the creases across his high forehead. "Haven't you heard him expounding on the injustice done to the Venusian aborigines, Captain? If you haven't, you aren't thoroughly educated to the crackpot idealism still infecting certain people."
"I haven't heard it," Terrence admitted. "What injustice?"
Bruce said, "I guess it couldn't really be considered an injustice any longer. Values have changed too much. Doran and I were part of the crew of that first ship to hit Venus, five years ago. Remember? One of the New Era's more infamous dates. Drexel says the Venusians were aborigines. No one ever got a chance to find out. We ran into this village. No one knows how old it was. There were intelligent beings there. One community left on the whole planet, maybe a few thousand inhabitants. They made their last mistake when they came out to greet us. Without even an attempt at communication, they were wiped out. The village was burned and everything alive in it was destroyed."
Bruce felt the old weakness coming into his knees, the sweat beginning to run down his face. He took a deep breath and stood there before the cold nihilistic stares of fourteen eyes.
"No," Bruce said. "I apologize. None of you know what I'm talking about."
Terrence nodded. "You're psycho. It's as simple as that. They pick the most capable for these conquests. Even the flights are processes of elimination. Eventually we get the very best, the most resilient, the real conquering blood. You just don't pass, Bruce. Listen, what do you think gives you the right to stand here in judgment against the laws of the whole Solar System?"
"There are plenty on Earth who agree with me," Bruce said. "I can say what I think now because you can't do more than kill me and you'll do that regardless...."
He stopped. This was ridiculous, a waste of his time. And theirs. They had established a kind of final totalitarianism since the New Era. The psychologists, the Pavlovian Reflex boys, had done that. If you didn't want to be reconditioned to fit into the social machine like a human vacuum tube, you kept your mouth shut. And for many, when the mouth was kept shut long enough, the mind pretty well forgot what it had wanted to open the mouth for in the first place.
A minority in both segments of a world split into two factions. Both had been warring diplomatically and sometimes physically, for centuries, clung to old ideas of freedom, democracy, self-determinism, individualism. To most, the words had no meaning now. It was a question of which set of conquering heroes could conquer the most space first. So far, only Venus had fallen. They had done a good, thorough job there. Four ships had come to Mars and their crews had disappeared. This was the fifth attempt—
Terrence said, "why did you shoot Doran?"
"I didn't like him enough to take the nonsense he was handing me, and when he shot the—" Bruce hesitated.
"What? When he shot what?"
Bruce felt an odd tingling in his stomach. The wind's voice seemed to sharpen and rise to a kind of wail.
"All right, I'll tell you. I was sleeping, having a dream. Doran woke me up. Marsha was with him. I'd forgotten about that geological job we were supposed to be working on. I've had these dreams ever since we got here."
"What kind of dreams?"
Someone laughed.
"Just fantastic stuff. Ask your Pavlovian there," Bruce said. "People talk to me, and there are other things in the dreams. Voices and some kind of shapes that aren't what you would call human at all."
Someone coughed. There was obvious embarrassment in the room.
"It's peculiar, but many faces and voices are those of crew members of some of the ships out there, the ones that never got back to Earth."
Terrence grinned. "Ghosts, Bruce?"
"Maybe. This planet may not be a dead ball of clay. I've had a feeling there's something real in the dreams, but I can't figure it out. You're still interested?"
Terrence nodded and glanced to either side.
"We've seen no indication of any kind of life whatsoever," Bruce pointed out. "Not even an insect, or any kind of plant life except some fungi and lichen down in the crevices. That never seemed logical to me from the start. We've covered the planet everywhere except one place—"
"The mountain," Terrence said. "You've been afraid even to talk about scaling it."
"Not afraid," Bruce objected. "I don't see any need to climb it. Coming to Mars, conquering space, isn't that enough? It happens that the crew of the first ship here decided to climb the mountain, and that set a precedent. Every ship that has come here has had to climb it. Why? Because they had to accept the challenge. And what's happened to them? Like you, they all had the necessary equipment to make a successful climb, but no one's ever come back down. No contact with anything up there.
"Captain, I'm not accepting a ridiculous challenge like that. Why should I? I didn't come here to conquer anything, even a mountain. The challenge of coming to Mars, of going on to where ever you guys intend going before something bigger than you are stops you—it doesn't interest me."
"Nothing's bigger than the destiny of Earth!" Terrence said, sitting up straight and rigid.
"I know," Bruce said. "Anyway, I got off the track. As I was saying, I woke up from this dream and Marsha and Doran were there. Doran was shaking me. But I didn't seem to have gotten entirely awake; either that or some part of the dream was real, because I looked out the window—something was out there, looking at me. It was late, and at first I thought it might be a shadow. But it wasn't. It was misty, almost translucent, but I think it was something alive. I had a feeling it was intelligent, maybe very intelligent. I could feel something in my mind. A kind of beauty and softness and warmth. I kept looking—"
His throat was getting tight. He had difficulty talking. "Doran asked me what I was looking at, and I told him. He laughed. But he looked. Then I realized that maybe I wasn't still dreaming. Doran saw it, too, or thought he did. He kept looking and finally he jumped and grabbed up his rifle and ran outside. I yelled at him. I kept on yelling and ran after him. 'It's intelligent, whatever it is!' I kept saying. 'How do you know it means any harm?' But I heard Doran's rifle go off before I could get to him. And whatever it was we saw, I didn't see it any more. Neither did Doran. Maybe he killed it. I don't know. He had to kill it. That's the way you think."
"What? Explain that remark."
"That's the philosophy of conquest—don't take any chances with aliens. They might hinder our advance across the Universe. So we kill everything. Doran acted without thinking at all. Conditioned to kill everything that doesn't look like us. So I hit Doran and took the gun away from him and killed him. I felt sick, crazy with rage. Maybe that's part of it. All I know is that I thought he deserved to die and that I had to kill him, so I did."
"Is that all, Bruce?"
"That's about all. Except that I'd like to kill all of you. And I would if I had the chance."
"That's what I figured." Terrence turned to the psychologist, a small wiry man who sat there constantly fingering his ear. "Stromberg, what do you think of this gobbledegook? We know he's crazy. But what hit him? You said his record was good up until a year ago."
Stromberg's voice was monotonous, like a voice off of a tape.
"Schizophrenia with mingled delusions of persecution. The schizophrenia is caused by inner conflict—indecision between the older values and our present ones which he hasn't been able to accept. A complete case history would tell why he can't accept our present attitudes. I would say that he has an incipient fear of personal inadequacy, which is why he fears our desire for conquest. He's rationalized, built up a defense which he's structured with his idealism, foundationed with Old Era values. Retreat into the past, an escape from his own present feelings of inadequacy. Also, he escapes into these dream fantasies."
"Yes," Terrence said. "But how does that account for Doran's action? Doran must have seen something—"
"Doran's charts show high suggestibility under stress. Another weak personality eliminated. Let's regard it that way. He imagined he saw something." He glanced at Marsha. "Did you see anything?"
She hesitated, avoiding Bruce's eyes. "Nothing at all. There wasn't anything out there to see, except the dust and rocks. That's all there is to see here. We could stay a million years and never see anything else. A shadow maybe—"
"All right," Terrence interrupted. "Now, Bruce, you know the law regulating the treatment of serious psycho cases in space?"
"Yes. Execution."
"No facilities for handling such cases en route back to Earth."
"I understand. No apologies necessary, Captain."
Terrence shifted his position. "However, we've voted to grant you a kind of leniency. In exchange for a little further service from you, you can remain here on Mars after we leave. You'll be left food-concentrates to last a long time."
"What kind of service?"
"Stay by the radio and take down what we report as we go up the mountain."
"Why not?" Bruce said. "You aren't certain you're coming back, then?"
"We might not," Terrence admitted calmly. "Something's happened to the others. We're going to find out what and we want it recorded. None of us want to back down and stay here. You can take our reports as they come in."
"I'll do that," Bruce said. "It should be interesting."
Bruce watched them go, away and up and around the immediate face of the mountain in the bleak cold of the Martian morning. He watched them disappear behind a high ledge, tied together with plastic rope like convicts.
He stayed by the radio. He lost track of time and didn't care much if he did. Sometimes he took a heavy sedative and slept. The sedative prevented the dreams. He had an idea that the dreams might be so pleasant that he wouldn't wake up. He wanted to listen to Terrence as long as the captain had anything to say. It was nothing but curiosity.
At fifteen thousand feet, Terrence reported only that they were climbing.
At twenty thousand feet, Terrence said, "We're still climbing, and that's all I can report, Bruce. It's worth coming to Mars for—to accept a challenge like this!"
At twenty-five thousand feet, Terrence reported, "We've put on oxygen masks. Jacobs and Drexel have developed some kind of altitude sickness and we're taking a little time out. It's a magnificent sight up here. I can imagine plenty of tourists coming to Mars one of these days, just to climb this mountain! Mt. Everest is a pimple compared with this! What a feeling of power, Bruce!"
From forty thousand feet, Terrence said, "We gauged this mountain at forty-five thousand. But here we are at forty and there doesn't seem to be any top. We can see up and up and the mountain keeps on going. I don't understand how we could have made such an error in our computations. I talked with Burton. He doesn't see how a mountain this high could still be here when the rest of the planet has been worn so smooth."
And then from fifty-three thousand feet, Terrence said with a voice that seemed slightly strained: "No sign of any of the crew of the other four ships yet. Ten in each crew, that makes fifty. Not a sign of any of them so far, but then we seem to have a long way left to climb—"
Bruce listened and noted and took sedatives and opened cans of food concentrates. He smoked and ate and slept. He had plenty of time. He had only time and the dreams which he knew he could utilize later to take care of the time.
From sixty thousand feet, Terrence reported, "I had to shoot Anhauser a few minutes ago! He was dissenting. Hear that, Bruce? One of my most dependable men. We took a vote. A mere formality, of course, whether we should continue climbing or not. We knew we'd all vote to keep on climbing. And then Anhauser dissented. He was hysterical. He refused to accept the majority decision. 'I'm going back down!' he yelled. So I had to shoot him. Imagine a man of his apparent caliber turning anti-democratic like that! This mountain will be a great tester for us in the future. We'll test everybody, find out quickly who the weaklings are."
Bruce listened to the wind. It seemed to rise higher and higher. Terrence, who had climbed still higher, was calling. "Think of it! What a conquest! No man's ever done a thing like this. Like Stromberg says, it's symbolic! We can build spaceships and reach other planets, but that's not actual physical conquest. We feel like gods up here. We can see what we are now. We can see how it's going to be—"
Once in a while Terrence demanded that Bruce say something to prove he was still there taking down what Terrence said. Bruce obliged. A long time passed, the way time does when no one cares. Bruce stopped taking the sedatives finally. The dreams came back and became, somehow, more real each time. He needed the companionship of the dreams.
It was very lonely sitting there without the dreams, with nothing but Terrence's voice ranting excitedly on and on. Terrence didn't seem real any more; certainly not as real as the dreams.
The problem of where to put the line between dream and reality began to worry Bruce. He would wake up and listen and take down what Terrence was saying, and then go to sleep again with increasing expectancy. His dream took on continuity. He could return to the point where he had left it, and it was the same—allowing even for the time difference necessitated by his periods of sleep.
He met people in the dreams, two girls and a man. They had names: Pietro, Marlene, Helene.
Helene he had seen from the beginning, but she became more real to him all the time, until he could talk with her. After that, he could also talk with Marlene and Pietro, and the conversations made sense. Consistently, they made sense.
The Martian landscape was entirely different in the dreams. Green valleys and rivers, or actually wide canals, with odd trees trailing their branches on the slow, peacefully gliding currents. Here and there were pastel-colored cities and there were things drifting through them that were alive and intelligent and soft and warm and wonderful to know.
' ... dreams, in their vivid coloring of life, as in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife of semblance with reality which brings to the delirious eye more lovely things of paradise and love—and all our own!—than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known.... '
So sometimes he read poetry, but even that was hardly equal to the dreams.
And then he would wake up and listen to Terrence's voice. He would look out the window over the barren frigid land where there was nothing but seams of worn land, like scabs under the brazen sky.
"If I had a choice," he thought, "I wouldn't ever wake up at all again. The dreams may not be more real, but they're preferable."
Dreams were supposed to be wishful thinking, primarily, but he couldn't live in them very long. His body would dry up and he would die. He had to stay awake enough to put a little energy back into himself. Of course, if he died and lost the dreams, there would be one compensation—he would also be free of Terrence and the rest of them who had learned that the only value in life lay in killing one's way across the Cosmos.
But then he had a feeling Terrence's voice wouldn't be annoying him much more anyway. The voice was unreal, coming out of some void. He could switch off Terrence any time now, but he was still curious.
"Bruce—Bruce, you still there? Listen, we're up here at what we figure to be five hundred thousand feet! It is impossible. We keep climbing and now we look up and we can see up and up and there the mountain is going up and up—"
And some time later: "Bruce, Marsha's dying! We don't know what's the matter. We can't find any reason for it. She's lying here and she keeps laughing and calling your name. She's a woman, so that's probably it. Women don't have real guts."
Bruce bent toward the radio. Outside the shelter, the wind whistled softly at the door.
"Marsha," he said.
"Bruce—"
She hadn't said his name that way for a long time.
"Marsha, remember how we used to talk about human values? I remember how you seemed to have something maybe different from the others. I never thought you'd really buy this will to conquer, and now it doesn't matter...."
He listened to her voice, first the crazy laughter, and then a whisper.
"Bruce, hello down there." Her voice was all mixed up with fear and hysteria and mockery. "Bruce darling, are you lonely down there? I wish I were with you, safe ... free ... warm. I love you. Do you hear that? I really love you, after all. After all...."
Her voice drifted away, came back to him. "We're climbing the highest mountain. What are you doing there, relaxing where it's peaceful and warm and sane? You always were such a calm guy. I remember now. What are you doing—reading poetry while we climb the mountain? What was that, Bruce—that one about the mountain you tried to quote to me last night before you ... I can't remember it now. Darling, what...?"
He stared at the radio. He hesitated, reached out and switched on the mike. He got through to her.
"Hello, hello, darling," he whispered. "Marsha, can you hear me?"
"Yes, yes. You down there, all warm and cozy, reading poetry, darling. Where you can see both ways instead of just up and down, up and down."
He tried to imagine where she was now as he spoke to her, how she looked. He thought of Earth and how it had been there, years ago, with Marsha. Things had seemed so different then. There was something of that hope in his voice now as he spoke to her, yet not directly to her, as he looked out the window at the naked frigid sky and the barren rocks.
"'... and there is nowhere to go from the top of a mountain,
But down, my dear;
And the springs that flow on the floor of the valley
Will never seem fresh or clear
For thinking of the glitter of the mountain water
In the feathery green of the year....'"
The wind stormed over the shelter in a burst of power, buried the sound of his own voice.
"Marsha, are you still there?"
"What the devil's the idea, poetry at a time like this, or any time?" Terrence demanded. "Listen, you taking this down? We haven't run into any signs of the others. Six hundred thousand feet, Bruce! We feel our destiny. We conquer the Solar System. And we'll go out and out, and we'll climb the highest mountain, the highest mountain anywhere. We're going up and up. We've voted on it. Unanimous. We go on. On to the top, Bruce! Nothing can stop us. If it takes ten years, a hundred, a thousand years, we'll find it. We'll find the top! Not the top of this world—the top of everything . The top of the
UNIVERSE
!"
Later, Terrence's voice broke off in the middle of something or other—Bruce couldn't make any sense out of it at all—and turned into crazy yells that faded out and never came back.
Bruce figured the others might still be climbing somewhere, or maybe they were dead. Either way it wouldn't make any difference to him. He knew they would never come back down.
He was switching off the radio for good when he saw the coloration break over the window. It was the same as the dream, but for an instant, dream and reality seemed fused like two superimposed film negatives.
He went to the window and looked out. The comfortable little city was out there, and the canal flowing past through a pleasantly cool yet sunny afternoon. Purple mist blanketed the knees of low hills and there was a valley, green and rich with the trees high and full beside the softly flowing canal water.
The filmy shapes that seemed alive, that were partly translucent, drifted along the water's edge, and birds as delicate as colored glass wavered down the wind.
He opened the shelter door and went out. The shelter looked the same, but useless now. How did the shelter of that bleak world get into this one, where the air was warm and fragrant, where there was no cold, from that world into this one of his dreams?
The girl—Helene—was standing there leaning against a tree, smoking a cigarette.
He walked toward her, and stopped. In the dream it had been easy, but now he was embarrassed, in spite of the intimacy that had grown between them. She wore the same casual slacks and sandals. Her hair was brown. She was not particularly beautiful, but she was comfortable to look at because she seemed so peaceful. Content, happy with what was and only what was.
He turned quickly. The shelter was still there, and behind it the row of spaceships—not like chalk marks on a tallyboard now, but like odd relics that didn't belong there in the thick green grass. Five ships instead of four.
There was his own individual shelter beyond the headquarters building, and the other buildings. He looked up.
There was no mountain.
For one shivery moment he knew fear. And then the fear went away, and he was ashamed of what he had felt. What he had feared was gone now, and he knew it was gone for good and he would never have to fear it again.
"Look here, Bruce. I wondered how long it would take to get it through that thick poetic head of yours!"
"Get what?" He began to suspect what it was all about now, but he wasn't quite sure yet.
"Smoke?" she said.
He took one of the cigarettes and she lighted it for him and put the lighter back into her pocket.
"It's real nice here," she said. "Isn't it?"
"I guess it's about perfect."
"It'll be easy. Staying here, I mean. We won't be going to Earth ever again, you know."
"I didn't know that, but I didn't think we ever would again."
"We wouldn't want to anyway, would we, Bruce?"
"No."
He kept on looking at the place where the mountain had been. Or maybe it still was; he couldn't make up his mind yet. Which was and which was not? That barren icy world without life, or this?
"' Is all that we see or seem ,'" he whispered, half to himself, "' but a dream within a dream? '"
She laughed softly. "Poe was ahead of his time," she said. "You still don't get it, do you? You don't know what's been happening?"
"Maybe I don't."
She shrugged, and looked in the direction of the ships. "Poor guys. I can't feel much hatred toward them now. The Martians give you a lot of understanding of the human mind—after they've accepted you, and after you've lived with them awhile. But the mountain climbers—we can see now—it's just luck, chance, we weren't like them. A deviant is a child of chance."
"Yes," Bruce said. "There's a lot of people like us on Earth, but they'll never get the chance—the chance we seem to have here, to live decently...."
"You're beginning to see now which was the dream," she said and smiled. "But don't be pessimistic. Those people on Earth will get their chance, too, one of these fine days. The Conquerors aren't getting far. Venus, and then Mars, and Mars is where they stop. They'll keep coming here and climbing the mountain and finally there won't be any more. It won't take so long."
She rose to her toes and waved and yelled. Bruce saw Pietro and Marlene walking hand in hand up the other side of the canal. They waved back and called and then pushed off into the water in a small boat, and drifted away and out of sight around a gentle turn.
She took his arm and they walked along the canal toward where the mountain had been, or still was—he didn't know.
A quarter of a mile beyond the canal, he saw the high mound of red, naked hill, corroded and ugly, rising up like a scar of the surrounding green.
She wasn't smiling now. There were shadows on her face as the pressure on his arm stopped him.
"I was on the first ship and Marlene on the second. None like us on the third, and on the fourth ship was Pietro. All the others had to climb the mountain—" She stopped talking for a moment, and then he felt the pressure of her fingers on his arm. "I'm very glad you came on the fifth," she whispered. "Are you glad now?"
"I'm very glad," he said.
"The Martians tested us," she explained. "They're masters of the mind. I guess they've been grinding along through the evolutionary mill a darn long time, longer than we could estimate now. They learned the horror we're capable of from the first ship—the Conquerors, the climbers. The Martians knew more like them would come and go on into space, killing, destroying for no other reason than their own sickness. Being masters of the mind, the Martians are also capable of hypnosis—no, that's not really the word, only the closest our language comes to naming it. Suggestion so deep and strong that it seems real to one human or a million or a billion; there's no limit to the number that can be influenced. What the people who came off those ships saw wasn't real. It was partly what the Martians wanted them to see and feel—but most of it, like the desire to climb the mountain, was as much a part of the Conquerors' own psychic drive as it was the suggestion of the Martians."
She waved her arm slowly to describe a peak. "The Martians made the mountain real. So real that it could be seen from space, measured by instruments ... even photographed and chipped for rock samples. But you'll see how that was done, Bruce, and realize that this and not the mountain of the Conquerors is the reality of Mars. This is the Mars no Conqueror will ever see."
They walked toward the ugly red mound that jutted above the green. When they came close enough, he saw the bodies lying there ... the remains, actually, of what had once been bodies. He felt too sickened to go on walking.
"It may seem cruel now," she said, "but the Martians realized that there is no cure for the will to conquer. There is no safety from it, either, as the people of Earth and Venus discovered, unless it is given an impossible obstacle to overcome. So the Martians provided the Conquerors with a mountain. They themselves wanted to climb. They had to."
He was hardly listening as he walked away from Helene toward the eroded hills. The crew members of the first four ships were skeletons tied together with imperishably strong rope about their waists. Far beyond them were those from Mars V , too freshly dead to have decayed much ... Anhauser with his rope cut, a bullet in his head; Jacobs and Marsha and the others ... Terrence much past them all. He had managed to climb higher than anyone else and he lay with his arms stretched out, his fingers still clutching at rock outcroppings.
The trail they left wound over the ground, chipped in places for holds, red elsewhere with blood from torn hands. Terrence was more than twelve miles from the ship—horizontally.
Bruce lifted Marsha and carried her back over the rocky dust, into the fresh fragrance of the high grass, and across it to the shade and peace beside the canal.
He put her down. She looked peaceful enough, more peaceful than that other time, years ago, when the two of them seemed to have shared so much, when the future had not yet destroyed her. He saw the shadow of Helene bend across Marsha's face against the background of the silently flowing water of the cool, green canal.
"You loved her?"
"Once," Bruce said. "She might have been sane. They got her when she was young. Too young to fight. But she would have, I think, if she'd been older when they got her."
He sat looking down at Marsha's face, and then at the water with the leaves floating down it.
"'... And the springs that flow on the floor of the valley will never seem fresh or clear for thinking of the glitter of the mountain water in the feathery green of the year....'"
He stood up, walked back with Helene along the canal toward the calm city. He didn't look back.
"They've all been dead quite a while," Bruce said wonderingly. "Yet I seemed to be hearing from Terrence until only a short time ago. Are—are the climbers still climbing—somewhere, Helene?"
"Who knows?" Helene answered softly. "Maybe. I doubt if even the Martians have the answer to that."
They entered the city.
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What is the setting of the story?
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After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about THE CREATURES THAT TIME FORGOT by RAY BRADBURY.
Relevant chunks:
THE CREATURES THAT TIME FORGOT
By RAY BRADBURY
Mad, impossible world! Sun-blasted by day, cold-wracked by night—and life condensed by radiation into eight days! Sim eyed the Ship—if he only dared reach it and escape! ... but it was more than half an hour distant—the limit of life itself!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1946. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
During the night, Sim was born. He lay wailing upon the cold cave stones. His blood beat through him a thousand pulses each minute. He grew, steadily.
Into his mouth his mother with feverish hands put the food. The nightmare of living was begun. Almost instantly at birth his eyes grew alert, and then, without half understanding why, filled with bright, insistent terror. He gagged upon the food, choked and wailed. He looked about, blindly.
There was a thick fog. It cleared. The outlines of the cave appeared. And a man loomed up, insane and wild and terrible. A man with a dying face. Old, withered by winds, baked like adobe in the heat. The man was crouched in a far corner of the cave, his eyes whitening to one side of his face, listening to the far wind trumpeting up above on the frozen night planet.
Sim's mother, trembling, now and again, staring at the man, fed Sim pebble-fruits, valley-grasses and ice-nipples broken from the cavern entrances, and eating, eliminating, eating again, he grew larger, larger.
The man in the corner of the cave was his father! The man's eyes were all that was alive in his face. He held a crude stone dagger in his withered hands and his jaw hung loose and senseless.
Then, with a widening focus, Sim saw the old people sitting in the tunnel beyond this living quarter. And as he watched, they began to die.
Their agonies filled the cave. They melted like waxen images, their faces collapsed inward on their sharp bones, their teeth protruded. One minute their faces were mature, fairly smooth, alive, electric. The next minute a desication and burning away of their flesh occurred.
Sim thrashed in his mother's grasp. She held him. "No, no," she soothed him, quietly, earnestly, looking to see if this, too, would cause her husband to rise again.
With a soft swift padding of naked feet, Sim's father ran across the cave. Sim's mother screamed. Sim felt himself torn loose from her grasp. He fell upon the stones, rolling, shrieking with his new, moist lungs!
With a soft padding of naked feet Sim's father ran across the cave.
The webbed face of his father jerked over him, the knife was poised. It was like one of those prenatal nightmares he'd had while still in his mother's flesh. In the next few blazing, impossible instants questions flicked through his brain. The knife was high, suspended, ready to destroy him. But the whole question of life in this cave, the dying people, the withering and the insanity, surged through Sim's new, small head. How was it that he understood? A newborn child? Can a newborn child think, see, understand, interpret? No. It was wrong! It was impossible. Yet it was happening! To him. He had been alive an hour now. And in the next instant perhaps dead!
His mother flung herself upon the back of his father, and beat down the weapon. Sim caught the terrific backwash of emotion from both their conflicting minds. "Let me kill him!" shouted the father, breathing harshly, sobbingly. "What has he to live for?"
"No, no!" insisted the mother, and her body, frail and old as it was, stretched across the huge body of the father, tearing at his weapon.
"He must live! There may be a future for him! He may live longer than us, and be young!"
The father fell back against a stone crib. Lying there, staring, eyes glittering, Sim saw another figure inside that stone crib. A girl-child, quietly feeding itself, moving its delicate hands to procure food. His sister.
The mother wrenched the dagger from her husband's grasp, stood up, weeping and pushing back her cloud of stiffening gray hair. Her mouth trembled and jerked. "I'll kill you!" she said, glaring down at her husband. "Leave my children alone."
The old man spat tiredly, bitterly, and looked vacantly into the stone crib, at the little girl. "One-eighth of her life's over, already," he gasped. "And she doesn't know it. What's the use?"
As Sim watched, his own mother seemed to shift and take a tortured, smoke-like form. The thin bony face broke out into a maze of wrinkles. She was shaken with pain and had to sit by him, shuddering and cuddling the knife to her shriveled breasts. She, like the old people in the tunnel, was aging, dying.
Sim cried steadily. Everywhere he looked was horror. A mind came to meet his own. Instinctively he glanced toward the stone crib. Dark, his sister, returned his glance. Their minds brushed like straying fingers. He relaxed somewhat. He began to learn.
The father sighed, shut his lids down over his green eyes. "Feed the child," he said, exhaustedly. "Hurry. It is almost dawn and it is our last day of living, woman. Feed him. Make him grow."
Sim quieted, and images, out of the terror, floated to him.
This was a planet next to the sun. The nights burned with cold, the days were like torches of fire. It was a violent, impossible world. The people lived in the cliffs to escape the incredible ice and the day of flame. Only at dawn and sunset was the air breath-sweet, flower-strong, and then the cave peoples brought their children out into a stony, barren valley. At dawn the ice thawed into creeks and rivers, at sunset the day-fires died and cooled. In the intervals of even, livable temperature the people lived, ran, played, loved, free of the caverns; all life on the planet jumped, burst into life. Plants grew instantly, birds were flung like pellets across the sky. Smaller, legged animal life rushed frantically through the rocks; everything tried to get its living down in the brief hour of respite.
It was an unbearable planet. Sim understood this, a matter of hours after birth. Racial memory bloomed in him. He would live his entire life in the caves, with two hours a day outside. Here, in stone channels of air he would talk, talk incessantly with his people, sleep never, think, think and lie upon his back, dreaming; but never sleeping.
And he would live exactly eight days.
The violence of this thought evacuated his bowels. Eight days. Eight short days. It was wrong, impossible, but a fact. Even while in his mother's flesh some racial knowledge had told him he was being formed rapidly, shaped and propelled out swiftly.
Birth was quick as a knife. Childhood was over in a flash. Adolescence was a sheet of lightning. Manhood was a dream, maturity a myth, old age an inescapably quick reality, death a swift certainty.
Eight days from now he'd stand half-blind, withering, dying, as his father now stood, staring uselessly at his own wife and child.
This day was an eighth part of his total life! He must enjoy every second of it. He must search his parents' thoughts for knowledge.
Because in a few hours they'd be dead.
This was so impossibly unfair. Was this all of life? In his prenatal state hadn't he dreamed of long lives, valleys not of blasted stone but green foliage and temperate clime? Yes! And if he'd dreamed then there must be truth in the visions. How could he seek and find the long life? Where? And how could he accomplish a life mission that huge and depressing in eight short, vanishing days?
How had his people gotten into such a condition?
As if at a button pressed, he saw an image. Metal seeds, blown across space from a distant green world, fighting with long flames, crashing on this bleak planet. From their shattered hulls tumble men and women.
When? Long ago. Ten thousand days. The crash victims hid in the cliffs from the sun. Fire, ice and floods washed away the wreckage of the huge metal seeds. The victims were shaped and beaten like iron upon a forge. Solar radiations drenched them. Their pulses quickened, two hundred, five hundred, a thousand beats a minute. Their skins thickened, their blood changed. Old age came rushing. Children were born in the caves. Swifter, swifter, swifter the process. Like all this world's wild life, the men and women from the crash lived and died in a week, leaving children to do likewise.
So this is life, thought Sim. It was not spoken in his mind, for he knew no words, he knew only images, old memory, an awareness, a telepathy that could penetrate flesh, rock, metal. So I'm the five thousandth in a long line of futile sons? What can I do to save myself from dying eight days from now? Is there escape?
His eyes widened, another image came to focus.
Beyond this valley of cliffs, on a low mountain lay a perfect, unscarred metal seed. A metal ship, not rusted or touched by the avalanches. The ship was deserted, whole, intact. It was the only ship of all these that had crashed that was still a unit, still usable. But it was so far away. There was no one in it to help. This ship, then, on the far mountain, was the destiny toward which he would grow. There was his only hope of escape.
His mind flexed.
In this cliff, deep down in a confinement of solitude, worked a handful of scientists. To these men, when he was old enough and wise enough, he must go. They, too, dreamed of escape, of long life, of green valleys and temperate weathers. They, too, stared longingly at that distant ship upon its high mountain, its metal so perfect it did not rust or age.
The cliff groaned.
Sim's father lifted his eroded, lifeless face.
"Dawn's coming," he said.
II
Morning relaxed the mighty granite cliff muscles. It was the time of the Avalanche.
The tunnels echoed to running bare feet. Adults, children pushed with eager, hungry eyes toward the outside dawn. From far out, Sim heard a rumble of rock, a scream, a silence. Avalanches fell into valley. Stones that had been biding their time, not quite ready to fall, for a million years let go their bulks, and where they had begun their journey as single boulders they smashed upon the valley floor in a thousand shrapnels and friction-heated nuggets.
Every morning at least one person was caught in the downpour.
The cliff people dared the avalanches. It added one more excitement to their lives, already too short, too headlong, too dangerous.
Sim felt himself seized up by his father. He was carried brusquely down the tunnel for a thousand yards, to where the daylight appeared. There was a shining insane light in his father's eyes. Sim could not move. He sensed what was going to happen. Behind his father, his mother hurried, bringing with her the little sister, Dark. "Wait! Be careful!" she cried to her husband.
Sim felt his father crouch, listening.
High in the cliff was a tremor, a shivering.
"Now!" bellowed his father, and leaped out.
An avalanche fell down at them!
Sim had accelerated impressions of plunging walls, dust, confusion. His mother screamed! There was a jolting, a plunging.
With one last step, Sim's father hurried him forward into the day. The avalanche thundered behind him. The mouth of the cave, where mother and Dark stood back out of the way, was choked with rubble and two boulders that weighed a hundred pounds each.
The storm thunder of the avalanche passed away to a trickle of sand. Sim's father burst out into laughter. "Made it! By the Gods! Made it alive!" And he looked scornfully at the cliff and spat. "Pagh!"
Mother and sister Dark struggled through the rubble. She cursed her husband. "Fool! You might have killed Sim!"
"I may yet," retorted the father.
Sim was not listening. He was fascinated with the remains of an avalanche afront of the next tunnel. A blood stain trickled out from under a rise of boulders, soaking into the ground. There was nothing else to be seen. Someone else had lost the game.
Dark ran ahead on lithe, supple feet, naked and certain.
The valley air was like a wine filtered between mountains. The heaven was a restive blue; not the pale scorched atmosphere of full day, nor the bloated, bruised black-purple of night, a-riot with sickly shining stars.
This was a tide pool. A place where waves of varying and violent temperatures struck, receded. Now the tide pool was quiet, cool, and its life moved abroad.
Laughter! Far away, Sim heard it. Why laughter? How could any of his people find time for laughing? Perhaps later he would discover why.
The valley suddenly blushed with impulsive color. Plant-life, thawing in the precipitant dawn, shoved out from most unexpected sources. It flowered as you watched. Pale green tendrils appeared on scoured rocks. Seconds later, ripe globes of fruit twitched upon the blade-tips. Father gave Sim over to mother and harvested the momentary, volatile crop, thrust scarlet, blue, yellow fruits into a fur sack which hung at his waist. Mother tugged at the moist new grasses, laid them on Sim's tongue.
His senses were being honed to a fine edge. He stored knowledge thirstily. He understood love, marriage, customs, anger, pity, rage, selfishness, shadings and subtleties, realities and reflections. One thing suggested another. The sight of green plant life whirled his mind like a gyroscope, seeking balance in a world where lack of time for explanations made a mind seek and interpret on its own. The soft burden of food gave him knowledge of his system, of energy, of movement. Like a bird newly cracking its way from a shell, he was almost a unit, complete, all-knowing. Heredity had done all this for him. He grew excited with his ability.
They walked, mother, father and the two children, smelling the smells, watching the birds bounce from wall to wall of the valley like scurrying pebbles and suddenly the father said a strange thing:
"Remember?"
Remember what? Sim lay cradled. Was it any effort for them to remember when they'd lived only seven days!
The husband and wife looked at each other.
"Was it only three days ago?" said the woman, her body shaking, her eyes closing to think. "I can't believe it. It is so unfair." She sobbed, then drew her hand across her face and bit her parched lips. The wind played at her gray hair. "Now is my turn to cry. An hour ago it was you!"
"An hour is half a life."
"Come," she took her husband's arm. "Let us look at everything, because it will be our last looking."
"The sun'll be up in a few minutes," said the old man. "We must turn back now."
"Just one more moment," pleaded the woman.
"The sun will catch us."
"Let it catch me then!"
"You don't mean that."
"I mean nothing, nothing at all," cried the woman.
The sun was coming fast. The green in the valley burnt away. Searing wind blasted from over the cliffs. Far away where sun bolts hammered battlements of cliff, the huge stone faces shook their contents; those avalanches not already powdered down, were now released and fell like mantles.
"Dark!" shouted the father. The girl sprang over the warm floor of the valley, answering, her hair a black flag behind her. Hands full of green fruits, she joined them.
The sun rimmed the horizon with flame, the air convulsed dangerously with it, and whistled.
The cave people bolted, shouting, picking up their fallen children, bearing vast loads of fruit and grass with them back to their deep hideouts. In moments the valley was bare. Except for one small child someone had forgotten. He was running far out on the flatness, but he was not strong enough, and the engulfing heat was drifting down from the cliffs even as he was half across the valley.
Flowers were burnt into effigies, grasses sucked back into rocks like singed snakes, flower seeds whirled and fell in the sudden furnace blast of wind, sown far into gullies and crannies, ready to blossom at sunset tonight, and then go to seed and die again.
Sim's father watched that child running, alone, out on the floor of the valley. He and his wife and Dark and Sim were safe in the mouth of their tunnel.
"He'll never make it," said father. "Do not watch him, woman. It's not a good thing to watch."
They turned away. All except Sim, whose eyes had caught a glint of metal far away. His heart hammered in him, and his eyes blurred. Far away, atop a low mountain, one of those metal seeds from space reflected a dazzling ripple of light! It was like one of his intra-embryo dreams fulfilled! A metal space seed, intact, undamaged, lying on a mountain! There was his future! There was his hope for survival! There was where he would go in a few days, when he was—strange thought—a grown man!
The sun plunged into the valley like molten lava.
The little running child screamed, the sun burned, and the screaming stopped.
Sim's mother walked painfully, with sudden age, down the tunnel, paused, reached up, broke off two last icicles that had formed during the night. She handed one to her husband, kept the other. "We will drink one last toast. To you, to the children."
"To you ," he nodded to her. "To the children." They lifted the icicles. The warmth melted the ice down into their thirsty mouths.
All day the sun seemed to blaze and erupt into the valley. Sim could not see it, but the vivid pictorials in his parents' minds were sufficient evidence of the nature of the day fire. The light ran like mercury, sizzling and roasting the caves, poking inward, but never penetrating deeply enough. It lighted the caves. It made the hollows of the cliff comfortably warm.
Sim fought to keep his parents young. But no matter how hard he fought with mind and image, they became like mummies before him. His father seemed to dissolve from one stage of oldness to another. This is what will happen to me soon, though Sim in terror.
Sim grew upon himself. He felt the digestive-eliminatory movements of his body. He was fed every minute, he was continually swallowing, feeding. He began to fit words to images and processes. Such a word was love. It was not an abstraction, but a process, a stir of breath, a smell of morning air, a flutter of heart, the curve of arm holding him, the look in the suspended face of his mother. He saw the processes, then searched behind her suspended face and there was the word, in her brain, ready to use. His throat prepared to speak. Life was pushing him, rushing him along toward oblivion.
He sensed the expansion of his fingernails, the adjustments of his cells, the profusion of his hair, the multiplication of his bones and sinew, the grooving of the soft pale wax of his brain. His brain at birth as clear as a circle of ice, innocent, unmarked, was, an instant later, as if hit with a thrown rock, cracked and marked and patterned in a million crevices of thought and discovery.
His sister, Dark, ran in and out with other little hothouse children, forever eating. His mother trembled over him, not eating, she had no appetite, her eyes were webbed shut.
"Sunset," said his father, at last.
The day was over. The light faded, a wind sounded.
His mother arose. "I want to see the outside world once more ... just once more...." She stared blindly, shivering.
His father's eyes were shut, he lay against the wall.
"I cannot rise," he whispered faintly. "I cannot."
"Dark!" The mother croaked, the girl came running. "Here," and Sim was handed to the girl. "Hold to Sim, Dark, feed him, care for him." She gave Sim one last fondling touch.
Dark said not a word, holding Sim, her great green eyes shining wetly.
"Go now," said the mother. "Take him out into the sunset time. Enjoy yourselves. Pick foods, eat. Play."
Dark walked away without looking back. Sim twisted in her grasp, looking over her shoulder with unbelieving, tragic eyes. He cried out and somehow summoned from his lips the first word of his existence.
"Why...?"
He saw his mother stiffen. "The child spoke!"
"Aye," said his father. "Did you hear what he said?"
"I heard," said the mother quietly.
The last thing Sim saw of his living parents was his mother weakly, swayingly, slowly moving across the floor to lie beside her silent husband. That was the last time he ever saw them move.
IV
The night came and passed and then started the second day.
The bodies of all those who had died during the night were carried in a funeral procession to the top of a small hill. The procession was long, the bodies numerous.
Dark walked in the procession, holding the newly walking Sim by one hand. Only an hour before dawn Sim had learned to walk.
At the top of the hill, Sim saw once again the far off metal seed. Nobody ever looked at it, or spoke of it. Why? Was there some reason? Was it a mirage? Why did they not run toward it? Worship it? Try to get to it and fly away into space?
The funeral words were spoken. The bodies were placed upon the ground where the sun, in a few minutes, would cremate them.
The procession then turned and ran down the hill, eager to have their few minutes of free time running and playing and laughing in the sweet air.
Dark and Sim, chattering like birds, feeding among the rocks, exchanged what they knew of life. He was in his second day, she in her third. They were driven, as always, by the mercurial speed of their lives.
Another piece of his life opened wide.
Fifty young men ran down from the cliffs, holding sharp stones and rock daggers in their thick hands. Shouting, they ran off toward distant black, low lines of small rock cliffs.
"War!"
The thought stood in Sim's brain. It shocked and beat at him. These men were running to fight, to kill, over there in those small black cliffs where other people lived.
But why? Wasn't life short enough without fighting, killing?
From a great distance he heard the sound of conflict, and it made his stomach cold. "Why, Dark, why?"
Dark didn't know. Perhaps they would understand tomorrow. Now, there was the business of eating to sustain and support their lives. Watching Dark was like seeing a lizard forever flickering its pink tongue, forever hungry.
Pale children ran on all sides of them. One beetle-like boy scuttled up the rocks, knocking Sim aside, to take from him a particularly luscious red berry he had found growing under an outcrop.
The child ate hastily of the fruit before Sim could gain his feet. Then Sim hurled himself unsteadily, the two of them fell in a ridiculous jumble, rolling, until Dark pried them, squalling, apart.
Sim bled. A part of him stood off, like a god, and said, "This should not be. Children should not be this way. It is wrong!"
Dark slapped the little intruding boy away. "Get on!" she cried.
"What's your name, bad one?"
"Chion!" laughed the boy. "Chion, Chion, Chion!"
Sim glared at him with all the ferocity in his small, unskilled features. He choked. This was his enemy. It was as if he'd waited for an enemy of person as well as scene. He had already understood the avalanches, the heat, the cold, the shortness of life, but these were things of places, of scene—mute, extravagant manifestations of unthinking nature, not motivated save by gravity and radiation. Here, now, in this stridulent Chion he recognized a thinking enemy!
Chion darted off, turned at a distance, tauntingly crying:
"Tomorrow I will be big enough to kill you!"
And he vanished around a rock.
More children ran, giggling, by Sim. Which of them would be friends, enemies? How could friends and enemies come about in this impossible, quick life time? There was no time to make either, was there?
Dark, as if knowing his thoughts, drew him away. As they searched for desired foods, she whispered fiercely in his ear. "Enemies are made over things like stolen foods; gifts of long grasses make friends. Enemies come, too, from opinions and thoughts. In five seconds you've made an enemy for life. Life's so short enemies must be made quickly." And she laughed with an irony strange for one so young, who was growing older before her rightful time. "You must fight to protect yourself. Others, superstitious ones, will try killing you. There is a belief, a ridiculous belief, that if one kills another, the murderer partakes of the life energy of the slain, and therefore will live an extra day. You see? As long as that is believed, you're in danger."
But Sim was not listening. Bursting from a flock of delicate girls who tomorrow would be tall, quieter, and who day after that would gain breasts and the next day take husbands, Sim caught sight of one small girl whose hair was a violet blue flame.
She ran past, brushed Sim, their bodies touched. Her eyes, white as silver coins, shone at him. He knew then that he'd found a friend, a love, a wife, one who'd a week from now lie with him atop the funeral pyre as sunlight undressed their flesh from bone.
Only the glance, but it held them in mid-motion, one instant.
"Your name?" he shouted after her.
"Lyte!" she called laughingly back.
"I'm Sim," he answered, confused and bewildered.
"Sim!" she repeated it, flashing on. "I'll remember!"
Dark nudged his ribs. "Here, eat ," she said to the distracted boy.
"Eat or you'll never get big enough to catch her."
From nowhere, Chion appeared, running by. "Lyte!" he mocked, dancing malevolently along and away. "Lyte! I'll remember Lyte, too!"
Dark stood tall and reed slender, shaking her dark ebony clouds of hair, sadly. "I see your life before you, little Sim. You'll need weapons soon to fight for this Lyte one. Now, hurry—the sun's coming!"
They ran back to the caves.
Question:
What is the setting of the story?
Answer:
|
[
"The story begins at night when Sim is born. He and his family are inside of the cold cave. The cave had a thick fog in it that originally obscured his dad from view. The cave is where people on the planet spend most of their time. During the two hours of the day that they are able to venture out into the valley, they enjoy the beautiful scenery of greenery until they have to return to their cave tunnels. When the time is up, the sun returns and its rays scorch and kill everything in the valley. ",
"The story begins in a dark cave with a family within. The parents look old, the father threatens his newborn son with a knife, and the only thing the little boy and his sister do is eating. In the tunnel behind old people are dying. The planet is dangerous, it's extremely hot and the sun burns everything during the day, and the nights are cold with ice. Only at dawn and sunset the temperatures are normal and people can go outside. At these times the planet is beautiful and fruitful. When the sun appears or disappears the people hurry to the caves in the cliffs, otherwise, they die in a second outside. The temperature inside the caves is normal. There are metal pieces of seeds far away, most of the ships are broken, but one is known to be still functioning, though it's far away. ",
"The story takes place on an unknown planet near the sun. The planet has dangerous radiation and weather for the majority of the day, so much of the story is set inside a cave where humans seek refuge. The cave is barren and cold, made only of stone. At dawn and sunset, the people are able to go out into the valley, where plants grow, fruits bloom, rivers thaw, and animals roam. The few minutes of lush, natural life on the planet are cherished by the characters in the story, but they always return to the cave to avoid radiation.",
"The story is set on a planet that is practically uninhabitable. The nights burn with cold, and the days feel like torches of fire. Because of this, the people must live in caves to stay alive. When dawn and sunset come, however, the entire planet blossoms with life, the air becomes breath-sweet and flower-strong. The ice thaws, and the fires die off too. All of the animals come out as well to enjoy what little life they can. There are avalanches, too, mostly consisting of stones that have been biding their time. In Sim’s vision, there is a large metal spaceship just beyond the valley. He believes that it is the key to saving all of the people. When dawn comes, all of the plants flower, and pale green tendrils appear on rocks. There is also plenty of fruit to go around in that short time period. "
] |
63874
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THE CREATURES THAT TIME FORGOT
By RAY BRADBURY
Mad, impossible world! Sun-blasted by day, cold-wracked by night—and life condensed by radiation into eight days! Sim eyed the Ship—if he only dared reach it and escape! ... but it was more than half an hour distant—the limit of life itself!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1946. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
During the night, Sim was born. He lay wailing upon the cold cave stones. His blood beat through him a thousand pulses each minute. He grew, steadily.
Into his mouth his mother with feverish hands put the food. The nightmare of living was begun. Almost instantly at birth his eyes grew alert, and then, without half understanding why, filled with bright, insistent terror. He gagged upon the food, choked and wailed. He looked about, blindly.
There was a thick fog. It cleared. The outlines of the cave appeared. And a man loomed up, insane and wild and terrible. A man with a dying face. Old, withered by winds, baked like adobe in the heat. The man was crouched in a far corner of the cave, his eyes whitening to one side of his face, listening to the far wind trumpeting up above on the frozen night planet.
Sim's mother, trembling, now and again, staring at the man, fed Sim pebble-fruits, valley-grasses and ice-nipples broken from the cavern entrances, and eating, eliminating, eating again, he grew larger, larger.
The man in the corner of the cave was his father! The man's eyes were all that was alive in his face. He held a crude stone dagger in his withered hands and his jaw hung loose and senseless.
Then, with a widening focus, Sim saw the old people sitting in the tunnel beyond this living quarter. And as he watched, they began to die.
Their agonies filled the cave. They melted like waxen images, their faces collapsed inward on their sharp bones, their teeth protruded. One minute their faces were mature, fairly smooth, alive, electric. The next minute a desication and burning away of their flesh occurred.
Sim thrashed in his mother's grasp. She held him. "No, no," she soothed him, quietly, earnestly, looking to see if this, too, would cause her husband to rise again.
With a soft swift padding of naked feet, Sim's father ran across the cave. Sim's mother screamed. Sim felt himself torn loose from her grasp. He fell upon the stones, rolling, shrieking with his new, moist lungs!
With a soft padding of naked feet Sim's father ran across the cave.
The webbed face of his father jerked over him, the knife was poised. It was like one of those prenatal nightmares he'd had while still in his mother's flesh. In the next few blazing, impossible instants questions flicked through his brain. The knife was high, suspended, ready to destroy him. But the whole question of life in this cave, the dying people, the withering and the insanity, surged through Sim's new, small head. How was it that he understood? A newborn child? Can a newborn child think, see, understand, interpret? No. It was wrong! It was impossible. Yet it was happening! To him. He had been alive an hour now. And in the next instant perhaps dead!
His mother flung herself upon the back of his father, and beat down the weapon. Sim caught the terrific backwash of emotion from both their conflicting minds. "Let me kill him!" shouted the father, breathing harshly, sobbingly. "What has he to live for?"
"No, no!" insisted the mother, and her body, frail and old as it was, stretched across the huge body of the father, tearing at his weapon.
"He must live! There may be a future for him! He may live longer than us, and be young!"
The father fell back against a stone crib. Lying there, staring, eyes glittering, Sim saw another figure inside that stone crib. A girl-child, quietly feeding itself, moving its delicate hands to procure food. His sister.
The mother wrenched the dagger from her husband's grasp, stood up, weeping and pushing back her cloud of stiffening gray hair. Her mouth trembled and jerked. "I'll kill you!" she said, glaring down at her husband. "Leave my children alone."
The old man spat tiredly, bitterly, and looked vacantly into the stone crib, at the little girl. "One-eighth of her life's over, already," he gasped. "And she doesn't know it. What's the use?"
As Sim watched, his own mother seemed to shift and take a tortured, smoke-like form. The thin bony face broke out into a maze of wrinkles. She was shaken with pain and had to sit by him, shuddering and cuddling the knife to her shriveled breasts. She, like the old people in the tunnel, was aging, dying.
Sim cried steadily. Everywhere he looked was horror. A mind came to meet his own. Instinctively he glanced toward the stone crib. Dark, his sister, returned his glance. Their minds brushed like straying fingers. He relaxed somewhat. He began to learn.
The father sighed, shut his lids down over his green eyes. "Feed the child," he said, exhaustedly. "Hurry. It is almost dawn and it is our last day of living, woman. Feed him. Make him grow."
Sim quieted, and images, out of the terror, floated to him.
This was a planet next to the sun. The nights burned with cold, the days were like torches of fire. It was a violent, impossible world. The people lived in the cliffs to escape the incredible ice and the day of flame. Only at dawn and sunset was the air breath-sweet, flower-strong, and then the cave peoples brought their children out into a stony, barren valley. At dawn the ice thawed into creeks and rivers, at sunset the day-fires died and cooled. In the intervals of even, livable temperature the people lived, ran, played, loved, free of the caverns; all life on the planet jumped, burst into life. Plants grew instantly, birds were flung like pellets across the sky. Smaller, legged animal life rushed frantically through the rocks; everything tried to get its living down in the brief hour of respite.
It was an unbearable planet. Sim understood this, a matter of hours after birth. Racial memory bloomed in him. He would live his entire life in the caves, with two hours a day outside. Here, in stone channels of air he would talk, talk incessantly with his people, sleep never, think, think and lie upon his back, dreaming; but never sleeping.
And he would live exactly eight days.
The violence of this thought evacuated his bowels. Eight days. Eight short days. It was wrong, impossible, but a fact. Even while in his mother's flesh some racial knowledge had told him he was being formed rapidly, shaped and propelled out swiftly.
Birth was quick as a knife. Childhood was over in a flash. Adolescence was a sheet of lightning. Manhood was a dream, maturity a myth, old age an inescapably quick reality, death a swift certainty.
Eight days from now he'd stand half-blind, withering, dying, as his father now stood, staring uselessly at his own wife and child.
This day was an eighth part of his total life! He must enjoy every second of it. He must search his parents' thoughts for knowledge.
Because in a few hours they'd be dead.
This was so impossibly unfair. Was this all of life? In his prenatal state hadn't he dreamed of long lives, valleys not of blasted stone but green foliage and temperate clime? Yes! And if he'd dreamed then there must be truth in the visions. How could he seek and find the long life? Where? And how could he accomplish a life mission that huge and depressing in eight short, vanishing days?
How had his people gotten into such a condition?
As if at a button pressed, he saw an image. Metal seeds, blown across space from a distant green world, fighting with long flames, crashing on this bleak planet. From their shattered hulls tumble men and women.
When? Long ago. Ten thousand days. The crash victims hid in the cliffs from the sun. Fire, ice and floods washed away the wreckage of the huge metal seeds. The victims were shaped and beaten like iron upon a forge. Solar radiations drenched them. Their pulses quickened, two hundred, five hundred, a thousand beats a minute. Their skins thickened, their blood changed. Old age came rushing. Children were born in the caves. Swifter, swifter, swifter the process. Like all this world's wild life, the men and women from the crash lived and died in a week, leaving children to do likewise.
So this is life, thought Sim. It was not spoken in his mind, for he knew no words, he knew only images, old memory, an awareness, a telepathy that could penetrate flesh, rock, metal. So I'm the five thousandth in a long line of futile sons? What can I do to save myself from dying eight days from now? Is there escape?
His eyes widened, another image came to focus.
Beyond this valley of cliffs, on a low mountain lay a perfect, unscarred metal seed. A metal ship, not rusted or touched by the avalanches. The ship was deserted, whole, intact. It was the only ship of all these that had crashed that was still a unit, still usable. But it was so far away. There was no one in it to help. This ship, then, on the far mountain, was the destiny toward which he would grow. There was his only hope of escape.
His mind flexed.
In this cliff, deep down in a confinement of solitude, worked a handful of scientists. To these men, when he was old enough and wise enough, he must go. They, too, dreamed of escape, of long life, of green valleys and temperate weathers. They, too, stared longingly at that distant ship upon its high mountain, its metal so perfect it did not rust or age.
The cliff groaned.
Sim's father lifted his eroded, lifeless face.
"Dawn's coming," he said.
II
Morning relaxed the mighty granite cliff muscles. It was the time of the Avalanche.
The tunnels echoed to running bare feet. Adults, children pushed with eager, hungry eyes toward the outside dawn. From far out, Sim heard a rumble of rock, a scream, a silence. Avalanches fell into valley. Stones that had been biding their time, not quite ready to fall, for a million years let go their bulks, and where they had begun their journey as single boulders they smashed upon the valley floor in a thousand shrapnels and friction-heated nuggets.
Every morning at least one person was caught in the downpour.
The cliff people dared the avalanches. It added one more excitement to their lives, already too short, too headlong, too dangerous.
Sim felt himself seized up by his father. He was carried brusquely down the tunnel for a thousand yards, to where the daylight appeared. There was a shining insane light in his father's eyes. Sim could not move. He sensed what was going to happen. Behind his father, his mother hurried, bringing with her the little sister, Dark. "Wait! Be careful!" she cried to her husband.
Sim felt his father crouch, listening.
High in the cliff was a tremor, a shivering.
"Now!" bellowed his father, and leaped out.
An avalanche fell down at them!
Sim had accelerated impressions of plunging walls, dust, confusion. His mother screamed! There was a jolting, a plunging.
With one last step, Sim's father hurried him forward into the day. The avalanche thundered behind him. The mouth of the cave, where mother and Dark stood back out of the way, was choked with rubble and two boulders that weighed a hundred pounds each.
The storm thunder of the avalanche passed away to a trickle of sand. Sim's father burst out into laughter. "Made it! By the Gods! Made it alive!" And he looked scornfully at the cliff and spat. "Pagh!"
Mother and sister Dark struggled through the rubble. She cursed her husband. "Fool! You might have killed Sim!"
"I may yet," retorted the father.
Sim was not listening. He was fascinated with the remains of an avalanche afront of the next tunnel. A blood stain trickled out from under a rise of boulders, soaking into the ground. There was nothing else to be seen. Someone else had lost the game.
Dark ran ahead on lithe, supple feet, naked and certain.
The valley air was like a wine filtered between mountains. The heaven was a restive blue; not the pale scorched atmosphere of full day, nor the bloated, bruised black-purple of night, a-riot with sickly shining stars.
This was a tide pool. A place where waves of varying and violent temperatures struck, receded. Now the tide pool was quiet, cool, and its life moved abroad.
Laughter! Far away, Sim heard it. Why laughter? How could any of his people find time for laughing? Perhaps later he would discover why.
The valley suddenly blushed with impulsive color. Plant-life, thawing in the precipitant dawn, shoved out from most unexpected sources. It flowered as you watched. Pale green tendrils appeared on scoured rocks. Seconds later, ripe globes of fruit twitched upon the blade-tips. Father gave Sim over to mother and harvested the momentary, volatile crop, thrust scarlet, blue, yellow fruits into a fur sack which hung at his waist. Mother tugged at the moist new grasses, laid them on Sim's tongue.
His senses were being honed to a fine edge. He stored knowledge thirstily. He understood love, marriage, customs, anger, pity, rage, selfishness, shadings and subtleties, realities and reflections. One thing suggested another. The sight of green plant life whirled his mind like a gyroscope, seeking balance in a world where lack of time for explanations made a mind seek and interpret on its own. The soft burden of food gave him knowledge of his system, of energy, of movement. Like a bird newly cracking its way from a shell, he was almost a unit, complete, all-knowing. Heredity had done all this for him. He grew excited with his ability.
They walked, mother, father and the two children, smelling the smells, watching the birds bounce from wall to wall of the valley like scurrying pebbles and suddenly the father said a strange thing:
"Remember?"
Remember what? Sim lay cradled. Was it any effort for them to remember when they'd lived only seven days!
The husband and wife looked at each other.
"Was it only three days ago?" said the woman, her body shaking, her eyes closing to think. "I can't believe it. It is so unfair." She sobbed, then drew her hand across her face and bit her parched lips. The wind played at her gray hair. "Now is my turn to cry. An hour ago it was you!"
"An hour is half a life."
"Come," she took her husband's arm. "Let us look at everything, because it will be our last looking."
"The sun'll be up in a few minutes," said the old man. "We must turn back now."
"Just one more moment," pleaded the woman.
"The sun will catch us."
"Let it catch me then!"
"You don't mean that."
"I mean nothing, nothing at all," cried the woman.
The sun was coming fast. The green in the valley burnt away. Searing wind blasted from over the cliffs. Far away where sun bolts hammered battlements of cliff, the huge stone faces shook their contents; those avalanches not already powdered down, were now released and fell like mantles.
"Dark!" shouted the father. The girl sprang over the warm floor of the valley, answering, her hair a black flag behind her. Hands full of green fruits, she joined them.
The sun rimmed the horizon with flame, the air convulsed dangerously with it, and whistled.
The cave people bolted, shouting, picking up their fallen children, bearing vast loads of fruit and grass with them back to their deep hideouts. In moments the valley was bare. Except for one small child someone had forgotten. He was running far out on the flatness, but he was not strong enough, and the engulfing heat was drifting down from the cliffs even as he was half across the valley.
Flowers were burnt into effigies, grasses sucked back into rocks like singed snakes, flower seeds whirled and fell in the sudden furnace blast of wind, sown far into gullies and crannies, ready to blossom at sunset tonight, and then go to seed and die again.
Sim's father watched that child running, alone, out on the floor of the valley. He and his wife and Dark and Sim were safe in the mouth of their tunnel.
"He'll never make it," said father. "Do not watch him, woman. It's not a good thing to watch."
They turned away. All except Sim, whose eyes had caught a glint of metal far away. His heart hammered in him, and his eyes blurred. Far away, atop a low mountain, one of those metal seeds from space reflected a dazzling ripple of light! It was like one of his intra-embryo dreams fulfilled! A metal space seed, intact, undamaged, lying on a mountain! There was his future! There was his hope for survival! There was where he would go in a few days, when he was—strange thought—a grown man!
The sun plunged into the valley like molten lava.
The little running child screamed, the sun burned, and the screaming stopped.
Sim's mother walked painfully, with sudden age, down the tunnel, paused, reached up, broke off two last icicles that had formed during the night. She handed one to her husband, kept the other. "We will drink one last toast. To you, to the children."
"To you ," he nodded to her. "To the children." They lifted the icicles. The warmth melted the ice down into their thirsty mouths.
All day the sun seemed to blaze and erupt into the valley. Sim could not see it, but the vivid pictorials in his parents' minds were sufficient evidence of the nature of the day fire. The light ran like mercury, sizzling and roasting the caves, poking inward, but never penetrating deeply enough. It lighted the caves. It made the hollows of the cliff comfortably warm.
Sim fought to keep his parents young. But no matter how hard he fought with mind and image, they became like mummies before him. His father seemed to dissolve from one stage of oldness to another. This is what will happen to me soon, though Sim in terror.
Sim grew upon himself. He felt the digestive-eliminatory movements of his body. He was fed every minute, he was continually swallowing, feeding. He began to fit words to images and processes. Such a word was love. It was not an abstraction, but a process, a stir of breath, a smell of morning air, a flutter of heart, the curve of arm holding him, the look in the suspended face of his mother. He saw the processes, then searched behind her suspended face and there was the word, in her brain, ready to use. His throat prepared to speak. Life was pushing him, rushing him along toward oblivion.
He sensed the expansion of his fingernails, the adjustments of his cells, the profusion of his hair, the multiplication of his bones and sinew, the grooving of the soft pale wax of his brain. His brain at birth as clear as a circle of ice, innocent, unmarked, was, an instant later, as if hit with a thrown rock, cracked and marked and patterned in a million crevices of thought and discovery.
His sister, Dark, ran in and out with other little hothouse children, forever eating. His mother trembled over him, not eating, she had no appetite, her eyes were webbed shut.
"Sunset," said his father, at last.
The day was over. The light faded, a wind sounded.
His mother arose. "I want to see the outside world once more ... just once more...." She stared blindly, shivering.
His father's eyes were shut, he lay against the wall.
"I cannot rise," he whispered faintly. "I cannot."
"Dark!" The mother croaked, the girl came running. "Here," and Sim was handed to the girl. "Hold to Sim, Dark, feed him, care for him." She gave Sim one last fondling touch.
Dark said not a word, holding Sim, her great green eyes shining wetly.
"Go now," said the mother. "Take him out into the sunset time. Enjoy yourselves. Pick foods, eat. Play."
Dark walked away without looking back. Sim twisted in her grasp, looking over her shoulder with unbelieving, tragic eyes. He cried out and somehow summoned from his lips the first word of his existence.
"Why...?"
He saw his mother stiffen. "The child spoke!"
"Aye," said his father. "Did you hear what he said?"
"I heard," said the mother quietly.
The last thing Sim saw of his living parents was his mother weakly, swayingly, slowly moving across the floor to lie beside her silent husband. That was the last time he ever saw them move.
IV
The night came and passed and then started the second day.
The bodies of all those who had died during the night were carried in a funeral procession to the top of a small hill. The procession was long, the bodies numerous.
Dark walked in the procession, holding the newly walking Sim by one hand. Only an hour before dawn Sim had learned to walk.
At the top of the hill, Sim saw once again the far off metal seed. Nobody ever looked at it, or spoke of it. Why? Was there some reason? Was it a mirage? Why did they not run toward it? Worship it? Try to get to it and fly away into space?
The funeral words were spoken. The bodies were placed upon the ground where the sun, in a few minutes, would cremate them.
The procession then turned and ran down the hill, eager to have their few minutes of free time running and playing and laughing in the sweet air.
Dark and Sim, chattering like birds, feeding among the rocks, exchanged what they knew of life. He was in his second day, she in her third. They were driven, as always, by the mercurial speed of their lives.
Another piece of his life opened wide.
Fifty young men ran down from the cliffs, holding sharp stones and rock daggers in their thick hands. Shouting, they ran off toward distant black, low lines of small rock cliffs.
"War!"
The thought stood in Sim's brain. It shocked and beat at him. These men were running to fight, to kill, over there in those small black cliffs where other people lived.
But why? Wasn't life short enough without fighting, killing?
From a great distance he heard the sound of conflict, and it made his stomach cold. "Why, Dark, why?"
Dark didn't know. Perhaps they would understand tomorrow. Now, there was the business of eating to sustain and support their lives. Watching Dark was like seeing a lizard forever flickering its pink tongue, forever hungry.
Pale children ran on all sides of them. One beetle-like boy scuttled up the rocks, knocking Sim aside, to take from him a particularly luscious red berry he had found growing under an outcrop.
The child ate hastily of the fruit before Sim could gain his feet. Then Sim hurled himself unsteadily, the two of them fell in a ridiculous jumble, rolling, until Dark pried them, squalling, apart.
Sim bled. A part of him stood off, like a god, and said, "This should not be. Children should not be this way. It is wrong!"
Dark slapped the little intruding boy away. "Get on!" she cried.
"What's your name, bad one?"
"Chion!" laughed the boy. "Chion, Chion, Chion!"
Sim glared at him with all the ferocity in his small, unskilled features. He choked. This was his enemy. It was as if he'd waited for an enemy of person as well as scene. He had already understood the avalanches, the heat, the cold, the shortness of life, but these were things of places, of scene—mute, extravagant manifestations of unthinking nature, not motivated save by gravity and radiation. Here, now, in this stridulent Chion he recognized a thinking enemy!
Chion darted off, turned at a distance, tauntingly crying:
"Tomorrow I will be big enough to kill you!"
And he vanished around a rock.
More children ran, giggling, by Sim. Which of them would be friends, enemies? How could friends and enemies come about in this impossible, quick life time? There was no time to make either, was there?
Dark, as if knowing his thoughts, drew him away. As they searched for desired foods, she whispered fiercely in his ear. "Enemies are made over things like stolen foods; gifts of long grasses make friends. Enemies come, too, from opinions and thoughts. In five seconds you've made an enemy for life. Life's so short enemies must be made quickly." And she laughed with an irony strange for one so young, who was growing older before her rightful time. "You must fight to protect yourself. Others, superstitious ones, will try killing you. There is a belief, a ridiculous belief, that if one kills another, the murderer partakes of the life energy of the slain, and therefore will live an extra day. You see? As long as that is believed, you're in danger."
But Sim was not listening. Bursting from a flock of delicate girls who tomorrow would be tall, quieter, and who day after that would gain breasts and the next day take husbands, Sim caught sight of one small girl whose hair was a violet blue flame.
She ran past, brushed Sim, their bodies touched. Her eyes, white as silver coins, shone at him. He knew then that he'd found a friend, a love, a wife, one who'd a week from now lie with him atop the funeral pyre as sunlight undressed their flesh from bone.
Only the glance, but it held them in mid-motion, one instant.
"Your name?" he shouted after her.
"Lyte!" she called laughingly back.
"I'm Sim," he answered, confused and bewildered.
"Sim!" she repeated it, flashing on. "I'll remember!"
Dark nudged his ribs. "Here, eat ," she said to the distracted boy.
"Eat or you'll never get big enough to catch her."
From nowhere, Chion appeared, running by. "Lyte!" he mocked, dancing malevolently along and away. "Lyte! I'll remember Lyte, too!"
Dark stood tall and reed slender, shaking her dark ebony clouds of hair, sadly. "I see your life before you, little Sim. You'll need weapons soon to fight for this Lyte one. Now, hurry—the sun's coming!"
They ran back to the caves.
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What are some odd things that happened in the story?
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After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about The Girls From Earth by Frank M. Robinson.
Relevant chunks:
THE GIRLS FROM EARTH
By FRANK M. ROBINSON
Illustrated by EMSH
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction January 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Problem: How can you arrange marriages with men in one solar system, women in another—and neither willing to leave his own world?
I
"The beasts aren't much help, are they?"
Karl Allen snatched a breath of air and gave another heave on the line tied to the raft of parampa logs bobbing in the middle of the river.
"No," he grunted, "they're not. They always balk at a time like this, when they can see it'll be hard work."
Joseph Hill wiped his plump face and coiled some of the rope's slack around his thick waist.
"Together now, Karl. One! Two! "
They stood knee-deep in mud on the bank, pulling and straining on the rope, while some few yards distant, in the shade of a grove of trees, their tiny yllumphs nibbled grass and watched them critically, but made no effort to come closer.
"If we're late for ship's landing, Joe, we'll get crossed off the list."
Hill puffed and wheezed and took another hitch on the rope.
"That's what I've been thinking about," he said, worried.
They took a deep breath and hauled mightily on the raft rope. The raft bobbed nearer. For a moment the swift waters of the Karazoo threatened to tear it out of their grasp, and then it was beached, most of it solidly, on the muddy bank. One end of it still lay in the gurgling, rushing waters, but that didn't matter. They'd be back in ten hours or so, long before the heavy raft could be washed free.
"How much time have we got, Karl?"
The ground was thick with shadows, and Karl cast a critical eye at them. He estimated that even with the refusal of their yllumphs to help beach the raft, they still had a good two hours before the rocket put down at Landing City.
"Two hours, maybe a little more," he stated hastily when Hill looked more worried. "Time enough to get to Landing City and put in for our numbers on the list."
He turned back to the raft, untied the leather and horn saddles, and threw them over the backs of their reluctant mounts. He cinched his saddle and tied on some robes and furs behind it.
Hill watched him curiously. "What are you taking the furs for? This isn't the trading rocket."
"I know. I thought that when we come back tonight, it might be cold and maybe she'll appreciate the coverings then."
"You never would have thought of it yourself," Hill grunted. "Grundy must have told you to do it, the old fool. If you ask me, the less you give them, the less they'll come to expect. Once you spoil them, they'll expect you to do all the trapping and the farming and the family-raising yourself."
"You didn't have to sign up," Karl pointed out. "You could have applied for a wife from some different planet."
"One's probably just as good as another. They'll all have to work the farms and raise families."
Karl laughed and aimed a friendly blow at Hill. They finished saddling up and headed into the thick forest.
It was quiet as Karl guided his mount along the dimly marked trail and he caught himself thinking of the return trip he would be making that night. It would be nice to have somebody new to talk to. And it would be good to have somebody to help with the trapping and tanning, somebody who could tend the small vegetable garden at the rear of his shack and mend his socks and wash his clothes and cook his meals.
And it was time, he thought soberly, that he started to raise a family. He was mid-twenty now, old enough to want a wife and children.
"You going to raise a litter, Joe?"
Hill started. Karl realized that he had probably been thinking of the same thing.
"One of these days I'll need help around the sawmill," Hill answered defensively. "Need some kids to cut the trees, a couple more to pole them down the river, some to run the mill itself and maybe one to sell the lumber in Landing City. Can't do it all myself."
He paused a moment, thinking over something that had just occurred to him.
"I've been thinking of your plans for a garden, Karl. Maybe I ought to have one for my wife to take care of, too."
Karl chuckled. "I don't think she'll have the time!"
They left the leafy expanse of the forest and entered the grasslands that sloped toward Landing City. He could even see Landing City itself on the horizon, a smudge of rusting, corrugated steel shacks, muddy streets, and the small rocket port—a scorched thirty acres or so fenced off with barbed wire.
Karl looked out of the corner of his eye at Hill and felt a vague wave of uneasiness. Hill was a big, thick man wearing the soiled clothes and bristly stubble of a man who was used to living alone and who liked it. But once he took a wife, he would probably have to keep himself in clean clothes and shave every few days. It was even possible that the woman might object to Hill letting his yllumph share the hut.
The path was getting crowded, more of the colonists coming onto the main path from the small side trails.
Hill broke the silence first. "I wonder what they'll be like."
Karl looked wise and nodded knowingly. "They're Earthwomen, Joe. Earth! "
It was easy to act as though he had some inside information, but Karl had to admit to himself that he actually knew very little about it. He was a Second System colonist and had never even seen an Earthwoman. He had heard tales, though, and even discounting a large percentage of them, some of them must have been true. Old Grundy at the rocket office, who should know about these things if anybody did, seemed disturbingly lacking on definite information, though he had hinted broadly enough. He'd whistle softly and wink an eye and repeat the stories that Karl had already heard; but he had nothing definite to offer, no real facts at all.
Some of the other colonists whom they hadn't seen for the last few months shouted greetings, and Karl began to feel some of the carnival spirit. There was Jenkins, who had another trapping line fifty miles farther up the Karazoo; Leonard, who had the biggest farm on Midplanet; and then the fellow who specialized in catching and breaking in yllumphs, whose name Karl couldn't remember.
"They say they're good workers," Hill said.
Karl nodded. "Pretty, too."
They threaded their way through the crowded and muddy streets. Landing City wasn't big, compared to some of the cities on Altair, where he had been raised, but Karl was proud of it. Some day it would be as big as any city on any planet—maybe even have a population of ten thousand people or more.
"Joe," Karl said suddenly, "what's supposed to make women from Earth better than women from any other world?"
Hill located a faint itch and frowned. "I don't know, Karl. It's hard to say. They're—well, sophisticated, glamorous."
Karl absorbed this in silence. Those particular qualities were, he thought, rather hard to define.
The battered shack that served as rocket port office and headquarters for the colonial office on Midplanet loomed up in front of them. There was a crowd gathered in front of the building and they forced their way through to see what had caused it.
"We saw this the last time we were here," Hill said.
"I know," Karl agreed, "but I want to take another look." He was anxious to glean all the information that he could.
It was a poster of a beautiful woman leaning toward the viewer. The edges of the poster were curling and the colors had faded during the last six months, but the girl's smile seemed just as inviting as ever. She held a long-stemmed goblet in one hand and was blowing a kiss to her audience with the other. Her green eyes sparkled, her smile was provocative. A quoted sentence read: "I'm from Earth !" There was nothing more except a printed list of the different solar systems to which the colonial office was sending the women.
She was real pretty, Karl thought. A little on the thin side, maybe, and the dress she was wearing would hardly be practical on Midplanet, but she had a certain something. Glamour, maybe?
A loudspeaker blared.
"All colonists waiting for the wife draft assemble for your numbers! All colonists...."
There was a jostling for places and then they were in the rapidly moving line. Grundy, fat and important-looking, was handing out little blue slips with numbers on them, pausing every now and then to tell them some entertaining bit of information about the women. He had a great imagination, nothing else.
Karl drew the number 53 and hurried to the grassy lot beside the landing field that had been decorated with bunting and huge welcome signs for the new arrivals. A table was loaded with government pamphlets meant to be helpful to newly married colonists. Karl went over and stuffed a few in his pockets. Other tables had been set out and were loaded with luncheon food, fixed by the few colonial women in the community. Karl caught himself eyeing the women closely, wondering how the girls from Earth would compare with them.
He fingered the ticket in his pocket. What would the woman be like who had drawn the companion number 53 aboard the rocket? For when it landed, they would pair up by numbers. The method had its drawbacks, of course, but time was much too short to allow even a few days of getting acquainted. He'd have to get back to his trapping lines and he imagined that Hill would have to get back to his sawmill and the others to their farms. What the hell, you never knew what you were getting either way, till it was too late.
"Sandwich, mister? Pop?"
Karl flipped the boy a coin, picked up some food and a drink, and wandered over to the landing field with Hill. There were still ten minutes or so to go before the rocket landed, but he caught himself straining his sight at the blue sky, trying to see a telltale flicker of exhaust flame.
The field was crowded and he caught some of the buzzing conversation.
"... never knew one myself, but let me tell you...."
"... knew a fellow once who married one, never had a moment's rest afterward...."
"... no comparison with colonial women. They got culture...."
"... I'd give a lot to know the girl who's got number twenty-five...."
"Let's meet back here with the girls who have picked our numbers," Hill said. "Maybe we could trade."
Karl nodded, though privately he felt that the number system was just as good as depending on first impressions.
There was a murmur from the crowd and he found his gaze riveted overhead. High above, in the misty blue sky, was a sudden twinkle of fire.
He reached up and wiped his sweaty face with a muddy hand and brushed aside a straggly lock of tangled hair. It wouldn't hurt to try to look his best.
The twinkling fire came nearer.
II
"A Mr. Macdonald to see you, Mr. Escher."
Claude Escher flipped the intercom switch.
"Please send him right in."
That was entirely superfluous, he thought, because MacDonald would come in whether Escher wanted him to or not.
The door opened and shut with a slightly harder bang than usual and Escher mentally braced himself. He had a good hunch what the problem was going to be and why it was being thrown in their laps.
MacDonald made himself comfortable and sat there for a few minutes, just looking grim and not saying anything. Escher knew the psychology by heart. A short preliminary silence is always more effective in browbeating subordinates than an initial furious bluster.
He lit a cigarette and tried to outwait MacDonald. It wasn't easy—MacDonald had great staying powers, which was probably why he was the head of the department.
Escher gave in first. "Okay, Mac, what's the trouble? What do we have tossed in our laps now?"
"You know the one—colonization problem. You know that when we first started to colonize, quite a large percentage of the male population took to the stars, as the saying goes. The adventuresome, the gamblers, the frontier type all decided they wanted to head for other worlds, to get away from it all. The male of the species is far more adventuresome than the female; the men left—but the women didn't. At least, not in nearly the same large numbers.
"Well, you see the problem. The ratio of women to men here on Earth is now something like five to three. If you don't know what that means, ask any man with a daughter. Or any psychiatrist. Husband-hunting isn't just a pleasant pastime on Earth. It's an earnest cutthroat business and I'm not just using a literary phrase."
He threw a paper on Escher's desk. "You'll find most of the statistics about it in that, Claude. Notice the increase in crimes peculiar to women. Shoplifting, badger games, poisonings, that kind of thing. It's quite a list. You'll also notice the huge increase in petty crimes, a lot of which wouldn't have bothered the courts before. In fact, they wouldn't even have been considered crimes. You know why they are now?"
Escher shook his head blankly.
"Most of the girls in the past who didn't catch a husband," MacDonald continued, "grew up to be the type of old maid who's dedicated to improving the morals and what-not of the rest of the population. We've got more puritanical societies now than we ever had, and we have more silly little laws on the books as a result. You can be thrown in the pokey for things like violating a woman's privacy—whatever that means—and she's the one who decides whether what you say or do is a violation or not."
Escher looked bored. "Not to mention the new prohibition which forbids the use of alcohol in everything from cough medicines to hair tonics. Or the cleaned up moral code that reeks—if you'll pardon the expression—of purity. Sure, I know what you mean. And you know the solution. All we have to do is get the women to colonize."
MacDonald ran his fingers nervously through his hair.
"But it won't be easy, and that's why it's been given to us. It's your baby, Claude. Give it a lot of thought. Nothing's impossible, you know."
"Perpetual motion machines are," Escher said quietly. "And pulling yourself up by your boot-straps. But I get the point. Nevertheless, women just don't want to colonize. And who can blame them? Why should they give up living in a luxury civilization, with as many modern conveniences as this one, to go homesteading on some wild, unexplored planet where they have to work their fingers to the bone and play footsie with wild animals and savages who would just as soon skin them alive as not?"
"What do you advise I do, then?" MacDonald demanded. "Go back to the Board and tell them the problem is not solvable, that we can't think of anything?"
Escher looked hurt. "Did I say that? I just said it wouldn't be easy."
"The Board is giving you a blank check. Do anything you think will pay off. We have to stay within the letter of the law, of course, but not necessarily the spirit."
"When do they have to have a solution?"
"As soon as possible. At least within the year. By that time the situation will be very serious. The psychologists say that what will happen then won't be good."
"All right, by then we'll have the answer."
MacDonald stopped at the door. "There's another reason why they want it worked out. The number of men applying to the Colonization Board for emigration to the colony planets is falling off."
"How come?"
MacDonald smiled. "On the basis of statistics alone, would you want to emigrate from a planet where the women outnumber the men five to three?"
When MacDonald had gone, Escher settled back in his chair and idly tapped his fingers on the desk-top. It was lucky that the Colonization Board worked on two levels. One was the well-publicized, idealistic level where nothing was too good and every deal was 99 and 44/100 per cent pure. But when things got too difficult for it to handle on that level, they went to Escher and MacDonald's department. The coal mine level. Nothing was too low, so long as it worked. Of course, if it didn't work, you took the lumps, too.
He rummaged around in his drawer and found a list of the qualifications set up by the Board for potential colonists. He read the list slowly and frowned. You had to be physically fit for the rigors of space travel, naturally, but some of the qualifications were obviously silly. You couldn't guarantee physical perfection in the second generation, anyway.
He tore the qualification list in shreds and dropped it in the disposal chute. That would have to be the first to go.
There were other things that could be done immediately. For one thing, as it stood now, you were supposed to be financially able to colonize. Obviously a stupid and unappealing law. That would have to go next.
He picked up the sheet of statistics that MacDonald had left and read it carefully. The Board could legalize polygamy, but that was no solution in the long run. Probably cause more problems than it would solve. Even with women as easy to handle as they were nowadays, one was still enough.
Which still left him with the main problem of how to get people to colonize who didn't want to colonize.
The first point was to convince them that they wanted to. The second point was that it might not matter whether they wanted to or not.
No, it shouldn't be hard to solve at all—provided you held your nose, silenced your conscience, and were willing to forget that there was such a thing as a moral code.
III
Phyllis Hanson put the cover over her typewriter and locked the correspondence drawer. Another day was done, another evening about to begin.
She filed into the washroom with the other girls and carefully redid her face. It was getting hard to disguise the worry lines, to paint away the faint crow's-feet around her eyes.
She wasn't, she admitted to herself for the thousandth time, what you would call beautiful. She inspected herself carefully in her compact mirror. In a sudden flash of honesty, she had to admit that she wasn't even what you would call pretty. Her face was too broad, her nose a fraction too long, and her hair was dull. Not homely, exactly—but not pretty, either.
Conversation hummed around her, most of it from the little group in the corner, where the extreme few who were married sat as practically a race apart. Their advice was sought, their suggestions avidly followed.
"Going out tonight, Phyl?"
She hesitated a moment, then slowly painted on the rest of her mouth. The question was technically a privacy violator, but she thought she would sidestep it this time, instead of refusing to answer point-blank.
"I thought I'd stay home tonight. Have a few things I want to rinse out."
The black-haired girl next to her nodded sympathetically. "Sure, Phyl, I know what you mean. Just like the rest of us—waiting for the phone to ring."
Phyllis finished washing up and then left the office, carefully noting the girl who was waiting for the boss. The girl was beautiful in a hard sort of way, a platinum blonde with an entertainer's busty figure. Waiting for a plump, middle-aged man like a stagestruck kid outside a theatre.
At home, in her small two-room bachelor-girl apartment, she stripped and took a hot, sudsing shower, then stepped out and toweled herself in front of a mirror. She frowned slightly. You didn't know whether you should keep yourself in trim just on some off-chance, or give up and let yourself go.
She fixed dinner, took a moderately long time doing the dishes, and went through the standard routine of getting a book and curling up on the sofa. It was a good book of the boot-legged variety—scientifically written with enough surplus heroes and heroines and lushly described love affairs to hold anybody's interest.
It held hers for ten pages and then she threw the book across the room, getting a savage delight at the way the pages ripped and fluttered to the floor.
What was the use of kidding herself any longer, of trying to live vicariously and hoping that some day she would have a home and a husband? She was thirty now; the phone hadn't rung in the last three years. She might as well spend this evening as she had spent so many others—call up the girls for a bridge game and a little gossip, though heaven knew you always ended up envying the people you were gossiping about.
Perhaps she should have joined one of the organizations at the office that did something like that seven nights out of every seven. A bridge game or a benefit for some school or a talk on art. Or she could have joined the Lecture of the Week club, or the YWCA, or any one of the other government-sponsored clubs designed to fill the void in a woman's life.
But bridge games and benefits and lectures didn't take the place of a husband and family. She was kidding herself again.
She got up and retrieved the battered book, then went over to the mail slot. She hadn't had time to open her mail that morning; most of the time it wasn't worth the effort. Advertisements for book clubs, lecture clubs, how to win at bridge and canasta....
Her fingers sprang the metal tabs on a large envelope and she took out the contents and spread it wide.
She gasped. It was a large poster, about a yard square. A man was on it, straddling a tiny city and a small panorama of farms and forests at his feet. He was a handsome specimen, with wavy blond hair and blue eyes and a curly mat on his bare chest that was just enough to be attractive without being apelike. He held an axe in his hands and was eyeing her with a clearly inviting look of brazen self-confidence.
It was definitely a privacy violator and she should notify the authorities immediately!
Bright lettering at the top of the poster shrieked: "Come to the Colonies, the Planets of Romance!"
Whoever had mailed it should be arrested and imprisoned! Preying on....
The smaller print at the bottom was mostly full of facts and figures. The need for women out on the colony planets, the percentage of men to women—a startling disproportion—the comfortable cities that weren't nearly as primitive as people had imagined, and the recently reduced qualifications.
She caught herself admiring the man on the poster. Naturally, it was an artist's conception, but even so....
And the cities were far in advance of the frontier settlements, where you had to battle disease and dirty savages.
It was all a dream. She had never done anything like this and she wouldn't think of doing it now. And had any of her friends seen the poster? Of course, they probably wouldn't tell her even if they had.
But the poster was a violation of privacy. Whoever had sent it had taken advantage of information that was none of their business. It was up to her to notify the authorities!
She took another look at the poster.
The letter she finally finished writing was very short. She addressed it to the box number in the upper left-hand corner of the plain wrapper that the poster had come in.
IV
The dress lay on the counter, a small corner of it trailing off the edge. It was a beautiful thing, sheer sheen satin trimmed in gold nylon thread. It was the kind of gown that would make anybody who wore it look beautiful. The price was high, much too high for her to pay. She knew she would never be able to buy it.
But she didn't intend to buy it.
She looked casually around and noted that nobody was watching her. There was another woman a few counters down and a man, obviously embarrassed, at the lingerie counter. Nobody else was in sight. It was a perfect time. The clerk had left to look up a difficult item that she had purposely asked for and probably wouldn't be back for five minutes.
Time enough, at any rate.
The dress was lying loose, so she didn't have to pry it off any hangers. She took another quick look around, then hurriedly bundled it up and dropped it in her shopping bag.
She had taken two self-assured steps away from the counter when she felt a hand on her shoulder. The grip was firm and muscular and she knew she had lost the game. She also knew that she had to play it out to the end, to grasp any straw.
"Let go of me!" she ordered in a frostily offended voice.
"Sorry, miss," the man said politely, "but I think we have a short trip to take."
She thought for a moment of brazening it out further and then gave up. She'd get a few weeks or months in the local detention building, a probing into her background for the psychological reasons that prompted her to steal, and then she'd be out again.
They couldn't do anything to her that mattered.
She shrugged and followed the detective calmly. None of the shoppers had looked up. None seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary.
In the detention building she thanked her good luck that she was facing a man for the sentence, instead of one of the puritanical old biddies who served on the bench. She even found a certain satisfaction in the presence of the cigar smoke and the blunt, earthy language that floated in from the corridor.
"Why did you steal it?" the judge asked. He held up the dress, which, she noted furiously, didn't look nearly as nice as it had under the department store lights.
"I don't have anything to say," she said. "I want to see a lawyer."
She could imagine what he was thinking. Another tough one, another plain jane who was shoplifting for a thrill.
And she probably was. You had to do something nowadays. You couldn't just sit home and chew your fingernails, or run out and listen to the endless boring lectures on art and culture.
"Name?" he asked in a tired voice.
She knew the statistics he wanted. "Ruby Johnson, 32, 145 pounds, brown hair and green eyes. Prints on file."
The judge leaned down and mentioned something to the bailiff, who left and presently came back with a ledger. The judge opened it and ran his fingers down one of the pages.
The sentence would probably be the usual, she thought—six months and a fine, or perhaps a little more when they found out she had a record for shoplifting.
A stranger in the courtroom in the official linens of the government suddenly stepped up beside the judge and looked at the page. She could hear a little of what he said:
"... anxiety neurosis ... obvious feeling of not being wanted ... probably steals to attract attention ... recommend emigration."
"In view of some complicating factors, we're going to give you a choice," the judge finally said. "You can either go to the penitentiary for ten years and pay a $10,000 fine, or you can ship out to the colony planets and receive a five-hundred-dollar immigration bonus."
She thought for a minute that she hadn't heard right. Ten thousand dollars and ten years! It was obvious that the state was interested in neither the fine nor in paying her room and board for ten years. She could recognize a squeeze play when she saw it, but there was nothing she could do about it.
"I wouldn't call that a choice," she said sourly. "I'll ship out."
V
Suzanne was proud of the apartment. It had all the modern conveniences, like the needle shower with the perfume dispenser, the built-in soft-drink bar in the library, the all-communications set, and the electrical massager. It was a nice, comfortable setup, an illusion of security in an ever-changing world.
She lit a cigarette and chuckled. Mrs. Burger, the fat old landlady, thought she kept up the apartment by working as a buyer for one of the downtown stores.
Well, maybe some day she would.
But not today. And not tonight.
The phone rang and she answered in a casual tone. She talked for a minute, then let a trace of sultriness creep into her voice. The conversation wasn't long.
She let the receiver fall back on the base and went into the bedroom to get a hat box. She wouldn't need much; she'd probably be back that same night.
It was a nice night and since the address was only a few blocks away, she decided to walk it. She blithely ignored the curious stares from other pedestrians, attracted by the sharp, clicking sound of her heels on the sidewalk.
The address was a brownstone that looked more like an office building than anything else, but then you could never tell. She pressed the buzzer and waited a moment for the sound to echo back and forth on the inside. She pressed it again and a moment later a suave young man appeared in the doorway.
"Miss Carstens?"
She smiled pertly.
"We've been expecting you."
She wondered a little at the "we," but dutifully smiled and followed him in.
The glare of the lights inside the office blinded her for a moment. When she could focus them again, her smile became slightly blurry at the edges and then disappeared entirely. She wasn't alone. There was a battery of chairs against one side of the room. She recognized most of the girls sitting in them.
She forced a smile to her lips and tried to laugh.
"I'm sure there's been some mistake! Why, I never...."
The young man coughed politely. "I'm afraid there's been no mistake. Full name, please."
"Suzanne Carstens," she said grimly, and gave the other statistics he wanted. She idly wondered what stoolie had peddled the phone numbers.
"Suzanne Carstens," the young man noted, and slowly shook his head.
"A very pretty name, but no doubt not your own. It actually doesn't matter, though. Take a seat over there."
She did as he asked and he faced the entire group.
"I and the other gentlemen here represent the Colonization Board. We've interceded with the local authorities in order to offer you a choice. We would like to ship you out to the colony planets. Naturally, we will pay you the standard emigration bonus of five hundred dollars. The colonists need wives; they offer you—security."
He stressed the word slightly.
"Now, of course, if you don't prefer the colony planets, you can stay behind and face the penalties of ten years in jail and a fine of ten thousand dollars."
Suzanne felt that her lower jaw needed support. Ten thousand dollars and ten years! And in either case she'd lose the apartment she had worked so hard for, her symbol of security.
"Well, what do you say?" There was a dead silence. The young man from the Colonization Board turned to Suzanne. "How about you, Miss Carstens?"
She smiled sickly and nodded her head. "I love to travel!" she said.
It didn't sound at all witty even to herself.
Question:
What are some odd things that happened in the story?
Answer:
|
[
"Phyllis Hanson has been wanting a husband and a family for almost three years. She does not think that the bridge games and benefits and lectures can replace a husband and family. However, in her mail today, she gets a poster that tells her to come to the colonies. This is clearly a violation of her privacy. However, the man on the poster is very handsome, and she looks at it again and again. Though she admires the man on the poster, she still writes a letter reporting it. Then Ruby Johnson also goes through something strange. She steals a beautiful gown from the store and then gets caught. She knows that she will simply face a small fine along with a few weeks or months in detention because she was caught stealing dress from the . However, to her surprised, she is told that she be charged with a 10,000 dollar fine along with ten years in prison, or she can choose to go to a colony planet and get a five-hundred-dollar bonus. She is shocked, but chooses the latter. Similarly, Suzanne is given a similar choice between shipping out to the colony or going to jail after receiving a phone call telling her to get to a specific place. She also chooses the colony planet. ",
"MacDonald notes that because of the higher population of women on Earth than men, a lot stricter laws have been enacted. An example includes a prohibition of alcohol from being used in everyday items such as cough medicines and hair tonics. In addition, there are laws against violating a women’s privacy and a purity related moral code. An example of a privacy violation is when a woman asks Phyllis Hanson about her plans for the night. ",
"One of the odd things that happen in the story is the whole process of pairing up a husband and wife. The system is based on numbers as first impressions; although this seems to be an efficient way, Karl notices that there is almost no time for him and his future wife to get acquainted with one another. This is rather odd because many of them want to marry for love, yet the system caters to an arranged marriage rather than a natural relationship. Hill even brings up trading women if they are not satisfied with who they get.\n\nAnother odd occurrence in the story is how both men and women do not want to emigrate to the colonies. There are clearly more men in the colonies, yet many choose to stay on Earth because more women are there. None of the women want to go either; if they decide to leave Earth to colonize, it will be the same as giving up their luxurious, modern civilization to fight disease. \n",
"There are many odd things that happen in the story. The story itself is quite odd in form. It jumps from different times in one linear storyline, beginning at the end, and ending towards the beginning. It is also quite odd that the two men on the colonised planet think that women should be subservient, and that if you start to treat a woman with kindness and respect, and not as a servant, she will end up being spoiled. Another interesting part of the story is the nondescript place which Suzanne Carstens walks to. We are not really informed as to whether or not Ms Carstens is a prostitute, although it is insinuated. \n"
] |
51268
|
THE GIRLS FROM EARTH
By FRANK M. ROBINSON
Illustrated by EMSH
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction January 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Problem: How can you arrange marriages with men in one solar system, women in another—and neither willing to leave his own world?
I
"The beasts aren't much help, are they?"
Karl Allen snatched a breath of air and gave another heave on the line tied to the raft of parampa logs bobbing in the middle of the river.
"No," he grunted, "they're not. They always balk at a time like this, when they can see it'll be hard work."
Joseph Hill wiped his plump face and coiled some of the rope's slack around his thick waist.
"Together now, Karl. One! Two! "
They stood knee-deep in mud on the bank, pulling and straining on the rope, while some few yards distant, in the shade of a grove of trees, their tiny yllumphs nibbled grass and watched them critically, but made no effort to come closer.
"If we're late for ship's landing, Joe, we'll get crossed off the list."
Hill puffed and wheezed and took another hitch on the rope.
"That's what I've been thinking about," he said, worried.
They took a deep breath and hauled mightily on the raft rope. The raft bobbed nearer. For a moment the swift waters of the Karazoo threatened to tear it out of their grasp, and then it was beached, most of it solidly, on the muddy bank. One end of it still lay in the gurgling, rushing waters, but that didn't matter. They'd be back in ten hours or so, long before the heavy raft could be washed free.
"How much time have we got, Karl?"
The ground was thick with shadows, and Karl cast a critical eye at them. He estimated that even with the refusal of their yllumphs to help beach the raft, they still had a good two hours before the rocket put down at Landing City.
"Two hours, maybe a little more," he stated hastily when Hill looked more worried. "Time enough to get to Landing City and put in for our numbers on the list."
He turned back to the raft, untied the leather and horn saddles, and threw them over the backs of their reluctant mounts. He cinched his saddle and tied on some robes and furs behind it.
Hill watched him curiously. "What are you taking the furs for? This isn't the trading rocket."
"I know. I thought that when we come back tonight, it might be cold and maybe she'll appreciate the coverings then."
"You never would have thought of it yourself," Hill grunted. "Grundy must have told you to do it, the old fool. If you ask me, the less you give them, the less they'll come to expect. Once you spoil them, they'll expect you to do all the trapping and the farming and the family-raising yourself."
"You didn't have to sign up," Karl pointed out. "You could have applied for a wife from some different planet."
"One's probably just as good as another. They'll all have to work the farms and raise families."
Karl laughed and aimed a friendly blow at Hill. They finished saddling up and headed into the thick forest.
It was quiet as Karl guided his mount along the dimly marked trail and he caught himself thinking of the return trip he would be making that night. It would be nice to have somebody new to talk to. And it would be good to have somebody to help with the trapping and tanning, somebody who could tend the small vegetable garden at the rear of his shack and mend his socks and wash his clothes and cook his meals.
And it was time, he thought soberly, that he started to raise a family. He was mid-twenty now, old enough to want a wife and children.
"You going to raise a litter, Joe?"
Hill started. Karl realized that he had probably been thinking of the same thing.
"One of these days I'll need help around the sawmill," Hill answered defensively. "Need some kids to cut the trees, a couple more to pole them down the river, some to run the mill itself and maybe one to sell the lumber in Landing City. Can't do it all myself."
He paused a moment, thinking over something that had just occurred to him.
"I've been thinking of your plans for a garden, Karl. Maybe I ought to have one for my wife to take care of, too."
Karl chuckled. "I don't think she'll have the time!"
They left the leafy expanse of the forest and entered the grasslands that sloped toward Landing City. He could even see Landing City itself on the horizon, a smudge of rusting, corrugated steel shacks, muddy streets, and the small rocket port—a scorched thirty acres or so fenced off with barbed wire.
Karl looked out of the corner of his eye at Hill and felt a vague wave of uneasiness. Hill was a big, thick man wearing the soiled clothes and bristly stubble of a man who was used to living alone and who liked it. But once he took a wife, he would probably have to keep himself in clean clothes and shave every few days. It was even possible that the woman might object to Hill letting his yllumph share the hut.
The path was getting crowded, more of the colonists coming onto the main path from the small side trails.
Hill broke the silence first. "I wonder what they'll be like."
Karl looked wise and nodded knowingly. "They're Earthwomen, Joe. Earth! "
It was easy to act as though he had some inside information, but Karl had to admit to himself that he actually knew very little about it. He was a Second System colonist and had never even seen an Earthwoman. He had heard tales, though, and even discounting a large percentage of them, some of them must have been true. Old Grundy at the rocket office, who should know about these things if anybody did, seemed disturbingly lacking on definite information, though he had hinted broadly enough. He'd whistle softly and wink an eye and repeat the stories that Karl had already heard; but he had nothing definite to offer, no real facts at all.
Some of the other colonists whom they hadn't seen for the last few months shouted greetings, and Karl began to feel some of the carnival spirit. There was Jenkins, who had another trapping line fifty miles farther up the Karazoo; Leonard, who had the biggest farm on Midplanet; and then the fellow who specialized in catching and breaking in yllumphs, whose name Karl couldn't remember.
"They say they're good workers," Hill said.
Karl nodded. "Pretty, too."
They threaded their way through the crowded and muddy streets. Landing City wasn't big, compared to some of the cities on Altair, where he had been raised, but Karl was proud of it. Some day it would be as big as any city on any planet—maybe even have a population of ten thousand people or more.
"Joe," Karl said suddenly, "what's supposed to make women from Earth better than women from any other world?"
Hill located a faint itch and frowned. "I don't know, Karl. It's hard to say. They're—well, sophisticated, glamorous."
Karl absorbed this in silence. Those particular qualities were, he thought, rather hard to define.
The battered shack that served as rocket port office and headquarters for the colonial office on Midplanet loomed up in front of them. There was a crowd gathered in front of the building and they forced their way through to see what had caused it.
"We saw this the last time we were here," Hill said.
"I know," Karl agreed, "but I want to take another look." He was anxious to glean all the information that he could.
It was a poster of a beautiful woman leaning toward the viewer. The edges of the poster were curling and the colors had faded during the last six months, but the girl's smile seemed just as inviting as ever. She held a long-stemmed goblet in one hand and was blowing a kiss to her audience with the other. Her green eyes sparkled, her smile was provocative. A quoted sentence read: "I'm from Earth !" There was nothing more except a printed list of the different solar systems to which the colonial office was sending the women.
She was real pretty, Karl thought. A little on the thin side, maybe, and the dress she was wearing would hardly be practical on Midplanet, but she had a certain something. Glamour, maybe?
A loudspeaker blared.
"All colonists waiting for the wife draft assemble for your numbers! All colonists...."
There was a jostling for places and then they were in the rapidly moving line. Grundy, fat and important-looking, was handing out little blue slips with numbers on them, pausing every now and then to tell them some entertaining bit of information about the women. He had a great imagination, nothing else.
Karl drew the number 53 and hurried to the grassy lot beside the landing field that had been decorated with bunting and huge welcome signs for the new arrivals. A table was loaded with government pamphlets meant to be helpful to newly married colonists. Karl went over and stuffed a few in his pockets. Other tables had been set out and were loaded with luncheon food, fixed by the few colonial women in the community. Karl caught himself eyeing the women closely, wondering how the girls from Earth would compare with them.
He fingered the ticket in his pocket. What would the woman be like who had drawn the companion number 53 aboard the rocket? For when it landed, they would pair up by numbers. The method had its drawbacks, of course, but time was much too short to allow even a few days of getting acquainted. He'd have to get back to his trapping lines and he imagined that Hill would have to get back to his sawmill and the others to their farms. What the hell, you never knew what you were getting either way, till it was too late.
"Sandwich, mister? Pop?"
Karl flipped the boy a coin, picked up some food and a drink, and wandered over to the landing field with Hill. There were still ten minutes or so to go before the rocket landed, but he caught himself straining his sight at the blue sky, trying to see a telltale flicker of exhaust flame.
The field was crowded and he caught some of the buzzing conversation.
"... never knew one myself, but let me tell you...."
"... knew a fellow once who married one, never had a moment's rest afterward...."
"... no comparison with colonial women. They got culture...."
"... I'd give a lot to know the girl who's got number twenty-five...."
"Let's meet back here with the girls who have picked our numbers," Hill said. "Maybe we could trade."
Karl nodded, though privately he felt that the number system was just as good as depending on first impressions.
There was a murmur from the crowd and he found his gaze riveted overhead. High above, in the misty blue sky, was a sudden twinkle of fire.
He reached up and wiped his sweaty face with a muddy hand and brushed aside a straggly lock of tangled hair. It wouldn't hurt to try to look his best.
The twinkling fire came nearer.
II
"A Mr. Macdonald to see you, Mr. Escher."
Claude Escher flipped the intercom switch.
"Please send him right in."
That was entirely superfluous, he thought, because MacDonald would come in whether Escher wanted him to or not.
The door opened and shut with a slightly harder bang than usual and Escher mentally braced himself. He had a good hunch what the problem was going to be and why it was being thrown in their laps.
MacDonald made himself comfortable and sat there for a few minutes, just looking grim and not saying anything. Escher knew the psychology by heart. A short preliminary silence is always more effective in browbeating subordinates than an initial furious bluster.
He lit a cigarette and tried to outwait MacDonald. It wasn't easy—MacDonald had great staying powers, which was probably why he was the head of the department.
Escher gave in first. "Okay, Mac, what's the trouble? What do we have tossed in our laps now?"
"You know the one—colonization problem. You know that when we first started to colonize, quite a large percentage of the male population took to the stars, as the saying goes. The adventuresome, the gamblers, the frontier type all decided they wanted to head for other worlds, to get away from it all. The male of the species is far more adventuresome than the female; the men left—but the women didn't. At least, not in nearly the same large numbers.
"Well, you see the problem. The ratio of women to men here on Earth is now something like five to three. If you don't know what that means, ask any man with a daughter. Or any psychiatrist. Husband-hunting isn't just a pleasant pastime on Earth. It's an earnest cutthroat business and I'm not just using a literary phrase."
He threw a paper on Escher's desk. "You'll find most of the statistics about it in that, Claude. Notice the increase in crimes peculiar to women. Shoplifting, badger games, poisonings, that kind of thing. It's quite a list. You'll also notice the huge increase in petty crimes, a lot of which wouldn't have bothered the courts before. In fact, they wouldn't even have been considered crimes. You know why they are now?"
Escher shook his head blankly.
"Most of the girls in the past who didn't catch a husband," MacDonald continued, "grew up to be the type of old maid who's dedicated to improving the morals and what-not of the rest of the population. We've got more puritanical societies now than we ever had, and we have more silly little laws on the books as a result. You can be thrown in the pokey for things like violating a woman's privacy—whatever that means—and she's the one who decides whether what you say or do is a violation or not."
Escher looked bored. "Not to mention the new prohibition which forbids the use of alcohol in everything from cough medicines to hair tonics. Or the cleaned up moral code that reeks—if you'll pardon the expression—of purity. Sure, I know what you mean. And you know the solution. All we have to do is get the women to colonize."
MacDonald ran his fingers nervously through his hair.
"But it won't be easy, and that's why it's been given to us. It's your baby, Claude. Give it a lot of thought. Nothing's impossible, you know."
"Perpetual motion machines are," Escher said quietly. "And pulling yourself up by your boot-straps. But I get the point. Nevertheless, women just don't want to colonize. And who can blame them? Why should they give up living in a luxury civilization, with as many modern conveniences as this one, to go homesteading on some wild, unexplored planet where they have to work their fingers to the bone and play footsie with wild animals and savages who would just as soon skin them alive as not?"
"What do you advise I do, then?" MacDonald demanded. "Go back to the Board and tell them the problem is not solvable, that we can't think of anything?"
Escher looked hurt. "Did I say that? I just said it wouldn't be easy."
"The Board is giving you a blank check. Do anything you think will pay off. We have to stay within the letter of the law, of course, but not necessarily the spirit."
"When do they have to have a solution?"
"As soon as possible. At least within the year. By that time the situation will be very serious. The psychologists say that what will happen then won't be good."
"All right, by then we'll have the answer."
MacDonald stopped at the door. "There's another reason why they want it worked out. The number of men applying to the Colonization Board for emigration to the colony planets is falling off."
"How come?"
MacDonald smiled. "On the basis of statistics alone, would you want to emigrate from a planet where the women outnumber the men five to three?"
When MacDonald had gone, Escher settled back in his chair and idly tapped his fingers on the desk-top. It was lucky that the Colonization Board worked on two levels. One was the well-publicized, idealistic level where nothing was too good and every deal was 99 and 44/100 per cent pure. But when things got too difficult for it to handle on that level, they went to Escher and MacDonald's department. The coal mine level. Nothing was too low, so long as it worked. Of course, if it didn't work, you took the lumps, too.
He rummaged around in his drawer and found a list of the qualifications set up by the Board for potential colonists. He read the list slowly and frowned. You had to be physically fit for the rigors of space travel, naturally, but some of the qualifications were obviously silly. You couldn't guarantee physical perfection in the second generation, anyway.
He tore the qualification list in shreds and dropped it in the disposal chute. That would have to be the first to go.
There were other things that could be done immediately. For one thing, as it stood now, you were supposed to be financially able to colonize. Obviously a stupid and unappealing law. That would have to go next.
He picked up the sheet of statistics that MacDonald had left and read it carefully. The Board could legalize polygamy, but that was no solution in the long run. Probably cause more problems than it would solve. Even with women as easy to handle as they were nowadays, one was still enough.
Which still left him with the main problem of how to get people to colonize who didn't want to colonize.
The first point was to convince them that they wanted to. The second point was that it might not matter whether they wanted to or not.
No, it shouldn't be hard to solve at all—provided you held your nose, silenced your conscience, and were willing to forget that there was such a thing as a moral code.
III
Phyllis Hanson put the cover over her typewriter and locked the correspondence drawer. Another day was done, another evening about to begin.
She filed into the washroom with the other girls and carefully redid her face. It was getting hard to disguise the worry lines, to paint away the faint crow's-feet around her eyes.
She wasn't, she admitted to herself for the thousandth time, what you would call beautiful. She inspected herself carefully in her compact mirror. In a sudden flash of honesty, she had to admit that she wasn't even what you would call pretty. Her face was too broad, her nose a fraction too long, and her hair was dull. Not homely, exactly—but not pretty, either.
Conversation hummed around her, most of it from the little group in the corner, where the extreme few who were married sat as practically a race apart. Their advice was sought, their suggestions avidly followed.
"Going out tonight, Phyl?"
She hesitated a moment, then slowly painted on the rest of her mouth. The question was technically a privacy violator, but she thought she would sidestep it this time, instead of refusing to answer point-blank.
"I thought I'd stay home tonight. Have a few things I want to rinse out."
The black-haired girl next to her nodded sympathetically. "Sure, Phyl, I know what you mean. Just like the rest of us—waiting for the phone to ring."
Phyllis finished washing up and then left the office, carefully noting the girl who was waiting for the boss. The girl was beautiful in a hard sort of way, a platinum blonde with an entertainer's busty figure. Waiting for a plump, middle-aged man like a stagestruck kid outside a theatre.
At home, in her small two-room bachelor-girl apartment, she stripped and took a hot, sudsing shower, then stepped out and toweled herself in front of a mirror. She frowned slightly. You didn't know whether you should keep yourself in trim just on some off-chance, or give up and let yourself go.
She fixed dinner, took a moderately long time doing the dishes, and went through the standard routine of getting a book and curling up on the sofa. It was a good book of the boot-legged variety—scientifically written with enough surplus heroes and heroines and lushly described love affairs to hold anybody's interest.
It held hers for ten pages and then she threw the book across the room, getting a savage delight at the way the pages ripped and fluttered to the floor.
What was the use of kidding herself any longer, of trying to live vicariously and hoping that some day she would have a home and a husband? She was thirty now; the phone hadn't rung in the last three years. She might as well spend this evening as she had spent so many others—call up the girls for a bridge game and a little gossip, though heaven knew you always ended up envying the people you were gossiping about.
Perhaps she should have joined one of the organizations at the office that did something like that seven nights out of every seven. A bridge game or a benefit for some school or a talk on art. Or she could have joined the Lecture of the Week club, or the YWCA, or any one of the other government-sponsored clubs designed to fill the void in a woman's life.
But bridge games and benefits and lectures didn't take the place of a husband and family. She was kidding herself again.
She got up and retrieved the battered book, then went over to the mail slot. She hadn't had time to open her mail that morning; most of the time it wasn't worth the effort. Advertisements for book clubs, lecture clubs, how to win at bridge and canasta....
Her fingers sprang the metal tabs on a large envelope and she took out the contents and spread it wide.
She gasped. It was a large poster, about a yard square. A man was on it, straddling a tiny city and a small panorama of farms and forests at his feet. He was a handsome specimen, with wavy blond hair and blue eyes and a curly mat on his bare chest that was just enough to be attractive without being apelike. He held an axe in his hands and was eyeing her with a clearly inviting look of brazen self-confidence.
It was definitely a privacy violator and she should notify the authorities immediately!
Bright lettering at the top of the poster shrieked: "Come to the Colonies, the Planets of Romance!"
Whoever had mailed it should be arrested and imprisoned! Preying on....
The smaller print at the bottom was mostly full of facts and figures. The need for women out on the colony planets, the percentage of men to women—a startling disproportion—the comfortable cities that weren't nearly as primitive as people had imagined, and the recently reduced qualifications.
She caught herself admiring the man on the poster. Naturally, it was an artist's conception, but even so....
And the cities were far in advance of the frontier settlements, where you had to battle disease and dirty savages.
It was all a dream. She had never done anything like this and she wouldn't think of doing it now. And had any of her friends seen the poster? Of course, they probably wouldn't tell her even if they had.
But the poster was a violation of privacy. Whoever had sent it had taken advantage of information that was none of their business. It was up to her to notify the authorities!
She took another look at the poster.
The letter she finally finished writing was very short. She addressed it to the box number in the upper left-hand corner of the plain wrapper that the poster had come in.
IV
The dress lay on the counter, a small corner of it trailing off the edge. It was a beautiful thing, sheer sheen satin trimmed in gold nylon thread. It was the kind of gown that would make anybody who wore it look beautiful. The price was high, much too high for her to pay. She knew she would never be able to buy it.
But she didn't intend to buy it.
She looked casually around and noted that nobody was watching her. There was another woman a few counters down and a man, obviously embarrassed, at the lingerie counter. Nobody else was in sight. It was a perfect time. The clerk had left to look up a difficult item that she had purposely asked for and probably wouldn't be back for five minutes.
Time enough, at any rate.
The dress was lying loose, so she didn't have to pry it off any hangers. She took another quick look around, then hurriedly bundled it up and dropped it in her shopping bag.
She had taken two self-assured steps away from the counter when she felt a hand on her shoulder. The grip was firm and muscular and she knew she had lost the game. She also knew that she had to play it out to the end, to grasp any straw.
"Let go of me!" she ordered in a frostily offended voice.
"Sorry, miss," the man said politely, "but I think we have a short trip to take."
She thought for a moment of brazening it out further and then gave up. She'd get a few weeks or months in the local detention building, a probing into her background for the psychological reasons that prompted her to steal, and then she'd be out again.
They couldn't do anything to her that mattered.
She shrugged and followed the detective calmly. None of the shoppers had looked up. None seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary.
In the detention building she thanked her good luck that she was facing a man for the sentence, instead of one of the puritanical old biddies who served on the bench. She even found a certain satisfaction in the presence of the cigar smoke and the blunt, earthy language that floated in from the corridor.
"Why did you steal it?" the judge asked. He held up the dress, which, she noted furiously, didn't look nearly as nice as it had under the department store lights.
"I don't have anything to say," she said. "I want to see a lawyer."
She could imagine what he was thinking. Another tough one, another plain jane who was shoplifting for a thrill.
And she probably was. You had to do something nowadays. You couldn't just sit home and chew your fingernails, or run out and listen to the endless boring lectures on art and culture.
"Name?" he asked in a tired voice.
She knew the statistics he wanted. "Ruby Johnson, 32, 145 pounds, brown hair and green eyes. Prints on file."
The judge leaned down and mentioned something to the bailiff, who left and presently came back with a ledger. The judge opened it and ran his fingers down one of the pages.
The sentence would probably be the usual, she thought—six months and a fine, or perhaps a little more when they found out she had a record for shoplifting.
A stranger in the courtroom in the official linens of the government suddenly stepped up beside the judge and looked at the page. She could hear a little of what he said:
"... anxiety neurosis ... obvious feeling of not being wanted ... probably steals to attract attention ... recommend emigration."
"In view of some complicating factors, we're going to give you a choice," the judge finally said. "You can either go to the penitentiary for ten years and pay a $10,000 fine, or you can ship out to the colony planets and receive a five-hundred-dollar immigration bonus."
She thought for a minute that she hadn't heard right. Ten thousand dollars and ten years! It was obvious that the state was interested in neither the fine nor in paying her room and board for ten years. She could recognize a squeeze play when she saw it, but there was nothing she could do about it.
"I wouldn't call that a choice," she said sourly. "I'll ship out."
V
Suzanne was proud of the apartment. It had all the modern conveniences, like the needle shower with the perfume dispenser, the built-in soft-drink bar in the library, the all-communications set, and the electrical massager. It was a nice, comfortable setup, an illusion of security in an ever-changing world.
She lit a cigarette and chuckled. Mrs. Burger, the fat old landlady, thought she kept up the apartment by working as a buyer for one of the downtown stores.
Well, maybe some day she would.
But not today. And not tonight.
The phone rang and she answered in a casual tone. She talked for a minute, then let a trace of sultriness creep into her voice. The conversation wasn't long.
She let the receiver fall back on the base and went into the bedroom to get a hat box. She wouldn't need much; she'd probably be back that same night.
It was a nice night and since the address was only a few blocks away, she decided to walk it. She blithely ignored the curious stares from other pedestrians, attracted by the sharp, clicking sound of her heels on the sidewalk.
The address was a brownstone that looked more like an office building than anything else, but then you could never tell. She pressed the buzzer and waited a moment for the sound to echo back and forth on the inside. She pressed it again and a moment later a suave young man appeared in the doorway.
"Miss Carstens?"
She smiled pertly.
"We've been expecting you."
She wondered a little at the "we," but dutifully smiled and followed him in.
The glare of the lights inside the office blinded her for a moment. When she could focus them again, her smile became slightly blurry at the edges and then disappeared entirely. She wasn't alone. There was a battery of chairs against one side of the room. She recognized most of the girls sitting in them.
She forced a smile to her lips and tried to laugh.
"I'm sure there's been some mistake! Why, I never...."
The young man coughed politely. "I'm afraid there's been no mistake. Full name, please."
"Suzanne Carstens," she said grimly, and gave the other statistics he wanted. She idly wondered what stoolie had peddled the phone numbers.
"Suzanne Carstens," the young man noted, and slowly shook his head.
"A very pretty name, but no doubt not your own. It actually doesn't matter, though. Take a seat over there."
She did as he asked and he faced the entire group.
"I and the other gentlemen here represent the Colonization Board. We've interceded with the local authorities in order to offer you a choice. We would like to ship you out to the colony planets. Naturally, we will pay you the standard emigration bonus of five hundred dollars. The colonists need wives; they offer you—security."
He stressed the word slightly.
"Now, of course, if you don't prefer the colony planets, you can stay behind and face the penalties of ten years in jail and a fine of ten thousand dollars."
Suzanne felt that her lower jaw needed support. Ten thousand dollars and ten years! And in either case she'd lose the apartment she had worked so hard for, her symbol of security.
"Well, what do you say?" There was a dead silence. The young man from the Colonization Board turned to Suzanne. "How about you, Miss Carstens?"
She smiled sickly and nodded her head. "I love to travel!" she said.
It didn't sound at all witty even to herself.
|
Describe the Five Ship Plan.
|
After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about The Lost Tribes of Venus by Erik Fennel.
Relevant chunks:
THE LOST TRIBES OF VENUS
By ERIK FENNEL
On mist-shrouded Venus, where hostile swamp meets hostile sea ... there did Barry Barr—Earthman transmuted—swap his Terran heritage for the deep dark waters of Tana; for the strangely beautiful Xintel of the blue-brown skin.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories May 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Evil luck brought the meteorite to those particular space-time coordinates as Number Four rode the downhill spiral toward Venus. The football-sized chunk of nickel-iron and rock overtook the ship at a relative speed of only a few hundred miles per hour and passed close enough to come within the tremendous pseudo-gravatic fields of the idling drivers.
It swerved into a paraboloid course, following the flux lines, and was dragged directly against one of the three projecting nozzles. Energy of motion was converted to heat and a few meteoric fragments fused themselves to the nonmetallic tube casing.
In the jet room the positronic line accelerator for that particular driver fouled under the intolerable overload, and the backsurge sent searing heat and deadly radiation blasting through the compartment before the main circuit breakers could clack open.
The bellow of the alarm horn brought Barry Barr fully awake, shattering a delightfully intimate dream of the dark haired girl he hoped to see again soon in Venus Colony. As he unbuckled his bunk straps and started aft at a floating, bounding run his weightlessness told him instantly that Number Four was in free fall with dead drivers.
Red warning lights gleamed wickedly above the safety-locked jet room door, and Nick Podtiaguine, the air machines specialist, was manipulating the emergency controls with Captain Reno at his elbow. One by one the crew crowded into the corridor and watched in tense silence.
The automatic lock clicked off as the jet room returned to habitable conditions, and at Captain Reno's gesture two men swung the door open. Quickly the commander entered the blasted jet room. Barry Barr was close behind him.
Robson Hind, jet chief of Four and electronics expert for Venus Colony, hung back until others had gone in first. His handsome, heavy face had lost its usual ruddiness.
Captain Reno surveyed the havoc. Young Ryan's body floated eerily in the zero gravity, charred into instant death by the back-blast. The line accelerator was a shapeless ruin, but except for broken meter glasses and scorched control handles other mechanical damage appeared minor. They had been lucky.
"Turnover starts in six hours twelve minutes," the captain said meaningfully.
Robson Hind cleared his throat. "We can change accelerators in two hours," he declared. With a quick reassumption of authority he began to order his crew into action.
It took nearer three hours than two to change accelerators despite Hind's shouted orders.
At last the job was completed. Hind made a final check, floated over to the control panel and started the fuel feed. With a confident smile he threw in the accelerator switch.
The meter needles climbed, soared past the red lines without pausing, and just in time to prevent a second blowback, Hind cut the power.
" There's metal in the field! " His voice was high and unsteady.
Everyone knew what that meant. The slightest trace of magnetic material would distort the delicately balanced cylinder of force that contained and directed the Hoskins blast, making it suicidal to operate.
Calmly Captain Reno voiced the thought in every mind.
"It must be cleared. From the outside."
Several of the men swore under their breaths. Interplanetary space was constantly bombarded, with an intensity inverse to the prevailing gravitation, by something called Sigma radiation. Man had never encountered it until leaving Earth, and little was known of it except that short exposure killed test animals and left their bodies unpredictably altered.
Inside the ship it was safe enough, for the sleek hull was charged with a Kendall power-shield, impervious to nearly any Sigma concentration. But the shielding devices in the emergency spacesuits were small and had never been space-tested in a region of nearly equalized gravitations.
The man who emerged from the airlock would be flipping a coin with a particularly unpleasant form of death.
Many pairs of eyes turned toward Robson Hind. He was jet chief.
"I'm assigned, not expendable," he protested hastily. "If there were more trouble later...." His face was pasty.
Assigned. That was the key word. Barry Barr felt a lump tightening in his stomach as the eyes shifted to him. He had some training in Hoskins drivers. He knew alloys and power tools. And he was riding Four unassigned after that broken ankle had made him miss Three. He was the logical man.
"For the safety of the ship." That phrase, taken from the ancient Earthbound code of the sea, had occurred repeatedly in the indoctrination manual at Training Base. He remembered it, and remembered further the contingent plans regarding assigned and unassigned personnel.
For a moment he stood indecisively, the nervous, unhumorous smile quirking across his angular face making him look more like an untried boy than a structural engineer who had fought his way up through some of the toughest tropical construction camps of Earth. His lean body, built more for quick, neatly coordinated action than brute power, balanced handily in the zero gravity as he ran one hand through his sandy hair in a gesture of uncertainty.
He knew that not even the captain would order him through the airlock.
But the members of the Five Ship Plan had been selected in part for a sense of responsibility.
"Nick, will you help me button up?" he asked with forced calmness.
For an instant he thought he detected a sly gleam in Hind's eyes. But then the jet chief was pressing forward with the others to shake his hand.
Rebellious reluctance flared briefly in Barry's mind. Dorothy Voorhees had refused to make a definite promise before blasting off in Three—in fact he hadn't even seen her during her last few days on Earth. But still he felt he had the inside track despite Hind's money and the brash assurance that went with it. But if Hind only were to reach Venus alive—
The blazing disc of Sol, the minor globes of the planets, the unwinking pinpoints of the stars, all stared with cosmic disinterest at the tiny figure crawling along the hull. His spacesuit trapped and amplified breathing and heartbeats into a roaring chaos that was an invitation to blind panic, and all the while there was consciousness of the insidiously deadly Sigma radiations.
Barry found the debris of the meteorite, an ugly shining splotch against the dull superceramic tube, readied his power chisel, started cutting. Soon it became a tedious, torturingly strenuous manual task requiring little conscious thought, and Barry's mind touched briefly on the events that had brought him here.
First Luna, and that had been murderous. Man had encountered Sigma for the first time, and many had died before the Kendall-shield was perfected. And the chemical-fueled rockets of those days had been inherently poor.
Hoskins semi-atomics had made possible the next step—to Mars. But men had found Mars barren, swept clear of all life in the cataclysm that had shattered the trans-Martian planet to form the Asteroid Belt.
Venus, its true surface forever hidden by enshrouding mists, had been well within one-way range. But Hoskins fuel requirements for a round trip added up to something beyond critical mass. Impossible.
But the Five Ship Plan had evolved, a joint enterprise of government and various private groups. Five vessels were to go out, each fueled to within a whiskered neutron of spontaneous detonation, manned by specialists who, it was hoped, could maintain themselves under alien conditions.
On Venus the leftover fuel from all five would be transferred to whichever ship had survived the outbound voyage in best condition. That one would return to Earth. Permanent base or homeward voyage with colonists crowded aboard like defeated sardines? Only time would tell.
Barry Barr had volunteered, and because the enlightened guesses of the experts called for men and women familiar with tropical conditions, he had survived the rigorous weeding-out process. His duties in Venus Colony would be to refabricate the discarded ships into whatever form was most needed—most particularly a launching ramp—and to study native Venusian materials.
Dorothy Voorhees had signed on as toxicologist and dietician. When the limited supply of Earth food ran out the Colony would be forced to rely upon Venusian plants and animals. She would guard against subtle delayed-action poisons, meanwhile devising ways of preparing Venusian materials to suit Earth tastes and digestions.
Barry had met her at Training Base and known at once that his years of loneliness had come to an end.
She seemed utterly independent, self-contained, completely intellectual despite her beauty, but Barry had not been deceived. From the moment of first meeting he had sensed within her deep springs of suppressed emotion, and he had understood. He too had come up the hard way, alone, and been forced to develop a shell of hardness and cold, single-minded devotion to his work. Gradually, often unwillingly under his insistence, her aloofness had begun to melt.
But Robson Hind too had been attracted. He was the only son of the business manager of the great Hoskins Corporation which carried a considerable share in the Five Ship Plan. Dorothy's failure to virtually fall into his arms had only piqued his desires.
The man's smooth charm had fascinated the girl and his money had opened to her an entirely new world of lavish nightclubs and extravagantly expensive entertainments, but her inborn shrewdness had sensed some factor in his personality that had made her hesitate.
Barry had felt a distrust of Hind apart from the normal dislike of rivalry. He had looked forward to being with Dorothy aboard Three, and had made no secret of his satisfaction when Hind's efforts to have himself transferred to Three also or the girl to Four had failed.
But then a scaffold had slipped while Three was being readied, and with a fractured ankle he had been forced to miss the ship.
He unclipped the magnetic detector from his belt and ran it inch by inch over the nozzle. He found one spot of metal, pinhead-sized, but enough to cause trouble, and once more swung his power chisel into stuttering action.
Then it was done.
As quickly as possible he inched back to the airlock. Turnover had to start according to calculations.
Barry opened his eyes. The ship was in normal deceleration and Nick Podtiaguine was watching him from a nearby bunk.
"I could eat a cow with the smallpox," Barry declared.
Nick grinned. "No doubt. You slept around the clock and more. Nice job of work out there."
Barry unhitched his straps and sat up.
"Say," he asked anxiously. "What's haywire with the air?"
Nick looked startled. "Nothing. Everything checked out when I came off watch a few minutes ago."
Barry shrugged. "Probably just me. Guess I'll go see if I can mooch a handout."
He found himself a hero. The cook was ready to turn the galley inside out while a radio engineer and an entomologist hovered near to wait on him. But he couldn't enjoy the meal. The sensations of heat and dryness he had noticed on awakening grew steadily worse. It became difficult to breathe.
He started to rise, and abruptly the room swirled and darkened around him. Even as he sank into unconsciousness he knew the answer.
The suit's Kendall-shield had leaked!
Four plunged toward Venus tail first, the Hoskins jets flaring ahead. The single doctor for the Colony had gone out in Two and the crewmen trained in first aid could do little to relieve Barry's distress. Fainting spells alternated with fever and delirium and an unquenchable thirst. His breathing became increasingly difficult.
A few thousand miles out Four picked up a microbeam. A feeling of exultation surged through the ship as Captain Reno passed the word, for the beam meant that some Earthmen were alive upon Venus. They were not necessarily diving straight toward oblivion. Barry, sick as he was, felt the thrill of the unknown world that lay ahead.
Into a miles-thick layer of opacity Four roared, with Captain Reno himself jockeying throttles to keep it balanced on its self-created support of flame.
"You're almost in," a voice chanted into his headphones through crackling, sizzling static. "Easy toward spherical one-thirty. Hold it! Lower. Lower. CUT YOUR POWER!"
The heavy hull dropped sickeningly, struck with a mushy thud, settled, steadied.
Barry was weak, but with Nick Podtiaguine steadying him he was waiting with the others when Captain Reno gave the last order.
"Airlock open. Both doors."
Venusian air poured in.
"For this I left Panama?" one of the men yelped.
"Enough to gag a maggot," another agreed with hand to nose.
It was like mid-summer noon in a tropical mangrove swamp, hot and unbearably humid and overpowering with the stench of decaying vegetation.
But Barry took one deep breath, then another. The stabbing needles in his chest blunted, and the choking band around his throat loosened.
The outer door swung wide. He blinked, and a shift in the encompassing vapors gave him his first sight of a world bathed in subdued light.
Four had landed in a marsh with the midships lock only a few feet above a quagmire surface still steaming from the final rocket blast. Nearby the identical hulls of Two and Three stood upright in the mud. The mist shifted again and beyond the swamp he could see the low, rounded outlines of the collapsible buildings Two and Three had carried in their cargo pits. They were set on a rock ledge rising a few feet out of the marsh. The Colony!
Men were tossing sections of lattice duckboard out upon the swamp, extending a narrow walkway toward Four's airlock, and within a few minutes the new arrivals were scrambling down.
Barry paid little attention to the noisy greetings and excited talk. Impatiently he trotted toward the rock ledge, searching for one particular figure among the men and women who waited.
"Dorothy!" he said fervently.
Then his arms were around her and she was responding to his kiss.
Then unexpected pain tore at his chest. Her lovely face took on an expression of fright even as it wavered and grew dim. The last thing he saw was Robson Hind looming beside her.
By the glow of an overhead tubelight he recognized the kindly, deeply lined features of the man bending over him. Dr. Carl Jensen, specialist in tropical diseases. He tried to sit up but the doctor laid a restraining hand on his shoulder.
"Water!" Barry croaked.
The doctor held out a glass. Then his eyes widened incredulously as his patient deliberately drew in a breath while drinking, sucking water directly into his lungs.
"Doctor," he asked, keeping his voice low to spare his throat. "What are my chances? On the level."
Dr. Jensen shook his head thoughtfully. "There's not a thing—not a damned solitary thing—I can do. It's something new to medical science."
Barry lay still.
"Your body is undergoing certain radical changes," the doctor continued, "and you know as much—more about your condition than I do. If a normal person who took water into his lungs that way didn't die of a coughing spasm, congestive pneumonia would get him sure. But it seems to give you relief."
Barry scratched his neck, where a thickened, darkening patch on each side itched infuriatingly.
"What are these changes?" he asked. "What's this?"
"Those things seem to be—" the doctor began hesitantly. "Damn it, I know it sounds crazy but they're rudimentary gills."
Barry accepted the outrageous statement unemotionally. He was beyond shock.
"But there must be—"
Pain struck again, so intense his body twisted and arched involuntarily. Then the prick of a needle brought merciful oblivion.
II
Barry's mind was working furiously. The changes the Sigma radiations had inflicted upon his body might reverse themselves spontaneously, Dr. Jensen had mentioned during a second visit—but for that to happen he must remain alive. That meant easing all possible strains.
When the doctor came in again Barry asked him to find Nick Podtiaguine. Within a few minutes the mechanic appeared.
"Cheez, it's good to see you, Barry," he began.
"Stuff it," the sick man interrupted. "I want favors. Can do?"
Nick nodded vigorously.
"First cut that air conditioner and get the window open."
Nick stared as though he were demented, but obeyed, unbolting the heavy plastic window panel and lifting it aside. He made a face at the damp, malodorous Venusian air but to Barry it brought relief.
It was not enough, but it indicated he was on the right track. And he was not an engineer for nothing.
"Got a pencil?" he asked.
He drew only a rough sketch, for Nick was far too competent to need detailed drawings.
"Think you can get materials?"
Nick glanced at the sketch. "Hell, man, for you I can get anything the Colony has. You saved Four and everybody knows it."
"Two days?"
Nick looked insulted.
He was back in eight hours, and with him came a dozen helpers. A power line and water tube were run through the metal partition to the corridor, connections were made, and the machine Barry had sketched was ready.
Nick flipped the switch. The thing whined shrilly. From a fanshaped nozzle came innumerable droplets of water, droplets of colloidal size that hung in the air and only slowly coalesced into larger drops that fell toward the metal floor.
Barry nodded, a smile beginning to spread across his drawn features.
"Perfect. Now put the window back."
Outside lay the unknown world of Venus, and an open, unguarded window might invite disaster.
A few hours later Dr. Jensen found his patient in a normal sleep. The room was warm and the air was so filled with water-mist it was almost liquid. Coalescing drops dripped from the walls and curving ceiling and furniture, from the half clad body of the sleeping man, and the scavenger pump made greedy gulping sounds as it removed excess water from the floor.
The doctor shook his head as he backed out, his clothes clinging wet from the short exposure.
It was abnormal.
But so was Barry Barr.
With breathing no longer a continuous agony Barry began to recover some of his strength. But for several days much of his time was spent in sleep and Dorothy Voorhees haunted his dreams.
Whenever he closed his eyes he could see her as clearly as though she were with him—her face with the exotic high cheek-bones—her eyes a deep gray in fascinating contrast to her raven hair—lips that seemed to promise more of giving than she had ever allowed herself to fulfil—her incongruously pert, humorous little nose that was a legacy from some venturesome Irishman—her slender yet firmly lithe body.
After a few days Dr. Jensen permitted him to have visitors. They came in a steady stream, the people from Four and men he had not seen since Training Base days, and although none could endure his semi-liquid atmosphere more than a few minutes at a time Barry enjoyed their visits.
But the person for whom he waited most anxiously did not arrive. At each knock Barry's heart would leap, and each time he settled back with a sigh of disappointment. Days passed and still Dorothy did not come to him. He could not go to her, and stubborn pride kept him from even inquiring. All the while he was aware of Robson Hind's presence in the Colony, and only weakness kept him from pacing his room like a caged animal.
Through his window he could see nothing but the gradual brightening and darkening of the enveloping fog as the slow 82-hour Venusian day progressed, but from his visitors' words he learned something of Venusian conditions and the story of the Colony.
Number One had bumbled in on visual, the pilot depending on the smeary images of infra-sight goggles. An inviting grassy plain had proved to be a layer of algae floating on quicksand. Frantically the crew had blasted down huge balsa-like marsh trees, cutting up the trunks with flame guns to make crude rafts. They had performed fantastic feats of strength and endurance but managed to salvage only half their equipment before the shining nose of One had vanished in the gurgling ooze.
Lost in a steaming, stinking marsh teeming with alien creatures that slithered and crawled and swam and flew, blinded by the eternal fog, the crew had proved the rightness of their choice as pioneers. For weeks they had floundered across the deadly terrain until at last, beside a stagnant-looking slough that drained sluggishly into a warm, almost tideless sea a mile away, they had discovered an outcropping of rock. It was the only solid ground they had encountered.
One man had died, his swamp suit pierced by a poisonous thorn, but the others had hand-hauled the radio beacon piece by piece and set it up in time to guide Two to a safe landing. Houses had been assembled, the secondary power units of the spaceship put to work, and the colony had established a tenuous foothold.
Three had landed beside Two a few months later, bringing reinforcements, but the day-by-day demands of the little colony's struggle for survival had so far been too pressing to permit extended or detailed explorations. Venus remained a planet of unsolved mysteries.
The helicopter brought out in Three had made several flights which by radar and sound reflection had placed vague outlines on the blank maps. The surface appeared to be half water, with land masses mainly jungle-covered swamp broken by a few rocky ledges, but landings away from base had been judged too hazardous.
Test borings from the ledge had located traces of oil and radioactive minerals, while enough Venusian plants had proven edible to provide an adequate though monotonous food source.
Venus was the diametric opposite of lifeless Mars. Through the fog gigantic insects hummed and buzzed like lost airplanes, but fortunately they were harmless and timid.
In the swamps wildly improbable life forms grew and reproduced and fought and died, and many of those most harmless in appearance possessed surprisingly venomous characteristics.
The jungle had been flamed away in a huge circle around the colony to minimize the chances of surprise by anything that might attack, but the blasting was an almost continuous process. The plants of Venus grew with a vigor approaching fury.
Most spectacular of the Venusian creatures were the amphibious armored monsters, saurian or semi-saurians with a slight resemblance to the brontosauri that had once lived on Earth, massive swamp-dwellers that used the slough beside the colony's ledge as a highway. They were apparently vegetarians, but thorough stupidity in tremendous bulk made them dangerous. One had damaged a building by blundering against it, and since then the colony had remained alert, using weapons to repel the beasts.
The most important question—that of the presence or absence of intelligent, civilized Venusians—remained unanswered. Some of the men reported a disquieting feeling of being watched, particularly when near open water, but others argued that any intelligent creatures would have established contact.
Barry developed definite external signs of what the Sigma radiation had done to him. The skin between his fingers and toes spread, grew into membranous webs. The swellings in his neck became more pronounced and dark parallel lines appeared.
But despite the doctor's pessimistic reports that the changes had not stopped, Barry continued to tell himself he was recovering. He had to believe and keep on believing to retain sanity in the face of the weird, unclassifiable feelings that surged through his body. Still he was subject to fits of almost suicidal depression, and Dorothy's failure to visit him did not help his mental condition.
Then one day he woke from a nap and thought he was still dreaming. Dorothy was leaning over him.
"Barry! Barry!" she whispered. "I can't help it. I love you even if you do have a wife and child in Philadelphia. I know it's wrong but all that seems so far away it doesn't matter any more." Tears glistened in her eyes.
"Huh?" he grunted. "Who? Me?"
"Please, Barry, don't lie. She wrote to me before Three blasted off—oh, the most piteous letter!"
Barry was fully awake now. "I'm not married. I have no child. I've never been in Philadelphia," he shouted. His lips thinned.
"I—think—I—know—who—wrote—that—letter!" he declared grimly.
"Robson wouldn't!" she objected, shocked, but there was a note of doubt in her voice.
Then she was in his arms, sobbing openly.
"I believe you, Barry."
She stayed with him for hours, and she had changed since the days at Training Base. Long months away from the patterned restraints of civilization, living each day on the edge of unknown perils, had awakened in her the realization that she was a human being and a woman, as well as a toxicologist.
When the water-mist finally forced her departure she left Barry joyous and confident of his eventual recovery. For a few minutes anger simmered in his brain as he contemplated the pleasure of rearranging Robson Hind's features.
The accident with the scaffold had been remarkably convenient, but this time the ruthless, restless, probably psychopathic drive that had made Robson Hind more than just another rich man's spoiled son had carried him too far. Barry wondered whether it had been inefficiency or judiciously distributed money that had made the psychometrists overlook some undesirable traits in Hind's personality in accepting him for the Five Ship Plan.
But even with his trickery Hind had lost.
He slept, and woke with a feeling of doom.
The slow Venusian twilight had ended in blackness and the overhead tubelight was off.
He sat up, and apprehension gave way to burning torture in his chest.
Silence! He fumbled for the light switch, then knelt beside the mist machine that no longer hummed. Power and water supplies were both dead, cut off outside his room.
Floating droplets were merging and falling to the floor. Soon the air would be dry, and he would be choking and strangling. He turned to call for help.
The door was locked!
He tugged and the knob came away in his hand. The retaining screw had been removed.
He beat upon the panel, first with his fists and then with the metal doorknob, but the insulation between the double alloy sheets was efficient soundproofing. Furiously he hurled himself upon it, only to bounce back with a bruised shoulder. He was trapped.
Working against time and eventual death he snatched a metal chair and swung with all his force at the window, again, again, yet again. A small crack appeared in the transparent plastic, branched under continued hammering, became a rough star. He gathered his waning strength, then swung once more. The tough plastic shattered.
He tugged at the jagged pieces still clinging to the frame. Fog-laden Venusian air poured in—but it was not enough!
He dragged himself head first through the narrow opening, landed sprawling on hands and knees in the darkness. In his ears a confused rustling drone from the alien swamp mingled with the roar of approaching unconsciousness.
There was a smell in his nostrils. The smell of water. He lurched forward at a shambling run, stumbling over the uneven ground.
Then he plunged from the rocky ledge into the slough. Flashes of colored light flickered before his eyes as he went under. But Earth habits were still strong; instinctively he held his breath.
Then he fainted. Voluntary control of his body vanished. His mouth hung slack and the breathing reflex that had been an integral part of his life since the moment of birth forced him to inhale.
Bubbles floated upward and burst. Then Barry Barr was lying in the ooze of the bottom. And he was breathing, extracting vital oxygen from the brackish, silt-clouded water.
III
Slowly his racing heartbeat returned to normal. Gradually he became aware of the stench of decaying plants and of musky taints he knew instinctively were the scents of underwater animals. Then with a shock the meaning became clear. He had become a water-breather, cut off from all other Earthmen, no longer entirely human. His fellows in the colony were separated from him now by a gulf more absolute than the airless void between Earth and Venus.
Something slippery and alive touched him near one armpit. He opened his eyes in the black water and his groping hand clutched something burrowing into his skin. With a shudder of revulsion he crushed a fat worm between his fingers.
Then dozens of them—hundreds—were upon him from all sides. He was wearing only a pair of khaki pants but the worms ignored his chest to congregate around his face, intent on attacking the tender skin of his eyelids.
For a minute his flailing hands fought them off, but they came in increasing numbers and clung like leeches. Pain spread as they bit and burrowed, and blindly he began to swim.
Faster and faster. He could sense the winding banks of the slough and kept to midchannel, swimming with his eyes tightly closed. One by one the worms dropped off.
He stopped, opened his eyes, not on complete darkness this time but on a faint blue-green luminescence from far below. The water was saltier here, and clearer.
He had swum down the slough and out into the ocean. He tried to turn back, obsessed by a desire to be near the colony even though he could not go ashore without strangling, but he had lost all sense of direction.
He was still weak and his lungs were not completely adjusted to underwater life. Again he grew dizzy and faint. The slow movements of hands and feet that held him just below the surface grew feeble and ceased. He sank.
Down into dimly luminous water he dropped, and with his respiratory system completely water-filled there was no sensation of pressure. At last he floated gently to the bottom and lay motionless.
Shouting voices awakened him, an exultant battle cry cutting through a gasping scream of anguish. Streaks of bright orange light were moving toward him in a twisting pattern. At the head of each trail was a figure. A human figure that weaved and swam in deadly moving combat. One figure drifted limply bottomward.
Hallucination, Barry told himself. Then one of the figures broke from the group. Almost overhead it turned sharply downward and the feet moved in a powerful flutter-kick. A slender spear aimed directly at the Earthman.
Barry threw himself aside. The spear point plunged deep into the sticky, yielding bottom and Barry grappled with its wielder.
Pointed fingernails raked his cheek. Barry's balled fist swung in a roundhouse blow but water resistance slowed the punch to ineffectiveness. The creature only shook its head and came in kicking and clawing.
Barry braced his feet against the bottom and leaped. His head butted the attacker's chest and at the same instant he lashed a short jab to the creature's belly. It slumped momentarily, its face working.
Human—or nearly so—the thing was, with a stocky, powerful body and webbed hands and feet. A few scraps of clothing, seemingly worn more for ornament than covering, clung to the fishbelly-white skin. The face was coarse and savage.
It shook off the effects of Barry's punch and one webbed hand snatched a short tube from its belt.
Barry remembered the spring-opening knife in his pocket, and even as he flicked the blade out the tube-weapon fired. Sound thrummed in the water and the water grew milky with a myriad of bubbles. Something zipped past his head, uncomfortably close.
Then Barry struck, felt his knife slice flesh and grate against bone. He struck again even as the undersea being screamed and went limp.
Barry stared through the reddening water.
Another figure plunged toward him. Barry jerked the dead Venusian's spear from the mud and raised it defensively.
But the figure paid no attention. This one was a female who fled desperately from two men closing in from opposite sides. One threw his spear, using an odd pushing motion, and as she checked and dodged, the other was upon her from behind.
One arm went around her neck in a strangler's hold, bending her slender body backward. Together captor and struggling captive sank toward the bottom. The other recovered his thrown spear and moved in to help secure her arms and legs with lengths of cord.
One scooped up the crossbow the girl had dropped. The other ripped at her brief skirt and from her belt took a pair of tubes like the one the dead Venusian had fired at Barry, handling them as though they were loot of the greatest value. He jerked cruelly at the slender metallic necklace the girl wore but it did not break.
He punched the helpless girl in the abdomen with the butt of his spear. The girl writhed but she did not attempt to cry out.
Barry bounded toward them in a series of soaring leaps, knife and spear ready. One Venusian turned to meet him, grinning maliciously.
Barry dug one foot into the bottom and sidestepped a spear thrust. His own lunge missed completely. Then he and the Venusian were inside each other's spear points, chest to chest. A pointed hook strapped to the inside of the creature's wrist just missed Barry's throat. The Earthman arched his body backward and his knife flashed upward. The creature gasped and pulled away, clutching with both hands at a gaping wound in its belly.
The other one turned too late as Barry leaped.
Barry's hilt cracked against its jawbone.
Question:
Describe the Five Ship Plan.
Answer:
|
[
"After discovering Mars and the moon, humanity decided to conquer yet another planet: Venus. However, Venus was too far away to safely carry the amount of fuel needed for a round trip mission. So, the Five Ship Plan evolved. Five rockets were to fly to Venus at separate intervals. Those who landed first would build a colony to live in and welcome the others to the surface of the planet. Once all five had arrived, they would figure out which ship was in the best shape and transfer all remaining fuel to that one. The colonists would head back home if Venus was completely uninhabitable, or remain on the planet for the time being, living out their lives on the colony. ",
"The Five Ship Plan was devised as a way to provide travel to and from Venus and is a joint venture between the government and private groups. It is a clever solution to the problem of ships only holding enough fuel for a one-way trip to Venus. Under the plan, five ships make the journey carrying as much fuel as they possibly can and loaded with various cargo needed for survival on the planet. When all five are on Venus, the ship in the best condition will receive the remaining fuel left in the other ships to return to Earth. Barry Barr’s job will then be to repurpose the materials of the other ships into whatever the colony needs, such as a landing dock and launching ramp. Members of the Five Ship Plan are chosen for their expertise in their fields and their sense of responsibility. They are expected to be so committed to the mission that they are willing to sacrifice themselves so that the mission can succeed. Much of the code of the plan is based on the ancient Earth code for the sea and requires members to perform actions “for the safety of the ship.”",
"The Five Ship Plan had been designed by a joint enterprise of government and private groups to establish the Venus Colony after humans successfully visited Mars. Because the fuel requirements to make the round trip from Earth to Venus would bring a ship to critical mass, five ships would fill their tanks as much as safely possible, land on Venus, and the ship that had sustained the least amount of damage would take on the fuel reserves of the other four for the return trip to Earth unless a successful colony could be established on Venus. The crews for the five ships needed to be responsible individuals and Barry was chosen for his familiarity with tropical conditions and his abilities as a structural engineer. His job in the Venus Colony would be to repurpose the ships that would be left behind on Venus into whatever would be needed as well as to study native Venusian materials. Dorothy Voorhees was the crew's toxicologist and dietician. Other crew members included Dr. Carl Jensen, Robson Hind, Nick Podtiaguine, and Captain Reno.",
"The Five Ship Plan was developed by various private and government groups in an attempt to blow past the existing limitations on space travel. These are dangerous expeditions manned by specialists with strong senses of responsibility who the leaders of the Plan expect to be able to maintain themselves and their crews for long enough to make it to Venus, where the leftover fuel from all five ships would be combined to one for a return journey. The specifics of the return trip would depend on who made it to Venus, what they found there, and what they could establish in the Colony."
] |
63932
|
THE LOST TRIBES OF VENUS
By ERIK FENNEL
On mist-shrouded Venus, where hostile swamp meets hostile sea ... there did Barry Barr—Earthman transmuted—swap his Terran heritage for the deep dark waters of Tana; for the strangely beautiful Xintel of the blue-brown skin.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories May 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Evil luck brought the meteorite to those particular space-time coordinates as Number Four rode the downhill spiral toward Venus. The football-sized chunk of nickel-iron and rock overtook the ship at a relative speed of only a few hundred miles per hour and passed close enough to come within the tremendous pseudo-gravatic fields of the idling drivers.
It swerved into a paraboloid course, following the flux lines, and was dragged directly against one of the three projecting nozzles. Energy of motion was converted to heat and a few meteoric fragments fused themselves to the nonmetallic tube casing.
In the jet room the positronic line accelerator for that particular driver fouled under the intolerable overload, and the backsurge sent searing heat and deadly radiation blasting through the compartment before the main circuit breakers could clack open.
The bellow of the alarm horn brought Barry Barr fully awake, shattering a delightfully intimate dream of the dark haired girl he hoped to see again soon in Venus Colony. As he unbuckled his bunk straps and started aft at a floating, bounding run his weightlessness told him instantly that Number Four was in free fall with dead drivers.
Red warning lights gleamed wickedly above the safety-locked jet room door, and Nick Podtiaguine, the air machines specialist, was manipulating the emergency controls with Captain Reno at his elbow. One by one the crew crowded into the corridor and watched in tense silence.
The automatic lock clicked off as the jet room returned to habitable conditions, and at Captain Reno's gesture two men swung the door open. Quickly the commander entered the blasted jet room. Barry Barr was close behind him.
Robson Hind, jet chief of Four and electronics expert for Venus Colony, hung back until others had gone in first. His handsome, heavy face had lost its usual ruddiness.
Captain Reno surveyed the havoc. Young Ryan's body floated eerily in the zero gravity, charred into instant death by the back-blast. The line accelerator was a shapeless ruin, but except for broken meter glasses and scorched control handles other mechanical damage appeared minor. They had been lucky.
"Turnover starts in six hours twelve minutes," the captain said meaningfully.
Robson Hind cleared his throat. "We can change accelerators in two hours," he declared. With a quick reassumption of authority he began to order his crew into action.
It took nearer three hours than two to change accelerators despite Hind's shouted orders.
At last the job was completed. Hind made a final check, floated over to the control panel and started the fuel feed. With a confident smile he threw in the accelerator switch.
The meter needles climbed, soared past the red lines without pausing, and just in time to prevent a second blowback, Hind cut the power.
" There's metal in the field! " His voice was high and unsteady.
Everyone knew what that meant. The slightest trace of magnetic material would distort the delicately balanced cylinder of force that contained and directed the Hoskins blast, making it suicidal to operate.
Calmly Captain Reno voiced the thought in every mind.
"It must be cleared. From the outside."
Several of the men swore under their breaths. Interplanetary space was constantly bombarded, with an intensity inverse to the prevailing gravitation, by something called Sigma radiation. Man had never encountered it until leaving Earth, and little was known of it except that short exposure killed test animals and left their bodies unpredictably altered.
Inside the ship it was safe enough, for the sleek hull was charged with a Kendall power-shield, impervious to nearly any Sigma concentration. But the shielding devices in the emergency spacesuits were small and had never been space-tested in a region of nearly equalized gravitations.
The man who emerged from the airlock would be flipping a coin with a particularly unpleasant form of death.
Many pairs of eyes turned toward Robson Hind. He was jet chief.
"I'm assigned, not expendable," he protested hastily. "If there were more trouble later...." His face was pasty.
Assigned. That was the key word. Barry Barr felt a lump tightening in his stomach as the eyes shifted to him. He had some training in Hoskins drivers. He knew alloys and power tools. And he was riding Four unassigned after that broken ankle had made him miss Three. He was the logical man.
"For the safety of the ship." That phrase, taken from the ancient Earthbound code of the sea, had occurred repeatedly in the indoctrination manual at Training Base. He remembered it, and remembered further the contingent plans regarding assigned and unassigned personnel.
For a moment he stood indecisively, the nervous, unhumorous smile quirking across his angular face making him look more like an untried boy than a structural engineer who had fought his way up through some of the toughest tropical construction camps of Earth. His lean body, built more for quick, neatly coordinated action than brute power, balanced handily in the zero gravity as he ran one hand through his sandy hair in a gesture of uncertainty.
He knew that not even the captain would order him through the airlock.
But the members of the Five Ship Plan had been selected in part for a sense of responsibility.
"Nick, will you help me button up?" he asked with forced calmness.
For an instant he thought he detected a sly gleam in Hind's eyes. But then the jet chief was pressing forward with the others to shake his hand.
Rebellious reluctance flared briefly in Barry's mind. Dorothy Voorhees had refused to make a definite promise before blasting off in Three—in fact he hadn't even seen her during her last few days on Earth. But still he felt he had the inside track despite Hind's money and the brash assurance that went with it. But if Hind only were to reach Venus alive—
The blazing disc of Sol, the minor globes of the planets, the unwinking pinpoints of the stars, all stared with cosmic disinterest at the tiny figure crawling along the hull. His spacesuit trapped and amplified breathing and heartbeats into a roaring chaos that was an invitation to blind panic, and all the while there was consciousness of the insidiously deadly Sigma radiations.
Barry found the debris of the meteorite, an ugly shining splotch against the dull superceramic tube, readied his power chisel, started cutting. Soon it became a tedious, torturingly strenuous manual task requiring little conscious thought, and Barry's mind touched briefly on the events that had brought him here.
First Luna, and that had been murderous. Man had encountered Sigma for the first time, and many had died before the Kendall-shield was perfected. And the chemical-fueled rockets of those days had been inherently poor.
Hoskins semi-atomics had made possible the next step—to Mars. But men had found Mars barren, swept clear of all life in the cataclysm that had shattered the trans-Martian planet to form the Asteroid Belt.
Venus, its true surface forever hidden by enshrouding mists, had been well within one-way range. But Hoskins fuel requirements for a round trip added up to something beyond critical mass. Impossible.
But the Five Ship Plan had evolved, a joint enterprise of government and various private groups. Five vessels were to go out, each fueled to within a whiskered neutron of spontaneous detonation, manned by specialists who, it was hoped, could maintain themselves under alien conditions.
On Venus the leftover fuel from all five would be transferred to whichever ship had survived the outbound voyage in best condition. That one would return to Earth. Permanent base or homeward voyage with colonists crowded aboard like defeated sardines? Only time would tell.
Barry Barr had volunteered, and because the enlightened guesses of the experts called for men and women familiar with tropical conditions, he had survived the rigorous weeding-out process. His duties in Venus Colony would be to refabricate the discarded ships into whatever form was most needed—most particularly a launching ramp—and to study native Venusian materials.
Dorothy Voorhees had signed on as toxicologist and dietician. When the limited supply of Earth food ran out the Colony would be forced to rely upon Venusian plants and animals. She would guard against subtle delayed-action poisons, meanwhile devising ways of preparing Venusian materials to suit Earth tastes and digestions.
Barry had met her at Training Base and known at once that his years of loneliness had come to an end.
She seemed utterly independent, self-contained, completely intellectual despite her beauty, but Barry had not been deceived. From the moment of first meeting he had sensed within her deep springs of suppressed emotion, and he had understood. He too had come up the hard way, alone, and been forced to develop a shell of hardness and cold, single-minded devotion to his work. Gradually, often unwillingly under his insistence, her aloofness had begun to melt.
But Robson Hind too had been attracted. He was the only son of the business manager of the great Hoskins Corporation which carried a considerable share in the Five Ship Plan. Dorothy's failure to virtually fall into his arms had only piqued his desires.
The man's smooth charm had fascinated the girl and his money had opened to her an entirely new world of lavish nightclubs and extravagantly expensive entertainments, but her inborn shrewdness had sensed some factor in his personality that had made her hesitate.
Barry had felt a distrust of Hind apart from the normal dislike of rivalry. He had looked forward to being with Dorothy aboard Three, and had made no secret of his satisfaction when Hind's efforts to have himself transferred to Three also or the girl to Four had failed.
But then a scaffold had slipped while Three was being readied, and with a fractured ankle he had been forced to miss the ship.
He unclipped the magnetic detector from his belt and ran it inch by inch over the nozzle. He found one spot of metal, pinhead-sized, but enough to cause trouble, and once more swung his power chisel into stuttering action.
Then it was done.
As quickly as possible he inched back to the airlock. Turnover had to start according to calculations.
Barry opened his eyes. The ship was in normal deceleration and Nick Podtiaguine was watching him from a nearby bunk.
"I could eat a cow with the smallpox," Barry declared.
Nick grinned. "No doubt. You slept around the clock and more. Nice job of work out there."
Barry unhitched his straps and sat up.
"Say," he asked anxiously. "What's haywire with the air?"
Nick looked startled. "Nothing. Everything checked out when I came off watch a few minutes ago."
Barry shrugged. "Probably just me. Guess I'll go see if I can mooch a handout."
He found himself a hero. The cook was ready to turn the galley inside out while a radio engineer and an entomologist hovered near to wait on him. But he couldn't enjoy the meal. The sensations of heat and dryness he had noticed on awakening grew steadily worse. It became difficult to breathe.
He started to rise, and abruptly the room swirled and darkened around him. Even as he sank into unconsciousness he knew the answer.
The suit's Kendall-shield had leaked!
Four plunged toward Venus tail first, the Hoskins jets flaring ahead. The single doctor for the Colony had gone out in Two and the crewmen trained in first aid could do little to relieve Barry's distress. Fainting spells alternated with fever and delirium and an unquenchable thirst. His breathing became increasingly difficult.
A few thousand miles out Four picked up a microbeam. A feeling of exultation surged through the ship as Captain Reno passed the word, for the beam meant that some Earthmen were alive upon Venus. They were not necessarily diving straight toward oblivion. Barry, sick as he was, felt the thrill of the unknown world that lay ahead.
Into a miles-thick layer of opacity Four roared, with Captain Reno himself jockeying throttles to keep it balanced on its self-created support of flame.
"You're almost in," a voice chanted into his headphones through crackling, sizzling static. "Easy toward spherical one-thirty. Hold it! Lower. Lower. CUT YOUR POWER!"
The heavy hull dropped sickeningly, struck with a mushy thud, settled, steadied.
Barry was weak, but with Nick Podtiaguine steadying him he was waiting with the others when Captain Reno gave the last order.
"Airlock open. Both doors."
Venusian air poured in.
"For this I left Panama?" one of the men yelped.
"Enough to gag a maggot," another agreed with hand to nose.
It was like mid-summer noon in a tropical mangrove swamp, hot and unbearably humid and overpowering with the stench of decaying vegetation.
But Barry took one deep breath, then another. The stabbing needles in his chest blunted, and the choking band around his throat loosened.
The outer door swung wide. He blinked, and a shift in the encompassing vapors gave him his first sight of a world bathed in subdued light.
Four had landed in a marsh with the midships lock only a few feet above a quagmire surface still steaming from the final rocket blast. Nearby the identical hulls of Two and Three stood upright in the mud. The mist shifted again and beyond the swamp he could see the low, rounded outlines of the collapsible buildings Two and Three had carried in their cargo pits. They were set on a rock ledge rising a few feet out of the marsh. The Colony!
Men were tossing sections of lattice duckboard out upon the swamp, extending a narrow walkway toward Four's airlock, and within a few minutes the new arrivals were scrambling down.
Barry paid little attention to the noisy greetings and excited talk. Impatiently he trotted toward the rock ledge, searching for one particular figure among the men and women who waited.
"Dorothy!" he said fervently.
Then his arms were around her and she was responding to his kiss.
Then unexpected pain tore at his chest. Her lovely face took on an expression of fright even as it wavered and grew dim. The last thing he saw was Robson Hind looming beside her.
By the glow of an overhead tubelight he recognized the kindly, deeply lined features of the man bending over him. Dr. Carl Jensen, specialist in tropical diseases. He tried to sit up but the doctor laid a restraining hand on his shoulder.
"Water!" Barry croaked.
The doctor held out a glass. Then his eyes widened incredulously as his patient deliberately drew in a breath while drinking, sucking water directly into his lungs.
"Doctor," he asked, keeping his voice low to spare his throat. "What are my chances? On the level."
Dr. Jensen shook his head thoughtfully. "There's not a thing—not a damned solitary thing—I can do. It's something new to medical science."
Barry lay still.
"Your body is undergoing certain radical changes," the doctor continued, "and you know as much—more about your condition than I do. If a normal person who took water into his lungs that way didn't die of a coughing spasm, congestive pneumonia would get him sure. But it seems to give you relief."
Barry scratched his neck, where a thickened, darkening patch on each side itched infuriatingly.
"What are these changes?" he asked. "What's this?"
"Those things seem to be—" the doctor began hesitantly. "Damn it, I know it sounds crazy but they're rudimentary gills."
Barry accepted the outrageous statement unemotionally. He was beyond shock.
"But there must be—"
Pain struck again, so intense his body twisted and arched involuntarily. Then the prick of a needle brought merciful oblivion.
II
Barry's mind was working furiously. The changes the Sigma radiations had inflicted upon his body might reverse themselves spontaneously, Dr. Jensen had mentioned during a second visit—but for that to happen he must remain alive. That meant easing all possible strains.
When the doctor came in again Barry asked him to find Nick Podtiaguine. Within a few minutes the mechanic appeared.
"Cheez, it's good to see you, Barry," he began.
"Stuff it," the sick man interrupted. "I want favors. Can do?"
Nick nodded vigorously.
"First cut that air conditioner and get the window open."
Nick stared as though he were demented, but obeyed, unbolting the heavy plastic window panel and lifting it aside. He made a face at the damp, malodorous Venusian air but to Barry it brought relief.
It was not enough, but it indicated he was on the right track. And he was not an engineer for nothing.
"Got a pencil?" he asked.
He drew only a rough sketch, for Nick was far too competent to need detailed drawings.
"Think you can get materials?"
Nick glanced at the sketch. "Hell, man, for you I can get anything the Colony has. You saved Four and everybody knows it."
"Two days?"
Nick looked insulted.
He was back in eight hours, and with him came a dozen helpers. A power line and water tube were run through the metal partition to the corridor, connections were made, and the machine Barry had sketched was ready.
Nick flipped the switch. The thing whined shrilly. From a fanshaped nozzle came innumerable droplets of water, droplets of colloidal size that hung in the air and only slowly coalesced into larger drops that fell toward the metal floor.
Barry nodded, a smile beginning to spread across his drawn features.
"Perfect. Now put the window back."
Outside lay the unknown world of Venus, and an open, unguarded window might invite disaster.
A few hours later Dr. Jensen found his patient in a normal sleep. The room was warm and the air was so filled with water-mist it was almost liquid. Coalescing drops dripped from the walls and curving ceiling and furniture, from the half clad body of the sleeping man, and the scavenger pump made greedy gulping sounds as it removed excess water from the floor.
The doctor shook his head as he backed out, his clothes clinging wet from the short exposure.
It was abnormal.
But so was Barry Barr.
With breathing no longer a continuous agony Barry began to recover some of his strength. But for several days much of his time was spent in sleep and Dorothy Voorhees haunted his dreams.
Whenever he closed his eyes he could see her as clearly as though she were with him—her face with the exotic high cheek-bones—her eyes a deep gray in fascinating contrast to her raven hair—lips that seemed to promise more of giving than she had ever allowed herself to fulfil—her incongruously pert, humorous little nose that was a legacy from some venturesome Irishman—her slender yet firmly lithe body.
After a few days Dr. Jensen permitted him to have visitors. They came in a steady stream, the people from Four and men he had not seen since Training Base days, and although none could endure his semi-liquid atmosphere more than a few minutes at a time Barry enjoyed their visits.
But the person for whom he waited most anxiously did not arrive. At each knock Barry's heart would leap, and each time he settled back with a sigh of disappointment. Days passed and still Dorothy did not come to him. He could not go to her, and stubborn pride kept him from even inquiring. All the while he was aware of Robson Hind's presence in the Colony, and only weakness kept him from pacing his room like a caged animal.
Through his window he could see nothing but the gradual brightening and darkening of the enveloping fog as the slow 82-hour Venusian day progressed, but from his visitors' words he learned something of Venusian conditions and the story of the Colony.
Number One had bumbled in on visual, the pilot depending on the smeary images of infra-sight goggles. An inviting grassy plain had proved to be a layer of algae floating on quicksand. Frantically the crew had blasted down huge balsa-like marsh trees, cutting up the trunks with flame guns to make crude rafts. They had performed fantastic feats of strength and endurance but managed to salvage only half their equipment before the shining nose of One had vanished in the gurgling ooze.
Lost in a steaming, stinking marsh teeming with alien creatures that slithered and crawled and swam and flew, blinded by the eternal fog, the crew had proved the rightness of their choice as pioneers. For weeks they had floundered across the deadly terrain until at last, beside a stagnant-looking slough that drained sluggishly into a warm, almost tideless sea a mile away, they had discovered an outcropping of rock. It was the only solid ground they had encountered.
One man had died, his swamp suit pierced by a poisonous thorn, but the others had hand-hauled the radio beacon piece by piece and set it up in time to guide Two to a safe landing. Houses had been assembled, the secondary power units of the spaceship put to work, and the colony had established a tenuous foothold.
Three had landed beside Two a few months later, bringing reinforcements, but the day-by-day demands of the little colony's struggle for survival had so far been too pressing to permit extended or detailed explorations. Venus remained a planet of unsolved mysteries.
The helicopter brought out in Three had made several flights which by radar and sound reflection had placed vague outlines on the blank maps. The surface appeared to be half water, with land masses mainly jungle-covered swamp broken by a few rocky ledges, but landings away from base had been judged too hazardous.
Test borings from the ledge had located traces of oil and radioactive minerals, while enough Venusian plants had proven edible to provide an adequate though monotonous food source.
Venus was the diametric opposite of lifeless Mars. Through the fog gigantic insects hummed and buzzed like lost airplanes, but fortunately they were harmless and timid.
In the swamps wildly improbable life forms grew and reproduced and fought and died, and many of those most harmless in appearance possessed surprisingly venomous characteristics.
The jungle had been flamed away in a huge circle around the colony to minimize the chances of surprise by anything that might attack, but the blasting was an almost continuous process. The plants of Venus grew with a vigor approaching fury.
Most spectacular of the Venusian creatures were the amphibious armored monsters, saurian or semi-saurians with a slight resemblance to the brontosauri that had once lived on Earth, massive swamp-dwellers that used the slough beside the colony's ledge as a highway. They were apparently vegetarians, but thorough stupidity in tremendous bulk made them dangerous. One had damaged a building by blundering against it, and since then the colony had remained alert, using weapons to repel the beasts.
The most important question—that of the presence or absence of intelligent, civilized Venusians—remained unanswered. Some of the men reported a disquieting feeling of being watched, particularly when near open water, but others argued that any intelligent creatures would have established contact.
Barry developed definite external signs of what the Sigma radiation had done to him. The skin between his fingers and toes spread, grew into membranous webs. The swellings in his neck became more pronounced and dark parallel lines appeared.
But despite the doctor's pessimistic reports that the changes had not stopped, Barry continued to tell himself he was recovering. He had to believe and keep on believing to retain sanity in the face of the weird, unclassifiable feelings that surged through his body. Still he was subject to fits of almost suicidal depression, and Dorothy's failure to visit him did not help his mental condition.
Then one day he woke from a nap and thought he was still dreaming. Dorothy was leaning over him.
"Barry! Barry!" she whispered. "I can't help it. I love you even if you do have a wife and child in Philadelphia. I know it's wrong but all that seems so far away it doesn't matter any more." Tears glistened in her eyes.
"Huh?" he grunted. "Who? Me?"
"Please, Barry, don't lie. She wrote to me before Three blasted off—oh, the most piteous letter!"
Barry was fully awake now. "I'm not married. I have no child. I've never been in Philadelphia," he shouted. His lips thinned.
"I—think—I—know—who—wrote—that—letter!" he declared grimly.
"Robson wouldn't!" she objected, shocked, but there was a note of doubt in her voice.
Then she was in his arms, sobbing openly.
"I believe you, Barry."
She stayed with him for hours, and she had changed since the days at Training Base. Long months away from the patterned restraints of civilization, living each day on the edge of unknown perils, had awakened in her the realization that she was a human being and a woman, as well as a toxicologist.
When the water-mist finally forced her departure she left Barry joyous and confident of his eventual recovery. For a few minutes anger simmered in his brain as he contemplated the pleasure of rearranging Robson Hind's features.
The accident with the scaffold had been remarkably convenient, but this time the ruthless, restless, probably psychopathic drive that had made Robson Hind more than just another rich man's spoiled son had carried him too far. Barry wondered whether it had been inefficiency or judiciously distributed money that had made the psychometrists overlook some undesirable traits in Hind's personality in accepting him for the Five Ship Plan.
But even with his trickery Hind had lost.
He slept, and woke with a feeling of doom.
The slow Venusian twilight had ended in blackness and the overhead tubelight was off.
He sat up, and apprehension gave way to burning torture in his chest.
Silence! He fumbled for the light switch, then knelt beside the mist machine that no longer hummed. Power and water supplies were both dead, cut off outside his room.
Floating droplets were merging and falling to the floor. Soon the air would be dry, and he would be choking and strangling. He turned to call for help.
The door was locked!
He tugged and the knob came away in his hand. The retaining screw had been removed.
He beat upon the panel, first with his fists and then with the metal doorknob, but the insulation between the double alloy sheets was efficient soundproofing. Furiously he hurled himself upon it, only to bounce back with a bruised shoulder. He was trapped.
Working against time and eventual death he snatched a metal chair and swung with all his force at the window, again, again, yet again. A small crack appeared in the transparent plastic, branched under continued hammering, became a rough star. He gathered his waning strength, then swung once more. The tough plastic shattered.
He tugged at the jagged pieces still clinging to the frame. Fog-laden Venusian air poured in—but it was not enough!
He dragged himself head first through the narrow opening, landed sprawling on hands and knees in the darkness. In his ears a confused rustling drone from the alien swamp mingled with the roar of approaching unconsciousness.
There was a smell in his nostrils. The smell of water. He lurched forward at a shambling run, stumbling over the uneven ground.
Then he plunged from the rocky ledge into the slough. Flashes of colored light flickered before his eyes as he went under. But Earth habits were still strong; instinctively he held his breath.
Then he fainted. Voluntary control of his body vanished. His mouth hung slack and the breathing reflex that had been an integral part of his life since the moment of birth forced him to inhale.
Bubbles floated upward and burst. Then Barry Barr was lying in the ooze of the bottom. And he was breathing, extracting vital oxygen from the brackish, silt-clouded water.
III
Slowly his racing heartbeat returned to normal. Gradually he became aware of the stench of decaying plants and of musky taints he knew instinctively were the scents of underwater animals. Then with a shock the meaning became clear. He had become a water-breather, cut off from all other Earthmen, no longer entirely human. His fellows in the colony were separated from him now by a gulf more absolute than the airless void between Earth and Venus.
Something slippery and alive touched him near one armpit. He opened his eyes in the black water and his groping hand clutched something burrowing into his skin. With a shudder of revulsion he crushed a fat worm between his fingers.
Then dozens of them—hundreds—were upon him from all sides. He was wearing only a pair of khaki pants but the worms ignored his chest to congregate around his face, intent on attacking the tender skin of his eyelids.
For a minute his flailing hands fought them off, but they came in increasing numbers and clung like leeches. Pain spread as they bit and burrowed, and blindly he began to swim.
Faster and faster. He could sense the winding banks of the slough and kept to midchannel, swimming with his eyes tightly closed. One by one the worms dropped off.
He stopped, opened his eyes, not on complete darkness this time but on a faint blue-green luminescence from far below. The water was saltier here, and clearer.
He had swum down the slough and out into the ocean. He tried to turn back, obsessed by a desire to be near the colony even though he could not go ashore without strangling, but he had lost all sense of direction.
He was still weak and his lungs were not completely adjusted to underwater life. Again he grew dizzy and faint. The slow movements of hands and feet that held him just below the surface grew feeble and ceased. He sank.
Down into dimly luminous water he dropped, and with his respiratory system completely water-filled there was no sensation of pressure. At last he floated gently to the bottom and lay motionless.
Shouting voices awakened him, an exultant battle cry cutting through a gasping scream of anguish. Streaks of bright orange light were moving toward him in a twisting pattern. At the head of each trail was a figure. A human figure that weaved and swam in deadly moving combat. One figure drifted limply bottomward.
Hallucination, Barry told himself. Then one of the figures broke from the group. Almost overhead it turned sharply downward and the feet moved in a powerful flutter-kick. A slender spear aimed directly at the Earthman.
Barry threw himself aside. The spear point plunged deep into the sticky, yielding bottom and Barry grappled with its wielder.
Pointed fingernails raked his cheek. Barry's balled fist swung in a roundhouse blow but water resistance slowed the punch to ineffectiveness. The creature only shook its head and came in kicking and clawing.
Barry braced his feet against the bottom and leaped. His head butted the attacker's chest and at the same instant he lashed a short jab to the creature's belly. It slumped momentarily, its face working.
Human—or nearly so—the thing was, with a stocky, powerful body and webbed hands and feet. A few scraps of clothing, seemingly worn more for ornament than covering, clung to the fishbelly-white skin. The face was coarse and savage.
It shook off the effects of Barry's punch and one webbed hand snatched a short tube from its belt.
Barry remembered the spring-opening knife in his pocket, and even as he flicked the blade out the tube-weapon fired. Sound thrummed in the water and the water grew milky with a myriad of bubbles. Something zipped past his head, uncomfortably close.
Then Barry struck, felt his knife slice flesh and grate against bone. He struck again even as the undersea being screamed and went limp.
Barry stared through the reddening water.
Another figure plunged toward him. Barry jerked the dead Venusian's spear from the mud and raised it defensively.
But the figure paid no attention. This one was a female who fled desperately from two men closing in from opposite sides. One threw his spear, using an odd pushing motion, and as she checked and dodged, the other was upon her from behind.
One arm went around her neck in a strangler's hold, bending her slender body backward. Together captor and struggling captive sank toward the bottom. The other recovered his thrown spear and moved in to help secure her arms and legs with lengths of cord.
One scooped up the crossbow the girl had dropped. The other ripped at her brief skirt and from her belt took a pair of tubes like the one the dead Venusian had fired at Barry, handling them as though they were loot of the greatest value. He jerked cruelly at the slender metallic necklace the girl wore but it did not break.
He punched the helpless girl in the abdomen with the butt of his spear. The girl writhed but she did not attempt to cry out.
Barry bounded toward them in a series of soaring leaps, knife and spear ready. One Venusian turned to meet him, grinning maliciously.
Barry dug one foot into the bottom and sidestepped a spear thrust. His own lunge missed completely. Then he and the Venusian were inside each other's spear points, chest to chest. A pointed hook strapped to the inside of the creature's wrist just missed Barry's throat. The Earthman arched his body backward and his knife flashed upward. The creature gasped and pulled away, clutching with both hands at a gaping wound in its belly.
The other one turned too late as Barry leaped.
Barry's hilt cracked against its jawbone.
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What is the plot of the story?
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After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about Tea Tray in the Sky by Evelyn E. Smith.
Relevant chunks:
Tea Tray in the Sky
By EVELYN E. SMITH
Illustrated by ASHMAN
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction September 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Visiting a society is tougher than being born into it. A 40 credit tour is no substitute!
The picture changed on the illuminated panel that filled the forward end of the shelf on which Michael lay. A haggard blonde woman sprawled apathetically in a chair.
"Rundown, nervous, hypertensive?" inquired a mellifluous voice. "In need of mental therapy? Buy Grugis juice; it's not expensive. And they swear by it on Meropé."
A disembodied pair of hands administered a spoonful of Grugis juice to the woman, whereupon her hair turned bright yellow, makeup bloomed on her face, her clothes grew briefer, and she burst into a fast Callistan clog.
"I see from your hair that you have been a member of one of the Brotherhoods," the passenger lying next to Michael on the shelf remarked inquisitively. He was a middle-aged man, his dust-brown hair thinning on top, his small blue eyes glittering preternaturally from the lenses fitted over his eyeballs.
Michael rubbed his fingers ruefully over the blond stubble on his scalp and wished he had waited until his tonsure were fully grown before he had ventured out into the world. But he had been so impatient to leave the Lodge, so impatient to exchange the flowing robes of the Brotherhood for the close-fitting breeches and tunic of the outer world that had seemed so glamorous and now proved so itchy.
"Yes," he replied courteously, for he knew the first rule of universal behavior, "I have been a Brother."
"Now why would a good-looking young fellow like you want to join a Brotherhood?" his shelf companion wanted to know. "Trouble over a female?"
Michael shook his head, smiling. "No, I have been a member of the Angeleno Brotherhood since I was an infant. My father brought me when he entered."
The other man clucked sympathetically. "No doubt he was grieved over the death of your mother."
Michael closed his eyes to shut out the sight of a baby protruding its fat face at him three-dimensionally, but he could not shut out its lisping voice: "Does your child refuse its food, grow wizened like a monkey? It will grow plump with oh-so-good Mealy Mush from Nunki."
"No, sir," Michael replied. "Father said that was one of the few blessings that brightened an otherwise benighted life."
Horror contorted his fellow traveller's plump features. "Be careful, young man!" he warned. "Lucky for you that you are talking to someone as broad-minded as I, but others aren't. You might be reported for violating a tabu. An Earth tabu, moreover."
"An Earth tabu?"
"Certainly. Motherhood is sacred here on Earth and so, of course, in the entire United Universe. You should have known that."
Michael blushed. He should indeed. For a year prior to his leaving the Lodge, he had carefully studied the customs and tabus of the Universe so that he should be able to enter the new life he planned for himself, with confidence and ease. Under the system of universal kinship, all the customs and all the tabus of all the planets were the law on all the other planets. For the Wise Ones had decided many years before that wars arose from not understanding one's fellows, not sympathizing with them. If every nation, every planet, every solar system had the same laws, customs, and habits, they reasoned, there would be no differences, and hence no wars.
Future events had proved them to be correct. For five hundred years there had been no war in the United Universe, and there was peace and plenty for all. Only one crime was recognized throughout the solar systems—injuring a fellow-creature by word or deed (and the telepaths of Aldebaran were still trying to add thought to the statute).
Why, then, Michael had questioned the Father Superior, was there any reason for the Lodge's existence, any reason for a group of humans to retire from the world and live in the simple ways of their primitive forefathers? When there had been war, injustice, tyranny, there had, perhaps, been an understandable emotional reason for fleeing the world. But now why refuse to face a desirable reality? Why turn one's face upon the present and deliberately go back to the life of the past—the high collars, vests and trousers, the inefficient coal furnaces, the rude gasoline tractors of medieval days?
The Father Superior had smiled. "You are not yet a fully fledged Brother, Michael. You cannot enter your novitiate until you've achieved your majority, and you won't be thirty for another five years. Why don't you spend some time outside and see how you like it?"
Michael had agreed, but before leaving he had spent months studying the ways of the United Universe. He had skimmed over Earth, because he had been so sure he'd know its ways instinctively. Remembering his preparations, he was astonished by his smug self-confidence.
A large scarlet pencil jumped merrily across the advideo screen. The face on the eraser opened its mouth and sang: "Our pencils are finest from point up to rubber, for the lead is from Yed, while the wood comes from Dschubba."
"Is there any way of turning that thing off?" Michael wanted to know.
The other man smiled. "If there were, my boy, do you think anybody would watch it? Furthermore, turning it off would violate the spirit of free enterprise. We wouldn't want that, would we?"
"Oh, no!" Michael agreed hastily. "Certainly not."
"And it might hurt the advertiser's feelings, cause him ego injury."
"How could I ever have had such a ridiculous idea?" Michael murmured, abashed.
"Allow me to introduce myself," said his companion. "My name is Pierce B. Carpenter. Aphrodisiacs are my line. Here's my card." He handed Michael a transparent tab with the photograph of Mr. Carpenter suspended inside, together with his registration number, his name, his address, and the Universal seal of approval. Clearly he was a character of the utmost respectability.
"My name's Michael Frey," the young man responded, smiling awkwardly.
"I'm afraid I don't have any cards."
"Well, you wouldn't have had any use for them where you were. Now, look here, son," Carpenter went on in a lowered voice, "I know you've just come from the Lodge and the mistakes you'll make will be through ignorance rather than deliberate malice. But the police wouldn't understand. You know what the sacred writings say: 'Ignorance of The Law is no excuse.' I'd be glad to give you any little tips I can. For instance, your hands...."
Michael spread his hands out in front of him. They were perfectly good hands, he thought. "Is there something wrong with them?"
Carpenter blushed and looked away. "Didn't you know that on Electra it is forbidden for anyone to appear in public with his hands bare?"
"Of course I know that," Michael said impatiently. "But what's that got to do with me?"
The salesman was wide-eyed. "But if it is forbidden on Electra, it becomes automatically prohibited here."
"But Electrans have eight fingers on each hand," Michael protested,
"with two fingernails on each—all covered with green scales."
Carpenter drew himself up as far as it was possible to do so while lying down. "Do eight fingers make one a lesser Universal?"
"Of course not, but—"
"Is he inferior to you then because he has sixteen fingernails?"
"Certainly not, but—"
"Would you like to be called guilty of—" Carpenter paused before the dreaded word—" intolerance ?"
"No, no, no !" Michael almost shrieked. It would be horrible for him to be arrested before he even had time to view Portyork. "I have lots of gloves in my pack," he babbled. "Lots and lots. I'll put some on right away."
With nervous haste, he pressed the lever which dropped his pack down from the storage compartment. It landed on his stomach. The device had been invented by one of the Dschubbans who are, as everyone knows, hoop-shaped.
Michael pushed the button marked Gloves A , and a pair of yellow gauntlets slid out.
Carpenter pressed his hands to his eyes. "Yellow is the color of death on Saturn, and you know how morbid the Saturnians are about passing away! No one ever wears yellow!"
"Sorry," Michael said humbly. The button marked Gloves B yielded a pair of rose-colored gloves which harmonized ill with his scarlet tunic and turquoise breeches, but he was past caring for esthetic effects.
"The quality's high," sang a quartet of beautiful female humanoids,
"but the price is meager. You know when you buy Plummy Fruitcake from Vega."
The salesman patted Michael's shoulder. "You staying a while in Portyork?" Michael nodded. "Then you'd better stick close to me for a while until you learn our ways. You can't run around loose by yourself until you've acquired civilized behavior patterns, or you'll get into trouble."
"Thank you, sir," Michael said gratefully. "It's very kind of you."
He twisted himself around—it was boiling hot inside the jet bus and his damp clothes were clinging uncomfortably—and struck his head against the bottom of the shelf above. "Awfully inconvenient arrangement here," he commented. "Wonder why they don't have seats."
"Because this arrangement," Carpenter said stiffly, "is the one that has proved suitable for the greatest number of intelligent life-forms."
"Oh, I see," Michael murmured. "I didn't get a look at the other passengers. Are there many extraterrestrials on the bus?"
"Dozens of them. Haven't you heard the Sirians singing?"
A low moaning noise had been pervading the bus, but Michael had thought it arose from defective jets.
"Oh, yes!" he agreed. "And very beautiful it is, too! But so sad."
"Sirians are always sad," the salesman told him. "Listen."
Michael strained his ears past the racket of the advideo. Sure enough, he could make out words: "Our wings were unfurled in a far distant world, our bodies are pain-racked, delirious. And never, it seems, will we see, save in dreams, the bright purple swamps of our Sirius...."
Carpenter brushed away a tear. "Poignant, isn't it?"
"Very, very touching," Michael agreed. "Are they sick or something?"
"Oh, no; they wouldn't have been permitted on the bus if they were. They're just homesick. Sirians love being homesick. That's why they leave Sirius in such great numbers."
"Fasten your suction disks, please," the stewardess, a pretty two-headed Denebian, ordered as she walked up and down the gangway.
"We're coming into Portyork. I have an announcement to make to all passengers on behalf of the United Universe. Zosma was admitted into the Union early this morning."
All the passengers cheered.
"Since it is considered immodest on Zosma," she continued, "ever to appear with the heads bare, henceforward it will be tabu to be seen in public without some sort of head-covering."
Wild scrabbling sounds indicated that all the passengers were searching their packs for headgear. Michael unearthed a violet cap.
The salesmen unfolded what looked like a medieval opera hat in piercingly bright green.
"Always got to keep on your toes," he whispered to the younger man.
"The Universe is expanding every minute."
The bus settled softly on the landing field and the passengers flew, floated, crawled, undulated, or walked out. Michael looked around him curiously. The Lodge had contained no extraterrestrials, for such of those as sought seclusion had Brotherhoods on their own planets.
Of course, even in Angeles he had seen other-worlders—humanoids from Vega, scaly Electrans, the wispy ubiquitous Sirians—but nothing to compare with the crowds that surged here. Scarlet Meropians rubbed tentacles with bulging-eyed Talithans; lumpish gray Jovians plodded alongside graceful, spidery Nunkians. And there were countless others whom he had seen pictured in books, but never before in reality.
The gaily colored costumes and bodies of these beings rendered kaleidoscopic a field already brilliant with red-and-green lights and banners. The effect was enhanced by Mr. Carpenter, whose emerald-green cloak was drawn back to reveal a chartreuse tunic and olive-green breeches which had apparently been designed for a taller and somewhat less pudgy man.
Carpenter rubbed modestly gloved hands together. "I have no immediate business, so supposing I start showing you the sights. What would you like to see first, Mr. Frey? Or would you prefer a nice, restful movid?"
"Frankly," Michael admitted, "the first thing I'd like to do is get myself something to eat. I didn't have any breakfast and I'm famished." Two small creatures standing close to him giggled nervously and scuttled off on six legs apiece.
"Shh, not so loud! There are females present." Carpenter drew the youth to a secluded corner. "Don't you know that on Theemim it's frightfully vulgar to as much as speak of eating in public?"
"But why?" Michael demanded in too loud a voice. "What's wrong with eating in public here on Earth?"
Carpenter clapped a hand over the young man's mouth. "Hush," he cautioned. "After all, on Earth there are things we don't do or even mention in public, aren't there?"
"Well, yes. But those are different."
"Not at all. Those rules might seem just as ridiculous to a Theemimian. But the Theemimians have accepted our customs just as we have accepted the Theemimians'. How would you like it if a Theemimian violated one of our tabus in public? You must consider the feelings of the Theemimians as equal to your own. Observe the golden rule: 'Do unto extraterrestrials as you would be done by.'"
"But I'm still hungry," Michael persisted, modulating his voice, however, to a decent whisper. "Do the proprieties demand that I starve to death, or can I get something to eat somewhere?"
"Naturally," the salesman whispered back. "Portyork provides for all bodily needs. Numerous feeding stations are conveniently located throughout the port, and there must be some on the field."
After gazing furtively over his shoulder to see that no females were watching, Carpenter approached a large map of the landing field and pressed a button. A tiny red light winked demurely for an instant.
"That's the nearest one," Carpenter explained.
Inside a small, white, functional-looking building unobtrusively marked "Feeding Station," Carpenter showed Michael where to insert a two-credit piece in a slot. A door slid back and admitted Michael into a tiny, austere room, furnished only with a table, a chair, a food compartment, and an advideo. The food consisted of tabloid synthetics and was tasteless. Michael knew that only primitive creatures waste time and energy in growing and preparing natural foods. It was all a matter of getting used to this stuff, he thought glumly, as he tried to chew food that was meant to be gulped.
A ferret-eyed Yeddan appeared on the advideo. "Do you suffer from gastric disorders? Does your viscera get in your hair? A horrid condition, but swift abolition is yours with Al-Brom from Altair."
Michael finished his meal in fifteen minutes and left the compartment to find Carpenter awaiting him in the lobby, impatiently glancing at the luminous time dial embedded in his wrist.
"Let's go to the Old Town," he suggested to Michael. "It will be of great interest to a student and a newcomer like yourself."
A few yards away from the feeding station, the travel agents were lined up in rows, each outside his spaceship, each shouting the advantages of the tour he offered:
"Better than a mustard plaster is a weekend spent on Castor."
"If you want to show you like her, take her for a week to Spica."
"Movid stars go to Mars."
Carpenter smiled politely at them. "No space trips for us today, gentlemen. We're staying on Terra." He guided the bewildered young man through the crowds and to the gates of the field. Outside, a number of surface vehicles were lined up, with the drivers loudly competing for business.
"Come, take a ride in my rocket car, suited to both gent and lady, lined with luxury hukka fur brought from afar, and perfumed with rare scents from Algedi."
"Whichever movid film you choose to view will be yours in my fine cab from Mizar. Just press a button—it won't cost you nuttin'—see a passionate drama of long-vanished Mu or the bloodhounds pursuing Eliza."
"All honor be laid at the feet of free trade, but, whatever your race or your birth, each passenger curls up with two dancing girls who rides in the taxi from Earth."
"Couldn't we—couldn't we walk? At least part of the way?" Michael faltered.
Carpenter stared. "Walk! Don't you know it's forbidden to walk more than two hundred yards in any one direction? Fomalhautians never walk."
"But they have no feet."
"That has nothing whatsoever to do with it."
Carpenter gently urged the young man into the Algedian cab ... which reeked. Michael held his nose, but his mentor shook his head. "No, no! Tpiu Number Five is the most esteemed aroma on Algedi. It would break the driver's heart if he thought you didn't like it. You wouldn't want to be had up for ego injury, would you?"
"Of course not," Michael whispered weakly.
"Brunettes are darker and blondes are fairer," the advideo informed him, "when they wash out their hair with shampoos made on Chara."
After a time, Michael got more or less used to Tpiu Number Five and was able to take some interest in the passing landscape. Portyork, the biggest spaceport in the United Universe, was, of course, the most cosmopolitan city—cosmopolitan in its architecture as well as its inhabitants. Silver domes of Earth were crowded next to the tall helical edifices of the Venusians.
"You'll notice that the current medieval revival has even reached architecture," Carpenter pointed out. "See those period houses in the Frank Lloyd Wright and Inigo Jones manner?"
"Very quaint," Michael commented.
Great floating red and green balls lit the streets, even though it was still daylight, and long scarlet-and-emerald streamers whipped out from the most unlikely places. As Michael opened his mouth to inquire about this, "We now interrupt the commercials," the advideo said, "to bring you a brand new version of one of the medieval ballads that are becoming so popular...."
"I shall scream," stated Carpenter, "if they play Beautiful Blue Deneb just once more.... No, thank the Wise Ones, I've never heard this before."
"Thuban, Thuban, I've been thinking," sang a buxom Betelgeusian, "what a Cosmos this could be, if land masses were transported to replace the wasteful sea."
"I guess the first thing for me to do," Michael began in a businesslike manner, "is to get myself a room at a hotel.... What have I said now?"
"The word hotel ," Carpenter explained through pursed lips, "is not used in polite society any more. It has come to have unpleasant connotations. It means—a place of dancing girls. I hardly think...."
"Certainly not," Michael agreed austerely. "I merely want a lodging."
"That word is also—well, you see," Carpenter told him, "on Zaniah it is unthinkable to go anywhere without one's family."
"They're a sort of ant, aren't they? The Zaniahans, I mean."
"More like bees. So those creatures who travel—" Carpenter lowered his voice modestly "— alone hire a family for the duration of their stay. There are a number of families available, but the better types come rather high. There has been talk of reviving the old-fashioned price controls, but the Wise Ones say this would limit free enterprise as much as—if you'll excuse my use of the expression—tariffs would."
The taxi let them off at a square meadow which was filled with transparent plastic domes housing clocks of all varieties, most of the antique type based on the old twenty-four hour day instead of the standard thirty hours. There were few extraterrestrial clocks because most non-humans had time sense, Michael knew, and needed no mechanical devices.
"This," said Carpenter, "is Times Square. Once it wasn't really square, but it is contrary to Nekkarian custom to do, say, imply, or permit the existence of anything that isn't true, so when Nekkar entered the Union, we had to square off the place. And, of course, install the clocks. Finest clock museum in the Union, I understand."
"The pictures in my history books—" Michael began.
"Did I hear you correctly, sir?" The capes of a bright blue cloak trembled with the indignation of a scarlet, many-tentacled being. "Did you use the word history ?" He pronounced it in terms of loathing. "I have been grossly insulted and I shall be forced to report you to the police, sir."
"Please don't!" Carpenter begged. "This youth has just come from one of the Brotherhoods and is not yet accustomed to the ways of our universe. I know that, because of the great sophistication for which your race is noted, you will overlook this little gaucherie on his part."
"Well," the red one conceded, "let it not be said that Meropians are not tolerant. But, be careful, young man," he warned Michael. "There are other beings less sophisticated than we. Guard your tongue, or you might find yourself in trouble."
He indicated the stalwart constable who, splendid in gold helmet and gold-spangled pink tights, surveyed the terrain haughtily from his floating platform in the air.
"I should have told you," Carpenter reproached himself as the Meropian swirled off. "Never mention the word 'history' in front of a Meropian. They rose from barbarism in one generation, and so they haven't any history at all. Naturally, they're sensitive in the extreme about it."
"Naturally," Michael said. "Tell me, Mr. Carpenter, is there some special reason for everything being decorated in red and green? I noticed it along the way and it's all over here, too."
"Why, Christmas is coming, my boy," Carpenter answered, surprised.
"It's July already—about time they got started fixing things up. Some places are so slack, they haven't even got their Mother's Week shrines cleared away."
A bevy of tiny golden-haired, winged creatures circled slowly over Times Square.
"Izarians," Carpenter explained "They're much in demand for Christmas displays."
The small mouths opened and clear soprano voices filled the air: "It came upon the midnight clear, that glorious song of old, from angels bending near the Earth to tune their harps of gold. Peace on Earth, good will to men, from Heaven's All-Celestial. Peace to the Universe as well and every extraterrestrial.... Beat the drum and clash the cymbals; buy your Christmas gifts at Nimble's."
"This beautiful walk you see before you," Carpenter said, waving an expository arm, "shaded by boogil trees from Dschubba, is called Broadway. To your left you will be delighted to see—"
"Listen, could we—" Michael began.
"—Forty-second Street, which is now actually the forty-second—"
"By the way—"
"It is extremely rude and hence illegal," Carpenter glared, "to interrupt anyone who is speaking."
"But I would like," Michael whispered very earnestly, "to get washed. If I might."
The other man frowned. "Let me see. I believe one of the old landmarks was converted into a lavatory. Only thing of suitable dimensions. Anyhow, it was absolutely useless for any other purpose. We have to take a taxi there; it's more than two hundred yards. Custom, you know."
"A taxi? Isn't there one closer?"
"Ah, impatient youth! There aren't too many altogether. The installations are extremely expensive."
They hailed the nearest taxi, which happened to be one of the variety equipped with dancing girls. Fortunately the ride was brief.
Michael gazed at the Empire State Building with interest. It was in a remarkable state of preservation and looked just like the pictures in his history—in his books, except that none of them showed the huge golden sign "Public-Washport" riding on its spire.
Attendants directed traffic from a large circular desk in the lobby.
"Mercurians, seventy-eighth floor. A group Vegans, fourteenth floor right. B group, fourteenth floor left. C group, fifteenth floor right. D group, fifteenth floor left. Sirians, forty-ninth floor. Female humans fiftieth floor right, males, fiftieth floor left. Uranians, basement...."
Carpenter and Michael shared an elevator with a group of sad-eyed, translucent Sirians, who were singing as usual and accompanying themselves on wemps , a cross between a harp and a flute. "Foreign planets are strange and we're subject to mange. Foreign atmospheres prove deleterious. Only with our mind's eye can we sail through the sky to the bright purple swamps of our Sirius."
The cost of the compartment was half that of the feeding station; one credit in the slot unlocked the door. There was an advideo here, too:
"Friend, do you clean yourself each day? Now, let's not be evasive, for each one has his favored way. Some use an abrasive and some use oil. Some shed their skins, in a brand-new hide emerging. Some rub with grease put up in tins. For others there's deterging. Some lick themselves to take off grime. Some beat it off with rope. Some cook it away in boiling lime. Old-fashioned ones use soap. More ways there are than I recall, and each of these will differ, but the only one that works for all is Omniclene from Kiffa."
"And now," smiled Carpenter as the two humans left the building, "we must see you registered for a nice family. Nothing too ostentatious, but, on the other hand, you mustn't count credits and ally yourself beneath your station."
Michael gazed pensively at two slender, snakelike Difdans writhing
"Only 99 Shopping Days Till Christmas" across an aquamarine sky.
"They won't be permanent?" he asked. "The family, I mean?"
"Certainly not. You merely hire them for whatever length of time you choose. But why are you so anxious?"
The young man blushed. "Well, I'm thinking of having a family of my own some day. Pretty soon, as a matter of fact."
Carpenter beamed. "That's nice; you're being adopted! I do hope it's an Earth family that's chosen you—it's so awkward being adopted by extraterrestrials."
"Oh, no! I'm planning to have my own. That is, I've got a—a girl, you see, and I thought after I had secured employment of some kind in Portyork, I'd send for her and we'd get married and...."
" Married! " Carpenter was now completely shocked. "You mustn't use that word! Don't you know marriage was outlawed years ago? Exclusive possession of a member of the opposite sex is slavery on Talitha. Furthermore, supposing somebody else saw your—er—friend and wanted her also; you wouldn't wish him to endure the frustration of not having her, would you?"
Michael squared his jaw. "You bet I would."
Carpenter drew himself away slightly, as if to avoid contamination.
"This is un-Universal. Young man, if I didn't have a kind heart, I would report you."
Michael was too preoccupied to be disturbed by this threat. "You mean if I bring my girl here, I'd have to share her?"
"Certainly. And she'd have to share you. If somebody wanted you, that is."
"Then I'm not staying here," Michael declared firmly, ashamed to admit even to himself how much relief his decision was bringing him. "I don't think I like it, anyhow. I'm going back to the Brotherhood."
There was a short cold silence.
"You know, son," Carpenter finally said, "I think you might be right. I don't want to hurt your feelings—you promise I won't hurt your feelings?" he asked anxiously, afraid, Michael realized, that he might call a policeman for ego injury.
"You won't hurt my feelings, Mr. Carpenter."
"Well, I believe that there are certain individuals who just cannot adapt themselves to civilized behavior patterns. It's much better for them to belong to a Brotherhood such as yours than to be placed in one of the government incarceratoriums, comfortable and commodious though they are."
"Much better," Michael agreed.
"By the way," Carpenter went on, "I realize this is just vulgar curiosity on my part and you have a right to refuse an answer without fear of hurting my feelings, but how do you happen to have a—er—girl when you belong to a Brotherhood?"
Michael laughed. "Oh, 'Brotherhood' is merely a generic term. Both sexes are represented in our society."
"On Talitha—" Carpenter began.
"I know," Michael interrupted him, like the crude primitive he was and always would be. "But our females don't mind being generic."
A group of Sirians was traveling on the shelf above him on the slow, very slow jet bus that was flying Michael back to Angeles, back to the Lodge, back to the Brotherhood, back to her. Their melancholy howling was getting on his nerves, but in a little while, he told himself, it would be all over. He would be back home, safe with his own kind.
"When our minds have grown tired, when our lives have expired, when our sorrows no longer can weary us, let our ashes return, neatly packed in an urn, to the bright purple swamps of our Sirius."
The advideo crackled: "The gown her fairy godmother once gave to Cinderella was created by the haute couture of fashion-wise Capella."
The ancient taxi was there, the one that Michael had taken from the Lodge, early that morning, to the little Angeleno landing field, as if it had been waiting for his return.
"I see you're back, son," the driver said without surprise. He set the noisy old rockets blasting. "I been to Portyork once. It's not a bad place to live in, but I hate to visit it."
"I'm back!" Michael sank into the motheaten sable cushions and gazed with pleasure at the familiar landmarks half seen in the darkness. "I'm back! And a loud sneer to civilization!"
"Better be careful, son," the driver warned. "I know this is a rural area, but civilization is spreading. There are secret police all over. How do you know I ain't a government spy? I could pull you in for insulting civilization."
The elderly black and white advideo flickered, broke into purring sound: "Do you find life continues to daze you? Do you find for a quick death you hanker? Why not try the new style euthanasia, performed by skilled workmen from Ancha?"
Not any more, Michael thought contentedly. He was going home.
Question:
What is the plot of the story?
Answer:
|
[
"From his shelf Michael watches a juice advertisement. Then a nearby passenger starts a conversation regarding Michael's belonging to a Brotherhood. Michael remembers how the Father Superior proposed the idea for him to live in the outside world to answer the question about reasons for the Brotherhood's resignation from it. The young man makes one mistake after another, violating the laws of the Universe during the short conversation with his respectable companion. The least warns the youth against those mistakes and lets him stick close for a while, then the two listen to the Sirians singing. Suddenly, it turns out that Zosma has joined the United Universe and its rule to always cover the head becomes Universal starting that second. Upon the arrival to Portyork, Michael and his companion cautiously head to eat, and the man keeps enlightening the newcomer. Then they take a ride through the city with Carpenter constantly explaining Michael his new mistakes. During a short following walk, Michael says \"history\" and unintentionally deeply offends a man, who is urged by Carpenter not to report. Then Michael asks for a shower, and they take a taxi to a public lavatory. Advideos keep appearing and annoying the two everywhere. Then Carpenter wants to find a temporary family for Michael to make his stay legal, but the least mentions the desire to create his own permanent family and marry the girl he likes. This statement is the turning point, Carpenter is shocked with the youth's ignorance about marriage being outlawed. Michael in turn is frustrated with the idea of having to share his girl and decides to return to the Brotherhood. Carpenter is even more shocked by the news of both sexes living there together and belonging to one another, so he considers Michael simply unfit for the civilized and comfortable life. Michael, on the contrary, already dreams of coming back home. He takes the same bus and then the same taxi to his Brotherhood. ",
"Michael Frey is a member of one of the Brotherhoods, and he leaves his home to explore the outside world. The stranger he talks to asks him why he would join one, and he explains that his father brought him to the Angeleno Brotherhood when he was an infant. The United Universe lives in peace and never engages in wars with one another because every citizen must adapt to the customs of another one. Michael questions Father Superior about the ways of the Brotherhood before coming, and the Father suggests him coming to experience the life of civilization. He meets Pierce B. Carpenter, who hands him a business card and explains that aphrodisiacs are his line of business. He and Michael begin discussing the rules by the United Universe, and Carpenter warns him of the various rules, such as appearing in public with bare hands and that he must be careful. Michael retrieves a pair of yellow gloves from his pack, but Carpenter tells him that wearing yellow is the color of death on Saturn. He settles for rose-colored gloves instead. Carpenter offers to guide him through his stay in Portyork so that Michael will not run into any problems with the law. A stewardess goes around and announces that everybody must now wear some form of head-wearing because of Zosma’s admittance into the Union. Carpenter tells Michael that the universe is constantly expanding, which means that there must be constant updates. He then takes Michael to a “Feeding Station” for some food and offers to take him to the Old Town after. Michael mentions wanting to go to a hotel, but Carpenter explains he should not say these words because of the laws. The two go to Times Square, where the aliens are currently preparing for Christmas. Carpenter continues his tour to a few more locations, such as the Empire State building and Broadway. After, Michael gets himself washed, and Carpenter tells him that they must register him for a family now. Michael mentions getting married to his girlfriend soon, to which Carpenter shockingly tells him not to use that word because it is banned on Earth. He explains that Michael would have to share his girlfriend if he chooses to bring her here. Michael declares that he wants to go back to the Brotherhood, and Carpenter agrees, telling him that he does not adapt well to civilized behavior. Michael goes back to the ancient taxi again, where the driver is not surprised to see him back. He gives one last insult to civilization, which the taxi driver warns him about, and feels content to go home. ",
"Michael Frey is a member of the Angeleno Brotherhood, a rural city in comparison to largest spaceport in the United Universe, Portyork. The United Universe consists of many different worlds and is expanding at all times. The story begins with Michael on a jet bus heading towards Portyork looking for a job. He imagines bringing his girl over to get married once he settles down.\n\nMichael was so eager to leave the Brotherhood and to go explore the world that after a year of learning the tabus and customs, he boards the bus heading to Portyork. On the jet bus, Michael meets Pierce B. Carpenter, a board-minded, middle-aged man with brown hair and blue eyes. Carpenter works in the aphrodisiacs industry, and his first thought Michael joined the Brotherhood because he was troubled over a female, then Michael reveals that he has been in the Brother since he was an infant. After accused of breaking a series of laws, which includes talking about fatherhood, wondering about turning the advideo off, not covering his hands, being intolerant, and having yellow colored gloves, Carpenter offers to guide Michael around the city so that he can learn about the civilized behaviors.\n\nPrior to landing, the stewardess announces that Zosma is now a part of the Union. Since they have a custom of not showing their head in public, everyone in the United Universe has to cover their head, thus, the passengers all leave the jet bus after wearing some sort of headgear. Then, Michael states loudly that he is hungry and need to find something to eat. He is immediately rebuked by Carpenter. Everyone in the Union is not allowed to speak of eating, or use any other vulgar language in public since it is a custom for the Theemimians. After checking the map of the landing field, Michael is able to get to a “Feeding Station,” where he chewed on pieces of food that were meant to be swallowed. Afterwards, Michael attempts to break more customs when trying to get to the Old Town. Getting off the taxi, Michael finally offends a being who threatens to report him to the police because he has mentioned the word “history,” something that the Meropians lack. Carpenter begs the being and blames himself for not warning Michael. Later, Michael interrupts Carpenter, asking for the lavatory. Thus, they get to the Empire State Building, which has been transformed into a lavatory, since, apparently, it has no other use. \n\nOn their way out, Michael mentions his desire for marriage and family with the girl he got. Carpenter is shocked since there’s no marriage in the Union, and family is never permanent. Thus, Michael is determined to leave. Finally, Michael is back to the Brotherhood. He tells the taxi driver about his dislike for civilization. The driver reminds him that civilization is spreading, even to rural areas. However, Michael is happy that he is heading home. ",
"While on his way to Earth from the \"Brotherhood\" Michael meets a salesman named Mr. Carpenter. Micheal is moving to Earth in search of a new life, after his father passed away. The Brotherhood is a community that focuses on living in the ways of the past, which would be the present now, in this future society. Micheal and Carpenter begin to chat, but Carpenter soon makes Micheal aware of the social intricacies at play in this new Terran society. Earth is part of what's known as the \"United Universe\" which is a leaf of planets that was created over five hundred years ago. Each planet has different rules and customs, and to avoid conflict in this league, each planet must abide by one another's customs to avoid the chance of war breaking out. A person not abiding by those rules would face charges. Carpenter notices that Micheal keeps breaking these societal rules on their journey, and offers to take him under his wing, and show him around Earth, so he can avoid running into trouble. They arrive in Portyork, noticing all the Aliens that depart from the bus. Carpenter takes Michel to show him around, Micheal repeatedly unintentionally breaking rules. Micheal strats to get frustrated with all of these rules, not understanding the reasons behind them. The final straw comes when Micheal mentions to Carpenter that he has a girl back in the brotherhood whom he intends to marry. Carpenter tells him that marriage was outlawed a long time ago. Micheal decides that life in this civilisation is not worth it. He returns to the brotherhood and to his girlfriend. "
] |
50847
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Tea Tray in the Sky
By EVELYN E. SMITH
Illustrated by ASHMAN
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction September 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Visiting a society is tougher than being born into it. A 40 credit tour is no substitute!
The picture changed on the illuminated panel that filled the forward end of the shelf on which Michael lay. A haggard blonde woman sprawled apathetically in a chair.
"Rundown, nervous, hypertensive?" inquired a mellifluous voice. "In need of mental therapy? Buy Grugis juice; it's not expensive. And they swear by it on Meropé."
A disembodied pair of hands administered a spoonful of Grugis juice to the woman, whereupon her hair turned bright yellow, makeup bloomed on her face, her clothes grew briefer, and she burst into a fast Callistan clog.
"I see from your hair that you have been a member of one of the Brotherhoods," the passenger lying next to Michael on the shelf remarked inquisitively. He was a middle-aged man, his dust-brown hair thinning on top, his small blue eyes glittering preternaturally from the lenses fitted over his eyeballs.
Michael rubbed his fingers ruefully over the blond stubble on his scalp and wished he had waited until his tonsure were fully grown before he had ventured out into the world. But he had been so impatient to leave the Lodge, so impatient to exchange the flowing robes of the Brotherhood for the close-fitting breeches and tunic of the outer world that had seemed so glamorous and now proved so itchy.
"Yes," he replied courteously, for he knew the first rule of universal behavior, "I have been a Brother."
"Now why would a good-looking young fellow like you want to join a Brotherhood?" his shelf companion wanted to know. "Trouble over a female?"
Michael shook his head, smiling. "No, I have been a member of the Angeleno Brotherhood since I was an infant. My father brought me when he entered."
The other man clucked sympathetically. "No doubt he was grieved over the death of your mother."
Michael closed his eyes to shut out the sight of a baby protruding its fat face at him three-dimensionally, but he could not shut out its lisping voice: "Does your child refuse its food, grow wizened like a monkey? It will grow plump with oh-so-good Mealy Mush from Nunki."
"No, sir," Michael replied. "Father said that was one of the few blessings that brightened an otherwise benighted life."
Horror contorted his fellow traveller's plump features. "Be careful, young man!" he warned. "Lucky for you that you are talking to someone as broad-minded as I, but others aren't. You might be reported for violating a tabu. An Earth tabu, moreover."
"An Earth tabu?"
"Certainly. Motherhood is sacred here on Earth and so, of course, in the entire United Universe. You should have known that."
Michael blushed. He should indeed. For a year prior to his leaving the Lodge, he had carefully studied the customs and tabus of the Universe so that he should be able to enter the new life he planned for himself, with confidence and ease. Under the system of universal kinship, all the customs and all the tabus of all the planets were the law on all the other planets. For the Wise Ones had decided many years before that wars arose from not understanding one's fellows, not sympathizing with them. If every nation, every planet, every solar system had the same laws, customs, and habits, they reasoned, there would be no differences, and hence no wars.
Future events had proved them to be correct. For five hundred years there had been no war in the United Universe, and there was peace and plenty for all. Only one crime was recognized throughout the solar systems—injuring a fellow-creature by word or deed (and the telepaths of Aldebaran were still trying to add thought to the statute).
Why, then, Michael had questioned the Father Superior, was there any reason for the Lodge's existence, any reason for a group of humans to retire from the world and live in the simple ways of their primitive forefathers? When there had been war, injustice, tyranny, there had, perhaps, been an understandable emotional reason for fleeing the world. But now why refuse to face a desirable reality? Why turn one's face upon the present and deliberately go back to the life of the past—the high collars, vests and trousers, the inefficient coal furnaces, the rude gasoline tractors of medieval days?
The Father Superior had smiled. "You are not yet a fully fledged Brother, Michael. You cannot enter your novitiate until you've achieved your majority, and you won't be thirty for another five years. Why don't you spend some time outside and see how you like it?"
Michael had agreed, but before leaving he had spent months studying the ways of the United Universe. He had skimmed over Earth, because he had been so sure he'd know its ways instinctively. Remembering his preparations, he was astonished by his smug self-confidence.
A large scarlet pencil jumped merrily across the advideo screen. The face on the eraser opened its mouth and sang: "Our pencils are finest from point up to rubber, for the lead is from Yed, while the wood comes from Dschubba."
"Is there any way of turning that thing off?" Michael wanted to know.
The other man smiled. "If there were, my boy, do you think anybody would watch it? Furthermore, turning it off would violate the spirit of free enterprise. We wouldn't want that, would we?"
"Oh, no!" Michael agreed hastily. "Certainly not."
"And it might hurt the advertiser's feelings, cause him ego injury."
"How could I ever have had such a ridiculous idea?" Michael murmured, abashed.
"Allow me to introduce myself," said his companion. "My name is Pierce B. Carpenter. Aphrodisiacs are my line. Here's my card." He handed Michael a transparent tab with the photograph of Mr. Carpenter suspended inside, together with his registration number, his name, his address, and the Universal seal of approval. Clearly he was a character of the utmost respectability.
"My name's Michael Frey," the young man responded, smiling awkwardly.
"I'm afraid I don't have any cards."
"Well, you wouldn't have had any use for them where you were. Now, look here, son," Carpenter went on in a lowered voice, "I know you've just come from the Lodge and the mistakes you'll make will be through ignorance rather than deliberate malice. But the police wouldn't understand. You know what the sacred writings say: 'Ignorance of The Law is no excuse.' I'd be glad to give you any little tips I can. For instance, your hands...."
Michael spread his hands out in front of him. They were perfectly good hands, he thought. "Is there something wrong with them?"
Carpenter blushed and looked away. "Didn't you know that on Electra it is forbidden for anyone to appear in public with his hands bare?"
"Of course I know that," Michael said impatiently. "But what's that got to do with me?"
The salesman was wide-eyed. "But if it is forbidden on Electra, it becomes automatically prohibited here."
"But Electrans have eight fingers on each hand," Michael protested,
"with two fingernails on each—all covered with green scales."
Carpenter drew himself up as far as it was possible to do so while lying down. "Do eight fingers make one a lesser Universal?"
"Of course not, but—"
"Is he inferior to you then because he has sixteen fingernails?"
"Certainly not, but—"
"Would you like to be called guilty of—" Carpenter paused before the dreaded word—" intolerance ?"
"No, no, no !" Michael almost shrieked. It would be horrible for him to be arrested before he even had time to view Portyork. "I have lots of gloves in my pack," he babbled. "Lots and lots. I'll put some on right away."
With nervous haste, he pressed the lever which dropped his pack down from the storage compartment. It landed on his stomach. The device had been invented by one of the Dschubbans who are, as everyone knows, hoop-shaped.
Michael pushed the button marked Gloves A , and a pair of yellow gauntlets slid out.
Carpenter pressed his hands to his eyes. "Yellow is the color of death on Saturn, and you know how morbid the Saturnians are about passing away! No one ever wears yellow!"
"Sorry," Michael said humbly. The button marked Gloves B yielded a pair of rose-colored gloves which harmonized ill with his scarlet tunic and turquoise breeches, but he was past caring for esthetic effects.
"The quality's high," sang a quartet of beautiful female humanoids,
"but the price is meager. You know when you buy Plummy Fruitcake from Vega."
The salesman patted Michael's shoulder. "You staying a while in Portyork?" Michael nodded. "Then you'd better stick close to me for a while until you learn our ways. You can't run around loose by yourself until you've acquired civilized behavior patterns, or you'll get into trouble."
"Thank you, sir," Michael said gratefully. "It's very kind of you."
He twisted himself around—it was boiling hot inside the jet bus and his damp clothes were clinging uncomfortably—and struck his head against the bottom of the shelf above. "Awfully inconvenient arrangement here," he commented. "Wonder why they don't have seats."
"Because this arrangement," Carpenter said stiffly, "is the one that has proved suitable for the greatest number of intelligent life-forms."
"Oh, I see," Michael murmured. "I didn't get a look at the other passengers. Are there many extraterrestrials on the bus?"
"Dozens of them. Haven't you heard the Sirians singing?"
A low moaning noise had been pervading the bus, but Michael had thought it arose from defective jets.
"Oh, yes!" he agreed. "And very beautiful it is, too! But so sad."
"Sirians are always sad," the salesman told him. "Listen."
Michael strained his ears past the racket of the advideo. Sure enough, he could make out words: "Our wings were unfurled in a far distant world, our bodies are pain-racked, delirious. And never, it seems, will we see, save in dreams, the bright purple swamps of our Sirius...."
Carpenter brushed away a tear. "Poignant, isn't it?"
"Very, very touching," Michael agreed. "Are they sick or something?"
"Oh, no; they wouldn't have been permitted on the bus if they were. They're just homesick. Sirians love being homesick. That's why they leave Sirius in such great numbers."
"Fasten your suction disks, please," the stewardess, a pretty two-headed Denebian, ordered as she walked up and down the gangway.
"We're coming into Portyork. I have an announcement to make to all passengers on behalf of the United Universe. Zosma was admitted into the Union early this morning."
All the passengers cheered.
"Since it is considered immodest on Zosma," she continued, "ever to appear with the heads bare, henceforward it will be tabu to be seen in public without some sort of head-covering."
Wild scrabbling sounds indicated that all the passengers were searching their packs for headgear. Michael unearthed a violet cap.
The salesmen unfolded what looked like a medieval opera hat in piercingly bright green.
"Always got to keep on your toes," he whispered to the younger man.
"The Universe is expanding every minute."
The bus settled softly on the landing field and the passengers flew, floated, crawled, undulated, or walked out. Michael looked around him curiously. The Lodge had contained no extraterrestrials, for such of those as sought seclusion had Brotherhoods on their own planets.
Of course, even in Angeles he had seen other-worlders—humanoids from Vega, scaly Electrans, the wispy ubiquitous Sirians—but nothing to compare with the crowds that surged here. Scarlet Meropians rubbed tentacles with bulging-eyed Talithans; lumpish gray Jovians plodded alongside graceful, spidery Nunkians. And there were countless others whom he had seen pictured in books, but never before in reality.
The gaily colored costumes and bodies of these beings rendered kaleidoscopic a field already brilliant with red-and-green lights and banners. The effect was enhanced by Mr. Carpenter, whose emerald-green cloak was drawn back to reveal a chartreuse tunic and olive-green breeches which had apparently been designed for a taller and somewhat less pudgy man.
Carpenter rubbed modestly gloved hands together. "I have no immediate business, so supposing I start showing you the sights. What would you like to see first, Mr. Frey? Or would you prefer a nice, restful movid?"
"Frankly," Michael admitted, "the first thing I'd like to do is get myself something to eat. I didn't have any breakfast and I'm famished." Two small creatures standing close to him giggled nervously and scuttled off on six legs apiece.
"Shh, not so loud! There are females present." Carpenter drew the youth to a secluded corner. "Don't you know that on Theemim it's frightfully vulgar to as much as speak of eating in public?"
"But why?" Michael demanded in too loud a voice. "What's wrong with eating in public here on Earth?"
Carpenter clapped a hand over the young man's mouth. "Hush," he cautioned. "After all, on Earth there are things we don't do or even mention in public, aren't there?"
"Well, yes. But those are different."
"Not at all. Those rules might seem just as ridiculous to a Theemimian. But the Theemimians have accepted our customs just as we have accepted the Theemimians'. How would you like it if a Theemimian violated one of our tabus in public? You must consider the feelings of the Theemimians as equal to your own. Observe the golden rule: 'Do unto extraterrestrials as you would be done by.'"
"But I'm still hungry," Michael persisted, modulating his voice, however, to a decent whisper. "Do the proprieties demand that I starve to death, or can I get something to eat somewhere?"
"Naturally," the salesman whispered back. "Portyork provides for all bodily needs. Numerous feeding stations are conveniently located throughout the port, and there must be some on the field."
After gazing furtively over his shoulder to see that no females were watching, Carpenter approached a large map of the landing field and pressed a button. A tiny red light winked demurely for an instant.
"That's the nearest one," Carpenter explained.
Inside a small, white, functional-looking building unobtrusively marked "Feeding Station," Carpenter showed Michael where to insert a two-credit piece in a slot. A door slid back and admitted Michael into a tiny, austere room, furnished only with a table, a chair, a food compartment, and an advideo. The food consisted of tabloid synthetics and was tasteless. Michael knew that only primitive creatures waste time and energy in growing and preparing natural foods. It was all a matter of getting used to this stuff, he thought glumly, as he tried to chew food that was meant to be gulped.
A ferret-eyed Yeddan appeared on the advideo. "Do you suffer from gastric disorders? Does your viscera get in your hair? A horrid condition, but swift abolition is yours with Al-Brom from Altair."
Michael finished his meal in fifteen minutes and left the compartment to find Carpenter awaiting him in the lobby, impatiently glancing at the luminous time dial embedded in his wrist.
"Let's go to the Old Town," he suggested to Michael. "It will be of great interest to a student and a newcomer like yourself."
A few yards away from the feeding station, the travel agents were lined up in rows, each outside his spaceship, each shouting the advantages of the tour he offered:
"Better than a mustard plaster is a weekend spent on Castor."
"If you want to show you like her, take her for a week to Spica."
"Movid stars go to Mars."
Carpenter smiled politely at them. "No space trips for us today, gentlemen. We're staying on Terra." He guided the bewildered young man through the crowds and to the gates of the field. Outside, a number of surface vehicles were lined up, with the drivers loudly competing for business.
"Come, take a ride in my rocket car, suited to both gent and lady, lined with luxury hukka fur brought from afar, and perfumed with rare scents from Algedi."
"Whichever movid film you choose to view will be yours in my fine cab from Mizar. Just press a button—it won't cost you nuttin'—see a passionate drama of long-vanished Mu or the bloodhounds pursuing Eliza."
"All honor be laid at the feet of free trade, but, whatever your race or your birth, each passenger curls up with two dancing girls who rides in the taxi from Earth."
"Couldn't we—couldn't we walk? At least part of the way?" Michael faltered.
Carpenter stared. "Walk! Don't you know it's forbidden to walk more than two hundred yards in any one direction? Fomalhautians never walk."
"But they have no feet."
"That has nothing whatsoever to do with it."
Carpenter gently urged the young man into the Algedian cab ... which reeked. Michael held his nose, but his mentor shook his head. "No, no! Tpiu Number Five is the most esteemed aroma on Algedi. It would break the driver's heart if he thought you didn't like it. You wouldn't want to be had up for ego injury, would you?"
"Of course not," Michael whispered weakly.
"Brunettes are darker and blondes are fairer," the advideo informed him, "when they wash out their hair with shampoos made on Chara."
After a time, Michael got more or less used to Tpiu Number Five and was able to take some interest in the passing landscape. Portyork, the biggest spaceport in the United Universe, was, of course, the most cosmopolitan city—cosmopolitan in its architecture as well as its inhabitants. Silver domes of Earth were crowded next to the tall helical edifices of the Venusians.
"You'll notice that the current medieval revival has even reached architecture," Carpenter pointed out. "See those period houses in the Frank Lloyd Wright and Inigo Jones manner?"
"Very quaint," Michael commented.
Great floating red and green balls lit the streets, even though it was still daylight, and long scarlet-and-emerald streamers whipped out from the most unlikely places. As Michael opened his mouth to inquire about this, "We now interrupt the commercials," the advideo said, "to bring you a brand new version of one of the medieval ballads that are becoming so popular...."
"I shall scream," stated Carpenter, "if they play Beautiful Blue Deneb just once more.... No, thank the Wise Ones, I've never heard this before."
"Thuban, Thuban, I've been thinking," sang a buxom Betelgeusian, "what a Cosmos this could be, if land masses were transported to replace the wasteful sea."
"I guess the first thing for me to do," Michael began in a businesslike manner, "is to get myself a room at a hotel.... What have I said now?"
"The word hotel ," Carpenter explained through pursed lips, "is not used in polite society any more. It has come to have unpleasant connotations. It means—a place of dancing girls. I hardly think...."
"Certainly not," Michael agreed austerely. "I merely want a lodging."
"That word is also—well, you see," Carpenter told him, "on Zaniah it is unthinkable to go anywhere without one's family."
"They're a sort of ant, aren't they? The Zaniahans, I mean."
"More like bees. So those creatures who travel—" Carpenter lowered his voice modestly "— alone hire a family for the duration of their stay. There are a number of families available, but the better types come rather high. There has been talk of reviving the old-fashioned price controls, but the Wise Ones say this would limit free enterprise as much as—if you'll excuse my use of the expression—tariffs would."
The taxi let them off at a square meadow which was filled with transparent plastic domes housing clocks of all varieties, most of the antique type based on the old twenty-four hour day instead of the standard thirty hours. There were few extraterrestrial clocks because most non-humans had time sense, Michael knew, and needed no mechanical devices.
"This," said Carpenter, "is Times Square. Once it wasn't really square, but it is contrary to Nekkarian custom to do, say, imply, or permit the existence of anything that isn't true, so when Nekkar entered the Union, we had to square off the place. And, of course, install the clocks. Finest clock museum in the Union, I understand."
"The pictures in my history books—" Michael began.
"Did I hear you correctly, sir?" The capes of a bright blue cloak trembled with the indignation of a scarlet, many-tentacled being. "Did you use the word history ?" He pronounced it in terms of loathing. "I have been grossly insulted and I shall be forced to report you to the police, sir."
"Please don't!" Carpenter begged. "This youth has just come from one of the Brotherhoods and is not yet accustomed to the ways of our universe. I know that, because of the great sophistication for which your race is noted, you will overlook this little gaucherie on his part."
"Well," the red one conceded, "let it not be said that Meropians are not tolerant. But, be careful, young man," he warned Michael. "There are other beings less sophisticated than we. Guard your tongue, or you might find yourself in trouble."
He indicated the stalwart constable who, splendid in gold helmet and gold-spangled pink tights, surveyed the terrain haughtily from his floating platform in the air.
"I should have told you," Carpenter reproached himself as the Meropian swirled off. "Never mention the word 'history' in front of a Meropian. They rose from barbarism in one generation, and so they haven't any history at all. Naturally, they're sensitive in the extreme about it."
"Naturally," Michael said. "Tell me, Mr. Carpenter, is there some special reason for everything being decorated in red and green? I noticed it along the way and it's all over here, too."
"Why, Christmas is coming, my boy," Carpenter answered, surprised.
"It's July already—about time they got started fixing things up. Some places are so slack, they haven't even got their Mother's Week shrines cleared away."
A bevy of tiny golden-haired, winged creatures circled slowly over Times Square.
"Izarians," Carpenter explained "They're much in demand for Christmas displays."
The small mouths opened and clear soprano voices filled the air: "It came upon the midnight clear, that glorious song of old, from angels bending near the Earth to tune their harps of gold. Peace on Earth, good will to men, from Heaven's All-Celestial. Peace to the Universe as well and every extraterrestrial.... Beat the drum and clash the cymbals; buy your Christmas gifts at Nimble's."
"This beautiful walk you see before you," Carpenter said, waving an expository arm, "shaded by boogil trees from Dschubba, is called Broadway. To your left you will be delighted to see—"
"Listen, could we—" Michael began.
"—Forty-second Street, which is now actually the forty-second—"
"By the way—"
"It is extremely rude and hence illegal," Carpenter glared, "to interrupt anyone who is speaking."
"But I would like," Michael whispered very earnestly, "to get washed. If I might."
The other man frowned. "Let me see. I believe one of the old landmarks was converted into a lavatory. Only thing of suitable dimensions. Anyhow, it was absolutely useless for any other purpose. We have to take a taxi there; it's more than two hundred yards. Custom, you know."
"A taxi? Isn't there one closer?"
"Ah, impatient youth! There aren't too many altogether. The installations are extremely expensive."
They hailed the nearest taxi, which happened to be one of the variety equipped with dancing girls. Fortunately the ride was brief.
Michael gazed at the Empire State Building with interest. It was in a remarkable state of preservation and looked just like the pictures in his history—in his books, except that none of them showed the huge golden sign "Public-Washport" riding on its spire.
Attendants directed traffic from a large circular desk in the lobby.
"Mercurians, seventy-eighth floor. A group Vegans, fourteenth floor right. B group, fourteenth floor left. C group, fifteenth floor right. D group, fifteenth floor left. Sirians, forty-ninth floor. Female humans fiftieth floor right, males, fiftieth floor left. Uranians, basement...."
Carpenter and Michael shared an elevator with a group of sad-eyed, translucent Sirians, who were singing as usual and accompanying themselves on wemps , a cross between a harp and a flute. "Foreign planets are strange and we're subject to mange. Foreign atmospheres prove deleterious. Only with our mind's eye can we sail through the sky to the bright purple swamps of our Sirius."
The cost of the compartment was half that of the feeding station; one credit in the slot unlocked the door. There was an advideo here, too:
"Friend, do you clean yourself each day? Now, let's not be evasive, for each one has his favored way. Some use an abrasive and some use oil. Some shed their skins, in a brand-new hide emerging. Some rub with grease put up in tins. For others there's deterging. Some lick themselves to take off grime. Some beat it off with rope. Some cook it away in boiling lime. Old-fashioned ones use soap. More ways there are than I recall, and each of these will differ, but the only one that works for all is Omniclene from Kiffa."
"And now," smiled Carpenter as the two humans left the building, "we must see you registered for a nice family. Nothing too ostentatious, but, on the other hand, you mustn't count credits and ally yourself beneath your station."
Michael gazed pensively at two slender, snakelike Difdans writhing
"Only 99 Shopping Days Till Christmas" across an aquamarine sky.
"They won't be permanent?" he asked. "The family, I mean?"
"Certainly not. You merely hire them for whatever length of time you choose. But why are you so anxious?"
The young man blushed. "Well, I'm thinking of having a family of my own some day. Pretty soon, as a matter of fact."
Carpenter beamed. "That's nice; you're being adopted! I do hope it's an Earth family that's chosen you—it's so awkward being adopted by extraterrestrials."
"Oh, no! I'm planning to have my own. That is, I've got a—a girl, you see, and I thought after I had secured employment of some kind in Portyork, I'd send for her and we'd get married and...."
" Married! " Carpenter was now completely shocked. "You mustn't use that word! Don't you know marriage was outlawed years ago? Exclusive possession of a member of the opposite sex is slavery on Talitha. Furthermore, supposing somebody else saw your—er—friend and wanted her also; you wouldn't wish him to endure the frustration of not having her, would you?"
Michael squared his jaw. "You bet I would."
Carpenter drew himself away slightly, as if to avoid contamination.
"This is un-Universal. Young man, if I didn't have a kind heart, I would report you."
Michael was too preoccupied to be disturbed by this threat. "You mean if I bring my girl here, I'd have to share her?"
"Certainly. And she'd have to share you. If somebody wanted you, that is."
"Then I'm not staying here," Michael declared firmly, ashamed to admit even to himself how much relief his decision was bringing him. "I don't think I like it, anyhow. I'm going back to the Brotherhood."
There was a short cold silence.
"You know, son," Carpenter finally said, "I think you might be right. I don't want to hurt your feelings—you promise I won't hurt your feelings?" he asked anxiously, afraid, Michael realized, that he might call a policeman for ego injury.
"You won't hurt my feelings, Mr. Carpenter."
"Well, I believe that there are certain individuals who just cannot adapt themselves to civilized behavior patterns. It's much better for them to belong to a Brotherhood such as yours than to be placed in one of the government incarceratoriums, comfortable and commodious though they are."
"Much better," Michael agreed.
"By the way," Carpenter went on, "I realize this is just vulgar curiosity on my part and you have a right to refuse an answer without fear of hurting my feelings, but how do you happen to have a—er—girl when you belong to a Brotherhood?"
Michael laughed. "Oh, 'Brotherhood' is merely a generic term. Both sexes are represented in our society."
"On Talitha—" Carpenter began.
"I know," Michael interrupted him, like the crude primitive he was and always would be. "But our females don't mind being generic."
A group of Sirians was traveling on the shelf above him on the slow, very slow jet bus that was flying Michael back to Angeles, back to the Lodge, back to the Brotherhood, back to her. Their melancholy howling was getting on his nerves, but in a little while, he told himself, it would be all over. He would be back home, safe with his own kind.
"When our minds have grown tired, when our lives have expired, when our sorrows no longer can weary us, let our ashes return, neatly packed in an urn, to the bright purple swamps of our Sirius."
The advideo crackled: "The gown her fairy godmother once gave to Cinderella was created by the haute couture of fashion-wise Capella."
The ancient taxi was there, the one that Michael had taken from the Lodge, early that morning, to the little Angeleno landing field, as if it had been waiting for his return.
"I see you're back, son," the driver said without surprise. He set the noisy old rockets blasting. "I been to Portyork once. It's not a bad place to live in, but I hate to visit it."
"I'm back!" Michael sank into the motheaten sable cushions and gazed with pleasure at the familiar landmarks half seen in the darkness. "I'm back! And a loud sneer to civilization!"
"Better be careful, son," the driver warned. "I know this is a rural area, but civilization is spreading. There are secret police all over. How do you know I ain't a government spy? I could pull you in for insulting civilization."
The elderly black and white advideo flickered, broke into purring sound: "Do you find life continues to daze you? Do you find for a quick death you hanker? Why not try the new style euthanasia, performed by skilled workmen from Ancha?"
Not any more, Michael thought contentedly. He was going home.
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What is the narrator’s relationship to the mysterious voice in his dreams?
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After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about I, the Unspeakable by Walter J. Sheldon.
Relevant chunks:
I, the Unspeakable
By WALT SHELDON
Illustrated by LOUIS MARCHETTI
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction April 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
"What's in a name?" might be very dangerous to ask in certain societies, in which sticks and stones are also a big problem!
I fought to be awake. I was dreaming, but I think I must have blushed. I must have blushed in my sleep.
" Do it! " she said. " Please do it! For me! "
It was the voice that always came, low, intense, seductive, the sound of your hand on silk ... and to a citizen of Northem, a conformist, it was shocking. I was a conformist then; I was still one that morning.
I awoke. The glowlight was on, slowly increasing. I was in my living machine in Center Four, where I belonged, and all the familiar things were about me, reality was back, but I was breathing very hard.
I lay on the pneumo a while before getting up. I looked at the chroner: 0703 hours, Day 17, Month IX, New Century Three. My morning nuro-tablets had already popped from the tube, and the timer had begun to boil an egg. The egg was there because the realfood allotment had been increased last month. The balance of trade with Southem had just swung a decimal or two our way.
I rose finally, stepped to the mirror, switched it to positive and looked at myself. New wrinkles—or maybe just a deepening of the old ones. It was beginning to show; the past two years were leaving traces.
I hadn't worried about my appearance when I'd been with the Office of Weapons. There, I'd been able to keep pretty much to myself, doing research on magnetic mechanics as applied to space drive. But other jobs, where you had to be among people, might be different. I needed every possible thing in my favor.
Yes, I still hoped for a job, even after two years. I still meant to keep on plugging, making the rounds.
I'd go out again today.
The timer clicked and my egg was ready. I swallowed the tablets and then took the egg to the table to savor it and make it last.
As I leaned forward to sit, the metal tag dangled from my neck, catching the glowlight. My identity tag.
Everything came back in a rush—
My name. The dream and her voice. And her suggestion.
Would I dare? Would I start out this very morning and take the risk, the terrible risk?
You remember renumbering. Two years ago. You remember how it was then; how everybody looked forward to his new designation, and how everybody made jokes about the way the letters came out, and how all the records were for a while fouled up beyond recognition.
The telecomics kidded renumbering. One went a little too far and they psycho-scanned him and then sent him to Marscol as a dangerous nonconform.
If you were disappointed with your new designation, you didn't complain. You didn't want a sudden visit from the Deacons during the night.
There had to be renumbering. We all understood that. With the population of Northem already past two billion, the old designations were too clumsy. Renumbering was efficient. It contributed to the good of Northem. It helped advance the warless struggle with Southem.
The equator is the boundary. I understand that once there was a political difference and that the two superstates sprawled longitudinally, not latitudinally, over the globe. Now they are pretty much the same. There is the truce, and they are both geared for war. They are both efficient states, as tightly controlled as an experiment with enzymes, as microsurgery, as the temper of a diplomat.
We were renumbered, then, in Northem. You know the system: everybody now has six digits and an additional prefix or suffix of four letters. Stateleader, for instance, has the designation AAAA-111/111. Now, to address somebody by calling off four letters is a little clumsy. We try to pronounce them when they are pronounceable. That is, no one says to Stateleader, "Good morning, A-A-A-A." They say, "Good morning, Aaaa."
Reading the last quote, I notice a curious effect. It says what I feel. Of course I didn't feel that way on that particular morning. I was still conformal; the last thing in my mind was that I would infract and be psycho-scanned.
Four letters then, and in many cases a pronounceable four letter word.
A four letter word.
Yes, you suspect already. You know what a four letter word can be.
Mine was.
It was unspeakable.
The slight weight on my forehead reminded me that I still wore my sleep-learner. I'd been studying administrative cybernetics, hoping to qualify in that field, although it was a poor substitute for a space drive expert. I removed the band and stepped across the room and turned off the oscillator. I went back to my egg and my bitter memories.
I will never forget the first day I received my new four letter combination and reported it to my chief, as required. I was unthinkably embarrassed. He didn't say anything. He just swallowed and choked and became crimson when he saw it. He didn't dare pass it to his secretarial engineer; he went to the administrative circuits and registered it himself.
I can't blame him for easing me out. He was trying to run an efficient organization, after all, and no doubt I upset its efficiency. My work was important—magnetic mechanics was the only way to handle quanta reaction, or the so-called non-energy drive, and was therefore the answer to feasible space travel beyond our present limit of Mars—and there were frequent inspection tours by Big Wheels and Very Important Persons.
Whenever anyone, especially a woman, asked my name, the embarrassment would become a crackling electric field all about us. The best tactic was just not to answer.
The chief called me in one day. He looked haggard.
"Er—old man," he said, not quite able to bring himself to utter my name, "I'm going to have to switch you to another department. How would you like to work on nutrition kits? Very interesting work."
"Nutrition kits? Me? On nutrition kits?"
"Well, I—er—know it sounds unusual, but it justifies. I just had the cybs work it over in the light of present regulations, and it justifies."
Everything had to justify, of course. Every act in the monthly report had to be covered by regulations and cross-regulations. Of course there were so many regulations that if you just took the time to work it out, you could justify damn near anything. I knew what the chief was up to. Just to remove me from my post would have taken a year of applications and hearings and innumerable visits to the capital in Center One. But if I should infract—deliberately infract—it would enable the chief to let me go. The equivalent of resigning.
"I'll infract," I said. "Rather than go on nutrition kits, I'll infract."
He looked vastly relieved. "Uh—fine," he said. "I rather hoped you would."
It took a week or so. Then I was on Non-Productive status and issued an N/P book for my necessities. Very few luxury coupons in the N/P book. I didn't really mind at first. My new living machine was smaller, but basically comfortable, and since I was still a loyal member of the state and a verified conformist, I wouldn't starve.
But I didn't know what I was in for.
I went from bureau to bureau, office to office, department to department—any place where they might use a space drive expert. A pattern began to emerge; the same story everywhere. When I mentioned my specialty they would look delighted. When I handed them my tag and they saw my name, they would go into immediate polite confusion. As soon as they recovered they would say they'd call me if anything turned up....
A few weeks of this and I became a bit dazed.
And then there was the problem of everyday existence. You might say it's lucky to be an N/P for a while. I've heard people say that. Basic needs provided, worlds of leisure time; on the surface it sounds attractive.
But let me give you an example. Say it is monthly realfood day. You go to the store, your mouth already watering in anticipation. You take your place in line and wait for your package. The distributor takes your coupon book and is all ready to reach for your package—and then he sees the fatal letters N/P. Non-Producer. A drone, a drain upon the State. You can see his stare curdle. He scowls at the book again.
"Not sure this is in order. Better go to the end of the line. We'll check it later."
You know what happens before the end of the line reaches the counter. No more packages.
Well, I couldn't get myself off N/P status until I got a post, and with my name I couldn't get a post.
Nor could I change my name. You know what happens when you try to change something already on the records. The very idea of wanting change implies criticism of the State. Unthinkable behavior.
That was why this curious dream voice shocked me so. The thing that it suggested was quite as embarrassing as its non-standard, emotional, provocative tone.
Bear with me; I'm getting to the voice—to her —in a moment.
I want to tell you first about the loneliness, the terrible loneliness. I could hardly join group games at any of the rec centers. I could join no special interest clubs or even State Loyalty chapters. Although I dabbled with theoretical research in my own quarters, I could scarcely submit any findings for publication—not with my name attached. A pseudonym would have been non-regulation and illegal.
But there was the worst thing of all. I could not mate.
Funny, I hadn't thought about mating until it became impossible. I remember the first time, out of sheer idleness, I wandered into a Eugenic Center. I filled out my form very carefully and submitted it for analysis and assignment. The clerk saw my name, and did the usual double-take. He coughed and swallowed and fidgeted.
He said, "Of course you understand that we must submit your application to the woman authorized to spend time in the mating booths with you, and that she has the right to refuse."
"Yes, I understand that."
"M'm," he said, and dismissed me with a nod.
I waited for a call in the next few weeks, still hoping, but I knew no woman would consent to meet a man with my name, let alone enter a mating booth with him.
The urge to reproduce myself became unbearable. I concocted all sorts of wild schemes.
I might infract socially and be classified a nonconform and sent to Marscol. I'd heard rumors that in that desolate land, on that desolate planet, both mingling and mating were rather disgustingly unrestricted. Casual mating would be terribly dangerous, of course, with all the wild irradiated genes from the atomic decade still around, but I felt I'd be willing to risk that. Well, almost....
About then I began to have these dreams. As I've told you, in the dream there was only this woman's seductive voice. The first time I heard it I awoke in a warm sweat and swore something had gone wrong with the sleep-learner. You never hear the actual words with this machine, of course; you simply absorb the concepts unconsciously. Still, it seemed an explanation. I checked thoroughly. Nothing wrong.
The next night I heard the woman's voice again.
" Try it ," she said. " Do it. Start tomorrow to get your name changed. There will be a way. There must be a way. The rules are so mixed up that a clever man can do almost anything. Do it, please—for me. "
She was not only trying to get me to commit nonconformity, but making heretical remarks besides. I awoke that time and half-expected a Deacon to pop out of the tube and turn his electric club upon me.
And I heard the voice nearly every night.
It hammered away.
" What if you do fail? Almost anything would be better than the miserable existence you're leading now! "
One morning I even caught myself wondering just how I'd go about this idea of hers. Wondering what the first step might be.
She seemed to read my thoughts. That night she said, " Consult the cybs in the Govpub office. If you look hard enough and long enough, you'll find a way. "
Now, on this morning of the seventeenth day in the ninth month, I ate my boiled egg slowly and actually toyed with the idea. I thought of being on productive status again. I had almost lost my fanatical craving to be useful to the State, but I did want to be busy—desperately. I didn't want to be despised any more. I didn't want to be lonely. I wanted to reproduce myself.
I made my decision suddenly. Waves of emotion carried me along. I got up, crossed the room to the directory, and pushbuttoned to find the location of the nearest Govpub office.
I didn't know what would happen and almost didn't care.
II
Like most important places, the Govpub Office in Center Four was underground. I could have taken a tunnelcar more quickly, but it seemed pleasanter to travel topside. Or maybe I just wanted to put this off a bit. Think about it. Compose myself.
At the entrance to the Govpub warren there was a big director cyb, a plate with a speaker and switch. The sign on it said to switch it on and get close to the speaker and I did.
The cyb's mechanical voice—they never seem to get the "th" sounds right—said, "This is Branch Four of the Office of Government Publications. Say, 'Publications,' and/or, 'Information desired,' as thoroughly and concisely as possible. Use approved voice and standard phraseology."
Well, simple enough so far. I had always rather prided myself on my knack for approved voice, those flat, emotionless tones that indicate efficiency. And I would never forget how to speak Statese. I said,
"Applicant desires all pertinent information relative assignment, change or amendment of State Serial designations, otherwise generally referred to as nomenclature."
There was a second's delay while the audio patterns tripped relays and brought the memory tubes in.
Then the cyb said, "Proceed to Numbering and Identity section. Consult alphabetical list and diagram on your left for location of same."
"Thanks," I said absent-mindedly.
I started to turn away and the cyb said, "Information on tanks is military information and classified. State authorization for—"
I switched it off.
Numbering and Identity wasn't hard to find. I took the shaft to the proper level and then it was only a walk of a few hundred yards through the glowlit corridors.
N. & I. turned out to be a big room, somewhat circular, very high-ceilinged, with banks of cyb controls covering the upper walls. Narrow passageways, like spokes, led off in several directions. There was an information desk in the center of the room.
I looked that way and my heart went into free fall.
There was a girl at the information desk. An exceptionally attractive girl. She was well within the limits of acceptable standard, and her features were even enough, and her hair a middle blonde—but she had something else. Hard to describe. It was a warmth, a buoyancy, a sense of life and intense animation. It didn't exactly show; it radiated. It seemed to sing out from her clear complexion, from her figure, which even a tunic could not hide, from everything about her.
And if I were to state my business, I would have to tell her my name.
I almost backed out right then. I stopped momentarily. And then common sense took hold and I realized that if I were to go through with this thing, here would be only the first of a long series of embarrassments and discomforts. It had to be done.
I walked up to the desk and the girl turned to face me, and I could have sworn that a faint smile crossed her lips. It was swift, like the shadow of a bird across one of the lawns in one of the great parks topside. Very non-standard. Yet I wasn't offended; if anything, I felt suddenly and disturbingly pleased.
"What information is desired?" she asked. Her voice was standard—or was it?
Again I had the feeling of restrained warmth.
I used colloquial. "I want to get the dope on State Serial designations, how they're assigned and so forth. Especially how they might be changed."
She put a handsteno on the desk top and said, "Name? Address? Post?"
I froze. I stood there and stared at her.
She looked up and said, "Well?"
"I—er—no post at present. N/P status."
Her fingers moved on the steno.
I gave her my address and she recorded that.
Then I paused again.
She said, "And your name?"
I took a deep breath and told her.
I didn't want to look into her eyes. I wanted to look away, but I couldn't find a decent excuse to. I saw her eyes become wide and noticed for the first time that they were a warm gray, almost a mouse color. I felt like laughing at that irrelevant observation, but more than that I felt like turning and running. I felt like climbing and dashing all over the walls like a frustrated cat and yelling at the top of my lungs. I felt like anything but standing there and looking stupid, meeting her stare—
She looked down quickly and recorded my name. It took her a little longer than necessary. In that time she recovered. Somewhat.
"All right," she said finally, "I'll make a search."
She turned to a row of buttons on a console in the center of the desk and began to press them in various combinations. A typer clicked away. She tore off a slip of paper, consulted it, and said, "Information desired is in Bank 29. Please follow me."
Well, following her was a pleasure, anyway. I could watch the movement of her hips and torso as she walked. She was not tall, but long-legged and extremely lithe. Graceful and rhythmic. Very, very feminine, almost beyond standard in that respect. I felt blood throb in my temples and was heartily ashamed of myself.
I would like to be in a mating booth with her, I thought, the full authorized twenty minutes. And I knew I was unconformist and the realization hardly scared me at all.
She led me down one of the long passageways.
A few moments later I said, "Don't you sometimes get—well, pretty lonely working here?" Personal talk at a time like this wasn't approved behavior, but I couldn't help it.
She answered hesitantly, but at least she answered. She said, "Not terribly. The cybs are company enough most of the time."
"You don't get many visitors, then."
"Not right here. N. & I. isn't a very popular section. Most people who come to Govpub spend their time researching in the ancient manuscript room. The—er—social habits of the pre-atomic civilization."
I laughed. I knew what she meant, all right. Pre-atomics and their ideas about free mating always fascinated people. I moved up beside her. "What's your name, by the way?"
"L-A-R-A 339/827."
I pronounced it. "Lara. Lah-rah. That's beautiful. Fits you, too."
She didn't answer; she kept her eyes straight ahead and I saw the faint spot of color on her cheek.
I had a sudden impulse to ask her to meet me after hours at one of the rec centers. If it had been my danger alone, I might have, but I couldn't very well ask her to risk discovery of a haphazard, unauthorized arrangement like that and the possibility of going to the psycho-scan.
We came to a turn in the corridor and something happened; I'm not sure just how it happened. I keep telling myself that my movements were not actually deliberate. I was to the right of her. The turn was to the left. She turned quickly, and I didn't, so that I bumped into her, knocking her off balance. I grabbed her to keep her from falling.
For a moment we stood there, face to face, touching each other lightly. I held her by the arms. I felt the primitive warmth of her breath. Our eyes held together ... proton ... electron ... I felt her tremble.
She broke from my grip suddenly and started off again.
After that she was very business-like.
We came finally to the controls of Bank 29 and she stood before them and began to press button combinations. I watched her work; I watched her move. I had almost forgotten why I'd come here. The lights blinked on and off and the typers clacked softly as the machine sorted out information.
She had a long printed sheet from the roll presently. She frowned at it and turned to me. "You can take this along and study it," she said,
"but I'm afraid what you have in mind may be—a little difficult."
She must have guessed what I had in mind. I said, "I didn't think it would be easy."
"It seems that the only agency authorized to change a State Serial under any circumstances is Opsych."
"Opsych?" You can't keep up with all these departments.
"The Office of Psychological Adjustment. They can change you if you go from a lower to higher E.A.C."
"I don't get it, exactly."
As she spoke I had the idea that there was sympathy in her voice. Just an overtone. "Well," she said, "as you know, the post a person is qualified to hold often depends largely on his Emotional Adjustment Category. Now if he improves and passes from, let us say, Grade 3 to Grade 4, he will probably change his place of work. In order to protect him from any associative maladjustments developed under the old E.A.C, he is permitted a new number."
I groaned. "But I'm already in the highest E.A.C.!"
"It looks very uncertain then."
"Sometimes I think I'd be better off in the mines, or on Marscol—or—in the hell of the pre-atomics!"
She looked amused. "What did you say your E.A.C. was?"
"Oh, all right. Sorry." I controlled myself and grinned. "I guess this whole thing has been just a little too much for me. Maybe my E.A.C.'s even gone down."
"That might be your chance then."
"How do you mean?"
"If you could get to the top man in Opsych and demonstrate that your number has inadvertently changed your E.A.C., he might be able to justify a change."
"By the State, he might!" I punched my palm. "Only how do I get to him?"
"I can find his location on the cyb here. Center One, the capital, for a guess. You'll have to get a travel permit to go there, of course. Just a moment."
She worked at the machine again, trying it on general data. The printed slip came out a moment later and she read it to me. Chief, Opsych, was in the capital all right. It didn't give the exact location of his office, but it did tell how to find the underground bay in Center One containing the Opsych offices.
We headed back through the passageway then and she kept well ahead of me. I couldn't keep my eyes from her walk, from the way she walked with everything below her shoulders. My blood was pounding at my temples again.
I tried to keep the conversation going. "Do you think it'll be hard to get a travel permit?"
"Not impossible. My guess is that you'll be at Travbur all day tomorrow, maybe even the next day. But you ought to be able to swing it if you hold out long enough."
I sighed. "I know. It's that way everywhere in Northem. Our motto ought to be, 'Why make it difficult when with just a little more effort you can make it impossible?'"
She started to laugh, and then, as she emerged from the passageway into the big circular room, she cut her laugh short.
A second later, as I came along, I saw why.
There were two Deacons by the central desk. They were burly and had that hard, pinched-face look and wore the usual black belts. Electric clubs hung from the belts. Spidery looking pistols were at their sides.
I didn't know whether these two had heard my crack or not. I know they kept looking at me.
Lara and I crossed the room silently, she back to her desk, I to the exit door. The Deacons' remote, disapproving eyes swung in azimuth, tracking us.
I walked out and wanted to turn and smile at Lara, and get into my smile something of the hope that someday, somewhere, I'd see her again—but of course I didn't dare.
III
I had the usual difficulties at Travbur the next day. I won't go into them, except to say that I was batted from office to office like a ping pong ball, and that, when I finally got my travel permit, I was made to feel that I had stolen an original Picasso from the State Museum.
I made it in a day. Just. I got my permit thirty seconds before closing time. I was to take the jetcopter to Center One at 0700 hours the following morning.
In my living machine that evening, I was much too excited to work at theoretical research as I usually did after a hard day of tramping around. I bathed, I paced a while, I sat and hummed nervously and got up and paced again. I turned on the telepuppets. There was a drama about the space pilots who fly the nonconformist prisoners to the forests and pulp-acetate plants on Mars. Seemed that the Southem political prisoners who are confined to the southern hemisphere of Mars, wanted to attack and conquer the north. The nonconformists, led by our pilot, came through for the State in the end. Corn is thicker than water. Standard.
There were, however, some good stereofilm shots of the limitless forests of Mars, and I wondered what it would be like to live there, in a green, fresh-smelling land. Pleasant, I supposed, if you could put up with the no doubt revolting morality of a prison planet.
And the drama seemed to point out that there was no more security for the nonconformists out there than for us here on Earth. Maybe somewhere in the universe, I thought, there would be peace for men. Somewhere beyond the solar system, perhaps, someday when we had the means to go there....
Yet instinct told me that wasn't the answer, either. I thought of a verse by an ancient pre-atomic poet named Hoffenstein. (People had unwieldy, random combinations of letters for names in those days.) The poem went:
Wherever I go,
I
go too,
And spoil everything.
That was it. The story of mankind.
I turned the glowlight down and lay on the pneumo after a while, but I didn't sleep for a long, long time.
Then, when I did sleep, when I had been sleeping, I heard the voice again. The low, seductive woman's voice—the startling, shocking voice out of my unconscious.
" You have taken the first step ," she said. " You are on your way to freedom. Don't stop now. Don't sink back into the lifelessness of conformity. Go on ... on and on. Keep struggling, for that is the only answer.... "
I didn't exactly talk back, but in the queer way of the dream, I thought objections. I was in my thirties, at the mid-point of my life, and the whole of that life had been spent under the State. I knew no other way to act. Suppressing what little individuality I might have was, for me, a way of survival. I was chockful of prescribed, stereotyped reactions, and I held onto them even when something within me told me what they were. This wasn't easy, this breaking away, not even this slight departure from the secure, camouflaged norm....
" The woman, Lara, attracts you ," said the voice.
I suppose at that point I twitched or rolled in my sleep. Yes, the voice was right, the woman Lara attracted me. So much that I ached with it.
" Take her. Find a way. When you succeed in changing your name, and know that you can do things, then find a way. There will be a way. "
The idea at once thrilled and frightened me.
I woke writhing and in a sweat again.
It was morning.
I dressed and headed for the jetcopter stage and the ship for Center One.
The ship was comfortable and departed on time, a transport with seats for about twenty passengers. I sat near the tail and moodily busied myself watching the gaunt brown earth far below. Between Centers there was mostly desert, only occasional patches of green. Before the atomic decade, I had heard, nearly all the earth was green and teemed with life ... birds, insects, animals, people, too. It was hard rock and sand now, with a few scrubs hanging on for life. The pre-atomics, who hadn't mastered synthesization, would have a hard time scratching existence from the earth today.
I tried to break the sad mood, and started to look around at some of the other passengers. That was when I first noticed the prisoners in the forward seats. Man and woman, they were, a youngish, rather non-descript couple, thin, very quiet. They were manacled and two Deacons sat across from them. The Deacons' backs were turned to me and I could see the prisoners' faces.
They had curious faces. Their eyes were indescribably sad, and yet their lips seemed to be ready to smile at any moment.
They were holding hands, not seeming to care about this vulgar emotional display.
I had the sudden crazy idea that Lara and I were sitting there, holding hands like that, nonconforming in the highest, and that we were wonderfully happy. Our eyes were sad too, but we were really happy, quietly happy, and that was why our lips stayed upon the brink of a smile.
Question:
What is the narrator’s relationship to the mysterious voice in his dreams?
Answer:
|
[
"As the narrator finds it increasingly difficult to find a sexual partner as a result of his state-appointed designation, he begins to hear a mysterious female voice in his dreams. She first encourages him to change his name. Initially, he worries that his sleep-learner, a wearable head device which enables learning during sleep, has malfunctioned, but he finds no evidence of this. \nThe narrator hears the voice nearly every night. He often worries about the voice, as the contents of its speech are heretical. She encourages him to go to the Govpub office, a sort of government office in his locality, and he eventually obliges. \nOn the night before the narrator is slated to take a transport to the capital to change his name, he hears the voice again. It encourages him to persevere, and that he is attracted to Lara, a woman he had met earlier in the week. The voice further pushes him to pursue a relationship with Lara once he is able to change his name.\n",
"The mysterious voice always come to the main character during his dreams. It insists that he should “do it,” thus change his way of living. Because of his name, he has lost his job, and he is not able to mate. Even living an everyday life is quite difficult. The voice wants him to change that. She does not state that she want him to commit nonconformity, but making heretical remarks besides. The narrator’s difficulty in finding a new job and in having a normal social life negatively affects him because of name and no post. He feels lonely, thus there is a desire to change his name. The urge to reproduce himself becomes unbearable. He concoctes all sorts of wild schemes. The mysterious voice encourages him to dare to change his name, and find the freedom. When he even catches himeself wondering just how he'd go about this idea of hers. Wondering what the first step might be. The voice will appear at night and tell him the prompts. He absorbs the concepts unconsciously. He follows what the voice leads him to do. On the night before he board the ship for Center One, he thinks of objections to refute the voice. He thinks of his life now, and how breaking away from it will be very difficult. However, even though he is still hesitating if he should go, the voice seems to understand him very well. It reminds him of Lara, of how there will be a way to change his name, and to take her with him. ",
"The narrator experiences a voice in his dreams that encourages him to take risks, particularly regarding changing his name. He hears the voice practically every night, and describes it as a woman's voice: intense, seductive, and intriguing. The voice, though enticing, troubles the narrator, as he is concerned about the consequences of the actions that she is suggesting. However, as he continues to hear the voice every night, he starts to consider obeying it. The voice then drives him to begin the journey of changing his name, which is risky and radical in his society, and also tempts him in pursuing Lara and gaining freedom.",
"The mysterious voice in the narrator’s dreams talks in a seductive tone that was low and intense. The voice in his dreams went against the narrator’s conformists ideals that fit the State in the Northem. It suggests non-standard actions in an emotional tone that is unthinkable behavior in the Northem. The actions the voice suggest are ones of nonconformity and criticisms against the State. The narrator is hesitant and unsure about the voice’s presence. The voice continues to encourage the narrator to change his name. It even suggests that he should act on his attraction to Lara. "
] |
51210
|
I, the Unspeakable
By WALT SHELDON
Illustrated by LOUIS MARCHETTI
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction April 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
"What's in a name?" might be very dangerous to ask in certain societies, in which sticks and stones are also a big problem!
I fought to be awake. I was dreaming, but I think I must have blushed. I must have blushed in my sleep.
" Do it! " she said. " Please do it! For me! "
It was the voice that always came, low, intense, seductive, the sound of your hand on silk ... and to a citizen of Northem, a conformist, it was shocking. I was a conformist then; I was still one that morning.
I awoke. The glowlight was on, slowly increasing. I was in my living machine in Center Four, where I belonged, and all the familiar things were about me, reality was back, but I was breathing very hard.
I lay on the pneumo a while before getting up. I looked at the chroner: 0703 hours, Day 17, Month IX, New Century Three. My morning nuro-tablets had already popped from the tube, and the timer had begun to boil an egg. The egg was there because the realfood allotment had been increased last month. The balance of trade with Southem had just swung a decimal or two our way.
I rose finally, stepped to the mirror, switched it to positive and looked at myself. New wrinkles—or maybe just a deepening of the old ones. It was beginning to show; the past two years were leaving traces.
I hadn't worried about my appearance when I'd been with the Office of Weapons. There, I'd been able to keep pretty much to myself, doing research on magnetic mechanics as applied to space drive. But other jobs, where you had to be among people, might be different. I needed every possible thing in my favor.
Yes, I still hoped for a job, even after two years. I still meant to keep on plugging, making the rounds.
I'd go out again today.
The timer clicked and my egg was ready. I swallowed the tablets and then took the egg to the table to savor it and make it last.
As I leaned forward to sit, the metal tag dangled from my neck, catching the glowlight. My identity tag.
Everything came back in a rush—
My name. The dream and her voice. And her suggestion.
Would I dare? Would I start out this very morning and take the risk, the terrible risk?
You remember renumbering. Two years ago. You remember how it was then; how everybody looked forward to his new designation, and how everybody made jokes about the way the letters came out, and how all the records were for a while fouled up beyond recognition.
The telecomics kidded renumbering. One went a little too far and they psycho-scanned him and then sent him to Marscol as a dangerous nonconform.
If you were disappointed with your new designation, you didn't complain. You didn't want a sudden visit from the Deacons during the night.
There had to be renumbering. We all understood that. With the population of Northem already past two billion, the old designations were too clumsy. Renumbering was efficient. It contributed to the good of Northem. It helped advance the warless struggle with Southem.
The equator is the boundary. I understand that once there was a political difference and that the two superstates sprawled longitudinally, not latitudinally, over the globe. Now they are pretty much the same. There is the truce, and they are both geared for war. They are both efficient states, as tightly controlled as an experiment with enzymes, as microsurgery, as the temper of a diplomat.
We were renumbered, then, in Northem. You know the system: everybody now has six digits and an additional prefix or suffix of four letters. Stateleader, for instance, has the designation AAAA-111/111. Now, to address somebody by calling off four letters is a little clumsy. We try to pronounce them when they are pronounceable. That is, no one says to Stateleader, "Good morning, A-A-A-A." They say, "Good morning, Aaaa."
Reading the last quote, I notice a curious effect. It says what I feel. Of course I didn't feel that way on that particular morning. I was still conformal; the last thing in my mind was that I would infract and be psycho-scanned.
Four letters then, and in many cases a pronounceable four letter word.
A four letter word.
Yes, you suspect already. You know what a four letter word can be.
Mine was.
It was unspeakable.
The slight weight on my forehead reminded me that I still wore my sleep-learner. I'd been studying administrative cybernetics, hoping to qualify in that field, although it was a poor substitute for a space drive expert. I removed the band and stepped across the room and turned off the oscillator. I went back to my egg and my bitter memories.
I will never forget the first day I received my new four letter combination and reported it to my chief, as required. I was unthinkably embarrassed. He didn't say anything. He just swallowed and choked and became crimson when he saw it. He didn't dare pass it to his secretarial engineer; he went to the administrative circuits and registered it himself.
I can't blame him for easing me out. He was trying to run an efficient organization, after all, and no doubt I upset its efficiency. My work was important—magnetic mechanics was the only way to handle quanta reaction, or the so-called non-energy drive, and was therefore the answer to feasible space travel beyond our present limit of Mars—and there were frequent inspection tours by Big Wheels and Very Important Persons.
Whenever anyone, especially a woman, asked my name, the embarrassment would become a crackling electric field all about us. The best tactic was just not to answer.
The chief called me in one day. He looked haggard.
"Er—old man," he said, not quite able to bring himself to utter my name, "I'm going to have to switch you to another department. How would you like to work on nutrition kits? Very interesting work."
"Nutrition kits? Me? On nutrition kits?"
"Well, I—er—know it sounds unusual, but it justifies. I just had the cybs work it over in the light of present regulations, and it justifies."
Everything had to justify, of course. Every act in the monthly report had to be covered by regulations and cross-regulations. Of course there were so many regulations that if you just took the time to work it out, you could justify damn near anything. I knew what the chief was up to. Just to remove me from my post would have taken a year of applications and hearings and innumerable visits to the capital in Center One. But if I should infract—deliberately infract—it would enable the chief to let me go. The equivalent of resigning.
"I'll infract," I said. "Rather than go on nutrition kits, I'll infract."
He looked vastly relieved. "Uh—fine," he said. "I rather hoped you would."
It took a week or so. Then I was on Non-Productive status and issued an N/P book for my necessities. Very few luxury coupons in the N/P book. I didn't really mind at first. My new living machine was smaller, but basically comfortable, and since I was still a loyal member of the state and a verified conformist, I wouldn't starve.
But I didn't know what I was in for.
I went from bureau to bureau, office to office, department to department—any place where they might use a space drive expert. A pattern began to emerge; the same story everywhere. When I mentioned my specialty they would look delighted. When I handed them my tag and they saw my name, they would go into immediate polite confusion. As soon as they recovered they would say they'd call me if anything turned up....
A few weeks of this and I became a bit dazed.
And then there was the problem of everyday existence. You might say it's lucky to be an N/P for a while. I've heard people say that. Basic needs provided, worlds of leisure time; on the surface it sounds attractive.
But let me give you an example. Say it is monthly realfood day. You go to the store, your mouth already watering in anticipation. You take your place in line and wait for your package. The distributor takes your coupon book and is all ready to reach for your package—and then he sees the fatal letters N/P. Non-Producer. A drone, a drain upon the State. You can see his stare curdle. He scowls at the book again.
"Not sure this is in order. Better go to the end of the line. We'll check it later."
You know what happens before the end of the line reaches the counter. No more packages.
Well, I couldn't get myself off N/P status until I got a post, and with my name I couldn't get a post.
Nor could I change my name. You know what happens when you try to change something already on the records. The very idea of wanting change implies criticism of the State. Unthinkable behavior.
That was why this curious dream voice shocked me so. The thing that it suggested was quite as embarrassing as its non-standard, emotional, provocative tone.
Bear with me; I'm getting to the voice—to her —in a moment.
I want to tell you first about the loneliness, the terrible loneliness. I could hardly join group games at any of the rec centers. I could join no special interest clubs or even State Loyalty chapters. Although I dabbled with theoretical research in my own quarters, I could scarcely submit any findings for publication—not with my name attached. A pseudonym would have been non-regulation and illegal.
But there was the worst thing of all. I could not mate.
Funny, I hadn't thought about mating until it became impossible. I remember the first time, out of sheer idleness, I wandered into a Eugenic Center. I filled out my form very carefully and submitted it for analysis and assignment. The clerk saw my name, and did the usual double-take. He coughed and swallowed and fidgeted.
He said, "Of course you understand that we must submit your application to the woman authorized to spend time in the mating booths with you, and that she has the right to refuse."
"Yes, I understand that."
"M'm," he said, and dismissed me with a nod.
I waited for a call in the next few weeks, still hoping, but I knew no woman would consent to meet a man with my name, let alone enter a mating booth with him.
The urge to reproduce myself became unbearable. I concocted all sorts of wild schemes.
I might infract socially and be classified a nonconform and sent to Marscol. I'd heard rumors that in that desolate land, on that desolate planet, both mingling and mating were rather disgustingly unrestricted. Casual mating would be terribly dangerous, of course, with all the wild irradiated genes from the atomic decade still around, but I felt I'd be willing to risk that. Well, almost....
About then I began to have these dreams. As I've told you, in the dream there was only this woman's seductive voice. The first time I heard it I awoke in a warm sweat and swore something had gone wrong with the sleep-learner. You never hear the actual words with this machine, of course; you simply absorb the concepts unconsciously. Still, it seemed an explanation. I checked thoroughly. Nothing wrong.
The next night I heard the woman's voice again.
" Try it ," she said. " Do it. Start tomorrow to get your name changed. There will be a way. There must be a way. The rules are so mixed up that a clever man can do almost anything. Do it, please—for me. "
She was not only trying to get me to commit nonconformity, but making heretical remarks besides. I awoke that time and half-expected a Deacon to pop out of the tube and turn his electric club upon me.
And I heard the voice nearly every night.
It hammered away.
" What if you do fail? Almost anything would be better than the miserable existence you're leading now! "
One morning I even caught myself wondering just how I'd go about this idea of hers. Wondering what the first step might be.
She seemed to read my thoughts. That night she said, " Consult the cybs in the Govpub office. If you look hard enough and long enough, you'll find a way. "
Now, on this morning of the seventeenth day in the ninth month, I ate my boiled egg slowly and actually toyed with the idea. I thought of being on productive status again. I had almost lost my fanatical craving to be useful to the State, but I did want to be busy—desperately. I didn't want to be despised any more. I didn't want to be lonely. I wanted to reproduce myself.
I made my decision suddenly. Waves of emotion carried me along. I got up, crossed the room to the directory, and pushbuttoned to find the location of the nearest Govpub office.
I didn't know what would happen and almost didn't care.
II
Like most important places, the Govpub Office in Center Four was underground. I could have taken a tunnelcar more quickly, but it seemed pleasanter to travel topside. Or maybe I just wanted to put this off a bit. Think about it. Compose myself.
At the entrance to the Govpub warren there was a big director cyb, a plate with a speaker and switch. The sign on it said to switch it on and get close to the speaker and I did.
The cyb's mechanical voice—they never seem to get the "th" sounds right—said, "This is Branch Four of the Office of Government Publications. Say, 'Publications,' and/or, 'Information desired,' as thoroughly and concisely as possible. Use approved voice and standard phraseology."
Well, simple enough so far. I had always rather prided myself on my knack for approved voice, those flat, emotionless tones that indicate efficiency. And I would never forget how to speak Statese. I said,
"Applicant desires all pertinent information relative assignment, change or amendment of State Serial designations, otherwise generally referred to as nomenclature."
There was a second's delay while the audio patterns tripped relays and brought the memory tubes in.
Then the cyb said, "Proceed to Numbering and Identity section. Consult alphabetical list and diagram on your left for location of same."
"Thanks," I said absent-mindedly.
I started to turn away and the cyb said, "Information on tanks is military information and classified. State authorization for—"
I switched it off.
Numbering and Identity wasn't hard to find. I took the shaft to the proper level and then it was only a walk of a few hundred yards through the glowlit corridors.
N. & I. turned out to be a big room, somewhat circular, very high-ceilinged, with banks of cyb controls covering the upper walls. Narrow passageways, like spokes, led off in several directions. There was an information desk in the center of the room.
I looked that way and my heart went into free fall.
There was a girl at the information desk. An exceptionally attractive girl. She was well within the limits of acceptable standard, and her features were even enough, and her hair a middle blonde—but she had something else. Hard to describe. It was a warmth, a buoyancy, a sense of life and intense animation. It didn't exactly show; it radiated. It seemed to sing out from her clear complexion, from her figure, which even a tunic could not hide, from everything about her.
And if I were to state my business, I would have to tell her my name.
I almost backed out right then. I stopped momentarily. And then common sense took hold and I realized that if I were to go through with this thing, here would be only the first of a long series of embarrassments and discomforts. It had to be done.
I walked up to the desk and the girl turned to face me, and I could have sworn that a faint smile crossed her lips. It was swift, like the shadow of a bird across one of the lawns in one of the great parks topside. Very non-standard. Yet I wasn't offended; if anything, I felt suddenly and disturbingly pleased.
"What information is desired?" she asked. Her voice was standard—or was it?
Again I had the feeling of restrained warmth.
I used colloquial. "I want to get the dope on State Serial designations, how they're assigned and so forth. Especially how they might be changed."
She put a handsteno on the desk top and said, "Name? Address? Post?"
I froze. I stood there and stared at her.
She looked up and said, "Well?"
"I—er—no post at present. N/P status."
Her fingers moved on the steno.
I gave her my address and she recorded that.
Then I paused again.
She said, "And your name?"
I took a deep breath and told her.
I didn't want to look into her eyes. I wanted to look away, but I couldn't find a decent excuse to. I saw her eyes become wide and noticed for the first time that they were a warm gray, almost a mouse color. I felt like laughing at that irrelevant observation, but more than that I felt like turning and running. I felt like climbing and dashing all over the walls like a frustrated cat and yelling at the top of my lungs. I felt like anything but standing there and looking stupid, meeting her stare—
She looked down quickly and recorded my name. It took her a little longer than necessary. In that time she recovered. Somewhat.
"All right," she said finally, "I'll make a search."
She turned to a row of buttons on a console in the center of the desk and began to press them in various combinations. A typer clicked away. She tore off a slip of paper, consulted it, and said, "Information desired is in Bank 29. Please follow me."
Well, following her was a pleasure, anyway. I could watch the movement of her hips and torso as she walked. She was not tall, but long-legged and extremely lithe. Graceful and rhythmic. Very, very feminine, almost beyond standard in that respect. I felt blood throb in my temples and was heartily ashamed of myself.
I would like to be in a mating booth with her, I thought, the full authorized twenty minutes. And I knew I was unconformist and the realization hardly scared me at all.
She led me down one of the long passageways.
A few moments later I said, "Don't you sometimes get—well, pretty lonely working here?" Personal talk at a time like this wasn't approved behavior, but I couldn't help it.
She answered hesitantly, but at least she answered. She said, "Not terribly. The cybs are company enough most of the time."
"You don't get many visitors, then."
"Not right here. N. & I. isn't a very popular section. Most people who come to Govpub spend their time researching in the ancient manuscript room. The—er—social habits of the pre-atomic civilization."
I laughed. I knew what she meant, all right. Pre-atomics and their ideas about free mating always fascinated people. I moved up beside her. "What's your name, by the way?"
"L-A-R-A 339/827."
I pronounced it. "Lara. Lah-rah. That's beautiful. Fits you, too."
She didn't answer; she kept her eyes straight ahead and I saw the faint spot of color on her cheek.
I had a sudden impulse to ask her to meet me after hours at one of the rec centers. If it had been my danger alone, I might have, but I couldn't very well ask her to risk discovery of a haphazard, unauthorized arrangement like that and the possibility of going to the psycho-scan.
We came to a turn in the corridor and something happened; I'm not sure just how it happened. I keep telling myself that my movements were not actually deliberate. I was to the right of her. The turn was to the left. She turned quickly, and I didn't, so that I bumped into her, knocking her off balance. I grabbed her to keep her from falling.
For a moment we stood there, face to face, touching each other lightly. I held her by the arms. I felt the primitive warmth of her breath. Our eyes held together ... proton ... electron ... I felt her tremble.
She broke from my grip suddenly and started off again.
After that she was very business-like.
We came finally to the controls of Bank 29 and she stood before them and began to press button combinations. I watched her work; I watched her move. I had almost forgotten why I'd come here. The lights blinked on and off and the typers clacked softly as the machine sorted out information.
She had a long printed sheet from the roll presently. She frowned at it and turned to me. "You can take this along and study it," she said,
"but I'm afraid what you have in mind may be—a little difficult."
She must have guessed what I had in mind. I said, "I didn't think it would be easy."
"It seems that the only agency authorized to change a State Serial under any circumstances is Opsych."
"Opsych?" You can't keep up with all these departments.
"The Office of Psychological Adjustment. They can change you if you go from a lower to higher E.A.C."
"I don't get it, exactly."
As she spoke I had the idea that there was sympathy in her voice. Just an overtone. "Well," she said, "as you know, the post a person is qualified to hold often depends largely on his Emotional Adjustment Category. Now if he improves and passes from, let us say, Grade 3 to Grade 4, he will probably change his place of work. In order to protect him from any associative maladjustments developed under the old E.A.C, he is permitted a new number."
I groaned. "But I'm already in the highest E.A.C.!"
"It looks very uncertain then."
"Sometimes I think I'd be better off in the mines, or on Marscol—or—in the hell of the pre-atomics!"
She looked amused. "What did you say your E.A.C. was?"
"Oh, all right. Sorry." I controlled myself and grinned. "I guess this whole thing has been just a little too much for me. Maybe my E.A.C.'s even gone down."
"That might be your chance then."
"How do you mean?"
"If you could get to the top man in Opsych and demonstrate that your number has inadvertently changed your E.A.C., he might be able to justify a change."
"By the State, he might!" I punched my palm. "Only how do I get to him?"
"I can find his location on the cyb here. Center One, the capital, for a guess. You'll have to get a travel permit to go there, of course. Just a moment."
She worked at the machine again, trying it on general data. The printed slip came out a moment later and she read it to me. Chief, Opsych, was in the capital all right. It didn't give the exact location of his office, but it did tell how to find the underground bay in Center One containing the Opsych offices.
We headed back through the passageway then and she kept well ahead of me. I couldn't keep my eyes from her walk, from the way she walked with everything below her shoulders. My blood was pounding at my temples again.
I tried to keep the conversation going. "Do you think it'll be hard to get a travel permit?"
"Not impossible. My guess is that you'll be at Travbur all day tomorrow, maybe even the next day. But you ought to be able to swing it if you hold out long enough."
I sighed. "I know. It's that way everywhere in Northem. Our motto ought to be, 'Why make it difficult when with just a little more effort you can make it impossible?'"
She started to laugh, and then, as she emerged from the passageway into the big circular room, she cut her laugh short.
A second later, as I came along, I saw why.
There were two Deacons by the central desk. They were burly and had that hard, pinched-face look and wore the usual black belts. Electric clubs hung from the belts. Spidery looking pistols were at their sides.
I didn't know whether these two had heard my crack or not. I know they kept looking at me.
Lara and I crossed the room silently, she back to her desk, I to the exit door. The Deacons' remote, disapproving eyes swung in azimuth, tracking us.
I walked out and wanted to turn and smile at Lara, and get into my smile something of the hope that someday, somewhere, I'd see her again—but of course I didn't dare.
III
I had the usual difficulties at Travbur the next day. I won't go into them, except to say that I was batted from office to office like a ping pong ball, and that, when I finally got my travel permit, I was made to feel that I had stolen an original Picasso from the State Museum.
I made it in a day. Just. I got my permit thirty seconds before closing time. I was to take the jetcopter to Center One at 0700 hours the following morning.
In my living machine that evening, I was much too excited to work at theoretical research as I usually did after a hard day of tramping around. I bathed, I paced a while, I sat and hummed nervously and got up and paced again. I turned on the telepuppets. There was a drama about the space pilots who fly the nonconformist prisoners to the forests and pulp-acetate plants on Mars. Seemed that the Southem political prisoners who are confined to the southern hemisphere of Mars, wanted to attack and conquer the north. The nonconformists, led by our pilot, came through for the State in the end. Corn is thicker than water. Standard.
There were, however, some good stereofilm shots of the limitless forests of Mars, and I wondered what it would be like to live there, in a green, fresh-smelling land. Pleasant, I supposed, if you could put up with the no doubt revolting morality of a prison planet.
And the drama seemed to point out that there was no more security for the nonconformists out there than for us here on Earth. Maybe somewhere in the universe, I thought, there would be peace for men. Somewhere beyond the solar system, perhaps, someday when we had the means to go there....
Yet instinct told me that wasn't the answer, either. I thought of a verse by an ancient pre-atomic poet named Hoffenstein. (People had unwieldy, random combinations of letters for names in those days.) The poem went:
Wherever I go,
I
go too,
And spoil everything.
That was it. The story of mankind.
I turned the glowlight down and lay on the pneumo after a while, but I didn't sleep for a long, long time.
Then, when I did sleep, when I had been sleeping, I heard the voice again. The low, seductive woman's voice—the startling, shocking voice out of my unconscious.
" You have taken the first step ," she said. " You are on your way to freedom. Don't stop now. Don't sink back into the lifelessness of conformity. Go on ... on and on. Keep struggling, for that is the only answer.... "
I didn't exactly talk back, but in the queer way of the dream, I thought objections. I was in my thirties, at the mid-point of my life, and the whole of that life had been spent under the State. I knew no other way to act. Suppressing what little individuality I might have was, for me, a way of survival. I was chockful of prescribed, stereotyped reactions, and I held onto them even when something within me told me what they were. This wasn't easy, this breaking away, not even this slight departure from the secure, camouflaged norm....
" The woman, Lara, attracts you ," said the voice.
I suppose at that point I twitched or rolled in my sleep. Yes, the voice was right, the woman Lara attracted me. So much that I ached with it.
" Take her. Find a way. When you succeed in changing your name, and know that you can do things, then find a way. There will be a way. "
The idea at once thrilled and frightened me.
I woke writhing and in a sweat again.
It was morning.
I dressed and headed for the jetcopter stage and the ship for Center One.
The ship was comfortable and departed on time, a transport with seats for about twenty passengers. I sat near the tail and moodily busied myself watching the gaunt brown earth far below. Between Centers there was mostly desert, only occasional patches of green. Before the atomic decade, I had heard, nearly all the earth was green and teemed with life ... birds, insects, animals, people, too. It was hard rock and sand now, with a few scrubs hanging on for life. The pre-atomics, who hadn't mastered synthesization, would have a hard time scratching existence from the earth today.
I tried to break the sad mood, and started to look around at some of the other passengers. That was when I first noticed the prisoners in the forward seats. Man and woman, they were, a youngish, rather non-descript couple, thin, very quiet. They were manacled and two Deacons sat across from them. The Deacons' backs were turned to me and I could see the prisoners' faces.
They had curious faces. Their eyes were indescribably sad, and yet their lips seemed to be ready to smile at any moment.
They were holding hands, not seeming to care about this vulgar emotional display.
I had the sudden crazy idea that Lara and I were sitting there, holding hands like that, nonconforming in the highest, and that we were wonderfully happy. Our eyes were sad too, but we were really happy, quietly happy, and that was why our lips stayed upon the brink of a smile.
|
What is the relationship like between the Elliotts and Mr. Snader?
|
After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about Butterfly 9 by Donald Keith.
Relevant chunks:
Butterfly 9
By DONALD KEITH
Illustrated by GAUGHAN
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction January 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Jeff needed a job and this man had a job to offer—one where giant economy-size trouble had labels like fakemake, bumsy and peekage!
I
At first, Jeff scarcely noticed the bold-looking man at the next table. Nor did Ann. Their minds were busy with Jeff's troubles.
"You're still the smartest color engineer in television," Ann told Jeff as they dallied with their food. "You'll bounce back. Now eat your supper."
"This beanery is too noisy and hot," he grumbled. "I can't eat. Can't talk. Can't think." He took a silver pillbox from his pocket and fumbled for a black one. Those were vitamin pills; the big red and yellow ones were sleeping capsules. He gulped the pill.
Ann looked disapproving in a wifely way. "Lately you chew pills like popcorn," she said. "Do you really need so many?"
"I need something. I'm sure losing my grip."
Ann stared at him. "Baby! How silly! Nothing happened, except you lost your lease. You'll build up a better company in a new spot. We're young yet."
Jeff sighed and glanced around the crowded little restaurant. He wished he could fly away somewhere. At that moment, he met the gaze of the mustachioed man at the next table.
The fellow seemed to be watching him and Ann. Something in his confident gaze made Jeff uneasy. Had they met before?
Ann whispered, "So you noticed him, too. Maybe he's following us. I think I saw him on the parking lot where we left the car."
Jeff shrugged his big shoulders. "If he's following us, he's nuts. We've got no secrets and no money."
"It must be my maddening beauty," said Ann.
"I'll kick him cross-eyed if he starts anything," Jeff said. "I'm just in the mood."
Ann giggled. "Honey, what big veins you have! Forget him. Let's talk about the engineering lab you're going to start. And let's eat."
He groaned. "I lose my appetite every time I think about the building being sold. It isn't worth the twelve grand. I wouldn't buy it for that if I could. What burns me is that, five years ago, I could have bought it for two thousand."
"If only we could go back five years." She shrugged fatalistically.
"But since we can't—"
The character at the next table leaned over and spoke to them, grinning. "You like to get away? You wish to go back?"
Jeff glanced across in annoyance. The man was evidently a salesman, with extra gall.
"Not now, thanks," Jeff said. "Haven't time."
The man waved his thick hand at the clock, as if to abolish time.
"Time? That is nothing. Your little lady. She spoke of go back five years. Maybe I help you."
He spoke in an odd clipped way, obviously a foreigner. His shirt was yellow. His suit had a silky sheen. Its peculiar tailoring emphasized the bulges in his stubby, muscular torso.
Ann smiled back at him. "You talk as if you could take us back to 1952. Is that what you really mean?"
"Why not? You think this silly. But I can show you."
Jeff rose to go. "Mister, you better get to a doctor. Ann, it's time we started home."
Ann laid a hand on his sleeve. "I haven't finished eating. Let's chat with the gent." She added in an undertone to Jeff, "Must be a psycho—but sort of an inspired one."
The man said to Ann, "You are kind lady, I think. Good to crazy people. I join you."
He did not wait for consent, but slid into a seat at their table with an easy grace that was almost arrogant.
"You are unhappy in 1957," he went on. "Discouraged. Restless. Why not take trip to another time?"
"Why not?" Ann said gaily. "How much does it cost?"
"Free trial trip. Cost nothing. See whether you like. Then maybe we talk money." He handed Jeff a card made of a stiff plastic substance.
Jeff glanced at it, then handed it to Ann with a half-smile. It read:
4-D TRAVEL BEURO Greet Snader, Traffic Ajent
"Mr. Snader's bureau is different," Jeff said to his wife. "He even spells it different."
Snader chuckled. "I come from other time. We spell otherwise."
"You mean you come from the future?"
"Just different time. I show you. You come with me?"
"Come where?" Jeff asked, studying Snader's mocking eyes. The man didn't seem a mere eccentric. He had a peculiar suggestion of humor and force.
"Come on little trip to different time," invited Snader. He added persuasively, "Could be back here in hour."
"It would be painless, I suppose?" Jeff gave it a touch of derision.
"Maybe not. That is risk you take. But look at me. I make trips every day. I look damaged?"
As a matter of fact, he did. His thick-fleshed face bore a scar and his nose was broad and flat, as if it had been broken. But Jeff politely agreed that he did not look damaged.
Ann was enjoying this. "Tell me more, Mr. Snader. How does your time travel work?"
"Cannot explain. Same if you are asked how subway train works. Too complicated." He flashed his white teeth. "You think time travel not possible. Just like television not possible to your grandfather."
Ann said, "Why invite us? We're not rich enough for expensive trips."
"Invite many people," Snader said quickly. "Not expensive. You know Missing Persons lists, from police? Dozens people disappear. They go with me to other time. Many stay."
"Oh, sure," Jeff said. "But how do you select the ones to invite?"
"Find ones like you, Mr. Elliott. Ones who want change, escape."
Jeff was slightly startled. How did this fellow know his name was Elliott?
Before he could ask, Ann popped another question. "Mr. Snader, you heard us talking. You know we're in trouble because Jeff missed a good chance five years ago. Do you claim people can really go back into the past and correct mistakes they've made?"
"They can go back. What they do when arrive? Depends on them."
"Don't you wish it were true?" she sighed to Jeff.
"You afraid to believe," said Snader, a glimmer of amusement in his restless eyes. "Why not try? What you lose? Come on, look at station. Very near here."
Ann jumped up. "It might be fun, Jeff. Let's see what he means, if anything."
Jeff's pulse quickened. He too felt a sort of midsummer night's madness—a yearning to forget his troubles. "Okay, just for kicks. But we go in my car."
Snader moved ahead to the cashier's stand. Jeff watched the weasel-like grace of his short, broad body.
"This is no ordinary oddball," Jeff told Ann. "He's tricky. He's got some gimmick."
"First I just played him along, to see how loony he was," Ann said.
"Now I wonder who's kidding whom." She concluded thoughtfully, "He's kind of handsome, in a tough way."
II
Snader's "station" proved to be a middle-sized, middle-cost home in a good neighborhood. Lights glowed in the windows. Jeff could hear the whisper of traffic on a boulevard a few blocks away. Through the warm dusk, he could dimly see the mountains on the horizon. All was peaceful.
Snader unlocked the front door with a key which he drew from a fine metal chain around his neck. He swept open the front door with a flourish and beamed at them, but Ann drew back.
"'Walk into my parlor, said the spider to the fly,'" she murmured to Jeff. "This could be a gambling hell. Or a dope den."
"No matter what kind of clip joint, it can't clip us much," he said.
"There's only four bucks in my wallet. My guess is it's a 'temple' for some daffy religious sect."
They went in. A fat man smiled at them from a desk in the hall. Snader said, "Meet Peter Powers. Local agent of our bureau."
The man didn't get up, but nodded comfortably and waved them toward the next room, after a glance at Snader's key.
The key opened this room's door, too. Its spring lock snapped shut after them.
The room was like a doctor's waiting room, with easy chairs along the walls. Its only peculiar aspects were a sign hanging from the middle of the ceiling and two movie screens—or were they giant television screens?—occupying a whole wall at either end of the room.
The sign bore the number 701 in bright yellow on black. Beneath it, an arrow pointed to the screen on the left with the word Ante , and to the right with the word Post .
Jeff studied the big screens. On each, a picture was in motion. One appeared to be moving through a long corridor, lined with seats like a railroad club car. The picture seemed to rush at them from the left wall. When he turned to the right, a similar endless chair-lined corridor moved toward him from that direction.
"Somebody worked hard on this layout," he said to Snader. "What's it for?"
"Time travel," said Snader. "You like?"
"Almost as good as Disneyland. These movies represent the stream of time, I suppose?"
Instead of answering, Snader pointed to the screen. The picture showed a group of people chatting in a fast-moving corridor. As it hurtled toward them, Snader flipped his hand in a genial salute. Two people in the picture waved back.
Ann gasped. "It was just as if they saw us."
"They did," Snader said. "No movie. Time travelers. In fourth dimension. To you, they look like flat picture. To them, we look flat."
"What's he supposed to be?" Jeff asked as the onrushing picture showed them briefly a figure bound hand and foot, huddled in one of the chairs. He stared at them piteously for an instant before the picture surged past.
Snader showed his teeth. "That was convict from my time. We have criminals, like in your time. But we do not kill. We make them work. Where he going? To end of line. To earliest year this time groove reach. About 600 A.D., your calendar. Authorities pick up when he get there. Put him to work."
"What kind of work?" Jeff asked.
"Building the groove further back."
"Sounds like interesting work."
Snader chortled and slapped him on the back. "Maybe you see it some day, but forget that now. You come with me. Little trip."
Jeff was perspiring. This was odder than he expected. Whatever the fakery, it was clever. His curiosity as a technician made him want to know about it. He asked Snader, "Where do you propose to go? And how?"
Snader said, "Watch me. Then look at other wall."
He moved gracefully to the screen on the left wall, stepped into it and disappeared. It was as if he had slid into opaque water.
Jeff and Ann blinked in mystification. Then they remembered his instruction to watch the other screen. They turned. After a moment, in the far distance down the long moving corridor, they could see a stocky figure. The motion of the picture brought him nearer. In a few seconds, he was recognizable as Snader—and as the picture brought him forward, he stepped down out of it and was with them again.
"Simple," Snader said. "I rode to next station. Then crossed over. Took other carrier back here."
"Brother, that's the best trick I've seen in years," Jeff said. "How did you do it? Can I do it, too?"
"I show you." Grinning like a wildcat, Snader linked his arms with Ann and Jeff, and walked them toward the screen. "Now," he said. "Step in."
Jeff submitted to Snader's pressure and stepped cautiously into the screen. Amazingly, he felt no resistance at all, no sense of change or motion. It was like stepping through a fog-bank into another room.
In fact, that was what they seemed to have done. They were in the chair-lined corridor. As Snader turned them around and seated them, they faced another moving picture screen. It seemed to rush through a dark tunnel toward a lighted square in the far distance.
The square grew on the screen. Soon they saw it was another room like the waiting room they had left, except that the number hanging from the ceiling was 702. They seemed to glide through it. Then they were in the dark tunnel again.
Ann was clutching Jeff's arm. He patted her hand. "Fun, hey? Like Alice through the looking-glass."
"You really think we're going back in time?" she whispered.
"Hardly! But we're seeing a million-dollar trick. I can't even begin to figure it out yet."
Another lighted room grew out of the tunnel on the screen, and when they had flickered through it, another and then another.
"Mr. Snader," Ann said unsteadily, "how long—how many years back are you taking us?"
Snader was humming to himself. "Six years. Station 725 fine place to stop."
For a little while, Jeff let himself think it might be true. "Six years ago, your dad was alive," he mused to Ann. "If this should somehow be real, we could see him again."
"We could if we went to our house. He lived with us then, remember? Would we see ourselves, six years younger? Or would—"
Snader took Jeff's arm and pulled him to his feet. The screen was moving through a room numbered 724.
"Soon now," Snader grunted happily. "Then no more questions."
He took an arm of each as he had before. When the screen was filled by a room with the number 725, he propelled them forward into it.
Again there was no sense of motion. They had simply stepped through a bright wall they could not feel. They found themselves in a replica of the room they had left at 701. On the wall, a picture of the continuous club-car corridor rolled toward them in a silent, endless stream.
"The same room," Ann said in disappointment. "They just changed the number. We haven't been anywhere."
Snader was fishing under his shirt for the key. He gave Ann a glance that was almost a leer. Then he carefully unlocked the door.
In the hall, a motherly old lady bustled up, but Snader brushed past her. "Official," he said, showing her the key. "No lodging."
He unlocked the front door without another word and carefully shut it behind them as Jeff and Ann followed him out of the house.
"Hey, where's my car?" Jeff demanded, looking up and down the street.
The whole street looked different. Where he had parked his roadster, there was now a long black limousine.
"Your car is in future," Snader said briskly. "Where it belong. Get in." He opened the door of the limousine.
Jeff felt a little flame of excitement licking inside him. Something was happening, he felt. Something exciting and dangerous.
"Snader," he said, "if you're kidnaping us, you made a mistake. Nobody on Earth will pay ransom for us."
Snader seemed amused. "You are foolish fellow. Silly talk about ransom. You in different time now."
"When does this gag stop?" Jeff demanded irritably. "You haven't fooled us. We're still in 1957."
"You are? Look around."
Jeff looked at the street again. He secretly admitted to himself that these were different trees and houses than he remembered. Even the telephone poles and street lights seemed peculiar, vaguely foreign-looking. It must be an elaborate practical joke. Snader had probably ushered them into one house, then through a tunnel and out another house.
"Get in," Snader said curtly.
Jeff decided to go along with the hoax or whatever it was. He could see no serious risk. He helped Ann into the back seat and sat beside her. Snader slammed the door and slid into the driver's seat. He started the engine with a roar and they rocketed away from the curb, narrowly missing another car.
Jeff yelled, "Easy, man! Look where you're going!"
Snader guffawed. "Tonight, you look where you are going."
Ann clung to Jeff. "Did you notice the house we came out of?"
"What about it?"
"It looked as though they were afraid people might try to break in. There were bars at the windows."
"Lots of houses are built that way, honey. Let's see, where are we?" He glanced at house numbers. "This is the 800 block. Remember that. And the street—" He peered up at a sign as they whirled around a corner.
"The street is Green Thru-Way. I never heard of a street like that."
III
They were headed back toward what should have been the boulevard. The car zoomed through a cloverleaf turn and up onto a broad freeway. Jeff knew for certain there was no freeway there in 1957—nor in any earlier year. But on the horizon, he could see the familiar dark bulk of the mountains. The whole line of moonlit ridges was the same as always.
"Ann," he said slowly, "I think this is for real. Somehow I guess we escaped from 1957. We've been transported in time."
She squeezed his arm. "If I'm dreaming, don't wake me! I was scared a minute ago. But now, oh, boy!"
"Likewise. But I still wonder what Snader's angle is." He leaned forward and tapped the driver on his meaty shoulder. "You brought us into the future instead of the past, didn't you?"
It was hard to know whether Snader was sleepy or just bored, but he shrugged briefly to show there was no reply coming. Then he yawned.
Jeff smiled tightly. "I guess we'll find out in good time. Let's sit back and enjoy the strangest ride of our lives."
As the limousine swept along through the traffic, there were plenty of big signs for turn-offs, but none gave any hint where they were. The names were unfamiliar. Even the language seemed grotesque. "Rite Channel for Creepers," he read. "Yaw for Torrey Rushway" flared at him from a fork in the freeway.
"This can't be the future," Ann said. "This limousine is almost new, but it doesn't even have an automatic gear shift—"
She broke off as the car shot down a ramp off the freeway and pulled up in front of an apartment house. Just beyond was a big shopping center, ablaze with lights and swarming with shoppers. Jeff did not recognize it, in spite of his familiarity with the city.
Snader bounded out, pulled open the rear door and jerked his head in a commanding gesture. But Jeff did not get out. He told Snader, "Let's have some answers before we go any further."
Snader gave him a hard grin. "You hear everything upstairs."
The building appeared harmless enough. Jeff looked thoughtfully at Ann.
She said, "It's just an apartment house. We've come this far. Might as well go in and see what's there."
Snader led them in, up to the sixth floor in an elevator and along a corridor with heavy carpets and soft gold lights. He knocked on a door.
A tall, silver-haired, important-looking man opened it and greeted them heartily.
"Solid man, Greet!" he exclaimed. "You're a real scratcher! And is this our sharp?" He gave Jeff a friendly but appraising look.
"Just what you order," Snader said proudly. "His name—Jeff Elliott. Fine sharp. Best in his circuit. He brings his lifemate, too. Ann Elliott."
The old man rubbed his smooth hands together. "Prime! I wish joy," he said to Ann and Jeff. "I'm Septo Kersey. Come in. Bullen's waiting."
He led them into a spacious drawing room with great windows looking out on the lights of the city. There was a leather chair in a corner, and in it sat a heavy man with a grim mouth. He made no move, but grunted a perfunctory "Wish joy" when Kersey introduced them. His cold eyes studied Jeff while Kersey seated them in big chairs.
Snader did not sit down, however. "No need for me now," he said, and moved toward the door with a mocking wave at Ann.
Bullen nodded. "You get the rest of your pay when Elliott proves out."
"Here, wait a minute!" Jeff called. But Snader was gone.
"Sit still," Bullen growled to Jeff. "You understand radioptics?"
The blood went to Jeff's head. "My business is television, if that's what you mean. What's this about?"
"Tell him, Kersey," the big man said, and stared out the window.
Kersey began, "You understand, I think, that you have come back in time. About six years back."
"That's a matter of opinion, but go on."
"I am general manager of Continental Radioptic Combine, owned by Mr. Dumont Bullen." He nodded toward the big man. "Chromatics have not yet been developed here in connection with radioptics. They are well understood in your time, are they not?"
"What's chromatics? Color television?"
"Exactly. You are an expert in—ah—colored television, I think."
Jeff nodded. "So what?"
The old man beamed at him. "You are here to work for our company. You will enable us to be first with chromatics in this time wave."
Jeff stood up. "Don't tell me who I'll work for."
Bullen slapped a big fist on the arm of his chair. "No fog about this! You're bought and paid for, Elliott! You'll get a fair labor contract, but you do what I say!"
"Why, the man thinks he owns you." Ann laughed shakily.
"You'll find my barmen know their law," Bullen said. "This isn't the way I like to recruit. But it was only way to get a man with your knowledge."
Kersey said politely, "You are here illegally, with no immigrate permit or citizen file. Therefore you cannot get work. But Mr. Bullen has taken an interest in your trouble. Through his influence, you can make a living. We even set aside an apartment in this building for you to live in. You are really very luxe, do you see?"
Jeff's legs felt weak. These highbinders seemed brutally confident. He wondered how he and Ann would find their way home through the strange streets. But he put on a bold front.
"I don't believe your line about time travel and I don't plan to work for you," he said. "My wife and I are walking out right now. Try and stop us, legally or any other way."
Kersey's smooth old face turned hard. But, unexpectedly, Bullen chuckled deep in his throat. "Good pop and bang. Like to see it. Go on, walk out. You hang in trouble, call up here—Butterfly 9, ask for Bullen. Whole exchange us. I'll meet you here about eleven tomorrow pre-noon."
"Don't hold your breath. Let's go, Ann."
When they were on the sidewalk, Ann took a deep breath. "We made it. For a minute, I thought there'd be a brawl. Why did they let us go?"
"No telling. Maybe they're harmless lunatics—or practical jokers." He looked over his shoulder as they walked down the street, but there was no sign of pursuit. "It's a long time since supper."
Her hand was cold in his and her face was white. To take her mind off their problem, he ambled toward the lighted shop windows.
"Look at that sign," he said, pointing to a poster over a display of neckties. "'Sleek neck-sashes, only a Dick and a dollop!' How do they expect to sell stuff with that crazy lingo?"
"It's jive talk. They must cater to the high-school crowd." Ann glanced nervously at the strolling people around them. "Jeff, where are we? This isn't any part of the city I've ever seen. It doesn't even look much like America." Her voice rose. "The way the women are dressed—it's not old-fashioned, just different."
"Baby, don't be scared. This is an adventure. Let's have fun." He pressed her hand soothingly and pulled her toward a lunch counter.
If the haberdasher's sign was jive, the restaurant spoke the same jargon. The signs on the wall and the bill of fare were baffling. Jeff pondered the list of beef shingles, scorchers, smack sticks and fruit chills, until he noticed that a couple at the counter were eating what clearly were hamburgers—though the "buns" looked more like tortillas.
Jeff jerked his thumb at them and told the waitress, "Two, please."
When the sandwiches arrived, they were ordinary enough. He and Ann ate in silence. A feeling of foreboding hung over them.
When they finished, the clerk gave him a check marked 1/20. Jeff looked at it thoughtfully, shrugged and handed it to the cashier with two dollar bills.
The man at the desk glanced at them and laughed. "Stage money, eh?"
"No, that's good money," Jeff assured him with a rather hollow smile.
"They're just new bills, that's all."
The cashier picked one up and looked at it curiously. "I'm afraid it's no good here," he said, and pushed it back.
The bottom dropped out of Jeff's stomach. "What kind of money do you want? This is all I have."
The cashier's smile faded. He caught the eye of a man in uniform on one of the stools. The uniform was dark green, but the man acted like a policeman. He loomed up beside Jeff.
"What's the rasper?" he demanded. Other customers, waiting to pay their checks, eyed Jeff curiously.
"I guess I'm in trouble," Jeff told him. "I'm a stranger here and I got something to eat under the impression that my money was legal tender. Do you know where I can exchange it?"
The officer picked up the dollar bill and fingered it with evident interest. He turned it over and studied the printing. "United States of America," he read aloud. "What are those?"
"It's the name of the country I come from," Jeff said carefully.
"I—uh—got on the wrong train, apparently, and must have come further than I thought. What's the name of this place?"
"This is Costa, West Goodland, in the Continental Federation. Say, you must come from an umpty remote part of the world if you don't know about this country." His eyes narrowed. "Where'd you learn to speak Federal, if you come from so far?"
Jeff said helplessly, "I can't explain, if you don't know about the United States. Listen, can you take me to a bank, or some place where they know about foreign exchange?"
The policeman scowled. "How'd you get into this country, anyway? You got immigrate clearance?"
An angry muttering started among the bystanders.
The policeman made up his mind. "You come with me."
At the police station, Jeff put his elbows dejectedly on the high counter while the policeman talked to an officer in charge. Some men whom Jeff took for reporters got up from a table and eased over to listen.
"I don't know whether to charge them with fakemake, bumsy, peekage or lunate," the policeman said as he finished.
His superior gave Jeff a long puzzled stare.
Jeff sighed. "I know it sounds impossible, but a man brought me in something he claimed was a time traveler. You speak the same language I do—more or less—but everything else is kind of unfamiliar. I belong in the United States, a country in North America. I can't believe I'm so far in the future that the United States has been forgotten."
There ensued a long, confused, inconclusive interrogation.
The man behind the desk asked questions which seemed stupid to Jeff and got answers which probably seemed stupid to him.
The reporters quizzed Jeff gleefully. "Come out, what are you advertising?" they kept asking. "Who got you up to this?"
The police puzzled over his driver's license and the other cards in his wallet. They asked repeatedly about the lack of a "Work License," which Jeff took to be some sort of union card. Evidently there was grave doubt that he had any legal right to be in the country.
In the end, Jeff and Ann were locked in separate cells for the night. Jeff groaned and pounded the bars as he thought of his wife, imprisoned and alone in a smelly jail. After hours of pacing the cell, he lay down in the cot and reached automatically for his silver pillbox. Then he hesitated.
In past weeks, his insomnia had grown worse and worse, so that lately he had begun taking stronger pills. After a longing glance at the big red and yellow capsules, he put the box away. Whatever tomorrow brought, it wouldn't find him slow and drowsy.
IV
He passed a wakeful night. In the early morning, he looked up to see a little man with a briefcase at his cell door.
"Wish joy, Mr. Elliott," the man said coolly. "I am one of Mr. Bullen's barmen. You know, represent at law? He sent me to arrange your release, if you are ready to be reasonable."
Jeff lay there and put his hands behind his head. "I doubt if I'm ready. I'm comfortable here. By the way, how did you know where I was?"
"No problem. When we read in this morning's newspapers about a man claiming to be a time traveler, we knew."
"All right. Now start explaining. Until I understand where I am, Bullen isn't getting me out of here."
The lawyer smiled and sat down. "Mr. Kersey told you yesterday—you've gone back six years. But you'll need some mental gymnastics to understand. Time is a dimension, not a stream of events like a movie film. A film never changes. Space does—and time does. For example, if a movie showed a burning house at Sixth and Main, would you expect to find a house burning whenever you returned to that corner?"
"You mean to say that if I went back to 1865, I wouldn't find the Civil War was over and Lincoln had been assassinated?"
"If you go back to the time you call 1865—which is most easily done—you will find that the people there know nothing of a Lincoln or that war."
Jeff looked blank. "What are they doing then?"
The little man spread his hands. "What are the people doing now at Sixth and Main? Certainly not the same things they were doing the day of the fire. We're talking about a dimension, not an event. Don't you grasp the difference between the two?"
"Nope. To me, 1865 means the end of the Civil War. How else can you speak of a point in time except by the events that happened then?"
"Well, if you go to a place in three-dimensional space—say, a lake in the mountains—how do you identify that place? By looking for landmarks. It doesn't matter that an eagle is soaring over a mountain peak. That's only an event. The peak is the landmark. You follow me?"
"So far. Keep talking."
Question:
What is the relationship like between the Elliotts and Mr. Snader?
Answer:
|
[
"Initially, the Elliotts find Mr. Snader to be peculiar with his mustache, facial scar, traces of a broken nose, and accented speech. Jeff is not interested in engaging with him, but Ann continues to deepen their conversation with him at the restaurant thinking that Mr. Snader is insane and she will humor his ideas.\n\nMr. Snader shows hints of being forceful to the Elliots throughout the story. His persuasiveness to come to his time travel station is forceful at times, he takes their arms to escort them into the future portal (as if he wants to ensure their compliance), and once they are roaming the city in the future Mr. Snader largely drops the act and stops being nice to the Elliots altogether (ignoring their requests for him to drive safely, and being curt with them to get them into his drop off spot with Mr. Bullen).\n\nThe Elliots are captivated by the silliness of Mr. Snader’s story at first, believing it is a magic trick right up until they travel into the past, and then seem largely blinded by their curiosity and excitement to think critically about how much danger they are really in. They acknowledge Mr. Snader is being deceitful at times, like when Jeff asks for his questions to be answered, but become so reliant on Mr. Snader’s support to get them back home that they remain with him. When Mr. Snader’s plan is revealed - that he has delivered the Eliotts into the past to be forced into labor to create a color television company - they feel betrayed by Mr. Snader.\n",
"The Elliots are initially wary of Snader. They look at him before he approaches them in the restaurant, and Ann tells her husband that she thinks she saw him outside in the parking lot. She wonders aloud if he has been following them. When he first starts up a conversation with them, Jeff immediately wants to leave, and it’s Ann who gets a kick out of the improbable dialogue they have. She wants to learn more about his insane-sounding ideas about time travel, although she doesn’t necessarily believe anything he’s saying at first. Both Jeff and Ann laugh at the card that Snader hands them because nearly every word is misspelled and to them he appears unprofessional. \n\nThey do not spend very much time with Snader, but they appear to trust him quite readily. They are skeptical about his promises and insist that it’s probably all fake, but they don’t associate the dishonesty with Snader personally. When Snader physically shows them how time traveling works by stepping in and out of the screens, Jeff and Ann are so excited that they actually link arms with the stranger. Moments later, Jeff calls him “brother”. Jeff initially insists that they take his car to go to the station, but when it disappears outside after they have time traveled, they have no problem getting into the backseat of a limousine and allowing Snader to drive them. When he brings them to a building they have never seen before, they wonder what could possibly be dangerous about it instead of insisting that they remain vigilant. Snader delivers Jeff and Ann right to the bad guys, and they never see it coming. Bullen’s guys thank Snader and mention the payment he will receive as a result of bringing them their victim, Jeff. Had Jeff and Ann refused to trust a stranger with a wild story about time traveling, they would not be stuck in another dimension. \n\n",
"The Elliotts are always somewhat suspicious of Mr. Snader, but they are intrigued by his claims and offer of time travel and curious enough to want to find out more about it. Snader uses Ann to draw the couple’s initial interest; she is more open to listening to him than Jeff is. Jeff is somewhat antagonistic to Snader, for example, commenting on the misspelled words on his business card and sometimes speaking to him derisively. Likewise, Snader mocks Jeff with his eyes. Ann is more open to Snader’s offer, asking him questions to learn more about it and commenting she wishes time travel could be true. Her receptiveness ignites Jeff’s desire to escape his worries for a while so that he is willing to learn more from Snader. When Snader takes them to the station, Ann expresses concerns to Jeff, but he believes they won’t be in danger. However, when Snader shows Jeff the screens and waves to people on them who wave back, the Elliotts are more convinced that what Snader offers is real. Snader is his nicest to Jeff just before they enter the time travel screen, but the closer they get to the apartment building, the less interested he is in answering questions and being polite. He orders them into the limousine and at one point issues a warning: “Tonight, you look where you are going.” Ann notices the station house has bars on it, and Jeff is suspicious enough that he makes a point of remembering the street names where the station is located so they will be able to find it again on their own. His tentative trust of Snader continues eroding when he realizes they are on a freeway that didn’t exist yet in the present. When he asks Snader if he’s brought them to the future instead of the past, Snader doesn’t even bother to answer. At the apartment, Jeff and Ann learn that Snader was paid to bring them there, and he “mockingly” waves at them as he leaves now that his job is done.\n\n\n",
"The relationship between the Elliotts and Mr. Snader is one with varying levels of distrust and suspicion but also some curiosity and genuine interest. When they all meet, Jeff is suspicious of everything that Mr. Snader says and does not thing it is worth his time to listen to Snader talk. Ann is curious, though, and wants to hear Snader out. It is not clear from this first part of the story what Snader thinks of the Elliots besides his interest in them as people who might be able to benefit from what he has to offer, at least on the surface. Once they all arrive at the \"4-D Travel Beuro\", as Ann has agreed to give Snader's time travel a try, the suspicion is continued. Because Jeff is an expert in color television, he is convinced everything he is seeing is some kind of visual trick and he wants to learn how it works. Jeff lets this color his interactions with Snader, and most of what he says to him has some audible distrust. At this point, Ann is also worried, once they step into the moving picture, but her fear dissipates once they are outside of the house in a different time. During this time travel, Jeff and Ann have had a lot of questions for Snader, but he is not answering any of them, at least not directly--this adds to the mistrust felt by the Elliotts. Once Snader drops the Elliots off with Kersey, they are understandably upset when they realize they have been tricked."
] |
51167
|
Butterfly 9
By DONALD KEITH
Illustrated by GAUGHAN
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction January 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Jeff needed a job and this man had a job to offer—one where giant economy-size trouble had labels like fakemake, bumsy and peekage!
I
At first, Jeff scarcely noticed the bold-looking man at the next table. Nor did Ann. Their minds were busy with Jeff's troubles.
"You're still the smartest color engineer in television," Ann told Jeff as they dallied with their food. "You'll bounce back. Now eat your supper."
"This beanery is too noisy and hot," he grumbled. "I can't eat. Can't talk. Can't think." He took a silver pillbox from his pocket and fumbled for a black one. Those were vitamin pills; the big red and yellow ones were sleeping capsules. He gulped the pill.
Ann looked disapproving in a wifely way. "Lately you chew pills like popcorn," she said. "Do you really need so many?"
"I need something. I'm sure losing my grip."
Ann stared at him. "Baby! How silly! Nothing happened, except you lost your lease. You'll build up a better company in a new spot. We're young yet."
Jeff sighed and glanced around the crowded little restaurant. He wished he could fly away somewhere. At that moment, he met the gaze of the mustachioed man at the next table.
The fellow seemed to be watching him and Ann. Something in his confident gaze made Jeff uneasy. Had they met before?
Ann whispered, "So you noticed him, too. Maybe he's following us. I think I saw him on the parking lot where we left the car."
Jeff shrugged his big shoulders. "If he's following us, he's nuts. We've got no secrets and no money."
"It must be my maddening beauty," said Ann.
"I'll kick him cross-eyed if he starts anything," Jeff said. "I'm just in the mood."
Ann giggled. "Honey, what big veins you have! Forget him. Let's talk about the engineering lab you're going to start. And let's eat."
He groaned. "I lose my appetite every time I think about the building being sold. It isn't worth the twelve grand. I wouldn't buy it for that if I could. What burns me is that, five years ago, I could have bought it for two thousand."
"If only we could go back five years." She shrugged fatalistically.
"But since we can't—"
The character at the next table leaned over and spoke to them, grinning. "You like to get away? You wish to go back?"
Jeff glanced across in annoyance. The man was evidently a salesman, with extra gall.
"Not now, thanks," Jeff said. "Haven't time."
The man waved his thick hand at the clock, as if to abolish time.
"Time? That is nothing. Your little lady. She spoke of go back five years. Maybe I help you."
He spoke in an odd clipped way, obviously a foreigner. His shirt was yellow. His suit had a silky sheen. Its peculiar tailoring emphasized the bulges in his stubby, muscular torso.
Ann smiled back at him. "You talk as if you could take us back to 1952. Is that what you really mean?"
"Why not? You think this silly. But I can show you."
Jeff rose to go. "Mister, you better get to a doctor. Ann, it's time we started home."
Ann laid a hand on his sleeve. "I haven't finished eating. Let's chat with the gent." She added in an undertone to Jeff, "Must be a psycho—but sort of an inspired one."
The man said to Ann, "You are kind lady, I think. Good to crazy people. I join you."
He did not wait for consent, but slid into a seat at their table with an easy grace that was almost arrogant.
"You are unhappy in 1957," he went on. "Discouraged. Restless. Why not take trip to another time?"
"Why not?" Ann said gaily. "How much does it cost?"
"Free trial trip. Cost nothing. See whether you like. Then maybe we talk money." He handed Jeff a card made of a stiff plastic substance.
Jeff glanced at it, then handed it to Ann with a half-smile. It read:
4-D TRAVEL BEURO Greet Snader, Traffic Ajent
"Mr. Snader's bureau is different," Jeff said to his wife. "He even spells it different."
Snader chuckled. "I come from other time. We spell otherwise."
"You mean you come from the future?"
"Just different time. I show you. You come with me?"
"Come where?" Jeff asked, studying Snader's mocking eyes. The man didn't seem a mere eccentric. He had a peculiar suggestion of humor and force.
"Come on little trip to different time," invited Snader. He added persuasively, "Could be back here in hour."
"It would be painless, I suppose?" Jeff gave it a touch of derision.
"Maybe not. That is risk you take. But look at me. I make trips every day. I look damaged?"
As a matter of fact, he did. His thick-fleshed face bore a scar and his nose was broad and flat, as if it had been broken. But Jeff politely agreed that he did not look damaged.
Ann was enjoying this. "Tell me more, Mr. Snader. How does your time travel work?"
"Cannot explain. Same if you are asked how subway train works. Too complicated." He flashed his white teeth. "You think time travel not possible. Just like television not possible to your grandfather."
Ann said, "Why invite us? We're not rich enough for expensive trips."
"Invite many people," Snader said quickly. "Not expensive. You know Missing Persons lists, from police? Dozens people disappear. They go with me to other time. Many stay."
"Oh, sure," Jeff said. "But how do you select the ones to invite?"
"Find ones like you, Mr. Elliott. Ones who want change, escape."
Jeff was slightly startled. How did this fellow know his name was Elliott?
Before he could ask, Ann popped another question. "Mr. Snader, you heard us talking. You know we're in trouble because Jeff missed a good chance five years ago. Do you claim people can really go back into the past and correct mistakes they've made?"
"They can go back. What they do when arrive? Depends on them."
"Don't you wish it were true?" she sighed to Jeff.
"You afraid to believe," said Snader, a glimmer of amusement in his restless eyes. "Why not try? What you lose? Come on, look at station. Very near here."
Ann jumped up. "It might be fun, Jeff. Let's see what he means, if anything."
Jeff's pulse quickened. He too felt a sort of midsummer night's madness—a yearning to forget his troubles. "Okay, just for kicks. But we go in my car."
Snader moved ahead to the cashier's stand. Jeff watched the weasel-like grace of his short, broad body.
"This is no ordinary oddball," Jeff told Ann. "He's tricky. He's got some gimmick."
"First I just played him along, to see how loony he was," Ann said.
"Now I wonder who's kidding whom." She concluded thoughtfully, "He's kind of handsome, in a tough way."
II
Snader's "station" proved to be a middle-sized, middle-cost home in a good neighborhood. Lights glowed in the windows. Jeff could hear the whisper of traffic on a boulevard a few blocks away. Through the warm dusk, he could dimly see the mountains on the horizon. All was peaceful.
Snader unlocked the front door with a key which he drew from a fine metal chain around his neck. He swept open the front door with a flourish and beamed at them, but Ann drew back.
"'Walk into my parlor, said the spider to the fly,'" she murmured to Jeff. "This could be a gambling hell. Or a dope den."
"No matter what kind of clip joint, it can't clip us much," he said.
"There's only four bucks in my wallet. My guess is it's a 'temple' for some daffy religious sect."
They went in. A fat man smiled at them from a desk in the hall. Snader said, "Meet Peter Powers. Local agent of our bureau."
The man didn't get up, but nodded comfortably and waved them toward the next room, after a glance at Snader's key.
The key opened this room's door, too. Its spring lock snapped shut after them.
The room was like a doctor's waiting room, with easy chairs along the walls. Its only peculiar aspects were a sign hanging from the middle of the ceiling and two movie screens—or were they giant television screens?—occupying a whole wall at either end of the room.
The sign bore the number 701 in bright yellow on black. Beneath it, an arrow pointed to the screen on the left with the word Ante , and to the right with the word Post .
Jeff studied the big screens. On each, a picture was in motion. One appeared to be moving through a long corridor, lined with seats like a railroad club car. The picture seemed to rush at them from the left wall. When he turned to the right, a similar endless chair-lined corridor moved toward him from that direction.
"Somebody worked hard on this layout," he said to Snader. "What's it for?"
"Time travel," said Snader. "You like?"
"Almost as good as Disneyland. These movies represent the stream of time, I suppose?"
Instead of answering, Snader pointed to the screen. The picture showed a group of people chatting in a fast-moving corridor. As it hurtled toward them, Snader flipped his hand in a genial salute. Two people in the picture waved back.
Ann gasped. "It was just as if they saw us."
"They did," Snader said. "No movie. Time travelers. In fourth dimension. To you, they look like flat picture. To them, we look flat."
"What's he supposed to be?" Jeff asked as the onrushing picture showed them briefly a figure bound hand and foot, huddled in one of the chairs. He stared at them piteously for an instant before the picture surged past.
Snader showed his teeth. "That was convict from my time. We have criminals, like in your time. But we do not kill. We make them work. Where he going? To end of line. To earliest year this time groove reach. About 600 A.D., your calendar. Authorities pick up when he get there. Put him to work."
"What kind of work?" Jeff asked.
"Building the groove further back."
"Sounds like interesting work."
Snader chortled and slapped him on the back. "Maybe you see it some day, but forget that now. You come with me. Little trip."
Jeff was perspiring. This was odder than he expected. Whatever the fakery, it was clever. His curiosity as a technician made him want to know about it. He asked Snader, "Where do you propose to go? And how?"
Snader said, "Watch me. Then look at other wall."
He moved gracefully to the screen on the left wall, stepped into it and disappeared. It was as if he had slid into opaque water.
Jeff and Ann blinked in mystification. Then they remembered his instruction to watch the other screen. They turned. After a moment, in the far distance down the long moving corridor, they could see a stocky figure. The motion of the picture brought him nearer. In a few seconds, he was recognizable as Snader—and as the picture brought him forward, he stepped down out of it and was with them again.
"Simple," Snader said. "I rode to next station. Then crossed over. Took other carrier back here."
"Brother, that's the best trick I've seen in years," Jeff said. "How did you do it? Can I do it, too?"
"I show you." Grinning like a wildcat, Snader linked his arms with Ann and Jeff, and walked them toward the screen. "Now," he said. "Step in."
Jeff submitted to Snader's pressure and stepped cautiously into the screen. Amazingly, he felt no resistance at all, no sense of change or motion. It was like stepping through a fog-bank into another room.
In fact, that was what they seemed to have done. They were in the chair-lined corridor. As Snader turned them around and seated them, they faced another moving picture screen. It seemed to rush through a dark tunnel toward a lighted square in the far distance.
The square grew on the screen. Soon they saw it was another room like the waiting room they had left, except that the number hanging from the ceiling was 702. They seemed to glide through it. Then they were in the dark tunnel again.
Ann was clutching Jeff's arm. He patted her hand. "Fun, hey? Like Alice through the looking-glass."
"You really think we're going back in time?" she whispered.
"Hardly! But we're seeing a million-dollar trick. I can't even begin to figure it out yet."
Another lighted room grew out of the tunnel on the screen, and when they had flickered through it, another and then another.
"Mr. Snader," Ann said unsteadily, "how long—how many years back are you taking us?"
Snader was humming to himself. "Six years. Station 725 fine place to stop."
For a little while, Jeff let himself think it might be true. "Six years ago, your dad was alive," he mused to Ann. "If this should somehow be real, we could see him again."
"We could if we went to our house. He lived with us then, remember? Would we see ourselves, six years younger? Or would—"
Snader took Jeff's arm and pulled him to his feet. The screen was moving through a room numbered 724.
"Soon now," Snader grunted happily. "Then no more questions."
He took an arm of each as he had before. When the screen was filled by a room with the number 725, he propelled them forward into it.
Again there was no sense of motion. They had simply stepped through a bright wall they could not feel. They found themselves in a replica of the room they had left at 701. On the wall, a picture of the continuous club-car corridor rolled toward them in a silent, endless stream.
"The same room," Ann said in disappointment. "They just changed the number. We haven't been anywhere."
Snader was fishing under his shirt for the key. He gave Ann a glance that was almost a leer. Then he carefully unlocked the door.
In the hall, a motherly old lady bustled up, but Snader brushed past her. "Official," he said, showing her the key. "No lodging."
He unlocked the front door without another word and carefully shut it behind them as Jeff and Ann followed him out of the house.
"Hey, where's my car?" Jeff demanded, looking up and down the street.
The whole street looked different. Where he had parked his roadster, there was now a long black limousine.
"Your car is in future," Snader said briskly. "Where it belong. Get in." He opened the door of the limousine.
Jeff felt a little flame of excitement licking inside him. Something was happening, he felt. Something exciting and dangerous.
"Snader," he said, "if you're kidnaping us, you made a mistake. Nobody on Earth will pay ransom for us."
Snader seemed amused. "You are foolish fellow. Silly talk about ransom. You in different time now."
"When does this gag stop?" Jeff demanded irritably. "You haven't fooled us. We're still in 1957."
"You are? Look around."
Jeff looked at the street again. He secretly admitted to himself that these were different trees and houses than he remembered. Even the telephone poles and street lights seemed peculiar, vaguely foreign-looking. It must be an elaborate practical joke. Snader had probably ushered them into one house, then through a tunnel and out another house.
"Get in," Snader said curtly.
Jeff decided to go along with the hoax or whatever it was. He could see no serious risk. He helped Ann into the back seat and sat beside her. Snader slammed the door and slid into the driver's seat. He started the engine with a roar and they rocketed away from the curb, narrowly missing another car.
Jeff yelled, "Easy, man! Look where you're going!"
Snader guffawed. "Tonight, you look where you are going."
Ann clung to Jeff. "Did you notice the house we came out of?"
"What about it?"
"It looked as though they were afraid people might try to break in. There were bars at the windows."
"Lots of houses are built that way, honey. Let's see, where are we?" He glanced at house numbers. "This is the 800 block. Remember that. And the street—" He peered up at a sign as they whirled around a corner.
"The street is Green Thru-Way. I never heard of a street like that."
III
They were headed back toward what should have been the boulevard. The car zoomed through a cloverleaf turn and up onto a broad freeway. Jeff knew for certain there was no freeway there in 1957—nor in any earlier year. But on the horizon, he could see the familiar dark bulk of the mountains. The whole line of moonlit ridges was the same as always.
"Ann," he said slowly, "I think this is for real. Somehow I guess we escaped from 1957. We've been transported in time."
She squeezed his arm. "If I'm dreaming, don't wake me! I was scared a minute ago. But now, oh, boy!"
"Likewise. But I still wonder what Snader's angle is." He leaned forward and tapped the driver on his meaty shoulder. "You brought us into the future instead of the past, didn't you?"
It was hard to know whether Snader was sleepy or just bored, but he shrugged briefly to show there was no reply coming. Then he yawned.
Jeff smiled tightly. "I guess we'll find out in good time. Let's sit back and enjoy the strangest ride of our lives."
As the limousine swept along through the traffic, there were plenty of big signs for turn-offs, but none gave any hint where they were. The names were unfamiliar. Even the language seemed grotesque. "Rite Channel for Creepers," he read. "Yaw for Torrey Rushway" flared at him from a fork in the freeway.
"This can't be the future," Ann said. "This limousine is almost new, but it doesn't even have an automatic gear shift—"
She broke off as the car shot down a ramp off the freeway and pulled up in front of an apartment house. Just beyond was a big shopping center, ablaze with lights and swarming with shoppers. Jeff did not recognize it, in spite of his familiarity with the city.
Snader bounded out, pulled open the rear door and jerked his head in a commanding gesture. But Jeff did not get out. He told Snader, "Let's have some answers before we go any further."
Snader gave him a hard grin. "You hear everything upstairs."
The building appeared harmless enough. Jeff looked thoughtfully at Ann.
She said, "It's just an apartment house. We've come this far. Might as well go in and see what's there."
Snader led them in, up to the sixth floor in an elevator and along a corridor with heavy carpets and soft gold lights. He knocked on a door.
A tall, silver-haired, important-looking man opened it and greeted them heartily.
"Solid man, Greet!" he exclaimed. "You're a real scratcher! And is this our sharp?" He gave Jeff a friendly but appraising look.
"Just what you order," Snader said proudly. "His name—Jeff Elliott. Fine sharp. Best in his circuit. He brings his lifemate, too. Ann Elliott."
The old man rubbed his smooth hands together. "Prime! I wish joy," he said to Ann and Jeff. "I'm Septo Kersey. Come in. Bullen's waiting."
He led them into a spacious drawing room with great windows looking out on the lights of the city. There was a leather chair in a corner, and in it sat a heavy man with a grim mouth. He made no move, but grunted a perfunctory "Wish joy" when Kersey introduced them. His cold eyes studied Jeff while Kersey seated them in big chairs.
Snader did not sit down, however. "No need for me now," he said, and moved toward the door with a mocking wave at Ann.
Bullen nodded. "You get the rest of your pay when Elliott proves out."
"Here, wait a minute!" Jeff called. But Snader was gone.
"Sit still," Bullen growled to Jeff. "You understand radioptics?"
The blood went to Jeff's head. "My business is television, if that's what you mean. What's this about?"
"Tell him, Kersey," the big man said, and stared out the window.
Kersey began, "You understand, I think, that you have come back in time. About six years back."
"That's a matter of opinion, but go on."
"I am general manager of Continental Radioptic Combine, owned by Mr. Dumont Bullen." He nodded toward the big man. "Chromatics have not yet been developed here in connection with radioptics. They are well understood in your time, are they not?"
"What's chromatics? Color television?"
"Exactly. You are an expert in—ah—colored television, I think."
Jeff nodded. "So what?"
The old man beamed at him. "You are here to work for our company. You will enable us to be first with chromatics in this time wave."
Jeff stood up. "Don't tell me who I'll work for."
Bullen slapped a big fist on the arm of his chair. "No fog about this! You're bought and paid for, Elliott! You'll get a fair labor contract, but you do what I say!"
"Why, the man thinks he owns you." Ann laughed shakily.
"You'll find my barmen know their law," Bullen said. "This isn't the way I like to recruit. But it was only way to get a man with your knowledge."
Kersey said politely, "You are here illegally, with no immigrate permit or citizen file. Therefore you cannot get work. But Mr. Bullen has taken an interest in your trouble. Through his influence, you can make a living. We even set aside an apartment in this building for you to live in. You are really very luxe, do you see?"
Jeff's legs felt weak. These highbinders seemed brutally confident. He wondered how he and Ann would find their way home through the strange streets. But he put on a bold front.
"I don't believe your line about time travel and I don't plan to work for you," he said. "My wife and I are walking out right now. Try and stop us, legally or any other way."
Kersey's smooth old face turned hard. But, unexpectedly, Bullen chuckled deep in his throat. "Good pop and bang. Like to see it. Go on, walk out. You hang in trouble, call up here—Butterfly 9, ask for Bullen. Whole exchange us. I'll meet you here about eleven tomorrow pre-noon."
"Don't hold your breath. Let's go, Ann."
When they were on the sidewalk, Ann took a deep breath. "We made it. For a minute, I thought there'd be a brawl. Why did they let us go?"
"No telling. Maybe they're harmless lunatics—or practical jokers." He looked over his shoulder as they walked down the street, but there was no sign of pursuit. "It's a long time since supper."
Her hand was cold in his and her face was white. To take her mind off their problem, he ambled toward the lighted shop windows.
"Look at that sign," he said, pointing to a poster over a display of neckties. "'Sleek neck-sashes, only a Dick and a dollop!' How do they expect to sell stuff with that crazy lingo?"
"It's jive talk. They must cater to the high-school crowd." Ann glanced nervously at the strolling people around them. "Jeff, where are we? This isn't any part of the city I've ever seen. It doesn't even look much like America." Her voice rose. "The way the women are dressed—it's not old-fashioned, just different."
"Baby, don't be scared. This is an adventure. Let's have fun." He pressed her hand soothingly and pulled her toward a lunch counter.
If the haberdasher's sign was jive, the restaurant spoke the same jargon. The signs on the wall and the bill of fare were baffling. Jeff pondered the list of beef shingles, scorchers, smack sticks and fruit chills, until he noticed that a couple at the counter were eating what clearly were hamburgers—though the "buns" looked more like tortillas.
Jeff jerked his thumb at them and told the waitress, "Two, please."
When the sandwiches arrived, they were ordinary enough. He and Ann ate in silence. A feeling of foreboding hung over them.
When they finished, the clerk gave him a check marked 1/20. Jeff looked at it thoughtfully, shrugged and handed it to the cashier with two dollar bills.
The man at the desk glanced at them and laughed. "Stage money, eh?"
"No, that's good money," Jeff assured him with a rather hollow smile.
"They're just new bills, that's all."
The cashier picked one up and looked at it curiously. "I'm afraid it's no good here," he said, and pushed it back.
The bottom dropped out of Jeff's stomach. "What kind of money do you want? This is all I have."
The cashier's smile faded. He caught the eye of a man in uniform on one of the stools. The uniform was dark green, but the man acted like a policeman. He loomed up beside Jeff.
"What's the rasper?" he demanded. Other customers, waiting to pay their checks, eyed Jeff curiously.
"I guess I'm in trouble," Jeff told him. "I'm a stranger here and I got something to eat under the impression that my money was legal tender. Do you know where I can exchange it?"
The officer picked up the dollar bill and fingered it with evident interest. He turned it over and studied the printing. "United States of America," he read aloud. "What are those?"
"It's the name of the country I come from," Jeff said carefully.
"I—uh—got on the wrong train, apparently, and must have come further than I thought. What's the name of this place?"
"This is Costa, West Goodland, in the Continental Federation. Say, you must come from an umpty remote part of the world if you don't know about this country." His eyes narrowed. "Where'd you learn to speak Federal, if you come from so far?"
Jeff said helplessly, "I can't explain, if you don't know about the United States. Listen, can you take me to a bank, or some place where they know about foreign exchange?"
The policeman scowled. "How'd you get into this country, anyway? You got immigrate clearance?"
An angry muttering started among the bystanders.
The policeman made up his mind. "You come with me."
At the police station, Jeff put his elbows dejectedly on the high counter while the policeman talked to an officer in charge. Some men whom Jeff took for reporters got up from a table and eased over to listen.
"I don't know whether to charge them with fakemake, bumsy, peekage or lunate," the policeman said as he finished.
His superior gave Jeff a long puzzled stare.
Jeff sighed. "I know it sounds impossible, but a man brought me in something he claimed was a time traveler. You speak the same language I do—more or less—but everything else is kind of unfamiliar. I belong in the United States, a country in North America. I can't believe I'm so far in the future that the United States has been forgotten."
There ensued a long, confused, inconclusive interrogation.
The man behind the desk asked questions which seemed stupid to Jeff and got answers which probably seemed stupid to him.
The reporters quizzed Jeff gleefully. "Come out, what are you advertising?" they kept asking. "Who got you up to this?"
The police puzzled over his driver's license and the other cards in his wallet. They asked repeatedly about the lack of a "Work License," which Jeff took to be some sort of union card. Evidently there was grave doubt that he had any legal right to be in the country.
In the end, Jeff and Ann were locked in separate cells for the night. Jeff groaned and pounded the bars as he thought of his wife, imprisoned and alone in a smelly jail. After hours of pacing the cell, he lay down in the cot and reached automatically for his silver pillbox. Then he hesitated.
In past weeks, his insomnia had grown worse and worse, so that lately he had begun taking stronger pills. After a longing glance at the big red and yellow capsules, he put the box away. Whatever tomorrow brought, it wouldn't find him slow and drowsy.
IV
He passed a wakeful night. In the early morning, he looked up to see a little man with a briefcase at his cell door.
"Wish joy, Mr. Elliott," the man said coolly. "I am one of Mr. Bullen's barmen. You know, represent at law? He sent me to arrange your release, if you are ready to be reasonable."
Jeff lay there and put his hands behind his head. "I doubt if I'm ready. I'm comfortable here. By the way, how did you know where I was?"
"No problem. When we read in this morning's newspapers about a man claiming to be a time traveler, we knew."
"All right. Now start explaining. Until I understand where I am, Bullen isn't getting me out of here."
The lawyer smiled and sat down. "Mr. Kersey told you yesterday—you've gone back six years. But you'll need some mental gymnastics to understand. Time is a dimension, not a stream of events like a movie film. A film never changes. Space does—and time does. For example, if a movie showed a burning house at Sixth and Main, would you expect to find a house burning whenever you returned to that corner?"
"You mean to say that if I went back to 1865, I wouldn't find the Civil War was over and Lincoln had been assassinated?"
"If you go back to the time you call 1865—which is most easily done—you will find that the people there know nothing of a Lincoln or that war."
Jeff looked blank. "What are they doing then?"
The little man spread his hands. "What are the people doing now at Sixth and Main? Certainly not the same things they were doing the day of the fire. We're talking about a dimension, not an event. Don't you grasp the difference between the two?"
"Nope. To me, 1865 means the end of the Civil War. How else can you speak of a point in time except by the events that happened then?"
"Well, if you go to a place in three-dimensional space—say, a lake in the mountains—how do you identify that place? By looking for landmarks. It doesn't matter that an eagle is soaring over a mountain peak. That's only an event. The peak is the landmark. You follow me?"
"So far. Keep talking."
|
Who is Tobias Whiting and what happens to him throughout the story?
|
After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about Home is Where You Left It by Stephen Marlowe.
Relevant chunks:
HOME IS WHERE YOU LEFT IT
By ADAM CHASE
[Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Amazing Stories February
1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The chance of mass slaughter was their eternal nightmare.
How black is the blackest treachery? Is the most callous
traitor entitled to mercy? Steve pondered these questions. His decision?
That at times the villain should possibly be spoken of as a hero.
Only the shells of deserted mud-brick houses greeted Steve Cantwell when
he reached the village.
He poked around in them for a while. The desert heat was searing,
parching, and the Sirian sun gleamed balefully off the blades of Steve's
unicopter, which had brought him from Oasis City, almost five hundred
miles away. He had remembered heat from his childhood here on Sirius'
second planet with the Earth colony, but not heat like this. It was like
a magnet drawing all the moisture out of his body.
He walked among the buildings, surprise and perhaps sadness etched on
his gaunt, weather-beaten face. Childhood memories flooded back: the
single well from which all the families drew their water, the mud-brick
house, hardly different from the others and just four walls and a roof
now, in which he'd lived with his aunt after his parents had been killed
in a Kumaji raid, the community center where he'd spent his happiest
time as a boy.
He went to the well and hoisted up a pailful of water. The winch creaked
as he remembered. He ladled out the water, suddenly very thirsty, and
brought the ladle to his lips.
He hurled the ladle away. The water was bitter. Not brackish.
Poisoned.
He spat with fury, then kneeled and stuffed his mouth with sand, almost
gagging. After a while he spat out the sand too and opened his canteen
and rinsed his mouth. His lips and mouth were paralyzed by contact with
the poison. He walked quickly across the well-square to his aunt's
house. Inside, it was dim but hardly cooler. Steve was sweating, the
saline sweat making him blink. He scowled, not understanding. The table
was set in his aunt's house. A coffeepot was on the stove and last
night's partially-consumed dinner still on the table.
The well had been poisoned, the town had been deserted on the spur of
the moment, and Steve had returned to his boyhood home from Earth—too
late for anything.
He went outside into the square. A lizard was sunning itself and staring
at him with lidless eyes. When he moved across the square, the lizard
scurried away.
"Earthman!" a quavering voice called.
Steve ran toward the sound. In the scant shadow of the community center,
a Kumaji was resting. He was a withered old man, all skin and bones and
sweat-stiffened tunic, with enormous red-rimmed eyes. His purple skin,
which had been blasted by the merciless sun, was almost black.
Steve held the canteen to his lips and watched his throat working almost
spasmodically to get the water down. After a while Steve withdrew the
canteen and said:
"What happened here?"
"They're gone. All gone."
"Yes, but what happened?"
"The Kumaji—"
"You're Kumaji."
"This is my town," the old man said. "I lived with the Earthmen. Now
they're gone."
"But you stayed here—"
"To die," the old man said, without self-pity. "I'm too old to flee, too
old to fight, too old for anything but death. More water."
Steve gave him another drink. "You still haven't told me what happened."
Actually, though, Steve could guess. With the twenty-second century
Earth population hovering at the eleven billion mark, colonies were
sought everywhere. Even on a parched desert wasteland like this. The
Kumaji tribesmen had never accepted the colony as a fact of their life
on the desert, and in a way Steve could not blame them. It meant one
oasis less for their own nomadic sustenance. When Steve was a boy,
Kumaji raids were frequent. At school on Earth and Luna he'd read about
the raids, how they'd increased in violence, how the Earth government,
so far away and utterly unable to protect its distant colony, had
suggested withdrawal from the Kumaji desert settlement, especially since
a colony could exist there under only the most primitive conditions,
almost like the purple-skinned Kumaji natives themselves.
"When did it happen?" Steve demanded.
"Last night." It was now midafternoon. "Three folks died," the Kumaji
said in his almost perfect English, "from the poisoning of the well. The
well was the last straw. The colonists had no choice. They had to go,
and go fast, taking what little water they had left in the houses."
"Will they try to walk all the way through to Oasis City?" Oasis City,
built at the confluence of two underground rivers which came to the
surface there and flowed the rest of the way to the sea above ground,
was almost five hundred miles from the colony. Five hundred miles of
trackless sands and hundred-and-thirty-degree heat....
"They have to," the old man said. "And they have to hurry. Men, women
and children. The Kumaji are after them."
Steve felt irrational hatred then. He thought it would help if he could
find some of the nomadic tribesmen and kill them. It might help the way
he felt, he knew, but it certainly wouldn't help the fleeing colonists,
trekking across a parched wilderness—to the safety of Oasis City—or
death.
"Come on," Steve said, making up his mind. "The unicopter can hold two
in a pinch."
"You're going after them?"
"I've got to. They're my people. I've been away too long."
"Say, you're young Cantwell, aren't you? Now I remember."
"Yes, I'm Steve Cantwell."
"I'm not going anyplace, young fellow."
"But you can't stay here, without any good water to drink, without—"
"I'm staying," the old man said, still without self-pity, just
matter-of-factly. "The Earth folks have no room for me and I can't blame
'em. The Kumaji'll kill me for a renegade, I figure. I lived a good,
long life. I've no regrets. Go after your people, young fellow. They'll
need every extra strong right arm they can get. You got any weapons?"
"No," Steve said.
"Too bad. Well, good-bye and good luck."
"But you can't—"
"Oh, I'm staying. I want to stay. This is my home. It's the only home
I'll ever have. Good luck, young fellow."
Slowly, Steve walked to his unicopter. It was nothing more than a small
metal disk on which to stand, and a shaft with four turbo-blades. It
could do sixty miles an hour at an elevation of two thousand feet.
Steve turned the little turbo-jet engine over, then on impulse ran back
to the old man and gave him his canteen, turning away before it could be
refused and striding quickly back to the unicopter and getting himself
airborne without looking at the deserted village or the old man again.
The old man's voice called after him: "Tell the people ... hurry ...
Kumaji looking for them to kill ... desert wind ought to wipe out their
trail ... but hurry...."
The voice faded into the faint rushing sound of the hot desert wind.
Steve gazed down on bare sun-blasted rock, on rippled dunes, on
hate-haze. He circled wider and wider, seeking his people.
Hours later he spotted the caravan in the immensity of sand and
wasteland. He brought the unicopter down quickly, with a rush of air and
a whine of turbojets. He alighted in the sand in front of the
slow-moving column. It was like something out of Earth's Middle
East—and Middle Ages. They had even imported camels for their life here
on the Sirian desert, deciding the Earth camel was a better beast of
burden than anything the Sirius II wastelands had to offer. They walked
beside the great-humped beasts of burden, the animals piled high with
the swaying baggage of their belongings. They moved through the sands
with agonizing slowness. Already, after only one day's travel, Steve
could see that some of the people were spent and exhausted and had to
ride on camelback. They had gone perhaps fifteen miles, with almost five
hundred to go across searing desert, the Kumaji seeking them....
"Hullo!" Steve shouted, and a man armed with an atorifle came striding
clumsily through the sand toward him. "Cantwell's the name," Steve said.
"I'm one of you."
Bleak hostility in his face, the man approached. "Cantwell. Yeah, I
remember you. Colony wasn't good enough for young Steve Cantwell. Oh,
no. Had to go off to Earth to get himself educated. What are you doing
here now on that fancy aircraft of yours, coming to crow at our wake?"
The bitterness surprised Steve. He recognized the man now as Tobias
Whiting, who had been the Colony's most successful man when Steve was a
boy. Except for his bitterness and for the bleak self-pity and defeat in
his eyes, the years had been good to Tobias Whiting. He was probably in
his mid-forties now, twenty years Steve's senior, but he was
well-muscled, his flesh was solid, his step bold and strong. He was a
big muscular man with a craggy, handsome face. In ten years he had
hardly changed at all, while Steve Cantwell, the boy, had become Steve
Cantwell the man. He had been the Colony's official trader with the
Kumajis, and had grown rich—by colony standards—at his business. Now,
Steve realized, all that was behind him, and he could only flee with the
others—either back to the terribly crowded Earth or on in search of a
new colony on some other outworld, if they could get the transportation.
Perhaps that explained his bitterness.
"So you've come back, eh? You sure picked a time, Cantwell."
The refugees were still about a quarter of a mile off, coming up slowly.
They hardly seemed to be moving at all. "Is my aunt all right?" Steve
said. She was the only family he remembered.
Tobias Whiting shook his head slowly. "I hate to be the one to tell you
this. Brace yourself for a shock. Your aunt was one of those who died
from the poisoned water last night."
For a long moment, Steve said nothing. The only emotion he felt was
pity—pity for the hard life his aunt had lived, and the hard death.
Sadness would come later, if there was to be a time for sadness.
The caravan reached them then. The first person Steve saw was a girl.
She wore the shroud-like desert garment and her face—it would be a
pretty face under other circumstances, Steve realized—was etched with
lines of fatigue. Steve did not recognize her. "Who is he, Dad?" the
girl said.
"Young Cantwell. Remember?"
So this was Mary Whiting, Steve thought. Why, she'd been a moppet ten
years ago! How old? Ten years old maybe. The years crowded him suddenly.
She was a woman now....
"Steve Cantwell?" Mary said. "Of course I remember. Hello, Steve. I—I'm
sorry you had to come back at a time like this. I'm sorry about your
aunt. If there's anything I can do...."
Steve shook his head, then shook the hand she offered him. She was a
slim, strong girl with a firm handshake. Her concern for him at a time
like this was little short of amazing, especially since it was
completely genuine.
He appreciated it.
Tobias Whiting said: "Shame of it is, Cantwell, some of us could get
along with the Kumaji. I had a pretty good business here, you know
that." He looked with bitterness at the dusty file of refugees. "But I
never got a credit out of it. Wherever we wind up, my girl and I will be
poor again. We could have been rich."
Steve asked, "What happened to all your profits?"
"Tied up with a Kumaji moneylender, but thanks to what happened I'll
never see it again."
Mary winced, as if her father's words and his self-pity were painful to
her. Then others came up and a few minutes were spent in back-pounding
and hand-shaking as some of the men who had been boys with Steve came up
to recognize and be recognized. Their greeting was warm, as Tobias
Whiting's had been cool. Despite the knowledge of what lay behind all of
them, and what still lay ahead, it was a little like homecoming.
But Steve liked Mary Whiting's warm, friendly smile best of all. It was
comforting and reassuring.
Three days later, Tobias Whiting disappeared.
The caravan had been making no more than ten or fifteen miles a day.
Their water supply was almost gone but on the fourth day they hoped to
reach an oasis in the desert. Two of the older folks had died of
fatigue. A third was critically ill and there was little that could be
done for him. The food supply was running short, but they could always
slaughter their camels for food and make their way to Oasis City, still
four hundred and some miles away, with nothing but the clothes on their
backs.
And then, during the fourth night, Tobias Whiting disappeared, taking
Steve's unicopter. A sentry had heard the low muffled whine of the
turbojets during the night and had seen the small craft take off, but
had assumed Steve had taken it up for some reason. Each day Steve had
done so, reconnoitering for signs of the Kumaji.
"But why?" someone asked. "Why?"
At first there was no answer. Then a woman whose husband had died the
day before said: "It's no secret Whiting has plenty of money—with the
Kumaji."
None of them looked at Mary. She stood there defiantly, not saying
anything, and Steve squeezed her hand.
"Now, wait a minute," one of Whiting's friends said.
"Wait, nothing." This was Jeremy Gort, who twice had been mayor of the
colony. "I know how Whiting's mind works. He slaved all his life for
that money, that's the way he'll see it. Cantwell, didn't you say the
Kumaji were looking for us, to kill us?"
"That's what I was told," Steve said.
"All right," Gort went on relentlessly. "Then this is what I figure must
have happened. Whiting got to brooding over his lost fortune and finally
decided he had to have it. So, he went off at night in Cantwell's
'copter, determined to get it. Only catch is, folks, if I know the
Kumaji, they won't just give it to him—not by a long sight."
"No?" someone asked.
"No sir. They'll trade. For our location. And if Whiting went off like
that without even saying good-bye to his girl here, my guess is he'll
make the trade." His voice reflected some bitterness.
Mary went to Gort and slapped his face. The elderly man did not even
blink. "Well," he asked her gently, "did your pa tell you he was going?"
"N-no," Mary said. There were tears in her eyes, but she did not cry.
Gort turned to Steve. "Cantwell, can he get far in that 'copter?"
Steve shook his head. "Ten or fifteen miles is all. Almost out of fuel,
Mr. Gort. You saw how I took her up for only a quick mile swing each
day. He won't get far."
"He'll crash in the desert?"
"Crash or crash-land," Steve said.
Mary sobbed, and bit her lip, and was silent.
"We've got to stop him," Gort said. "And fast. If he gets to the Kumaji,
they'll send down a raiding party and we'll be finished. We could never
fight them off without the protection of our village. Near as I can
figure, there's a Kumaji base fifty miles due north of here. Whiting
knows it too, so that's where he'll be going, I figure. Can't spare more
than a couple of men to look for him, though, in case the Kumaji find
us—or are led to us—and attack."
Steve said, "I should have taken something out of the 'copter every
night, so it couldn't start. I'll go."
Mary came forward boldly. "I have to go. He's my father. If he crashed
out there, he may be hurt. He may be—dying."
Gort looked at her. "And if he's trying to sell us out to the Kumajis?"
"Then—then I'll do whatever Steve asks me to. I promise."
"That's good enough for me," Steve said.
A few minutes later, armed with atorifles and their share of the food
and water that was left, Steve and Mary set out northward across the
sand while the caravan continued east. Fear of what they might find
mounted.
The first night, they camped in the lee of low sandhills. The second
night they found a small spring with brackish but drinkable water. On
the third day, having covered half the distance to the Kumaji
settlement, they began to encounter Kumaji patrols, on foot or thlotback , the six-legged desert animals running so swiftly over the
sands and so low to the ground that they almost seemed to be gliding.
Steve and Mary hardly spoke. Talk was unnecessary. But slowly a bond
grew between them. Steve liked this slim silent girl who had come out
here with him risking her life although she must have known deep in her
heart that her father had almost certainly decided to turn traitor in
order to regain his fortune.
On the fourth day, they spotted the unicopter from a long way off and
made their way toward it. It had come much further than Steve had
expected. With sinking heart he realized that Tobias Whiting, if he
escaped the crash-landing without injury, must surely have reached the
Kumaji encampment by now.
"It doesn't seem badly damaged," Mary said.
The platform had buckled slightly, the 'copter was tilted over, one of
the rotors twisted, its end buried in sand. Tobias Whiting wasn't there.
"No," Steve said. "It's hardly damaged at all. Your father got out of it
all right."
"To go—to them?"
"I think so, Mary. I don't want to pass judgment until we're sure. I'm
sorry."
"Oh, Steve! Steve! What will we do? What can we do?"
"Find him, if it isn't too late. Come on."
"North?"
"North."
"And if by some miracle we find him?"
Steve said nothing. The answer—capture or death—was obvious. But you
couldn't tell that to a traitor's daughter, could you?
As it turned out, they did not find Tobias Whiting through their own
efforts. Half an hour after setting out from the unicopter, they were
spotted by a roving band of Kumajis, who came streaking toward them on
their thlots . Mary raised her atorifle, but Steve struck the barrel
aside. "They'd kill us," he said. "We can only surrender."
They were hobbled and led painfully across the sand. They were taken
that way to a small Kumaji encampment, and thrust within a circular
tent.
Tobias Whiting was in there.
"Mary!" he cried. "My God! Mary...."
"We came for you, Dad," she said coldly. "To stop you. To ... to kill
you if necessary."
"Mary...."
"Oh, Dad, why did you do it? Why?"
"We couldn't start all over again, could we? You have a right to live
the sort of life I planned for you. You...."
"Whiting," Steve said, "did you tell them yet?"
"No. No, I haven't. I have information to trade, sure. But I want to
make sure it's going to the right people. I want to get our...."
"Dad! Our money, and all those deaths?"
"It doesn't matter now. I—I had changed my mind, Mary. Truly. But now,
now that you're a prisoner, what if I don't talk? Don't you see, they'll
torture you. They'll make you talk. And that way—we get nothing. I
couldn't stand to see them hurt you."
"They can do—what they think they have to do. I'll tell them nothing."
"You won't have to," Whiting said. "I'll tell them when we reach the
larger settlement. They're taking us there tomorrow, they told me."
"Then we've got to get out of here tonight," Steve said.
The low sun cast the shadow of their guard against the thlot skin wall
of their tent. He was a single man, armed with a long, pike-like weapon.
When darkness came, if the guard were not increased....
They were brought a pasty gruel for their supper, and ate in silence and
distaste, ate because they needed the strength. Mary said, "Dad, I don't
want you to tell them anything. Dad, please. If you thought you were
doing it for me...."
"I've made up my mind," Tobias Whiting said.
Mary turned to Steve, in despair. "Steve," she said. "Steve.
Do—whatever you have to do. I—I'll understand."
Steve didn't answer her. Wasn't Whiting right now? he thought. If Steve
silenced him, wouldn't the Kumaji torture them for the information?
Steve could stand up to it perhaps—but he couldn't stand to see them
hurt Mary. He'd talk if they did that....
Then silencing Whiting wasn't the answer. But the Kumajis had one
willing prisoner and two unwilling ones. They knew that. If the willing
one yelled for help but the yelling was kept to a minimum so only one
guard, the man outside, came....
Darkness in the Kumaji encampment.
Far off, a lone tribesman singing a chant old as the desert.
"Are you asleep?" Mary asked.
"No," Steve said.
"Dad is. Listen to the way he's breathing—like a baby. As if—as if he
wasn't going to betray all our people. Oh, I hate him, I hate him!"
Steve crawled to where the older man was sleeping. Tobias Whiting's
voice surprised him. "I'm not asleep. I was thinking. I—"
"I'm going to kill you," Steve said very softly, and sprang at Whiting.
He paused, though. It was a calculated pause, and Whiting cried out as
Steve had hoped he would. Then his hands found the older man's throat
and closed there—not to kill him but to keep him from crying out again.
Sand stirred, the tentflap lifted, and a bulky figure rushed inside.
Steve got up, met him halfway, felt the jarring contact of their bodies.
The pike came up dimly in the darkness, the point scraping against
Steve's ribs as the guard lunged awkwardly. Steve's fingers sought the
thick-muscled neck, clamped there—squeezing.
The guard writhed. His feet drummed the sand. With one hand he stabbed
out wildly with the unwieldy pike. There was a cry from Mary and the
guard managed a low squawking noise. Outside, the rest of the camp
seemed undisturbed. There was death in Steve's strong tightening
fingers. There had to be death there. Death for the Kumaji guard—or
death for the fleeing Earthmen, who had lost one colony and must seek
another.
They fell together on the sand, the guard still struggling. Steve
couldn't release his throat to grab the pike. The guard stabbed out
awkwardly, blindly with it, kicking up sand. Then Tobias Whiting moaned,
but Steve hardly heard him.
When the guard's legs stopped drumming, Steve released him. The man was
either dead or so close to death that he would be out for hours. Steve
had never killed a man before, had never in violence and with intent to
kill attacked a man....
"Steve!"
It was Mary, calling his name and crying.
"It's Dad. Dad was—hit. The pike, a wild stab. He's hit bad—"
Steve crawled over to them. It was very dark. He could barely make out
Tobias Whiting's pain-contorted face.
"My stomach," Whiting said, gasping for breath. "The pain...."
Steve probed with his hands, found the wound. Blood was rushing out. He
couldn't stop it and he knew it and he thought Whiting knew it too. He
touched Mary's hand, and held it. Mary sobbed against him, crying
softly.
"You two ..." Whiting gasped. "You two ... Mary, Mary girl. Is—he—what
you want?"
"Yes, Dad. Oh, yes!"
"You can get her out of here, Cantwell?"
"I think so," Steve said.
"Then go. Go while you can. I'll tell them—due south. The Earthmen are
heading due south. They'll go—south. They won't find the caravan.
You'll—all—get away. If it's—what you want, Mary."
She leaned away from Steve, kissing her father. She asked Steve: "Isn't
there anything we can do for him?"
Steve shook his head. "But he's got to live long enough to tell them, to
deceive them."
"I'll live long enough," Whiting said, and Steve knew then that he
would. "Luck to—all of you. From a—very foolish—man...."
Steve took Mary's hand and pulled her out into the hot, dark, wind-blown
night. He carried the dead Kumaji's pike and they slipped across the
sand to where the thlots were hobbled for the night. He hardly
remembered the rest of it. There was violence and death, but necessary
death. He killed a man with the pike, and unhobbled one of the thlots .
The animal screamed and two more Kumajis came sleepily through the night
to see what was the matter. With the long edge of the pike's blade he
decapitated one of them. He slammed the shaft of the weapon across the
other's face, probably breaking his jaw. The camp was in a turmoil. In
the darkness he flung Mary on the thlot's bare back in front of him,
and they glided off across the sand.
Pursuit was disorganized—and unsuccessful. It was too dark for
effective pursuit, as Steve had hoped it would be. They rode swiftly all
night and continued riding with the dawn. They could have gone in any
direction. The wind-driven sand would obliterate their trail.
Two days later they reached the caravan. As they rode up, Mary said,
"Steve, do you have to tell them?"
"We can tell them this," Steve said. "Your father died a hero's death,
sending the Kumajis off in the wrong direction."
"And not—not what he'd planned to do at first."
"No. We'll tell them that was his intention all the while. A man can
make a mistake, can't he?"
"I love you, Steve. I love you."
Then they rode down on the caravan. Somehow Steve knew they would all
reach Oasis City in safety.
With Mary he would find a new world out in the vastness of space.
Question:
Who is Tobias Whiting and what happens to him throughout the story?
Answer:
|
[
"Tobias is a well-muscled, handsome man in his mid-forties. He is the Colony’s official trader with the Kumajis. Steve believed him to have been the most successful man in the Colony before the events of the story. The water in his village gets poisoned by the Kumaji. He, together with his daughter and other citizens, is forced to abandon his home and walk through the desert to Oasis City, leaving all his treasures and assets behind. The Kumajis are trying to chase them and kill the Colony. At some point in their journey, he meets Steve, who found the caravan on his unicopter. Several days later, Tobias decides to steal the unicopter and fly to the Kumaji’s base fifty miles due north of their stop and trade the caravan’s location for his money. He’s kept in one of the tents, and soon Mary and Steve join him. Now that his daughter is a prisoner, he’s eager to share the location of the caravan and save her from torture. At night Steve whispers that he will kill Tobias, and the man screams. Steve quickly silences him and attacks the coming guard. The Kumaji loses the battle with Steve but stabs Tobias in the stomach. He realizes that he won’t be able to leave the camp alive, so he blesses Mary and Steve and promises to give the Kumaji the wrong direction and save the caravan.",
"Tobias Whiting is the father of Mary Whiting. He is described to be the colony’s most successful man when Steve was a boy. However, there is now bitterness, bleak self-pity, and defeat evident in his eyes. Physically, he is in his mid-forties now. He is well-muscled, flesh solid, and walks with bold steps. He also has a craggy and handsome face. Tobias used to be very rich, by the colony standards, because he primarily traded with the Kumajis. Now, he has lost all of his money to them. He deeply cares for his daughter Mary, taking good care of her when they have to flee with the rest of the colony. Tobias, however, decides to steal Steven’s unicopter to go back to the Kumaji under the guise of getting his fortune back. When they meet him at the camp, he tells them that he is discussing a settlement with the Kumaji. Later, Tobias is gravely injured by the pike of the guard after he is attacked by Steve. He still wishes nothing but for Mary’s happiness, so he tells Steve to take her south with the rest of the colony. He says that he will give the Kumaji false information to better help the colony escape. ",
"Tobias Whiting is a mid-fourties Earthman who belonged to the colony in the desert. He is described to be well-muscled with a strong stride and a handsome face. He has a daughter, Mary Whiting. Whiting was the Colony's official trader with the Kumajis and had grown rich because of his business with them. Despite this relationship with the Kumajis, he and his daughter were forced to escape with the rest of their colony. He remains bitter over the fact that wherever the colony escapes to, he and his daughter will be poor even with their supposed riches, which are tied up with a Kumaji moneylender. \n\nIn the middle of the journey, Whiting disappears with Cantwell's unicopter. It is deduced that he took off with the unicopter with the intention of informing the Kumajis, at a base not too far away, of the caravan's location in return for his money. Whiting successfully makes it to the Kumajis' base, and after running into his daughter and Cantwell, he remains steadfast on his decision because they might choose to torture his daughter for information. After a scuffle with the Kumaji guard, Whiting is fatally stabbed on accident by the guard's pike. Knowing he will soon die, Whiting promises to lead the Kumajis astray with the wrong information and wishes his daughter and Cantwell off. ",
"Tobias Whiting is one of the humans who settled on the desert planet, and who was a constant victim of the natives’ violence. Tobias and his daughter Mary are also part of the survivors of the last attack, which forces them to move away towards a large city. Tobias is revealed to have been a very wealthy man, and had a lot of business with the natives. After Steve meets up with them, Tobias decides to steal Steve’s ship and negotiate with the natives who were hunting them. Steve wants to get his money back in return for giving up the location of the other humans. After Steve and Mary find him, he dies while they try to escape, but just before dying he changes his mind and sends the natives to the wrong location. "
] |
32890
|
HOME IS WHERE YOU LEFT IT
By ADAM CHASE
[Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Amazing Stories February
1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The chance of mass slaughter was their eternal nightmare.
How black is the blackest treachery? Is the most callous
traitor entitled to mercy? Steve pondered these questions. His decision?
That at times the villain should possibly be spoken of as a hero.
Only the shells of deserted mud-brick houses greeted Steve Cantwell when
he reached the village.
He poked around in them for a while. The desert heat was searing,
parching, and the Sirian sun gleamed balefully off the blades of Steve's
unicopter, which had brought him from Oasis City, almost five hundred
miles away. He had remembered heat from his childhood here on Sirius'
second planet with the Earth colony, but not heat like this. It was like
a magnet drawing all the moisture out of his body.
He walked among the buildings, surprise and perhaps sadness etched on
his gaunt, weather-beaten face. Childhood memories flooded back: the
single well from which all the families drew their water, the mud-brick
house, hardly different from the others and just four walls and a roof
now, in which he'd lived with his aunt after his parents had been killed
in a Kumaji raid, the community center where he'd spent his happiest
time as a boy.
He went to the well and hoisted up a pailful of water. The winch creaked
as he remembered. He ladled out the water, suddenly very thirsty, and
brought the ladle to his lips.
He hurled the ladle away. The water was bitter. Not brackish.
Poisoned.
He spat with fury, then kneeled and stuffed his mouth with sand, almost
gagging. After a while he spat out the sand too and opened his canteen
and rinsed his mouth. His lips and mouth were paralyzed by contact with
the poison. He walked quickly across the well-square to his aunt's
house. Inside, it was dim but hardly cooler. Steve was sweating, the
saline sweat making him blink. He scowled, not understanding. The table
was set in his aunt's house. A coffeepot was on the stove and last
night's partially-consumed dinner still on the table.
The well had been poisoned, the town had been deserted on the spur of
the moment, and Steve had returned to his boyhood home from Earth—too
late for anything.
He went outside into the square. A lizard was sunning itself and staring
at him with lidless eyes. When he moved across the square, the lizard
scurried away.
"Earthman!" a quavering voice called.
Steve ran toward the sound. In the scant shadow of the community center,
a Kumaji was resting. He was a withered old man, all skin and bones and
sweat-stiffened tunic, with enormous red-rimmed eyes. His purple skin,
which had been blasted by the merciless sun, was almost black.
Steve held the canteen to his lips and watched his throat working almost
spasmodically to get the water down. After a while Steve withdrew the
canteen and said:
"What happened here?"
"They're gone. All gone."
"Yes, but what happened?"
"The Kumaji—"
"You're Kumaji."
"This is my town," the old man said. "I lived with the Earthmen. Now
they're gone."
"But you stayed here—"
"To die," the old man said, without self-pity. "I'm too old to flee, too
old to fight, too old for anything but death. More water."
Steve gave him another drink. "You still haven't told me what happened."
Actually, though, Steve could guess. With the twenty-second century
Earth population hovering at the eleven billion mark, colonies were
sought everywhere. Even on a parched desert wasteland like this. The
Kumaji tribesmen had never accepted the colony as a fact of their life
on the desert, and in a way Steve could not blame them. It meant one
oasis less for their own nomadic sustenance. When Steve was a boy,
Kumaji raids were frequent. At school on Earth and Luna he'd read about
the raids, how they'd increased in violence, how the Earth government,
so far away and utterly unable to protect its distant colony, had
suggested withdrawal from the Kumaji desert settlement, especially since
a colony could exist there under only the most primitive conditions,
almost like the purple-skinned Kumaji natives themselves.
"When did it happen?" Steve demanded.
"Last night." It was now midafternoon. "Three folks died," the Kumaji
said in his almost perfect English, "from the poisoning of the well. The
well was the last straw. The colonists had no choice. They had to go,
and go fast, taking what little water they had left in the houses."
"Will they try to walk all the way through to Oasis City?" Oasis City,
built at the confluence of two underground rivers which came to the
surface there and flowed the rest of the way to the sea above ground,
was almost five hundred miles from the colony. Five hundred miles of
trackless sands and hundred-and-thirty-degree heat....
"They have to," the old man said. "And they have to hurry. Men, women
and children. The Kumaji are after them."
Steve felt irrational hatred then. He thought it would help if he could
find some of the nomadic tribesmen and kill them. It might help the way
he felt, he knew, but it certainly wouldn't help the fleeing colonists,
trekking across a parched wilderness—to the safety of Oasis City—or
death.
"Come on," Steve said, making up his mind. "The unicopter can hold two
in a pinch."
"You're going after them?"
"I've got to. They're my people. I've been away too long."
"Say, you're young Cantwell, aren't you? Now I remember."
"Yes, I'm Steve Cantwell."
"I'm not going anyplace, young fellow."
"But you can't stay here, without any good water to drink, without—"
"I'm staying," the old man said, still without self-pity, just
matter-of-factly. "The Earth folks have no room for me and I can't blame
'em. The Kumaji'll kill me for a renegade, I figure. I lived a good,
long life. I've no regrets. Go after your people, young fellow. They'll
need every extra strong right arm they can get. You got any weapons?"
"No," Steve said.
"Too bad. Well, good-bye and good luck."
"But you can't—"
"Oh, I'm staying. I want to stay. This is my home. It's the only home
I'll ever have. Good luck, young fellow."
Slowly, Steve walked to his unicopter. It was nothing more than a small
metal disk on which to stand, and a shaft with four turbo-blades. It
could do sixty miles an hour at an elevation of two thousand feet.
Steve turned the little turbo-jet engine over, then on impulse ran back
to the old man and gave him his canteen, turning away before it could be
refused and striding quickly back to the unicopter and getting himself
airborne without looking at the deserted village or the old man again.
The old man's voice called after him: "Tell the people ... hurry ...
Kumaji looking for them to kill ... desert wind ought to wipe out their
trail ... but hurry...."
The voice faded into the faint rushing sound of the hot desert wind.
Steve gazed down on bare sun-blasted rock, on rippled dunes, on
hate-haze. He circled wider and wider, seeking his people.
Hours later he spotted the caravan in the immensity of sand and
wasteland. He brought the unicopter down quickly, with a rush of air and
a whine of turbojets. He alighted in the sand in front of the
slow-moving column. It was like something out of Earth's Middle
East—and Middle Ages. They had even imported camels for their life here
on the Sirian desert, deciding the Earth camel was a better beast of
burden than anything the Sirius II wastelands had to offer. They walked
beside the great-humped beasts of burden, the animals piled high with
the swaying baggage of their belongings. They moved through the sands
with agonizing slowness. Already, after only one day's travel, Steve
could see that some of the people were spent and exhausted and had to
ride on camelback. They had gone perhaps fifteen miles, with almost five
hundred to go across searing desert, the Kumaji seeking them....
"Hullo!" Steve shouted, and a man armed with an atorifle came striding
clumsily through the sand toward him. "Cantwell's the name," Steve said.
"I'm one of you."
Bleak hostility in his face, the man approached. "Cantwell. Yeah, I
remember you. Colony wasn't good enough for young Steve Cantwell. Oh,
no. Had to go off to Earth to get himself educated. What are you doing
here now on that fancy aircraft of yours, coming to crow at our wake?"
The bitterness surprised Steve. He recognized the man now as Tobias
Whiting, who had been the Colony's most successful man when Steve was a
boy. Except for his bitterness and for the bleak self-pity and defeat in
his eyes, the years had been good to Tobias Whiting. He was probably in
his mid-forties now, twenty years Steve's senior, but he was
well-muscled, his flesh was solid, his step bold and strong. He was a
big muscular man with a craggy, handsome face. In ten years he had
hardly changed at all, while Steve Cantwell, the boy, had become Steve
Cantwell the man. He had been the Colony's official trader with the
Kumajis, and had grown rich—by colony standards—at his business. Now,
Steve realized, all that was behind him, and he could only flee with the
others—either back to the terribly crowded Earth or on in search of a
new colony on some other outworld, if they could get the transportation.
Perhaps that explained his bitterness.
"So you've come back, eh? You sure picked a time, Cantwell."
The refugees were still about a quarter of a mile off, coming up slowly.
They hardly seemed to be moving at all. "Is my aunt all right?" Steve
said. She was the only family he remembered.
Tobias Whiting shook his head slowly. "I hate to be the one to tell you
this. Brace yourself for a shock. Your aunt was one of those who died
from the poisoned water last night."
For a long moment, Steve said nothing. The only emotion he felt was
pity—pity for the hard life his aunt had lived, and the hard death.
Sadness would come later, if there was to be a time for sadness.
The caravan reached them then. The first person Steve saw was a girl.
She wore the shroud-like desert garment and her face—it would be a
pretty face under other circumstances, Steve realized—was etched with
lines of fatigue. Steve did not recognize her. "Who is he, Dad?" the
girl said.
"Young Cantwell. Remember?"
So this was Mary Whiting, Steve thought. Why, she'd been a moppet ten
years ago! How old? Ten years old maybe. The years crowded him suddenly.
She was a woman now....
"Steve Cantwell?" Mary said. "Of course I remember. Hello, Steve. I—I'm
sorry you had to come back at a time like this. I'm sorry about your
aunt. If there's anything I can do...."
Steve shook his head, then shook the hand she offered him. She was a
slim, strong girl with a firm handshake. Her concern for him at a time
like this was little short of amazing, especially since it was
completely genuine.
He appreciated it.
Tobias Whiting said: "Shame of it is, Cantwell, some of us could get
along with the Kumaji. I had a pretty good business here, you know
that." He looked with bitterness at the dusty file of refugees. "But I
never got a credit out of it. Wherever we wind up, my girl and I will be
poor again. We could have been rich."
Steve asked, "What happened to all your profits?"
"Tied up with a Kumaji moneylender, but thanks to what happened I'll
never see it again."
Mary winced, as if her father's words and his self-pity were painful to
her. Then others came up and a few minutes were spent in back-pounding
and hand-shaking as some of the men who had been boys with Steve came up
to recognize and be recognized. Their greeting was warm, as Tobias
Whiting's had been cool. Despite the knowledge of what lay behind all of
them, and what still lay ahead, it was a little like homecoming.
But Steve liked Mary Whiting's warm, friendly smile best of all. It was
comforting and reassuring.
Three days later, Tobias Whiting disappeared.
The caravan had been making no more than ten or fifteen miles a day.
Their water supply was almost gone but on the fourth day they hoped to
reach an oasis in the desert. Two of the older folks had died of
fatigue. A third was critically ill and there was little that could be
done for him. The food supply was running short, but they could always
slaughter their camels for food and make their way to Oasis City, still
four hundred and some miles away, with nothing but the clothes on their
backs.
And then, during the fourth night, Tobias Whiting disappeared, taking
Steve's unicopter. A sentry had heard the low muffled whine of the
turbojets during the night and had seen the small craft take off, but
had assumed Steve had taken it up for some reason. Each day Steve had
done so, reconnoitering for signs of the Kumaji.
"But why?" someone asked. "Why?"
At first there was no answer. Then a woman whose husband had died the
day before said: "It's no secret Whiting has plenty of money—with the
Kumaji."
None of them looked at Mary. She stood there defiantly, not saying
anything, and Steve squeezed her hand.
"Now, wait a minute," one of Whiting's friends said.
"Wait, nothing." This was Jeremy Gort, who twice had been mayor of the
colony. "I know how Whiting's mind works. He slaved all his life for
that money, that's the way he'll see it. Cantwell, didn't you say the
Kumaji were looking for us, to kill us?"
"That's what I was told," Steve said.
"All right," Gort went on relentlessly. "Then this is what I figure must
have happened. Whiting got to brooding over his lost fortune and finally
decided he had to have it. So, he went off at night in Cantwell's
'copter, determined to get it. Only catch is, folks, if I know the
Kumaji, they won't just give it to him—not by a long sight."
"No?" someone asked.
"No sir. They'll trade. For our location. And if Whiting went off like
that without even saying good-bye to his girl here, my guess is he'll
make the trade." His voice reflected some bitterness.
Mary went to Gort and slapped his face. The elderly man did not even
blink. "Well," he asked her gently, "did your pa tell you he was going?"
"N-no," Mary said. There were tears in her eyes, but she did not cry.
Gort turned to Steve. "Cantwell, can he get far in that 'copter?"
Steve shook his head. "Ten or fifteen miles is all. Almost out of fuel,
Mr. Gort. You saw how I took her up for only a quick mile swing each
day. He won't get far."
"He'll crash in the desert?"
"Crash or crash-land," Steve said.
Mary sobbed, and bit her lip, and was silent.
"We've got to stop him," Gort said. "And fast. If he gets to the Kumaji,
they'll send down a raiding party and we'll be finished. We could never
fight them off without the protection of our village. Near as I can
figure, there's a Kumaji base fifty miles due north of here. Whiting
knows it too, so that's where he'll be going, I figure. Can't spare more
than a couple of men to look for him, though, in case the Kumaji find
us—or are led to us—and attack."
Steve said, "I should have taken something out of the 'copter every
night, so it couldn't start. I'll go."
Mary came forward boldly. "I have to go. He's my father. If he crashed
out there, he may be hurt. He may be—dying."
Gort looked at her. "And if he's trying to sell us out to the Kumajis?"
"Then—then I'll do whatever Steve asks me to. I promise."
"That's good enough for me," Steve said.
A few minutes later, armed with atorifles and their share of the food
and water that was left, Steve and Mary set out northward across the
sand while the caravan continued east. Fear of what they might find
mounted.
The first night, they camped in the lee of low sandhills. The second
night they found a small spring with brackish but drinkable water. On
the third day, having covered half the distance to the Kumaji
settlement, they began to encounter Kumaji patrols, on foot or thlotback , the six-legged desert animals running so swiftly over the
sands and so low to the ground that they almost seemed to be gliding.
Steve and Mary hardly spoke. Talk was unnecessary. But slowly a bond
grew between them. Steve liked this slim silent girl who had come out
here with him risking her life although she must have known deep in her
heart that her father had almost certainly decided to turn traitor in
order to regain his fortune.
On the fourth day, they spotted the unicopter from a long way off and
made their way toward it. It had come much further than Steve had
expected. With sinking heart he realized that Tobias Whiting, if he
escaped the crash-landing without injury, must surely have reached the
Kumaji encampment by now.
"It doesn't seem badly damaged," Mary said.
The platform had buckled slightly, the 'copter was tilted over, one of
the rotors twisted, its end buried in sand. Tobias Whiting wasn't there.
"No," Steve said. "It's hardly damaged at all. Your father got out of it
all right."
"To go—to them?"
"I think so, Mary. I don't want to pass judgment until we're sure. I'm
sorry."
"Oh, Steve! Steve! What will we do? What can we do?"
"Find him, if it isn't too late. Come on."
"North?"
"North."
"And if by some miracle we find him?"
Steve said nothing. The answer—capture or death—was obvious. But you
couldn't tell that to a traitor's daughter, could you?
As it turned out, they did not find Tobias Whiting through their own
efforts. Half an hour after setting out from the unicopter, they were
spotted by a roving band of Kumajis, who came streaking toward them on
their thlots . Mary raised her atorifle, but Steve struck the barrel
aside. "They'd kill us," he said. "We can only surrender."
They were hobbled and led painfully across the sand. They were taken
that way to a small Kumaji encampment, and thrust within a circular
tent.
Tobias Whiting was in there.
"Mary!" he cried. "My God! Mary...."
"We came for you, Dad," she said coldly. "To stop you. To ... to kill
you if necessary."
"Mary...."
"Oh, Dad, why did you do it? Why?"
"We couldn't start all over again, could we? You have a right to live
the sort of life I planned for you. You...."
"Whiting," Steve said, "did you tell them yet?"
"No. No, I haven't. I have information to trade, sure. But I want to
make sure it's going to the right people. I want to get our...."
"Dad! Our money, and all those deaths?"
"It doesn't matter now. I—I had changed my mind, Mary. Truly. But now,
now that you're a prisoner, what if I don't talk? Don't you see, they'll
torture you. They'll make you talk. And that way—we get nothing. I
couldn't stand to see them hurt you."
"They can do—what they think they have to do. I'll tell them nothing."
"You won't have to," Whiting said. "I'll tell them when we reach the
larger settlement. They're taking us there tomorrow, they told me."
"Then we've got to get out of here tonight," Steve said.
The low sun cast the shadow of their guard against the thlot skin wall
of their tent. He was a single man, armed with a long, pike-like weapon.
When darkness came, if the guard were not increased....
They were brought a pasty gruel for their supper, and ate in silence and
distaste, ate because they needed the strength. Mary said, "Dad, I don't
want you to tell them anything. Dad, please. If you thought you were
doing it for me...."
"I've made up my mind," Tobias Whiting said.
Mary turned to Steve, in despair. "Steve," she said. "Steve.
Do—whatever you have to do. I—I'll understand."
Steve didn't answer her. Wasn't Whiting right now? he thought. If Steve
silenced him, wouldn't the Kumaji torture them for the information?
Steve could stand up to it perhaps—but he couldn't stand to see them
hurt Mary. He'd talk if they did that....
Then silencing Whiting wasn't the answer. But the Kumajis had one
willing prisoner and two unwilling ones. They knew that. If the willing
one yelled for help but the yelling was kept to a minimum so only one
guard, the man outside, came....
Darkness in the Kumaji encampment.
Far off, a lone tribesman singing a chant old as the desert.
"Are you asleep?" Mary asked.
"No," Steve said.
"Dad is. Listen to the way he's breathing—like a baby. As if—as if he
wasn't going to betray all our people. Oh, I hate him, I hate him!"
Steve crawled to where the older man was sleeping. Tobias Whiting's
voice surprised him. "I'm not asleep. I was thinking. I—"
"I'm going to kill you," Steve said very softly, and sprang at Whiting.
He paused, though. It was a calculated pause, and Whiting cried out as
Steve had hoped he would. Then his hands found the older man's throat
and closed there—not to kill him but to keep him from crying out again.
Sand stirred, the tentflap lifted, and a bulky figure rushed inside.
Steve got up, met him halfway, felt the jarring contact of their bodies.
The pike came up dimly in the darkness, the point scraping against
Steve's ribs as the guard lunged awkwardly. Steve's fingers sought the
thick-muscled neck, clamped there—squeezing.
The guard writhed. His feet drummed the sand. With one hand he stabbed
out wildly with the unwieldy pike. There was a cry from Mary and the
guard managed a low squawking noise. Outside, the rest of the camp
seemed undisturbed. There was death in Steve's strong tightening
fingers. There had to be death there. Death for the Kumaji guard—or
death for the fleeing Earthmen, who had lost one colony and must seek
another.
They fell together on the sand, the guard still struggling. Steve
couldn't release his throat to grab the pike. The guard stabbed out
awkwardly, blindly with it, kicking up sand. Then Tobias Whiting moaned,
but Steve hardly heard him.
When the guard's legs stopped drumming, Steve released him. The man was
either dead or so close to death that he would be out for hours. Steve
had never killed a man before, had never in violence and with intent to
kill attacked a man....
"Steve!"
It was Mary, calling his name and crying.
"It's Dad. Dad was—hit. The pike, a wild stab. He's hit bad—"
Steve crawled over to them. It was very dark. He could barely make out
Tobias Whiting's pain-contorted face.
"My stomach," Whiting said, gasping for breath. "The pain...."
Steve probed with his hands, found the wound. Blood was rushing out. He
couldn't stop it and he knew it and he thought Whiting knew it too. He
touched Mary's hand, and held it. Mary sobbed against him, crying
softly.
"You two ..." Whiting gasped. "You two ... Mary, Mary girl. Is—he—what
you want?"
"Yes, Dad. Oh, yes!"
"You can get her out of here, Cantwell?"
"I think so," Steve said.
"Then go. Go while you can. I'll tell them—due south. The Earthmen are
heading due south. They'll go—south. They won't find the caravan.
You'll—all—get away. If it's—what you want, Mary."
She leaned away from Steve, kissing her father. She asked Steve: "Isn't
there anything we can do for him?"
Steve shook his head. "But he's got to live long enough to tell them, to
deceive them."
"I'll live long enough," Whiting said, and Steve knew then that he
would. "Luck to—all of you. From a—very foolish—man...."
Steve took Mary's hand and pulled her out into the hot, dark, wind-blown
night. He carried the dead Kumaji's pike and they slipped across the
sand to where the thlots were hobbled for the night. He hardly
remembered the rest of it. There was violence and death, but necessary
death. He killed a man with the pike, and unhobbled one of the thlots .
The animal screamed and two more Kumajis came sleepily through the night
to see what was the matter. With the long edge of the pike's blade he
decapitated one of them. He slammed the shaft of the weapon across the
other's face, probably breaking his jaw. The camp was in a turmoil. In
the darkness he flung Mary on the thlot's bare back in front of him,
and they glided off across the sand.
Pursuit was disorganized—and unsuccessful. It was too dark for
effective pursuit, as Steve had hoped it would be. They rode swiftly all
night and continued riding with the dawn. They could have gone in any
direction. The wind-driven sand would obliterate their trail.
Two days later they reached the caravan. As they rode up, Mary said,
"Steve, do you have to tell them?"
"We can tell them this," Steve said. "Your father died a hero's death,
sending the Kumajis off in the wrong direction."
"And not—not what he'd planned to do at first."
"No. We'll tell them that was his intention all the while. A man can
make a mistake, can't he?"
"I love you, Steve. I love you."
Then they rode down on the caravan. Somehow Steve knew they would all
reach Oasis City in safety.
With Mary he would find a new world out in the vastness of space.
|
What effect does Kane's violent drinking outburst have on the story?
|
After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about The Snare by Richard Rein Smith.
Relevant chunks:
The Snare
By RICHARD R. SMITH
Illustrated by WEISS
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy January 1956. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
It's easy to find a solution when there is one—the trick is to do it if there is none!
I glanced at the path we had made across the Mare Serenitatis . The Latin translated as "the Sea of Serenity." It was well named because, as far as the eye could see in every direction, there was a smooth layer of pumice that resembled the surface of a calm sea. Scattered across the quiet sea of virgin Moon dust were occasional islands of rock that jutted abruptly toward the infinity of stars above. Considering everything, our surroundings conveyed a sense of serenity like none I had ever felt.
Our bounding path across the level expanse was clearly marked. Because of the light gravity, we had leaped high into the air with each step and every time we struck the ground, the impact had raised a cloud of dustlike pumice. Now the clouds of dust were slowly settling in the light gravity.
Above us, the stars were cold, motionless and crystal-clear. Indifferently, they sprayed a faint light on our surroundings ... a dim glow that was hardly sufficient for normal vision and was too weak to be reflected toward Earth.
We turned our head-lamps on the strange object before us. Five beams of light illuminated the smooth shape that protruded from the Moon's surface.
The incongruity was so awesome that for several minutes, we remained motionless and quiet. Miller broke the silence with his quavering voice, "Strange someone didn't notice it before."
Strange? The object rose a quarter of a mile above us, a huge, curving hulk of smooth metal. It was featureless and yet conveyed a sense of alienness . It was alien and yet it wasn't a natural formation. Something had made the thing, whatever it was. But was it strange that it hadn't been noticed before? Men had lived on the Moon for over a year, but the Moon was vast and the Mare Serenitatis covered three hundred and forty thousand square miles.
"What is it?" Marie asked breathlessly.
Her husband grunted his bafflement. "Who knows? But see how it curves? If it's a perfect sphere, it must be at least two miles in diameter!"
"If it's a perfect sphere," Miller suggested, "most of it must be beneath the Moon's surface."
"Maybe it isn't a sphere," my wife said. "Maybe this is all of it."
"Let's call Lunar City and tell the authorities about it." I reached for the radio controls on my suit.
Kane grabbed my arm. "No. Let's find out whatever we can by ourselves. If we tell the authorities, they'll order us to leave it alone. If we discover something really important, we'll be famous!"
I lowered my arm. His outburst seemed faintly childish to me. And yet it carried a good measure of common sense. If we discovered proof of an alien race, we would indeed be famous. The more we discovered for ourselves, the more famous we'd be. Fame was practically a synonym for prestige and wealth.
"All right," I conceded.
Miller stepped forward, moving slowly in the bulk of his spacesuit. Deliberately, he removed a small torch from his side and pressed the brilliant flame against the metal.
A few minutes later, the elderly mineralogist gave his opinion: "It's steel ... made thousands of years ago."
Someone gasped over the intercom, "Thousands of years! But wouldn't it be in worse shape than this if it was that old?"
Miller pointed at the small cut his torch had made in the metal. The notch was only a quarter of an inch deep. "I say steel because it's similar to steel. Actually, it's a much stronger alloy. Besides that, on the Moon, there's been no water or atmosphere to rust it. Not even a wind to disturb its surface. It's at least several thousand years old."
We slowly circled the alien structure. Several minutes later, Kane shouted, "Look!"
A few feet above the ground, the structure's smooth surface was broken by a circular opening that yawned invitingly. Kane ran ahead and flashed his head-lamp into the dark recess.
"There's a small room inside," he told us, and climbed through the opening.
We waited outside and focused our lamps through the five-foot opening to give him as much light as possible.
"Come on in, Marie," he called to his wife. "This is really something! It must be an alien race. There's all kinds of weird drawings on the walls and gadgets that look like controls for something...."
Briefly, my lamp flickered over Marie's pale face. Her features struggled with two conflicting emotions: She was frightened by the alienness of the thing and yet she wanted to be with her husband. She hesitated momentarily, then climbed through the passage.
"You want to go in?" my wife asked.
"Do you?"
"Let's."
I helped Verana through the opening, climbed through myself and turned to help Miller.
Miller was sixty years old. He was an excellent mineralogist, alert mentally, but with a body that was almost feeble. I reached out to help him as he stepped into the passageway.
For a brief second, he was framed in the opening, a dark silhouette against the star-studded sky.
The next second, he was thrown twenty yards into the air. He gasped with pain when he struck the ground. " Something pushed me!"
"Are you all right?"
"Yes."
He had fallen on a spot beyond our angle of vision. I started through the passage....
... and struck an invisible solid wall.
My eyes were on the circular opening. A metal panel emerged from a recess on one side and slid across the passage. The room darkened with the absence of starlight.
" What happened? "
"The door to this damned place closed," I explained.
" What? "
Before we could recover from the shock, the room filled with a brilliant glare. We turned off our lamps.
The room was approximately twelve feet long and nine feet wide. The ceiling was only a few inches above our heads and when I looked at the smooth, hard metal, I felt as if I were trapped in some alien vault.
The walls of the room were covered with strange drawings and instruments. Here and there, kaleidoscopic lights pulsed rhythmically.
Kane brushed past me and beat his gloved fists against the metal door that had imprisoned us.
"Miller!"
"Yes?"
"See if you can get this thing open from the outside."
I knelt before the door and explored its surface with my fingers. There were no visible recesses or controls.
Over the intercom network, everyone's breath mingled and formed a rough, harsh sound. I could discern the women's quick, frightened breaths that were almost sobs. Kane's breath was deep and strong; Miller's was faltering and weak.
"Miller, get help!"
"I'll—" The sound of his breathing ceased. We listened intently.
"What happened to him?"
"I'll phone Lunar City." My fingers fumbled at the radio controls and trembled beneath the thick gloves.
I turned the dials that would connect my radio with Lunar City....
Static grated against my ear drums.
Static!
I listened to the harsh, erratic sound and my voice was weak by comparison: "Calling Lunar City."
"Static!" Kane echoed my thoughts. His frown made deep clefts between his eyebrows. "There's no static between inter-lunar radio!"
Verana's voice was small and frightened. "That sounds like the static we hear over the bigger radios when we broadcast to Earth."
"It does," Marie agreed.
"But we wouldn't have that kind of static over our radio, unless—" Verana's eyes widened until the pupils were surrounded by circles of white—"unless we were in outer space!"
We stared at the metal door that had imprisoned us, afraid even to speak of our fantastic suspicion.
I deactivated my radio.
Marie screamed as an inner door opened to disclose a long, narrow corridor beyond.
Simultaneous with the opening of the second door, I felt air press against my spacesuit. Before, our suits had been puffed outward by the pressure of air inside. Now our spacesuits were slack and dangling on our bodies.
We looked at each other and then at the inviting corridor beyond the open door.
We went single file, first Kane, then his wife Marie. Verana followed next and I was the last.
We walked slowly, examining the strange construction. The walls were featureless but still seemed alien. At various places on the walls were the outlines of doors without handles or locks.
Kane pressed his shoulder against a door and shoved. The door was unyielding.
I manipulated the air-vent controls of my spacesuit, allowed a small amount of the corridor's air into my helmet and inhaled cautiously. It smelled all right. I waited and nothing happened. Gradually, I increased the intake, turned off the oxygenating machines and removed my helmet.
"Shut off your oxy," I suggested. "We might as well breathe the air in this place and save our supply. We may need the oxygen in our suits later."
They saw that I had removed my helmet and was still alive and one by one removed their own helmets.
At the end of the corridor, Kane stopped before a blank wall. The sweat on his face glistened dully; his chest rose and fell rapidly. Kane was a pilot and one of the prerequisites for the job of guiding tons of metal between Earth and the Moon was a good set of nerves. Kane excited easily, his temper was fiery, but his nerves were like steel.
"The end of the line," he grunted.
As though to disprove the statement, a door on his right side opened soundlessly.
He went through the doorway as if shoved violently by an invisible hand.
The door closed behind him.
Marie threw herself at the door and beat at the metal. "Harry!"
Verana rushed to her side. Another door on the opposite side of the corridor opened silently. The door was behind them; they didn't notice.
Before I could warn them, Marie floated across the corridor, through the doorway.
Verana and I stared at the darkness beyond the opening, our muscles frozen by shock.
The door closed behind Marie's screaming, struggling form.
Verana's face was white with fear. Apprehensively, she glanced at the other doors that lined the hall.
I put my arms around her, held her close.
"Antigravity machines, force rays," I suggested worriedly.
For several minutes, we remained motionless and silent. I recalled the preceding events of the day, searched for a sense of normality in them. The Kanes, Miller, Verana and I lived in Lunar City with hundreds of other people. Mankind had inhabited the Moon for over a year. Means of recreation were scarce. Many people explored the place to amuse themselves. After supper, we had decided to take a walk. As simple as that: a walk on the Moon.
We had expected only the familiar craters, chasms and weird rock formations. A twist of fate and here we were: imprisoned in an alien ship.
My legs quivered with fatigue, my heart throbbed heavily, Verana's perfume dizzied me. No, it wasn't a dream. Despite our incredible situation, there was no sensation of unreality.
I took Verana's hand and led her down the long corridor, retracing our steps.
We had walked not more than two yards when the rest of the doors opened soundlessly.
Verana's hand flew to her mouth to stifle a gasp.
Six doors were now open. The only two that remained closed were the ones that the Kanes had unwillingly entered.
This time, no invisible hand thrust us into any of the rooms.
I entered the nearest one. Verana followed hesitantly.
The walls of the large room were lined with shelves containing thousands of variously colored boxes and bottles. A table and four chairs were located in the center of the green, plasticlike floor. Each chair had no back, only a curving platform with a single supporting column.
"Ed!" I joined Verana on the other side of the room. She pointed a trembling finger at some crude drawings. "The things in this room are food!"
The drawings were so simple that anyone could have understood them. The first drawing portrayed a naked man and woman removing boxes and bottles from the shelves. The second picture showed the couple opening the containers. The third showed the man eating from one of the boxes and the woman drinking from a bottle.
"Let's see how it tastes," I said.
I selected an orange-colored box. The lid dissolved at the touch of my fingers.
The only contents were small cubes of a soft orange substance.
I tasted a small piece.
"Chocolate! Just like chocolate!"
Verana chose a nearby bottle and drank some of the bluish liquid.
"Milk!" she exclaimed.
"Perhaps we'd better look at the other rooms," I told her.
The next room we examined was obviously for recreation. Containers were filled with dozens of strange games and books of instructions in the form of simple drawings. The games were foreign, but designed in such a fashion that they would be interesting to Earthmen.
Two of the rooms were sleeping quarters. The floors were covered with a spongy substance and the lights were dim and soothing.
Another room contained a small bathing pool, running water, waste-disposal units and yellow cakes of soap.
The last room was an observatory. The ceiling and an entire wall were transparent. Outside, the stars shone clearly for a few seconds, then disappeared for an equal time, only to reappear in a different position.
"Hyper-space drive," Verana whispered softly. She was fascinated by the movement of the stars. For years, our scientists had sought a hyperspatial drive to conquer the stars.
We selected a comfortable chair facing the transparent wall, lit cigarettes and waited.
A few minutes later, Marie entered the room.
I noticed with some surprise that her face was calm. If she was excited, her actions didn't betray it.
She sat next to Verana.
"What happened?" my wife asked.
Marie crossed her legs and began in a rambling manner as if discussing a new recipe, "That was really a surprise, wasn't it? I was scared silly, at first. That room was dark and I didn't know what to expect. Something touched my head and I heard a telepathic voice—"
"Telepathic?" Verana interrupted.
"Yes. Well, this voice said not to worry and that it wasn't going to hurt me. It said it only wanted to learn something about us. It was the oddest feeling! All the time, this voice kept talking to me in a nice way and made me feel at ease ... and at the same time, I felt something search my mind and gather information. I could actually feel it search my memories!"
"What memories?" I inquired.
She frowned with concentration. "Memories of high school mostly. It seemed interested in English and history classes. And then it searched for memories of our customs and lives in general...."
Kane stalked into the room at that moment, his face red with anger.
" Do you know where we are? " he demanded. "When those damned aliens got me in that room, they explained what this is all about. We're guinea pigs!"
"Did they use telepathy to explain?" Verana asked. I suddenly remembered that she was a member of a club that investigated extra-sensory perception with the hope of learning how it operated. She was probably sorry she hadn't been contacted telepathically.
"Yeah," Kane replied. "I saw all sorts of mental pictures and they explained what they did to us. Those damned aliens want us for their zoo!"
"Start at the beginning," I suggested.
He flashed an angry glance at me, but seemed to calm somewhat. "This ship was made by a race from another galaxy. Thousands of years ago, they came to Earth in their spaceships when men were primitives living in caves. They wanted to know what our civilization would be like when we developed space flight. So they put this ship on the Moon as a sort of booby-trap. They put it there with the idea that when we made spaceships and went to the Moon, sooner or later, we'd find the ship and enter it— like rabbits in a snare! "
"And now the booby-trap is on its way home," I guessed.
"Yeah, this ship is taking us to their planet and they're going to keep us there while they study us."
"How long will the trip take?" I asked.
"Six months. We'll be bottled up in this crate for six whole damned months! And when we get there, we'll be prisoners!"
Marie's hypnotic spell was fading and once more her face showed the terror inside her.
"Don't feel so bad," I told Kane. "It could be worse. It should be interesting to see an alien race. We'll have our wives with us—"
"Maybe they'll dissect us!" Marie gasped.
Verana scoffed. "A race intelligent enough to build a ship like this? A race that was traveling between the stars when we were living in caves? Dissection is primitive. They won't have to dissect us in order to study us. They'll have more advanced methods."
"Maybe we can reach the ship's controls somehow," Kane said excitedly.
"We've got to try to change the ship's course and get back to the Moon!"
"It's impossible. Don't waste your time." The voice had no visible source and seemed to fill the room.
Verana snapped her fingers. "So that's why the aliens read Marie's mind! They wanted to learn our language so they could talk to us!"
Kane whirled in a complete circle, glaring at each of the four walls.
"Where are you? Who are you?"
"I'm located in a part of the ship you can't reach. I'm a machine."
"Is anyone else aboard besides ourselves?"
"No. I control the ship." Although the voice spoke without stilted phrases, the tone was cold and mechanical.
"What are your—your masters going to do with us?" Marie asked anxiously.
"You won't be harmed. My masters merely wish to question and examine you. Thousands of years ago, they wondered what your race would be like when it developed to the space-flight stage. They left this ship on your Moon only because they were curious. My masters have no animosity toward your race, only compassion and curiosity."
I remembered the way antigravity rays had shoved Miller from the ship and asked the machine, "Why didn't you let our fifth member board the ship?"
"The trip to my makers' planet will take six months. There are food, oxygen and living facilities for four only of your race. I had to prevent the fifth from entering the ship."
"Come on," Kane ordered. "We'll search this ship room by room and we'll find some way to make it take us back to Earth."
"It's useless," the ship warned us.
For five hours, we minutely examined every room. We had no tools to force our way through solid metal walls to the engine or control rooms. The only things in the ship that could be lifted and carried about were the containers of food and alien games. None were sufficiently heavy or hard enough to put even a scratch in the heavy metal.
Six rooms were open to our use. The two rooms in which the Kanes had been imprisoned were locked and there were no controls or locks to work on.
The rooms that we could enter were without doors, except the ones that opened into the corridor.
After intensive searching, we realized there was no way to damage the ship or reach any section other than our allotted space.
We gave up.
The women went to the sleeping compartments to rest and Kane I went to the "kitchen."
At random, we sampled the variously colored boxes and bottles and discussed our predicament.
"Trapped," Kane said angrily. "Trapped in a steel prison." He slammed his fist against the table top. "But there must be a way to get out! Every problem has a solution!"
"You sure?" I asked.
"What?"
" Does every problem have a solution? I don't believe it. Some problems are too great. Take the problem of a murderer in our civilization: John Doe has killed someone and his problem is to escape. Primarily, a murderer's problem is the same principle as ours. A murderer has to outwit an entire civilization. We have to outwit an entire civilization that was hundreds of times more advanced than ours is now when we were clubbing animals and eating the meat raw. Damned few criminals get away these days, even though they've got such crowds to lose themselves in. All we have is a ship that we can't control. I don't think we have a chance."
My resignation annoyed him. Each of us had reacted differently: Kane's wife was frightened, Verana was calm because of an inner serenity that few people have, I was resigned and Kane was angry.
For several minutes, we sampled the different foods. Every one had a distinctive flavor, comparable to that of a fruit or vegetable on Earth.
Kane lifted a brown bottle to his lips, took a huge gulp and almost choked.
"Whiskey!"
"My masters realized your race would develop intoxicants and tried to create a comparable one," the machine explained.
I selected a brown bottle and sampled the liquid. "A little stronger than our own," I informed the machine.
We drank until Kane was staggering about the room, shouting insults at the alien race and the mechanical voice that seemed to be everywhere. He beat his fist against a wall until blood trickled from bruised knuckles.
"Please don't hurt yourself," the machine pleaded.
" Why? " Kane screamed at the ceiling. "Why should you care?"
"My masters will be displeased with me if you arrive in a damaged condition."
Kane banged his head against a bulkhead; an ugly bruise formed rapidly.
"Shtop me, then!"
"I can't. My masters created no way for me to restrain or contact you other than use of your language."
It took fully fifteen minutes to drag Kane to his sleeping compartment.
After I left Kane in his wife's care, I went to the adjoining room and stretched out on the soft floor beside Verana.
I tried to think of some solution. We were locked in an alien ship at the start of a six months' journey to a strange planet. We had no tools or weapons.
Solution? I doubted if two dozen geniuses working steadily for years could think of one!
I wondered what the alien race was like. Intelligent, surely: They had foreseen our conquest of space flight when we hadn't even invented the wheel. That thought awed me—somehow they had analyzed our brains thousands of years ago and calculated what our future accomplishments would be.
They had been able to predict our scientific development, but they hadn't been able to tell how our civilization would develop. They were curious, so they had left an enormously elaborate piece of bait on the Moon.
The aliens were incredibly more advanced than ourselves. I couldn't help thinking, And to a rabbit in a snare, mankind must seem impossibly clever .
I decided to ask the machine about its makers in the "morning."
When I awoke, my head was throbbing painfully.
I opened my eyes and blinked several times to make sure they were functioning properly. I wasn't in the compartment where I had fallen asleep a few hours before.
I was tied to one of the chairs in the "kitchen." Beside me, Verana was bound to a chair by strips of cloth from her skirt, and across from us, Marie was secured to another chair.
Kane staggered into the room. Although he was visibly drunk, he appeared more sober than the night before. His dark hair was rumpled and his face was flushed, but his eyes gleamed with a growing alertness.
"Awake, huh?"
"What have you done, Harry?" his wife screamed at him. Her eyes were red with tears and her lips twisted in an expression of shame when she looked at him.
"Obvious, isn't it? While all of you were asleep, I conked each of you on the head, dragged you in here and tied you up." He smiled crookedly.
"It's amazing the things a person can do when he's pickled. I'm sorry I had to be so rough, but I have a plan and I knew you wouldn't agree or cooperate with me."
"What's your plan?" I asked.
He grinned wryly and crinkled bloodshot eyes. "I don't want to live in a zoo on an alien planet. I want to go home and prove my theory that this problem has a solution."
I grunted my disgust.
"The solution is simple," he said. "We're in a trap so strong that the aliens didn't establish any means to control our actions. When men put a lion in a strong cage, they don't worry about controlling the lion because the lion can't get out. We're in the same basic situation."
"So what?" Verana queried in a sarcastic tone.
"The aliens want us transported to their planet so they can examine and question us. Right?"
"Right."
"Ed, remember that remark the machine made last night?"
"What remark?"
"It said, ' My masters will be displeased with me if you arrive in a damaged condition.' What does that indicate to you?"
I assumed a baffled expression. I didn't have the slightest idea of what he was driving at and I told him so.
"Ed," he said, "if you could build an electronic brain capable of making decisions, how would you build it?"
"Hell, I don't know," I confessed.
"Well, if I could build an electronic brain like the one running this ship, I'd build it with a conscience so it'd do its best at all times."
"Machines always do their best," I argued. "Come on, untie us. I'm getting a crick in my back!" I didn't like the idea of being slugged while asleep. If Kane had been sober and if his wife hadn't been present, I would have let him know exactly what I thought of him.
" Our machines always do their best," he argued, "because we punch buttons and they respond in predetermined patterns. But the electronic brain in this ship isn't automatic. It makes decisions and I'll bet it even has to decide how much energy and time to put into each process!"
"So what?"
He shrugged muscular shoulders. "So this ship is operated by a thinking, conscientious machine. It's the first time I've encountered such a machine, but I think I know what will happen. I spent hours last night figuring—"
"What are you talking about?" I interrupted. "Are you so drunk that you don't know—"
"I'll show you, Ed."
He walked around the table and stood behind my chair. I felt his thick fingers around my throat and smelled the alcohol on his breath.
"Can you see me, machine?" he asked the empty air.
"Yes," the electronic brain replied.
"Watch!"
Kane tightened his fingers around my throat.
Verana and Marie screamed shrilly.
My head seemed to swell like a balloon; my throat gurgled painfully.
"Please stop," the machine pleaded.
"What will your masters think of you if I kill all of us? You'll return to them with a cargo of dead people!"
The machine didn't answer. I waited for the electronic brain to interfere and, with a cold knot in my stomach, realized the machine had said it had no way to control our actions!
"Your purpose won't be fulfilled, will it?" Kane demanded. "Not if you return with dead specimens!"
"No," the machine admitted.
"If you don't take us back to the Moon," Kane threatened, "I'll kill all of us !"
The alien electronic brain was silent.
By this time, I couldn't see and Kane's voice was a hollow, faraway thing that rang in my ears. I tugged at my bindings, but they only tightened as I struggled.
"If you take us back to the Moon, your masters will never know you failed in your mission. They won't know you failed because you won't bring them proof of your failure."
My fading consciousness tried to envision the alien mechanical brain as it struggled with the problem.
"Look at it this way," Kane persisted. "If you carry our corpses to your masters, all your efforts will have been useless. If you return us to the Moon alive, you'll still have a chance to carry out your mission later."
A long silence followed. Verana and Marie screamed at Kane to let go. A soft darkness seemed to fill the room, blurring everything, drowning even their shrieks in strangling blackness.
"You win," the machine conceded. "I'll return the ship to the Moon."
Kane released his grip on my throat.
"See?" he asked. "Didn't I tell you every problem has a solution?"
I didn't answer. I was too busy enjoying breathing again.
Question:
What effect does Kane's violent drinking outburst have on the story?
Answer:
|
[
"Ed and Kane go to the kitchen and start to sample random bottles and foods. Kane finds a brown bottle filled with a strong liquid. The artificial intelligence explains that it is a liquor intended to mimic something like what the alien race presumed would be created on Earth. He starts to drink it and soon becomes intoxicated. He starts to punch himself and then beats his head against the wall. His knuckles become bloody and he gets a bruise on his head. The computer asks him not to hurt himself, as its masters will be disappointed if they arrive in the alien world injured. The computer has no way to physically interfere with the crew. This hatches an idea in Kane's mind. If the computer arrives with a damaged or even dead crew, then the machine will have failed its assignment. He threatens to kill the entire crew, which would mean that the machine would arrive on the planet empty handed. He offers the machine an alternative. If it drops them back on Mars, then it will not have really failed, because the only way to truly fail would be to arrive with a dead crew. Additionally, if the machine stayed on the Moon's surface, it might have an opportunity to pick up another crew in the future. This plan is all due to a whiskey-like substance. ",
"Kane's violent drinking outburst initially causes him to punch the wall with his fist, causing him to bleed. This causes the machine to respond by pleading with Kane, revealing that its masters ordered it to bring the humans to them unscathed. This revelation about the machine's conditions inspires Kane further, and the next morning, he constructs a plan to get the group off the ship. Still intoxicated, Kane ties up the group, and uses violence against Ed to get the machine to free them. Thus, Kane's outburst, though chaotic and violent, ultimately led to the group's freedom.",
"Kane’s violent drinking outburst helps him think of a solution to force the machine to let them go back to the Moon. He initially does not know what to do, but he notices the machine does not want the human passengers getting injured when it desperately tells him to stop beating against the wall. This reaction helps him formulate a plan, and he decides to tie Ed, Verana, and even his wife Marie up. He tries to explain to Ed that the machine is afraid of displeasing its masters, which is why he has found the solution to their problem. His plan, therefore, is to threaten to kill all of them until the machine turns the ship around. He puts it into motion, and it scares the machine enough that it works to convince it to let them go back. ",
"Due to Kane's drinking outburst the machine agrees to return to the Moon. The situation seems to have no solution, but as promised, Kane finds one. If he wasn't drunk, this wouldn't occur him, he wouldn't have enough determination. But Kane's aggressive nature together with alcohol have made him violent enough to make this scene. The machine is confused and doesn't know what to do, Kane's move is clever and he urges the machine to return. This saves the group from being held on an alien planet but it also scares everyone in the group and puts Ed in danger. This action prevents the group from meeting aliens."
] |
49901
|
The Snare
By RICHARD R. SMITH
Illustrated by WEISS
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy January 1956. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
It's easy to find a solution when there is one—the trick is to do it if there is none!
I glanced at the path we had made across the Mare Serenitatis . The Latin translated as "the Sea of Serenity." It was well named because, as far as the eye could see in every direction, there was a smooth layer of pumice that resembled the surface of a calm sea. Scattered across the quiet sea of virgin Moon dust were occasional islands of rock that jutted abruptly toward the infinity of stars above. Considering everything, our surroundings conveyed a sense of serenity like none I had ever felt.
Our bounding path across the level expanse was clearly marked. Because of the light gravity, we had leaped high into the air with each step and every time we struck the ground, the impact had raised a cloud of dustlike pumice. Now the clouds of dust were slowly settling in the light gravity.
Above us, the stars were cold, motionless and crystal-clear. Indifferently, they sprayed a faint light on our surroundings ... a dim glow that was hardly sufficient for normal vision and was too weak to be reflected toward Earth.
We turned our head-lamps on the strange object before us. Five beams of light illuminated the smooth shape that protruded from the Moon's surface.
The incongruity was so awesome that for several minutes, we remained motionless and quiet. Miller broke the silence with his quavering voice, "Strange someone didn't notice it before."
Strange? The object rose a quarter of a mile above us, a huge, curving hulk of smooth metal. It was featureless and yet conveyed a sense of alienness . It was alien and yet it wasn't a natural formation. Something had made the thing, whatever it was. But was it strange that it hadn't been noticed before? Men had lived on the Moon for over a year, but the Moon was vast and the Mare Serenitatis covered three hundred and forty thousand square miles.
"What is it?" Marie asked breathlessly.
Her husband grunted his bafflement. "Who knows? But see how it curves? If it's a perfect sphere, it must be at least two miles in diameter!"
"If it's a perfect sphere," Miller suggested, "most of it must be beneath the Moon's surface."
"Maybe it isn't a sphere," my wife said. "Maybe this is all of it."
"Let's call Lunar City and tell the authorities about it." I reached for the radio controls on my suit.
Kane grabbed my arm. "No. Let's find out whatever we can by ourselves. If we tell the authorities, they'll order us to leave it alone. If we discover something really important, we'll be famous!"
I lowered my arm. His outburst seemed faintly childish to me. And yet it carried a good measure of common sense. If we discovered proof of an alien race, we would indeed be famous. The more we discovered for ourselves, the more famous we'd be. Fame was practically a synonym for prestige and wealth.
"All right," I conceded.
Miller stepped forward, moving slowly in the bulk of his spacesuit. Deliberately, he removed a small torch from his side and pressed the brilliant flame against the metal.
A few minutes later, the elderly mineralogist gave his opinion: "It's steel ... made thousands of years ago."
Someone gasped over the intercom, "Thousands of years! But wouldn't it be in worse shape than this if it was that old?"
Miller pointed at the small cut his torch had made in the metal. The notch was only a quarter of an inch deep. "I say steel because it's similar to steel. Actually, it's a much stronger alloy. Besides that, on the Moon, there's been no water or atmosphere to rust it. Not even a wind to disturb its surface. It's at least several thousand years old."
We slowly circled the alien structure. Several minutes later, Kane shouted, "Look!"
A few feet above the ground, the structure's smooth surface was broken by a circular opening that yawned invitingly. Kane ran ahead and flashed his head-lamp into the dark recess.
"There's a small room inside," he told us, and climbed through the opening.
We waited outside and focused our lamps through the five-foot opening to give him as much light as possible.
"Come on in, Marie," he called to his wife. "This is really something! It must be an alien race. There's all kinds of weird drawings on the walls and gadgets that look like controls for something...."
Briefly, my lamp flickered over Marie's pale face. Her features struggled with two conflicting emotions: She was frightened by the alienness of the thing and yet she wanted to be with her husband. She hesitated momentarily, then climbed through the passage.
"You want to go in?" my wife asked.
"Do you?"
"Let's."
I helped Verana through the opening, climbed through myself and turned to help Miller.
Miller was sixty years old. He was an excellent mineralogist, alert mentally, but with a body that was almost feeble. I reached out to help him as he stepped into the passageway.
For a brief second, he was framed in the opening, a dark silhouette against the star-studded sky.
The next second, he was thrown twenty yards into the air. He gasped with pain when he struck the ground. " Something pushed me!"
"Are you all right?"
"Yes."
He had fallen on a spot beyond our angle of vision. I started through the passage....
... and struck an invisible solid wall.
My eyes were on the circular opening. A metal panel emerged from a recess on one side and slid across the passage. The room darkened with the absence of starlight.
" What happened? "
"The door to this damned place closed," I explained.
" What? "
Before we could recover from the shock, the room filled with a brilliant glare. We turned off our lamps.
The room was approximately twelve feet long and nine feet wide. The ceiling was only a few inches above our heads and when I looked at the smooth, hard metal, I felt as if I were trapped in some alien vault.
The walls of the room were covered with strange drawings and instruments. Here and there, kaleidoscopic lights pulsed rhythmically.
Kane brushed past me and beat his gloved fists against the metal door that had imprisoned us.
"Miller!"
"Yes?"
"See if you can get this thing open from the outside."
I knelt before the door and explored its surface with my fingers. There were no visible recesses or controls.
Over the intercom network, everyone's breath mingled and formed a rough, harsh sound. I could discern the women's quick, frightened breaths that were almost sobs. Kane's breath was deep and strong; Miller's was faltering and weak.
"Miller, get help!"
"I'll—" The sound of his breathing ceased. We listened intently.
"What happened to him?"
"I'll phone Lunar City." My fingers fumbled at the radio controls and trembled beneath the thick gloves.
I turned the dials that would connect my radio with Lunar City....
Static grated against my ear drums.
Static!
I listened to the harsh, erratic sound and my voice was weak by comparison: "Calling Lunar City."
"Static!" Kane echoed my thoughts. His frown made deep clefts between his eyebrows. "There's no static between inter-lunar radio!"
Verana's voice was small and frightened. "That sounds like the static we hear over the bigger radios when we broadcast to Earth."
"It does," Marie agreed.
"But we wouldn't have that kind of static over our radio, unless—" Verana's eyes widened until the pupils were surrounded by circles of white—"unless we were in outer space!"
We stared at the metal door that had imprisoned us, afraid even to speak of our fantastic suspicion.
I deactivated my radio.
Marie screamed as an inner door opened to disclose a long, narrow corridor beyond.
Simultaneous with the opening of the second door, I felt air press against my spacesuit. Before, our suits had been puffed outward by the pressure of air inside. Now our spacesuits were slack and dangling on our bodies.
We looked at each other and then at the inviting corridor beyond the open door.
We went single file, first Kane, then his wife Marie. Verana followed next and I was the last.
We walked slowly, examining the strange construction. The walls were featureless but still seemed alien. At various places on the walls were the outlines of doors without handles or locks.
Kane pressed his shoulder against a door and shoved. The door was unyielding.
I manipulated the air-vent controls of my spacesuit, allowed a small amount of the corridor's air into my helmet and inhaled cautiously. It smelled all right. I waited and nothing happened. Gradually, I increased the intake, turned off the oxygenating machines and removed my helmet.
"Shut off your oxy," I suggested. "We might as well breathe the air in this place and save our supply. We may need the oxygen in our suits later."
They saw that I had removed my helmet and was still alive and one by one removed their own helmets.
At the end of the corridor, Kane stopped before a blank wall. The sweat on his face glistened dully; his chest rose and fell rapidly. Kane was a pilot and one of the prerequisites for the job of guiding tons of metal between Earth and the Moon was a good set of nerves. Kane excited easily, his temper was fiery, but his nerves were like steel.
"The end of the line," he grunted.
As though to disprove the statement, a door on his right side opened soundlessly.
He went through the doorway as if shoved violently by an invisible hand.
The door closed behind him.
Marie threw herself at the door and beat at the metal. "Harry!"
Verana rushed to her side. Another door on the opposite side of the corridor opened silently. The door was behind them; they didn't notice.
Before I could warn them, Marie floated across the corridor, through the doorway.
Verana and I stared at the darkness beyond the opening, our muscles frozen by shock.
The door closed behind Marie's screaming, struggling form.
Verana's face was white with fear. Apprehensively, she glanced at the other doors that lined the hall.
I put my arms around her, held her close.
"Antigravity machines, force rays," I suggested worriedly.
For several minutes, we remained motionless and silent. I recalled the preceding events of the day, searched for a sense of normality in them. The Kanes, Miller, Verana and I lived in Lunar City with hundreds of other people. Mankind had inhabited the Moon for over a year. Means of recreation were scarce. Many people explored the place to amuse themselves. After supper, we had decided to take a walk. As simple as that: a walk on the Moon.
We had expected only the familiar craters, chasms and weird rock formations. A twist of fate and here we were: imprisoned in an alien ship.
My legs quivered with fatigue, my heart throbbed heavily, Verana's perfume dizzied me. No, it wasn't a dream. Despite our incredible situation, there was no sensation of unreality.
I took Verana's hand and led her down the long corridor, retracing our steps.
We had walked not more than two yards when the rest of the doors opened soundlessly.
Verana's hand flew to her mouth to stifle a gasp.
Six doors were now open. The only two that remained closed were the ones that the Kanes had unwillingly entered.
This time, no invisible hand thrust us into any of the rooms.
I entered the nearest one. Verana followed hesitantly.
The walls of the large room were lined with shelves containing thousands of variously colored boxes and bottles. A table and four chairs were located in the center of the green, plasticlike floor. Each chair had no back, only a curving platform with a single supporting column.
"Ed!" I joined Verana on the other side of the room. She pointed a trembling finger at some crude drawings. "The things in this room are food!"
The drawings were so simple that anyone could have understood them. The first drawing portrayed a naked man and woman removing boxes and bottles from the shelves. The second picture showed the couple opening the containers. The third showed the man eating from one of the boxes and the woman drinking from a bottle.
"Let's see how it tastes," I said.
I selected an orange-colored box. The lid dissolved at the touch of my fingers.
The only contents were small cubes of a soft orange substance.
I tasted a small piece.
"Chocolate! Just like chocolate!"
Verana chose a nearby bottle and drank some of the bluish liquid.
"Milk!" she exclaimed.
"Perhaps we'd better look at the other rooms," I told her.
The next room we examined was obviously for recreation. Containers were filled with dozens of strange games and books of instructions in the form of simple drawings. The games were foreign, but designed in such a fashion that they would be interesting to Earthmen.
Two of the rooms were sleeping quarters. The floors were covered with a spongy substance and the lights were dim and soothing.
Another room contained a small bathing pool, running water, waste-disposal units and yellow cakes of soap.
The last room was an observatory. The ceiling and an entire wall were transparent. Outside, the stars shone clearly for a few seconds, then disappeared for an equal time, only to reappear in a different position.
"Hyper-space drive," Verana whispered softly. She was fascinated by the movement of the stars. For years, our scientists had sought a hyperspatial drive to conquer the stars.
We selected a comfortable chair facing the transparent wall, lit cigarettes and waited.
A few minutes later, Marie entered the room.
I noticed with some surprise that her face was calm. If she was excited, her actions didn't betray it.
She sat next to Verana.
"What happened?" my wife asked.
Marie crossed her legs and began in a rambling manner as if discussing a new recipe, "That was really a surprise, wasn't it? I was scared silly, at first. That room was dark and I didn't know what to expect. Something touched my head and I heard a telepathic voice—"
"Telepathic?" Verana interrupted.
"Yes. Well, this voice said not to worry and that it wasn't going to hurt me. It said it only wanted to learn something about us. It was the oddest feeling! All the time, this voice kept talking to me in a nice way and made me feel at ease ... and at the same time, I felt something search my mind and gather information. I could actually feel it search my memories!"
"What memories?" I inquired.
She frowned with concentration. "Memories of high school mostly. It seemed interested in English and history classes. And then it searched for memories of our customs and lives in general...."
Kane stalked into the room at that moment, his face red with anger.
" Do you know where we are? " he demanded. "When those damned aliens got me in that room, they explained what this is all about. We're guinea pigs!"
"Did they use telepathy to explain?" Verana asked. I suddenly remembered that she was a member of a club that investigated extra-sensory perception with the hope of learning how it operated. She was probably sorry she hadn't been contacted telepathically.
"Yeah," Kane replied. "I saw all sorts of mental pictures and they explained what they did to us. Those damned aliens want us for their zoo!"
"Start at the beginning," I suggested.
He flashed an angry glance at me, but seemed to calm somewhat. "This ship was made by a race from another galaxy. Thousands of years ago, they came to Earth in their spaceships when men were primitives living in caves. They wanted to know what our civilization would be like when we developed space flight. So they put this ship on the Moon as a sort of booby-trap. They put it there with the idea that when we made spaceships and went to the Moon, sooner or later, we'd find the ship and enter it— like rabbits in a snare! "
"And now the booby-trap is on its way home," I guessed.
"Yeah, this ship is taking us to their planet and they're going to keep us there while they study us."
"How long will the trip take?" I asked.
"Six months. We'll be bottled up in this crate for six whole damned months! And when we get there, we'll be prisoners!"
Marie's hypnotic spell was fading and once more her face showed the terror inside her.
"Don't feel so bad," I told Kane. "It could be worse. It should be interesting to see an alien race. We'll have our wives with us—"
"Maybe they'll dissect us!" Marie gasped.
Verana scoffed. "A race intelligent enough to build a ship like this? A race that was traveling between the stars when we were living in caves? Dissection is primitive. They won't have to dissect us in order to study us. They'll have more advanced methods."
"Maybe we can reach the ship's controls somehow," Kane said excitedly.
"We've got to try to change the ship's course and get back to the Moon!"
"It's impossible. Don't waste your time." The voice had no visible source and seemed to fill the room.
Verana snapped her fingers. "So that's why the aliens read Marie's mind! They wanted to learn our language so they could talk to us!"
Kane whirled in a complete circle, glaring at each of the four walls.
"Where are you? Who are you?"
"I'm located in a part of the ship you can't reach. I'm a machine."
"Is anyone else aboard besides ourselves?"
"No. I control the ship." Although the voice spoke without stilted phrases, the tone was cold and mechanical.
"What are your—your masters going to do with us?" Marie asked anxiously.
"You won't be harmed. My masters merely wish to question and examine you. Thousands of years ago, they wondered what your race would be like when it developed to the space-flight stage. They left this ship on your Moon only because they were curious. My masters have no animosity toward your race, only compassion and curiosity."
I remembered the way antigravity rays had shoved Miller from the ship and asked the machine, "Why didn't you let our fifth member board the ship?"
"The trip to my makers' planet will take six months. There are food, oxygen and living facilities for four only of your race. I had to prevent the fifth from entering the ship."
"Come on," Kane ordered. "We'll search this ship room by room and we'll find some way to make it take us back to Earth."
"It's useless," the ship warned us.
For five hours, we minutely examined every room. We had no tools to force our way through solid metal walls to the engine or control rooms. The only things in the ship that could be lifted and carried about were the containers of food and alien games. None were sufficiently heavy or hard enough to put even a scratch in the heavy metal.
Six rooms were open to our use. The two rooms in which the Kanes had been imprisoned were locked and there were no controls or locks to work on.
The rooms that we could enter were without doors, except the ones that opened into the corridor.
After intensive searching, we realized there was no way to damage the ship or reach any section other than our allotted space.
We gave up.
The women went to the sleeping compartments to rest and Kane I went to the "kitchen."
At random, we sampled the variously colored boxes and bottles and discussed our predicament.
"Trapped," Kane said angrily. "Trapped in a steel prison." He slammed his fist against the table top. "But there must be a way to get out! Every problem has a solution!"
"You sure?" I asked.
"What?"
" Does every problem have a solution? I don't believe it. Some problems are too great. Take the problem of a murderer in our civilization: John Doe has killed someone and his problem is to escape. Primarily, a murderer's problem is the same principle as ours. A murderer has to outwit an entire civilization. We have to outwit an entire civilization that was hundreds of times more advanced than ours is now when we were clubbing animals and eating the meat raw. Damned few criminals get away these days, even though they've got such crowds to lose themselves in. All we have is a ship that we can't control. I don't think we have a chance."
My resignation annoyed him. Each of us had reacted differently: Kane's wife was frightened, Verana was calm because of an inner serenity that few people have, I was resigned and Kane was angry.
For several minutes, we sampled the different foods. Every one had a distinctive flavor, comparable to that of a fruit or vegetable on Earth.
Kane lifted a brown bottle to his lips, took a huge gulp and almost choked.
"Whiskey!"
"My masters realized your race would develop intoxicants and tried to create a comparable one," the machine explained.
I selected a brown bottle and sampled the liquid. "A little stronger than our own," I informed the machine.
We drank until Kane was staggering about the room, shouting insults at the alien race and the mechanical voice that seemed to be everywhere. He beat his fist against a wall until blood trickled from bruised knuckles.
"Please don't hurt yourself," the machine pleaded.
" Why? " Kane screamed at the ceiling. "Why should you care?"
"My masters will be displeased with me if you arrive in a damaged condition."
Kane banged his head against a bulkhead; an ugly bruise formed rapidly.
"Shtop me, then!"
"I can't. My masters created no way for me to restrain or contact you other than use of your language."
It took fully fifteen minutes to drag Kane to his sleeping compartment.
After I left Kane in his wife's care, I went to the adjoining room and stretched out on the soft floor beside Verana.
I tried to think of some solution. We were locked in an alien ship at the start of a six months' journey to a strange planet. We had no tools or weapons.
Solution? I doubted if two dozen geniuses working steadily for years could think of one!
I wondered what the alien race was like. Intelligent, surely: They had foreseen our conquest of space flight when we hadn't even invented the wheel. That thought awed me—somehow they had analyzed our brains thousands of years ago and calculated what our future accomplishments would be.
They had been able to predict our scientific development, but they hadn't been able to tell how our civilization would develop. They were curious, so they had left an enormously elaborate piece of bait on the Moon.
The aliens were incredibly more advanced than ourselves. I couldn't help thinking, And to a rabbit in a snare, mankind must seem impossibly clever .
I decided to ask the machine about its makers in the "morning."
When I awoke, my head was throbbing painfully.
I opened my eyes and blinked several times to make sure they were functioning properly. I wasn't in the compartment where I had fallen asleep a few hours before.
I was tied to one of the chairs in the "kitchen." Beside me, Verana was bound to a chair by strips of cloth from her skirt, and across from us, Marie was secured to another chair.
Kane staggered into the room. Although he was visibly drunk, he appeared more sober than the night before. His dark hair was rumpled and his face was flushed, but his eyes gleamed with a growing alertness.
"Awake, huh?"
"What have you done, Harry?" his wife screamed at him. Her eyes were red with tears and her lips twisted in an expression of shame when she looked at him.
"Obvious, isn't it? While all of you were asleep, I conked each of you on the head, dragged you in here and tied you up." He smiled crookedly.
"It's amazing the things a person can do when he's pickled. I'm sorry I had to be so rough, but I have a plan and I knew you wouldn't agree or cooperate with me."
"What's your plan?" I asked.
He grinned wryly and crinkled bloodshot eyes. "I don't want to live in a zoo on an alien planet. I want to go home and prove my theory that this problem has a solution."
I grunted my disgust.
"The solution is simple," he said. "We're in a trap so strong that the aliens didn't establish any means to control our actions. When men put a lion in a strong cage, they don't worry about controlling the lion because the lion can't get out. We're in the same basic situation."
"So what?" Verana queried in a sarcastic tone.
"The aliens want us transported to their planet so they can examine and question us. Right?"
"Right."
"Ed, remember that remark the machine made last night?"
"What remark?"
"It said, ' My masters will be displeased with me if you arrive in a damaged condition.' What does that indicate to you?"
I assumed a baffled expression. I didn't have the slightest idea of what he was driving at and I told him so.
"Ed," he said, "if you could build an electronic brain capable of making decisions, how would you build it?"
"Hell, I don't know," I confessed.
"Well, if I could build an electronic brain like the one running this ship, I'd build it with a conscience so it'd do its best at all times."
"Machines always do their best," I argued. "Come on, untie us. I'm getting a crick in my back!" I didn't like the idea of being slugged while asleep. If Kane had been sober and if his wife hadn't been present, I would have let him know exactly what I thought of him.
" Our machines always do their best," he argued, "because we punch buttons and they respond in predetermined patterns. But the electronic brain in this ship isn't automatic. It makes decisions and I'll bet it even has to decide how much energy and time to put into each process!"
"So what?"
He shrugged muscular shoulders. "So this ship is operated by a thinking, conscientious machine. It's the first time I've encountered such a machine, but I think I know what will happen. I spent hours last night figuring—"
"What are you talking about?" I interrupted. "Are you so drunk that you don't know—"
"I'll show you, Ed."
He walked around the table and stood behind my chair. I felt his thick fingers around my throat and smelled the alcohol on his breath.
"Can you see me, machine?" he asked the empty air.
"Yes," the electronic brain replied.
"Watch!"
Kane tightened his fingers around my throat.
Verana and Marie screamed shrilly.
My head seemed to swell like a balloon; my throat gurgled painfully.
"Please stop," the machine pleaded.
"What will your masters think of you if I kill all of us? You'll return to them with a cargo of dead people!"
The machine didn't answer. I waited for the electronic brain to interfere and, with a cold knot in my stomach, realized the machine had said it had no way to control our actions!
"Your purpose won't be fulfilled, will it?" Kane demanded. "Not if you return with dead specimens!"
"No," the machine admitted.
"If you don't take us back to the Moon," Kane threatened, "I'll kill all of us !"
The alien electronic brain was silent.
By this time, I couldn't see and Kane's voice was a hollow, faraway thing that rang in my ears. I tugged at my bindings, but they only tightened as I struggled.
"If you take us back to the Moon, your masters will never know you failed in your mission. They won't know you failed because you won't bring them proof of your failure."
My fading consciousness tried to envision the alien mechanical brain as it struggled with the problem.
"Look at it this way," Kane persisted. "If you carry our corpses to your masters, all your efforts will have been useless. If you return us to the Moon alive, you'll still have a chance to carry out your mission later."
A long silence followed. Verana and Marie screamed at Kane to let go. A soft darkness seemed to fill the room, blurring everything, drowning even their shrieks in strangling blackness.
"You win," the machine conceded. "I'll return the ship to the Moon."
Kane released his grip on my throat.
"See?" he asked. "Didn't I tell you every problem has a solution?"
I didn't answer. I was too busy enjoying breathing again.
|
What is the significance of Hogey’s feet being stuck in concrete?
|
After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about The Hoofer by Walter M. Miller.
Relevant chunks:
A wayfarer's return from a far country to his wife and family may be a
shining experience, a kind of second honeymoon. Or it may be so shadowed
by Time's relentless tyranny that the changes which have occurred in his
absence can lead only to tragedy and despair. This rarely discerning, warmly
human story by a brilliant newcomer to the science fantasy field is told
with no pulling of punches, and its adroit unfolding will astound you.
the hoofer
by ... Walter M. Miller, Jr.
A space rover has no business with a family. But what can a man
in the full vigor of youth do—if his heart cries out for a home?
They all
knew he was a spacer
because of the white goggle marks
on his sun-scorched face, and so
they tolerated him and helped him.
They even made allowances for him
when he staggered and fell in the
aisle of the bus while pursuing the
harassed little housewife from seat
to seat and cajoling her to sit and
talk with him.
Having fallen, he decided to
sleep in the aisle. Two men helped
him to the back of the bus, dumped
him on the rear seat, and tucked his
gin bottle safely out of sight. After
all, he had not seen Earth for nine
months, and judging by the crusted
matter about his eyelids, he couldn't
have seen it too well now, even if
he had been sober. Glare-blindness,
gravity-legs, and agoraphobia were
excuses for a lot of things, when a
man was just back from Big Bottomless.
And who could blame a
man for acting strangely?
Minutes later, he was back up the
aisle and swaying giddily over the
little housewife. "How!" he said.
"Me Chief Broken Wing. You
wanta Indian wrestle?"
The girl, who sat nervously staring
at him, smiled wanly, and
shook her head.
"Quiet li'l pigeon, aren'tcha?" he
burbled affectionately, crashing into
the seat beside her.
The two men slid out of their
seats, and a hand clamped his shoulder.
"Come on, Broken Wing, let's
go back to bed."
"My name's Hogey," he said.
"Big Hogey Parker. I was just kidding
about being a Indian."
"Yeah. Come on, let's go have a
drink." They got him on his feet,
and led him stumbling back down
the aisle.
"My ma was half Cherokee, see?
That's how come I said it. You
wanta hear a war whoop? Real
stuff."
"Never mind."
He cupped his hands to his
mouth and favored them with a
blood-curdling proof of his ancestry,
while the female passengers
stirred restlessly and hunched in
their seats. The driver stopped the
bus and went back to warn him
against any further display. The
driver flashed a deputy's badge and
threatened to turn him over to a
constable.
"I gotta get home," Big Hogey
told him. "I got me a son now,
that's why. You know? A little
baby pigeon of a son. Haven't seen
him yet."
"Will you just sit still and be
quiet then, eh?"
Big Hogey nodded emphatically.
"Shorry, officer, I didn't mean to
make any trouble."
When the bus started again, he
fell on his side and lay still. He
made retching sounds for a time,
then rested, snoring softly. The bus
driver woke him again at Caine's
junction, retrieved his gin bottle
from behind the seat, and helped
him down the aisle and out of the
bus.
Big Hogey stumbled about for a
moment, then sat down hard in the
gravel at the shoulder of the road.
The driver paused with one foot on
the step, looking around. There was
not even a store at the road junction,
but only a freight building
next to the railroad track, a couple
of farmhouses at the edge of a side-road,
and, just across the way, a deserted
filling station with a sagging
roof. The land was Great Plains
country, treeless, barren, and rolling.
Big Hogey got up and staggered
around in front of the bus, clutching
at it for support, losing his
duffle bag.
"Hey, watch the traffic!" The
driver warned. With a surge of unwelcome
compassion he trotted
around after his troublesome passenger,
taking his arm as he sagged
again. "You crossing?"
"Yah," Hogey muttered. "Lemme
alone, I'm okay."
The driver started across the
highway with him. The traffic was
sparse, but fast and dangerous in
the central ninety-mile lane.
"I'm okay," Hogey kept protesting.
"I'm a tumbler, ya know?
Gravity's got me. Damn gravity.
I'm not used to gravity, ya know? I
used to be a tumbler— huk! —only
now I gotta be a hoofer. 'Count
of li'l Hogey. You know about li'l
Hogey?"
"Yeah. Your son. Come on."
"Say, you gotta son? I bet you
gotta son."
"Two kids," said the driver,
catching Hogey's bag as it slipped
from his shoulder. "Both girls."
"Say, you oughta be home with
them kids. Man oughta stick with
his family. You oughta get another
job." Hogey eyed him owlishly,
waggled a moralistic finger, skidded
on the gravel as they stepped
onto the opposite shoulder, and
sprawled again.
The driver blew a weary breath,
looked down at him, and shook his
head. Maybe it'd be kinder to find
a constable after all. This guy could
get himself killed, wandering
around loose.
"Somebody supposed to meet
you?" he asked, squinting around
at the dusty hills.
" Huk! —who, me?" Hogey giggled,
belched, and shook his head.
"Nope. Nobody knows I'm coming.
S'prise. I'm supposed to be here a
week ago." He looked up at the
driver with a pained expression.
"Week late, ya know? Marie's
gonna be sore—woo- hoo !—is she
gonna be sore!" He waggled his
head severely at the ground.
"Which way are you going?" the
driver grunted impatiently.
Hogey pointed down the side-road
that led back into the hills.
"Marie's pop's place. You know
where? 'Bout three miles from
here. Gotta walk, I guess."
"Don't," the driver warned.
"You sit there by the culvert till
you get a ride. Okay?"
Hogey nodded forlornly.
"Now stay out of the road," the
driver warned, then hurried back
across the highway. Moments later,
the atomic battery-driven motors
droned mournfully, and the bus
pulled away.
Big Hogey blinked after it, rubbing
the back of his neck. "Nice
people," he said. "Nice buncha people.
All hoofers."
With a grunt and a lurch, he got
to his feet, but his legs wouldn't
work right. With his tumbler's reflexes,
he fought to right himself
with frantic arm motions, but gravity
claimed him, and he went stumbling
into the ditch.
"Damn legs, damn crazy legs!"
he cried.
The bottom of the ditch was wet,
and he crawled up the embankment
with mud-soaked knees, and sat on
the shoulder again. The gin bottle
was still intact. He had himself a
long fiery drink, and it warmed him
deep down. He blinked around at
the gaunt and treeless land.
The sun was almost down, forge-red
on a dusty horizon. The blood-streaked
sky faded into sulphurous
yellow toward the zenith, and the
very air that hung over the land
seemed full of yellow smoke, the
omnipresent dust of the plains.
A farm truck turned onto the
side-road and moaned away, its
driver hardly glancing at the dark
young man who sat swaying on his
duffle bag near the culvert. Hogey
scarcely noticed the vehicle. He just
kept staring at the crazy sun.
He shook his head. It wasn't really
the sun. The sun, the real sun,
was a hateful eye-sizzling horror in
the dead black pit. It painted everything
with pure white pain, and you
saw things by the reflected pain-light.
The fat red sun was strictly a
phoney, and it didn't fool him any.
He hated it for what he knew it was
behind the gory mask, and for what
it had done to his eyes.
With a grunt, he got to his feet,
managed to shoulder the duffle bag,
and started off down the middle of
the farm road, lurching from side
to side, and keeping his eyes on the
rolling distances. Another car turned
onto the side-road, honking angrily.
Hogey tried to turn around to
look at it, but he forgot to shift his
footing. He staggered and went
down on the pavement. The car's
tires screeched on the hot asphalt.
Hogey lay there for a moment,
groaning. That one had hurt his
hip. A car door slammed and a big
man with a florid face got out and
stalked toward him, looking angry.
"What the hell's the matter with
you, fella?" he drawled. "You
soused? Man, you've really got a
load."
Hogey got up doggedly, shaking
his head to clear it. "Space legs," he
prevaricated. "Got space legs. Can't
stand the gravity."
The burly farmer retrieved his
gin bottle for him, still miraculously
unbroken. "Here's your gravity,"
he grunted. "Listen, fella, you better
get home pronto."
"Pronto? Hey, I'm no Mex. Honest,
I'm just space burned. You
know?"
"Yeah. Say, who are you, anyway?
Do you live around here?"
It was obvious that the big man
had taken him for a hobo or a
tramp. Hogey pulled himself together.
"Goin' to the Hauptman's
place. Marie. You know Marie?"
The farmer's eyebrows went up.
"Marie Hauptman? Sure I know
her. Only she's Marie Parker now.
Has been, nigh on six years. Say—"
He paused, then gaped. "You ain't
her husband by any chance?"
"Hogey, that's me. Big Hogey
Parker."
"Well, I'll be—! Get in the car.
I'm going right past John Hauptman's
place. Boy, you're in no
shape to walk it."
He grinned wryly, waggled his
head, and helped Hogey and his
bag into the back seat. A woman
with a sun-wrinkled neck sat rigidly
beside the farmer in the front,
and she neither greeted the passenger
nor looked around.
"They don't make cars like this
anymore," the farmer called over
the growl of the ancient gasoline
engine and the grind of gears.
"You can have them new atomics
with their loads of hot isotopes
under the seat. Ain't safe, I say—eh,
Martha?"
The woman with the sun-baked
neck quivered her head slightly.
"A car like this was good enough
for Pa, an' I reckon it's good
enough for us," she drawled mournfully.
Five minutes later the car drew
in to the side of the road. "Reckon
you can walk it from here," the
farmer said. "That's Hauptman's
road just up ahead."
He helped Hogey out of the car
and drove away without looking
back to see if Hogey stayed on his
feet. The woman with the sun-baked
neck was suddenly talking
garrulously in his direction.
It was twilight. The sun had set,
and the yellow sky was turning
gray. Hogey was too tired to go on,
and his legs would no longer hold
him. He blinked around at the land,
got his eyes focused, and found
what looked like Hauptman's place
on a distant hillside. It was a big
frame house surrounded by a wheatfield,
and a few scrawny trees. Having
located it, he stretched out in
the tall grass beyond the ditch to
take a little rest.
Somewhere dogs were barking,
and a cricket sang creaking monotony
in the grass. Once there was the
distant thunder of a rocket blast
from the launching station six miles
to the west, but it faded quickly. An
A-motored convertible whined past
on the road, but Hogey went unseen.
When he awoke, it was night,
and he was shivering. His stomach
was screeching, and his nerves dancing
with high voltages. He sat up
and groped for his watch, then remembered
he had pawned it after
the poker game. Remembering the
game and the results of the game
made him wince and bite his lip
and grope for the bottle again.
He sat breathing heavily for a
moment after the stiff drink. Equating
time to position had become
second nature with him, but he had
to think for a moment because his
defective vision prevented him from
seeing the Earth-crescent.
Vega was almost straight above
him in the late August sky, so he
knew it wasn't much after sundown—probably
about eight o'clock. He
braced himself with another swallow
of gin, picked himself up and
got back to the road, feeling a little
sobered after the nap.
He limped on up the pavement
and turned left at the narrow drive
that led between barbed-wire fences
toward the Hauptman farmhouse,
five hundred yards or so from the
farm road. The fields on his left
belonged to Marie's father, he
knew. He was getting close—close
to home and woman and child.
He dropped the bag suddenly
and leaned against a fence post,
rolling his head on his forearms
and choking in spasms of air. He
was shaking all over, and his belly
writhed. He wanted to turn and
run. He wanted to crawl out in the
grass and hide.
What were they going to say?
And Marie, Marie most of all.
How was he going to tell her about
the money?
Six hitches in space, and every
time the promise had been the
same: One more tour, baby, and
we'll have enough dough, and then
I'll quit for good. One more time,
and we'll have our stake—enough
to open a little business, or buy a
house with a mortgage and get a
job.
And she had waited, but the
money had never been quite enough
until this time. This time the tour
had lasted nine months, and he had
signed on for every run from station
to moon-base to pick up the
bonuses. And this time he'd made
it. Two weeks ago, there had been
forty-eight hundred in the bank.
And now ...
" Why? " he groaned, striking his
forehead against his forearms. His
arm slipped, and his head hit the
top of the fencepost, and the pain
blinded him for a moment. He staggered
back into the road with a
low roar, wiped blood from his
forehead, and savagely kicked his
bag.
It rolled a couple of yards up the
road. He leaped after it and kicked
it again. When he had finished
with it, he stood panting and angry,
but feeling better. He shouldered
the bag and hiked on toward the
farmhouse.
They're hoofers, that's all—just
an Earth-chained bunch of hoofers,
even Marie. And I'm a tumbler. A
born tumbler. Know what that
means? It means—God, what does
it mean? It means out in Big Bottomless,
where Earth's like a fat
moon with fuzzy mold growing on
it. Mold, that's all you are, just
mold.
A dog barked, and he wondered
if he had been muttering aloud. He
came to a fence-gap and paused in
the darkness. The road wound
around and came up the hill in
front of the house. Maybe they were
sitting on the porch. Maybe they'd
already heard him coming. Maybe ...
He was trembling again. He
fished the fifth of gin out of his
coat pocket and sloshed it. Still over
half a pint. He decided to kill it. It
wouldn't do to go home with a
bottle sticking out of his pocket.
He stood there in the night wind,
sipping at it, and watching the reddish
moon come up in the east. The
moon looked as phoney as the
setting sun.
He straightened in sudden determination.
It had to be sometime.
Get it over with, get it over with
now. He opened the fence-gap, slipped
through, and closed it firmly
behind him. He retrieved his bag,
and waded quietly through the tall
grass until he reached the hedge
which divided an area of sickly
peach trees from the field. He got
over the hedge somehow, and started
through the trees toward the
house. He stumbled over some old
boards, and they clattered.
" Shhh! " he hissed, and moved
on.
The dogs were barking angrily,
and he heard a screen door slam.
He stopped.
"Ho there!" a male voice called
experimentally from the house.
One of Marie's brothers. Hogey
stood frozen in the shadow of a
peach tree, waiting.
"Anybody out there?" the man
called again.
Hogey waited, then heard the
man muttering, "Sic 'im, boy, sic
'im."
The hound's bark became eager.
The animal came chasing down the
slope, and stopped ten feet away to
crouch and bark frantically at the
shadow in the gloom. He knew the
dog.
"Hooky!" he whispered. "Hooky
boy—here!"
The dog stopped barking, sniffed,
trotted closer, and went
" Rrrooff! " Then he started sniffing
suspiciously again.
"Easy, Hooky, here boy!" he
whispered.
The dog came forward silently,
sniffed his hand, and whined in
recognition. Then he trotted around
Hogey, panting doggy affection and
dancing an invitation to romp. The
man whistled from the porch. The
dog froze, then trotted quickly back
up the slope.
"Nothing, eh, Hooky?" the
man on the porch said. "Chasin'
armadillos again, eh?"
The screen door slammed again,
and the porch light went out.
Hogey stood there staring, unable
to think. Somewhere beyond the
window lights were—his woman,
his son.
What the hell was a tumbler doing
with a woman and a son?
After perhaps a minute, he stepped
forward again. He tripped over
a shovel, and his foot plunged into
something that went squelch and
swallowed the foot past the ankle.
He fell forward into a heap of
sand, and his foot went deeper into
the sloppy wetness.
He lay there with his stinging
forehead on his arms, cursing softly
and crying. Finally he rolled
over, pulled his foot out of the
mess, and took off his shoes. They
were full of mud—sticky sandy
mud.
The dark world was reeling
about him, and the wind was dragging
at his breath. He fell back
against the sand pile and let his
feet sink in the mud hole and wriggled
his toes. He was laughing
soundlessly, and his face was wet
in the wind. He couldn't think. He
couldn't remember where he was
and why, and he stopped caring,
and after a while he felt better.
The stars were swimming over
him, dancing crazily, and the mud
cooled his feet, and the sand was
soft behind him. He saw a rocket
go up on a tail of flame from the
station, and waited for the sound of
its blast, but he was already asleep
when it came.
It was far past midnight when he
became conscious of the dog licking
wetly at his ear and cheek. He
pushed the animal away with a low
curse and mopped at the side of his
face. He stirred, and groaned. His
feet were burning up! He tried to
pull them toward him, but they
wouldn't budge. There was something
wrong with his legs.
For an instant he stared wildly
around in the night. Then he remembered
where he was, closed his
eyes and shuddered. When he
opened them again, the moon had
emerged from behind a cloud, and
he could see clearly the cruel trap
into which he had accidentally
stumbled. A pile of old boards, a
careful stack of new lumber, a
pick and shovel, a sand-pile, heaps
of fresh-turned earth, and a concrete
mixer—well, it added up.
He gripped his ankles and pulled,
but his feet wouldn't budge. In
sudden terror, he tried to stand up,
but his ankles were clutched by the
concrete too, and he fell back in
the sand with a low moan. He lay
still for several minutes, considering
carefully.
He pulled at his left foot. It was
locked in a vise. He tugged even
more desperately at his right foot.
It was equally immovable.
He sat up with a whimper and
clawed at the rough concrete until
his nails tore and his fingertips
bled. The surface still felt damp,
but it had hardened while he slept.
He sat there stunned until Hooky
began licking at his scuffed fingers.
He shouldered the dog away, and
dug his hands into the sand-pile to
stop the bleeding. Hooky licked at
his face, panting love.
"Get away!" he croaked savagely.
The dog whined softly, trotted
a short distance away, circled, and
came back to crouch down in the
sand directly before Hogey, inching
forward experimentally.
Hogey gripped fistfuls of the dry
sand and cursed between his teeth,
while his eyes wandered over the
sky. They came to rest on the sliver
of light—the space station—rising
in the west, floating out in Big Bottomless
where the gang was—Nichols
and Guerrera and Lavrenti
and Fats. And he wasn't forgetting
Keesey, the rookie who'd replaced
him.
Keesey would have a rough time
for a while—rough as a cob. The pit
was no playground. The first time
you went out of the station in a
suit, the pit got you. Everything
was falling, and you fell, with it.
Everything. The skeletons of steel,
the tire-shaped station, the spheres
and docks and nightmare shapes—all
tied together by umbilical cables
and flexible tubes. Like some crazy
sea-thing they seemed, floating in a
black ocean with its tentacles bound
together by drifting strands in the
dark tide that bore it.
Everything was pain-bright or
dead black, and it wheeled around
you, and you went nuts trying to
figure which way was down. In fact,
it took you months to teach your
body that all ways were down and
that the pit was bottomless.
He became conscious of a plaintive
sound in the wind, and froze to
listen.
It was a baby crying.
It was nearly a minute before he
got the significance of it. It hit him
where he lived, and he began jerking
frantically at his encased feet
and sobbing low in his throat.
They'd hear him if he kept that up.
He stopped and covered his ears to
close out the cry of his firstborn. A
light went on in the house, and
when it went off again, the infant's
cry had ceased.
Another rocket went up from the
station, and he cursed it. Space was
a disease, and he had it.
"Help!" he cried out suddenly.
"I'm stuck! Help me, help me!"
He knew he was yelling hysterically
at the sky and fighting the relentless
concrete that clutched his
feet, and after a moment he stopped.
The light was on in the house
again, and he heard faint sounds.
The stirring-about woke the baby
again, and once more the infant's
wail came on the breeze.
Make the kid shut up, make the
kid shut up ...
But that was no good. It wasn't
the kid's fault. It wasn't Marie's
fault. No fathers allowed in space,
they said, but it wasn't their fault
either. They were right, and he had
only himself to blame. The kid was
an accident, but that didn't change
anything. Not a thing in the world.
It remained a tragedy.
A tumbler had no business with a
family, but what was a man going
to do? Take a skinning knife, boy,
and make yourself a eunuch. But
that was no good either. They needed
bulls out there in the pit, not
steers. And when a man came down
from a year's hitch, what was he
going to do? Live in a lonely shack
and read books for kicks? Because
you were a man, you sought out a
woman. And because she was a
woman, she got a kid, and that was
the end of it. It was nobody's fault,
nobody's at all.
He stared at the red eye of Mars
low in the southwest. They were
running out there now, and next
year he would have been on the
long long run ...
But there was no use thinking
about it. Next year and the years
after belonged to little Hogey.
He sat there with his feet locked
in the solid concrete of the footing,
staring out into Big Bottomless
while his son's cry came from the
house and the Hauptman menfolk
came wading through the tall grass
in search of someone who had cried
out. His feet were stuck tight, and
he wouldn't ever get them out. He
was sobbing softly when they found
him.
Question:
What is the significance of Hogey’s feet being stuck in concrete?
Answer:
|
[
"There is an ironic significance in Hogey’s feet being stuck in concrete. Throughout the story, Hogey’s identity is tied to being a tumbler - a spaceman. Not only does he physically look like a spacer with his sun-burned marks from his goggles, he has also been blinded by the sun’s glare. It is only due to these characteristics that other people give him allowances while Hogey is in a drunken stupor. \n\nHogey constantly speaks to separate himself from everyone else - even his wife - by identifying as a tumbler and them as hoofers. He insists that he was born as a tumbler and belongs in space, and hence blames his drunken inability to walk as due to a difficulty in adjusting to the gravity on Earth. He insists that he has to become a hoofer, but refuses to, and at the end of the story even denounces his wife and child. It is ironic then, that by Hogey’s feet being stuck in the concrete, he has reluctantly become a hoofer as his feet are literally encased in the Earth. \n",
"Before Hogey’s feet are stuck in concrete, he keeps thinking about his time in space, despising people who live on Earth as he believes the spacers know what truly lies behind the fake phenomenon of the sun and moon seen from the Earth. He doesn’t realize the reality of living on Earth and the significance of his family. After Hogey’s feet are stuck in concrete, he hears his son crying when he is lying on the ground and trying to get his feet out of the concrete. The crying of the firstborn reminds him of the reality that he will live on Earth, with gravity, in the future. There will be no more space travel for him but maybe his son. He used to blame his return on his son and the overall situation, but after being stuck in the concrete and hearing his son crying, he realizes that it is not anyone’s fault that he is strongly influenced by the space life and fails to fulfill his responsibilities as a father and a husband. It is nobody’s but his fault for all the things that happened. He feels belonging to Earth after his feet are physically stuck tight to the earth.",
"After struggling with going to the house, Hogey finally decides to approach. As soon as his ex-wife’s brother appears outside, Hogey freezes and backs out of his plan of approaching the house. He seems to struggle a lot with the decision of either entering the house or not. After reconnecting with his dog, Hogey falls down, and his feet go into what seems to be muddy sand. Hogey doesn’t seem to care and falls asleep with his feet still inside. He wakes up a few hours later with the dog licking him, and he realizes that he was actually stuck in concrete. This gives him no choice but to call for help from the house, and he ends up being found by the men of the house. \n",
"Hogey’s feet being stuck in concrete shows that he has no chance to escape even if he wants to desperately. Throughout the entire story, he refers to himself as a tumbler with no place in a family. He battles with feelings of conflict for visiting his wife and child, believing that a tumbler has no right to a family. The concrete also forces him to confront his fears, even if he is not sure what he will say to Marie about money when he sees her. He contemplates leaving Hauptman's house a lot, but the concrete forces him to stay until he is found and brought back into the family. In a way, the concrete also makes him become a hoofer despite him constantly referring to himself as being different from everybody else. With his feet grounded to the earth, he has no choice but to also become a hoofer like everybody else. "
] |
29170
|
A wayfarer's return from a far country to his wife and family may be a
shining experience, a kind of second honeymoon. Or it may be so shadowed
by Time's relentless tyranny that the changes which have occurred in his
absence can lead only to tragedy and despair. This rarely discerning, warmly
human story by a brilliant newcomer to the science fantasy field is told
with no pulling of punches, and its adroit unfolding will astound you.
the hoofer
by ... Walter M. Miller, Jr.
A space rover has no business with a family. But what can a man
in the full vigor of youth do—if his heart cries out for a home?
They all
knew he was a spacer
because of the white goggle marks
on his sun-scorched face, and so
they tolerated him and helped him.
They even made allowances for him
when he staggered and fell in the
aisle of the bus while pursuing the
harassed little housewife from seat
to seat and cajoling her to sit and
talk with him.
Having fallen, he decided to
sleep in the aisle. Two men helped
him to the back of the bus, dumped
him on the rear seat, and tucked his
gin bottle safely out of sight. After
all, he had not seen Earth for nine
months, and judging by the crusted
matter about his eyelids, he couldn't
have seen it too well now, even if
he had been sober. Glare-blindness,
gravity-legs, and agoraphobia were
excuses for a lot of things, when a
man was just back from Big Bottomless.
And who could blame a
man for acting strangely?
Minutes later, he was back up the
aisle and swaying giddily over the
little housewife. "How!" he said.
"Me Chief Broken Wing. You
wanta Indian wrestle?"
The girl, who sat nervously staring
at him, smiled wanly, and
shook her head.
"Quiet li'l pigeon, aren'tcha?" he
burbled affectionately, crashing into
the seat beside her.
The two men slid out of their
seats, and a hand clamped his shoulder.
"Come on, Broken Wing, let's
go back to bed."
"My name's Hogey," he said.
"Big Hogey Parker. I was just kidding
about being a Indian."
"Yeah. Come on, let's go have a
drink." They got him on his feet,
and led him stumbling back down
the aisle.
"My ma was half Cherokee, see?
That's how come I said it. You
wanta hear a war whoop? Real
stuff."
"Never mind."
He cupped his hands to his
mouth and favored them with a
blood-curdling proof of his ancestry,
while the female passengers
stirred restlessly and hunched in
their seats. The driver stopped the
bus and went back to warn him
against any further display. The
driver flashed a deputy's badge and
threatened to turn him over to a
constable.
"I gotta get home," Big Hogey
told him. "I got me a son now,
that's why. You know? A little
baby pigeon of a son. Haven't seen
him yet."
"Will you just sit still and be
quiet then, eh?"
Big Hogey nodded emphatically.
"Shorry, officer, I didn't mean to
make any trouble."
When the bus started again, he
fell on his side and lay still. He
made retching sounds for a time,
then rested, snoring softly. The bus
driver woke him again at Caine's
junction, retrieved his gin bottle
from behind the seat, and helped
him down the aisle and out of the
bus.
Big Hogey stumbled about for a
moment, then sat down hard in the
gravel at the shoulder of the road.
The driver paused with one foot on
the step, looking around. There was
not even a store at the road junction,
but only a freight building
next to the railroad track, a couple
of farmhouses at the edge of a side-road,
and, just across the way, a deserted
filling station with a sagging
roof. The land was Great Plains
country, treeless, barren, and rolling.
Big Hogey got up and staggered
around in front of the bus, clutching
at it for support, losing his
duffle bag.
"Hey, watch the traffic!" The
driver warned. With a surge of unwelcome
compassion he trotted
around after his troublesome passenger,
taking his arm as he sagged
again. "You crossing?"
"Yah," Hogey muttered. "Lemme
alone, I'm okay."
The driver started across the
highway with him. The traffic was
sparse, but fast and dangerous in
the central ninety-mile lane.
"I'm okay," Hogey kept protesting.
"I'm a tumbler, ya know?
Gravity's got me. Damn gravity.
I'm not used to gravity, ya know? I
used to be a tumbler— huk! —only
now I gotta be a hoofer. 'Count
of li'l Hogey. You know about li'l
Hogey?"
"Yeah. Your son. Come on."
"Say, you gotta son? I bet you
gotta son."
"Two kids," said the driver,
catching Hogey's bag as it slipped
from his shoulder. "Both girls."
"Say, you oughta be home with
them kids. Man oughta stick with
his family. You oughta get another
job." Hogey eyed him owlishly,
waggled a moralistic finger, skidded
on the gravel as they stepped
onto the opposite shoulder, and
sprawled again.
The driver blew a weary breath,
looked down at him, and shook his
head. Maybe it'd be kinder to find
a constable after all. This guy could
get himself killed, wandering
around loose.
"Somebody supposed to meet
you?" he asked, squinting around
at the dusty hills.
" Huk! —who, me?" Hogey giggled,
belched, and shook his head.
"Nope. Nobody knows I'm coming.
S'prise. I'm supposed to be here a
week ago." He looked up at the
driver with a pained expression.
"Week late, ya know? Marie's
gonna be sore—woo- hoo !—is she
gonna be sore!" He waggled his
head severely at the ground.
"Which way are you going?" the
driver grunted impatiently.
Hogey pointed down the side-road
that led back into the hills.
"Marie's pop's place. You know
where? 'Bout three miles from
here. Gotta walk, I guess."
"Don't," the driver warned.
"You sit there by the culvert till
you get a ride. Okay?"
Hogey nodded forlornly.
"Now stay out of the road," the
driver warned, then hurried back
across the highway. Moments later,
the atomic battery-driven motors
droned mournfully, and the bus
pulled away.
Big Hogey blinked after it, rubbing
the back of his neck. "Nice
people," he said. "Nice buncha people.
All hoofers."
With a grunt and a lurch, he got
to his feet, but his legs wouldn't
work right. With his tumbler's reflexes,
he fought to right himself
with frantic arm motions, but gravity
claimed him, and he went stumbling
into the ditch.
"Damn legs, damn crazy legs!"
he cried.
The bottom of the ditch was wet,
and he crawled up the embankment
with mud-soaked knees, and sat on
the shoulder again. The gin bottle
was still intact. He had himself a
long fiery drink, and it warmed him
deep down. He blinked around at
the gaunt and treeless land.
The sun was almost down, forge-red
on a dusty horizon. The blood-streaked
sky faded into sulphurous
yellow toward the zenith, and the
very air that hung over the land
seemed full of yellow smoke, the
omnipresent dust of the plains.
A farm truck turned onto the
side-road and moaned away, its
driver hardly glancing at the dark
young man who sat swaying on his
duffle bag near the culvert. Hogey
scarcely noticed the vehicle. He just
kept staring at the crazy sun.
He shook his head. It wasn't really
the sun. The sun, the real sun,
was a hateful eye-sizzling horror in
the dead black pit. It painted everything
with pure white pain, and you
saw things by the reflected pain-light.
The fat red sun was strictly a
phoney, and it didn't fool him any.
He hated it for what he knew it was
behind the gory mask, and for what
it had done to his eyes.
With a grunt, he got to his feet,
managed to shoulder the duffle bag,
and started off down the middle of
the farm road, lurching from side
to side, and keeping his eyes on the
rolling distances. Another car turned
onto the side-road, honking angrily.
Hogey tried to turn around to
look at it, but he forgot to shift his
footing. He staggered and went
down on the pavement. The car's
tires screeched on the hot asphalt.
Hogey lay there for a moment,
groaning. That one had hurt his
hip. A car door slammed and a big
man with a florid face got out and
stalked toward him, looking angry.
"What the hell's the matter with
you, fella?" he drawled. "You
soused? Man, you've really got a
load."
Hogey got up doggedly, shaking
his head to clear it. "Space legs," he
prevaricated. "Got space legs. Can't
stand the gravity."
The burly farmer retrieved his
gin bottle for him, still miraculously
unbroken. "Here's your gravity,"
he grunted. "Listen, fella, you better
get home pronto."
"Pronto? Hey, I'm no Mex. Honest,
I'm just space burned. You
know?"
"Yeah. Say, who are you, anyway?
Do you live around here?"
It was obvious that the big man
had taken him for a hobo or a
tramp. Hogey pulled himself together.
"Goin' to the Hauptman's
place. Marie. You know Marie?"
The farmer's eyebrows went up.
"Marie Hauptman? Sure I know
her. Only she's Marie Parker now.
Has been, nigh on six years. Say—"
He paused, then gaped. "You ain't
her husband by any chance?"
"Hogey, that's me. Big Hogey
Parker."
"Well, I'll be—! Get in the car.
I'm going right past John Hauptman's
place. Boy, you're in no
shape to walk it."
He grinned wryly, waggled his
head, and helped Hogey and his
bag into the back seat. A woman
with a sun-wrinkled neck sat rigidly
beside the farmer in the front,
and she neither greeted the passenger
nor looked around.
"They don't make cars like this
anymore," the farmer called over
the growl of the ancient gasoline
engine and the grind of gears.
"You can have them new atomics
with their loads of hot isotopes
under the seat. Ain't safe, I say—eh,
Martha?"
The woman with the sun-baked
neck quivered her head slightly.
"A car like this was good enough
for Pa, an' I reckon it's good
enough for us," she drawled mournfully.
Five minutes later the car drew
in to the side of the road. "Reckon
you can walk it from here," the
farmer said. "That's Hauptman's
road just up ahead."
He helped Hogey out of the car
and drove away without looking
back to see if Hogey stayed on his
feet. The woman with the sun-baked
neck was suddenly talking
garrulously in his direction.
It was twilight. The sun had set,
and the yellow sky was turning
gray. Hogey was too tired to go on,
and his legs would no longer hold
him. He blinked around at the land,
got his eyes focused, and found
what looked like Hauptman's place
on a distant hillside. It was a big
frame house surrounded by a wheatfield,
and a few scrawny trees. Having
located it, he stretched out in
the tall grass beyond the ditch to
take a little rest.
Somewhere dogs were barking,
and a cricket sang creaking monotony
in the grass. Once there was the
distant thunder of a rocket blast
from the launching station six miles
to the west, but it faded quickly. An
A-motored convertible whined past
on the road, but Hogey went unseen.
When he awoke, it was night,
and he was shivering. His stomach
was screeching, and his nerves dancing
with high voltages. He sat up
and groped for his watch, then remembered
he had pawned it after
the poker game. Remembering the
game and the results of the game
made him wince and bite his lip
and grope for the bottle again.
He sat breathing heavily for a
moment after the stiff drink. Equating
time to position had become
second nature with him, but he had
to think for a moment because his
defective vision prevented him from
seeing the Earth-crescent.
Vega was almost straight above
him in the late August sky, so he
knew it wasn't much after sundown—probably
about eight o'clock. He
braced himself with another swallow
of gin, picked himself up and
got back to the road, feeling a little
sobered after the nap.
He limped on up the pavement
and turned left at the narrow drive
that led between barbed-wire fences
toward the Hauptman farmhouse,
five hundred yards or so from the
farm road. The fields on his left
belonged to Marie's father, he
knew. He was getting close—close
to home and woman and child.
He dropped the bag suddenly
and leaned against a fence post,
rolling his head on his forearms
and choking in spasms of air. He
was shaking all over, and his belly
writhed. He wanted to turn and
run. He wanted to crawl out in the
grass and hide.
What were they going to say?
And Marie, Marie most of all.
How was he going to tell her about
the money?
Six hitches in space, and every
time the promise had been the
same: One more tour, baby, and
we'll have enough dough, and then
I'll quit for good. One more time,
and we'll have our stake—enough
to open a little business, or buy a
house with a mortgage and get a
job.
And she had waited, but the
money had never been quite enough
until this time. This time the tour
had lasted nine months, and he had
signed on for every run from station
to moon-base to pick up the
bonuses. And this time he'd made
it. Two weeks ago, there had been
forty-eight hundred in the bank.
And now ...
" Why? " he groaned, striking his
forehead against his forearms. His
arm slipped, and his head hit the
top of the fencepost, and the pain
blinded him for a moment. He staggered
back into the road with a
low roar, wiped blood from his
forehead, and savagely kicked his
bag.
It rolled a couple of yards up the
road. He leaped after it and kicked
it again. When he had finished
with it, he stood panting and angry,
but feeling better. He shouldered
the bag and hiked on toward the
farmhouse.
They're hoofers, that's all—just
an Earth-chained bunch of hoofers,
even Marie. And I'm a tumbler. A
born tumbler. Know what that
means? It means—God, what does
it mean? It means out in Big Bottomless,
where Earth's like a fat
moon with fuzzy mold growing on
it. Mold, that's all you are, just
mold.
A dog barked, and he wondered
if he had been muttering aloud. He
came to a fence-gap and paused in
the darkness. The road wound
around and came up the hill in
front of the house. Maybe they were
sitting on the porch. Maybe they'd
already heard him coming. Maybe ...
He was trembling again. He
fished the fifth of gin out of his
coat pocket and sloshed it. Still over
half a pint. He decided to kill it. It
wouldn't do to go home with a
bottle sticking out of his pocket.
He stood there in the night wind,
sipping at it, and watching the reddish
moon come up in the east. The
moon looked as phoney as the
setting sun.
He straightened in sudden determination.
It had to be sometime.
Get it over with, get it over with
now. He opened the fence-gap, slipped
through, and closed it firmly
behind him. He retrieved his bag,
and waded quietly through the tall
grass until he reached the hedge
which divided an area of sickly
peach trees from the field. He got
over the hedge somehow, and started
through the trees toward the
house. He stumbled over some old
boards, and they clattered.
" Shhh! " he hissed, and moved
on.
The dogs were barking angrily,
and he heard a screen door slam.
He stopped.
"Ho there!" a male voice called
experimentally from the house.
One of Marie's brothers. Hogey
stood frozen in the shadow of a
peach tree, waiting.
"Anybody out there?" the man
called again.
Hogey waited, then heard the
man muttering, "Sic 'im, boy, sic
'im."
The hound's bark became eager.
The animal came chasing down the
slope, and stopped ten feet away to
crouch and bark frantically at the
shadow in the gloom. He knew the
dog.
"Hooky!" he whispered. "Hooky
boy—here!"
The dog stopped barking, sniffed,
trotted closer, and went
" Rrrooff! " Then he started sniffing
suspiciously again.
"Easy, Hooky, here boy!" he
whispered.
The dog came forward silently,
sniffed his hand, and whined in
recognition. Then he trotted around
Hogey, panting doggy affection and
dancing an invitation to romp. The
man whistled from the porch. The
dog froze, then trotted quickly back
up the slope.
"Nothing, eh, Hooky?" the
man on the porch said. "Chasin'
armadillos again, eh?"
The screen door slammed again,
and the porch light went out.
Hogey stood there staring, unable
to think. Somewhere beyond the
window lights were—his woman,
his son.
What the hell was a tumbler doing
with a woman and a son?
After perhaps a minute, he stepped
forward again. He tripped over
a shovel, and his foot plunged into
something that went squelch and
swallowed the foot past the ankle.
He fell forward into a heap of
sand, and his foot went deeper into
the sloppy wetness.
He lay there with his stinging
forehead on his arms, cursing softly
and crying. Finally he rolled
over, pulled his foot out of the
mess, and took off his shoes. They
were full of mud—sticky sandy
mud.
The dark world was reeling
about him, and the wind was dragging
at his breath. He fell back
against the sand pile and let his
feet sink in the mud hole and wriggled
his toes. He was laughing
soundlessly, and his face was wet
in the wind. He couldn't think. He
couldn't remember where he was
and why, and he stopped caring,
and after a while he felt better.
The stars were swimming over
him, dancing crazily, and the mud
cooled his feet, and the sand was
soft behind him. He saw a rocket
go up on a tail of flame from the
station, and waited for the sound of
its blast, but he was already asleep
when it came.
It was far past midnight when he
became conscious of the dog licking
wetly at his ear and cheek. He
pushed the animal away with a low
curse and mopped at the side of his
face. He stirred, and groaned. His
feet were burning up! He tried to
pull them toward him, but they
wouldn't budge. There was something
wrong with his legs.
For an instant he stared wildly
around in the night. Then he remembered
where he was, closed his
eyes and shuddered. When he
opened them again, the moon had
emerged from behind a cloud, and
he could see clearly the cruel trap
into which he had accidentally
stumbled. A pile of old boards, a
careful stack of new lumber, a
pick and shovel, a sand-pile, heaps
of fresh-turned earth, and a concrete
mixer—well, it added up.
He gripped his ankles and pulled,
but his feet wouldn't budge. In
sudden terror, he tried to stand up,
but his ankles were clutched by the
concrete too, and he fell back in
the sand with a low moan. He lay
still for several minutes, considering
carefully.
He pulled at his left foot. It was
locked in a vise. He tugged even
more desperately at his right foot.
It was equally immovable.
He sat up with a whimper and
clawed at the rough concrete until
his nails tore and his fingertips
bled. The surface still felt damp,
but it had hardened while he slept.
He sat there stunned until Hooky
began licking at his scuffed fingers.
He shouldered the dog away, and
dug his hands into the sand-pile to
stop the bleeding. Hooky licked at
his face, panting love.
"Get away!" he croaked savagely.
The dog whined softly, trotted
a short distance away, circled, and
came back to crouch down in the
sand directly before Hogey, inching
forward experimentally.
Hogey gripped fistfuls of the dry
sand and cursed between his teeth,
while his eyes wandered over the
sky. They came to rest on the sliver
of light—the space station—rising
in the west, floating out in Big Bottomless
where the gang was—Nichols
and Guerrera and Lavrenti
and Fats. And he wasn't forgetting
Keesey, the rookie who'd replaced
him.
Keesey would have a rough time
for a while—rough as a cob. The pit
was no playground. The first time
you went out of the station in a
suit, the pit got you. Everything
was falling, and you fell, with it.
Everything. The skeletons of steel,
the tire-shaped station, the spheres
and docks and nightmare shapes—all
tied together by umbilical cables
and flexible tubes. Like some crazy
sea-thing they seemed, floating in a
black ocean with its tentacles bound
together by drifting strands in the
dark tide that bore it.
Everything was pain-bright or
dead black, and it wheeled around
you, and you went nuts trying to
figure which way was down. In fact,
it took you months to teach your
body that all ways were down and
that the pit was bottomless.
He became conscious of a plaintive
sound in the wind, and froze to
listen.
It was a baby crying.
It was nearly a minute before he
got the significance of it. It hit him
where he lived, and he began jerking
frantically at his encased feet
and sobbing low in his throat.
They'd hear him if he kept that up.
He stopped and covered his ears to
close out the cry of his firstborn. A
light went on in the house, and
when it went off again, the infant's
cry had ceased.
Another rocket went up from the
station, and he cursed it. Space was
a disease, and he had it.
"Help!" he cried out suddenly.
"I'm stuck! Help me, help me!"
He knew he was yelling hysterically
at the sky and fighting the relentless
concrete that clutched his
feet, and after a moment he stopped.
The light was on in the house
again, and he heard faint sounds.
The stirring-about woke the baby
again, and once more the infant's
wail came on the breeze.
Make the kid shut up, make the
kid shut up ...
But that was no good. It wasn't
the kid's fault. It wasn't Marie's
fault. No fathers allowed in space,
they said, but it wasn't their fault
either. They were right, and he had
only himself to blame. The kid was
an accident, but that didn't change
anything. Not a thing in the world.
It remained a tragedy.
A tumbler had no business with a
family, but what was a man going
to do? Take a skinning knife, boy,
and make yourself a eunuch. But
that was no good either. They needed
bulls out there in the pit, not
steers. And when a man came down
from a year's hitch, what was he
going to do? Live in a lonely shack
and read books for kicks? Because
you were a man, you sought out a
woman. And because she was a
woman, she got a kid, and that was
the end of it. It was nobody's fault,
nobody's at all.
He stared at the red eye of Mars
low in the southwest. They were
running out there now, and next
year he would have been on the
long long run ...
But there was no use thinking
about it. Next year and the years
after belonged to little Hogey.
He sat there with his feet locked
in the solid concrete of the footing,
staring out into Big Bottomless
while his son's cry came from the
house and the Hauptman menfolk
came wading through the tall grass
in search of someone who had cried
out. His feet were stuck tight, and
he wouldn't ever get them out. He
was sobbing softly when they found
him.
|
Who is Rourke, and what are his traits in the story?
|
After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about Signal Red by Henry Guth.
Relevant chunks:
SIGNAL RED
By HENRY GUTH
They tried to stop him. Earth Flight 21 was a suicide run, a coffin ship, they told him. Uranian death lay athwart the space lanes. But Shano already knew this was his last ride.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Mercurian night settled black and thick over the Q City Spaceport. Tentative fingers of light flicked and probed the sky, and winked out.
"Here she comes," somebody in the line ahead said.
Shano coughed, his whole skeletal body jerking. Arthritic joints sent flashes of pain along his limbs. Here she comes, he thought, feeling neither glad nor sad.
He coughed and slipped polarized goggles over his eyes.
The spaceport emerged bathed in infra red. Hangars, cradles, freighter catapults and long runways stood out in sharp, diamond-clear detail. High up, beyond the cone of illumination, a detached triple row of bright specks—portholes of the liner Stardust —sank slowly down.
There was no eagerness in him. Only a tiredness. A relief. Relief from a lifetime of beating around the planets. A life of digging, lifting, lugging and pounding. Like a work-worn Martian camel, he was going home to die.
As though on oiled pistons the ship sank into the light, its long shark-like hull glowing soft and silvery, and settled with a feathery snuggle into the cradle's ribs.
The passenger line quivered as a loud-speaker boomed:
" Stardust, now arrived at Cradle Six! Stardust, Cradle Six! All passengers for Venus and Earth prepare to board in ten minutes. "
Shano coughed, and wiped phlegm from his thin lips, his hand following around the bony contours of his face, feeling the hollows and the beard stubble and loose skin of his neck. He coughed and thought of the vanium mines of Pluto, and his gum-clogged lungs. A vague, pressing desire for home overwhelmed him. It had been so long.
" Attention! Attention, Stardust passengers! The signal is red. The signal is red. Refunds now being made. Refunds now. Take-off in five minutes. "
The man ahead swore and flicked up an arm. "Red," he groaned. "By the infinite galaxies, this is the last straw!" He charged away, knocking Shano aside as he passed.
Red signal. In bewildered anxiety Shano lifted the goggles from his eyes and stared into the sudden blackness. The red signal. Danger out there. Passengers advised to ground themselves, or travel at their own risk.
He felt the passengers bump and fumble past him, grumbling vexatiously.
A hot dread assailed him, and he coughed, plucking at his chest. Plucking at an urgency there.
Dropping the goggles to his rheumy eyes, he saw that the passenger line had dissolved. He moved, shuffling, to the gate, thrust his ticket into the scanner slot, and pushed through the turnstile when it clicked.
" Flight twenty-one, now arriving from Venus ," the loud-speaker said monotonously. Shano glanced briefly upward and saw the gleaming belly of twenty-one sinking into the spaceport cone of light.
He clawed his way up the gangway and thrust out his ticket to the lieutenant standing alone at the air lock. The lieutenant, a sullen, chunky man with a queer nick in his jawbone, refused the ticket.
"Haven't you heard, mister? Red signal. Go on back."
Shano coughed, and peered through the lenses of his goggles. "Please," he said. "Want to go home. I've a right." The nicked jaw stirred faint memories within his glazed mind.
The lieutenant punched his ticket. "It's your funeral, old man."
The loud-speaker blared. " Stardust, taking off in thirty seconds. The signal is red. Stardust, taking— "
With the words dinning in his ears, Shano stepped into the air lock. The officer followed, spun wheels, and the lock closed. The outside was shut off.
Lifting goggles they entered the hull, through a series of two more locks, closing each behind them.
"We're afloat," the officer said. "We've taken off." A fleck of light danced far back in his eye. Shano felt the pressure of acceleration gradually increasing, increasing, and hurried in.
Captain Menthlo, a silver-mustached Jupiterian, broad, huge, yet crushable as a beetle, talked while his hands manipulated a panel of studs in the control room. The pilot, his back encased in leather, sat in a bucket seat before him, listening into earphones.
"Surprised to learn of a passenger aboard," the captain said, glancing briefly sideways. "You're entitled to know of the danger ahead." He flicked a final stud, spoke to the pilot and at last turned a serious, squared face to Shano. "Old man," he said. "There's a Uranian fleet out there. We don't know how many ships in this sector. Flight twenty-one, which just landed, had a skirmish with one, and got away. We may not be so lucky. You know how these Uranian devils are."
Shano coughed, and wiped his mouth. "Dirty devils," he said. "I was driv' off the planet once, before this war started. I know things about them Uranian devils. Heard them in the mines around. Hears things, a laborer does."
The captain seemed for the first time to realize the social status of his lone passenger, and he became a little gruff.
"Want you to sign this waiver, saying you're traveling at your own risk. We'll expect you to keep to your cabin as much as possible. When the trouble comes we can't bother with a passenger. In a few hours we'll shut down the ship entirely, and every mechanical device aboard, to try to avoid detection." His mustaches rose like two spears from each side of his squared nose as his face changed to an alert watchfulness. "Going home, eh?" he said. "You've knocked around some, by the looks of you. Pluto, from the sound of that cough."
Shano scrawled his signature on the waiver. "Yeah," he said. "Pluto. Where a man's lungs fights gas." He blinked watery eyes. "Captain, what's a notched jaw mean to you?"
"Well, old man," the captain grasped Shano's shoulder and turned him around. "It means somebody cut himself, shaving. You stick tight to your cabin." He nodded curtly and indicated the door.
Descending the companionway to the next deck Shano observed the nick-jawed lieutenant staring out the viewport, apparently idling. The man turned and gripped Shano's thin arm.
"A light?" he said, tapping a cigarette. Shano produced a lighter disk and the chunky man puffed. He was an Earthman and his jaw seemed cut with a knife, notched like a piece of wood. Across the breast of his tunic was a purple band, with the name Rourke . "Why are you so anxious to get aboard, old man?" He searched Shano's face. "There's trouble ahead, you know."
Shano coughed, wracking his body, as forgotten memories stirred sluggishly in his mind. "Yup," he said, and jerked free and stumbled down the steel deck.
In his cabin he lay on the bunk, lighted a cigarette and smoked, coughing and staring at the rivet-studded bulkhead. The slow movement of his mind resolved into a struggle, one idea groping for the other.
What were the things he'd heard about nicked jaws? And where had he heard them? Digging ore on Pluto; talk in the pits? Secretive suspicions voiced in smoke-laden saloons of Mars? In the labor gangs of Uranus? Where? Shano smoked and didn't know. But he knew there was a rumor, and that it was the talk of ignorant men. The captain had evaded it. Shano smoked and coughed and stared at the steel bulkhead and waited.
The ship's alarm clanged. Shano jerked from his bunk like a broken watch spring. He crouched, trembling, on arthritic joints, as a loud-speaker blared throughout the ship.
" All hands! We now maintain dead silence. Close down and stop all machinery. Power off and lights out. An enemy fleet is out there, listening and watching for mechanical and electronic disturbance. Atmosphere will be maintained from emergency oxygen cylinders. Stop pumps. "
Shano crouched and listened as the ship's steady drone ceased and the vibrations ceased. The pumps stopped, the lights went out.
Pressing the cold steel bulkhead, Shano heard oxygen hiss through the pipes. Hiss and hiss and then flow soundlessly, filling the cabin and his lungs. He choked.
The cabin was like a mine shaft, dark and cold. Feet pounded on the deck outside.
Shano clawed open the door. He peered out anxiously.
Cold blobs of light, phosphorescent bulbs held in the fists of men, glimmered by. Phosphorescent bulbs, because the power was off. Shano blinked. He saw officers and men, their faces tight and pinched, hurrying in all directions. Hurrying to shut down the ship.
He acted impulsively. A young ensign strode by, drawn blaster in hand. Shano followed him; followed the bluish glow of his bulb, through labyrinthine passages and down a companionway, coughing and leering against the pain in his joints. The blue light winked out in the distance and Shano stopped.
He was suddenly alarmed. The captain had warned him to stay in his cabin. He looked back and forth, wondering how to return.
A bell clanged.
Shano saw a cold bulb glowing down the passageway, and he shuffled hopefully toward it. The bulb moved away. He saw an indistinct figure disappear through a door marked, ENGINE ROOM.
Shano paused uncertainly at the end of the passageway. A thick cluster of vertical pipes filled the corner. He peered at the pipes and saw a gray box snuggled behind them. It had two toggle switches and a radium dial that quivered delicately.
Shano scratched his scalp as boots pounded on the decks, above and below. He listened attentively to the ship's familiar noises diminishing one by one. And finally even the pounding of feet died out; everything became still. The silence shrieked in his ears.
The ship coasted. Shano could sense it coasting. He couldn't feel it or hear it, but he knew it was sliding ghost-like through space like a submarine dead under water, slipping quietly past a listening enemy.
The ship's speaker rasped softly. " Emergency. Battle posts. "
The captain's voice. Calm, brief. It sent a tremor through Shano's body. He heard a quick scuffle of feet again, running feet, directly overhead, and the captain's voice, more urgently, "Power on. They've heard us."
The words carried no accusation, but Shano realized what they meant. A slip-up. Something left running. Vibrations picked up quickly by detectors of the Uranian space fleet.
Shano coughed and heard the ship come to life around him. He pulled himself out of the spasm, cursing Pluto. Cursing his diseased, gum-clogged lungs. Cursing the Uranian fleet that was trying to prevent his going home—even to die.
This was a strange battle. Strange indeed. It was mostly silence.
Occasionally, as though from another world, came a brief, curt order.
"Port guns alert." Then hush and tension.
The deck lurched and the ship swung this way and that. Maybe dodging, maybe maneuvering—Shano didn't know. He felt the deck lurch, that was all.
"Fire number seven."
He heard the weird scream of a ray gun, and felt the constricting terror that seemed to belt the ship like an iron band.
This was a battle in space, and out there were Uranian cruisers trying to blast the Stardust out of the sky. Trying and trying, while the captain dodged and fired back—pitted his skill and knowledge against an enemy Shano couldn't see.
He wanted desperately to help the captain break through, and get to Earth. But he could only cling to the plastic pipes and cough.
The ship jounced and slid beneath his feet, and was filled with sound. It rocked and rolled. Shano caromed off the bulkhead.
"Hold fire."
He crawled to his knees on the slippery deck, grabbed the pipes and pulled himself erect, hand over hand. His eyes came level with the gray metal box behind the pipes. He squinted, fascinated, at the quivering dial needle. "Hey!" he said.
"Stand by."
Shano puzzled it out, his mind groping. He wasn't used to thinking. Only working with his hands.
This box. This needle that had quivered when the ship was closed down....
"It's over. Chased them off. Ready guns before laying to. Third watch on duty."
Shano sighed at the sudden release of tension throughout the space liner Stardust .
Smoke spewed from his nostrils. His forehead wrinkled with concentration. Those rumors: "Man sells out to Uranus, gets a nick cut in his jaw. Ever see a man with a nick in his jaw? Watch him, he's up to something." The talk of ignorant men. Shano remembered.
He poked behind the pipes and angrily slapped the toggle switches on the box. The captain would only scoff. He'd never believe there was a traitor aboard who had planted an electronic signal box, giving away the ship's position. He'd never believe the babblings of an old man.
He straightened up, glaring angrily. He knew. And the knowledge made him cold and furious. He watched the engine room emergency exit as it opened cautiously.
A chunky man backed out, holstering a flat blaster. He turned and saw Shano, standing smoking. He walked over and nudged Shano, his face dark. Shano blew smoke into the dark face.
"Old man," said Rourke. "What're you doing down here?"
Shano blinked.
Rourke fingered the nick in his jaw, eyes glinting. "You're supposed to be in your cabin," he said. "Didn't I warn you we'd run into trouble?"
Shano smoked and contemplated the chunky man. Estimated his strength and youth and felt the anger and frustration mount in him. "Devil," he said.
"Devil," he said and dug his cigarette into the other's face.
He lunged then, clawing. He dug the cigarette into Rourke's flushed face, and clung to his body. Rourke howled. He fell backward to the deck, slapping at his blistered face. He thrashed around and Shano clung to him, battered, pressing the cigarette relentlessly, coughing, cursing the pain in his joints.
Shano grasped Rourke's neck with his hands. He twisted the neck with his gnarled hands. Strong hands that had worked.
He got up when Rourke stopped thrashing. The face was purple and he was dead. Shano shivered. He crouched in the passageway shivering and coughing.
A tremendous grinding sounded amid-ships. Loud rending noises of protesting metal. The ship bucked like a hooked fish. Then it was still. An empty clank echoed through the hull. The captain's voice came, almost yelling. "Emergency! Emergency! Back to your posts. Engine room—report! Engine room—"
Shano picked himself off the deck, his mind muddled. He coughed and put a cigarette to his lips, flicking a lighter disk jerkily from his pocket. He blew smoke from his nostrils and heard the renewed pounding of feet. What was going on now?
"Engine room! Your screen is dead! Switch onto loud-speaker system. Engine room!"
Giddily, Shano heard clicks and rasps and then a thick voice, atom motors whirring in the background.
"Selector's gone, sir. Direct hit. Heat ray through the deck plates. We've sealed the tear. Might repair selector in five hours."
Shano coughed and sent a burst of smoke from his mouth.
"Captain!" A rasping, grating sound ensued from a grill above Shano's head, then a disconnected voice. "Get the men out of there. It's useless. Hurry it up!" A series of clicks and the heavy voice of the chief engineer. "Captain! Somebody's smashed the selector chamber. Engine room's full of toxia gas!"
Shano jumped. He prodded the body on the deck with his toe.
The Stardust's mechanical voice bellowed: "Engine room!" It reproduced the captain's heavy breathing and his tired voice. "We're about midway to Venus," it said. "There were two ships and we drove them off. But there may be others. They'll be coming back. They know we've been hit. We have to get away fast!"
Shano could see the captain in his mind, worried, squared face slick with moisture. Shouting into a control room mike. Trying to find out what the matter was with his space ship.
The engineer's answer came from the grill. "Impossible, sir. Engine room full of toxia gas. Not a suit aboard prepared to withstand it. And we have to keep it in there. Selector filaments won't function without the gas. Our only chance was to put a man in the engine room to repair the broken selector valve rods or keep them running by hand."
"Blast it!" roared the captain. "No way of getting in there? Can't you by-pass the selector?"
"No. It's the heart of the new cosmic drive, sir. The fuels must pass through selector valves before entering the tube chambers. Filaments will operate so long as toxia gas is there to burn, and will keep trying to open the valves and compensate for fluctuating engine temperature. But the rod pins have melted down, sir—they're common tungsten steel—and when the rods pull a valve open, they slip off and drop down, useless. It's a mess. If we could only get a man in there he might lift up the dropped end of a rod and slip it into place each time it fell, and keep the valves working and feeding fuel."
The speaker spluttered and Shano smoked thoughtfully, listening to the talk back and forth, between the captain and the engineer. He didn't understand it, but knew that everything was ended. They were broken down in space and would never make Earth. Those Uranian devils would come streaking back. Catch them floating, helpless, and blast them to bits. And he would never get home to die.
Shano coughed, and cursed his lungs. Time was when these gum-clogged lungs had saved his life. In the Plutonian mines. Gas explosions in the tunnels. Toxia gas, seeping in, burning the men's insides. But with gum-clogged lungs he'd been able to work himself clear. Just getting sick where other men had died, their insides burned out.
Shano smoked and thought.
They wouldn't even know, he told himself, squirming through the emergency exit into the engine room, and sealing it after him. And they wouldn't understand if they did. Pink mist swirled about him. Toxia gas. Shano coughed.
He squinted around at the massive, incomprehensible machinery. The guts of the space ship.
Then he saw the shattered, gold-gleaming cylinder, gas hissing from a fine nozzle, and filaments glowing bluish inside it, still working away. He saw five heavy Carrsteel rods hanging useless, on melted-down pins, and the slots their pronged ends hooked into. He looked at his hands, and shook his head.
"One try," he said to himself. "One try, Shano. One important thing in your life. Here's your opportunity. The toxia gas will get you. It'll kill you at this concentration. But you'll last for maybe twelve hours. Another man wouldn't last a minute. Another man's lungs aren't clogged with Juno gum."
He grasped a rod and lifted it, sweating under the weight, and slipped the forked end into its slot. Going home to die, he thought. Well, maybe not going home. Couldn't remember what Earth looked like anyway.
What was that again? Oh yeah—just lift them up, and when they drop off, lift them up again.
Shano coughed, and lifted the heavy rods into position. One jerked back suddenly and smoothly, and something went, "Pop, pop," behind him and machinery whirred. He lifted the rod and slipped it back on. Another jerked, pulled open a large valve, and dropped off. Shano bent, and lifted, coughing and coughing. He forgot what he was doing, mind blank the way it went when he worked. Just rhythmically fell into the job, the way a laborer does. He waited for a rod to slip and fall, then lifted it up and slipped it in place, skin sweating, joints shooting pain along his limbs. He heard the machinery working. He heard the high, howling whine of cosmic jets. He, Shano, was making the machinery go. He was running the cosmic drive.
A bell clanged somewhere. "Engine room! Engine room! We're under way! What happened?"
Silence, while Shano coughed and made the machinery go, thinking about the Earth he hadn't seen for many years.
"Captain!" the speaker bawled. "There's a man in there! Working the valve rods! Somebody is in the engine room and the gas isn't...."
Shano grinned, feeling good. Feeling happy. Lifting the heavy steel rods, driving the ship. Keeping the jets screaming and hurtling the liner Stardust toward Venus. He wondered if they'd found Rourke yet. If he could keep going for twelve hours they would get to Venus. After that....
"Home," he coughed. "Hell! Who wants to go home?"
He plucked at his agitated chest, thinking of a whole damn Uranian fleet swooping down on a spot in space, expecting to find a crippled ship there with a spy inside it. And finding nothing. Because of Shano. A useless old man.
Coughing came out all mixed up with laughing.
Question:
Who is Rourke, and what are his traits in the story?
Answer:
|
[
"Rourke is the lieutenant with the nicked jaw who Shano first meets at the air lock. He initially refuses the ticket and reminds Shano that there is a Red signal placed on the Stardust. He tells Shano that the latter is heading towards his funeral but still ends up punching his ticket. Rourke is indirectly mentioned when Shano asks the captain about nicked jaws, a question to which the captain responds that it happens when somebody has cut himself shaving. Rourke is later revealed to be a traitor loyal to the Uranians and attempts to sabotage the ship so that the Uranian fleet can force the Stardust to surrender. He is a manipulative individual, capable of convincing most crew members that he is innocent and means no harm. He also pretends to act surprised that Shano is on board, knowing that he will betray them to the Uranians. Rourke is also a very sneaky person. When the ship turns off all mechanics to avoid detection, he uses the opportunity to sneak into the engine room and mess up the ship’s controls. He can remain mostly undetected, only seen by Shano as he hurries into the room. ",
"Rourke is a lieutenant on the ship who has a nick on his jaw. This is believed to be a feature of those who sell out to Uranus. Rourke is a traitor, he planted an electronic signal box to give away the ship's position and provoke the Uranian attack.He didn't want Shano to get on board and warned him. Rourke is a chunky man with a blaster. He is young, strong and angry at Shano for getting involved. Rourke dies as a consequence of a fight with Shano who considers him a traitor. ",
"Rourke is the lieutenant of the ship, who is a nick-jawed Earthman. Rourke first refuses the ticket, stating that it is signal red. After having faint memories within his mind, he takes Shano’s ticket mentioning that it is his funeral. He is staring out to the viewport when Shano spots him later, Shano thinks that he is just idling. Later, he is suspiciously using the Engine Room emergency exit when Shano spots him again. He is chunky and holsters a flat blaster. He has weaker hands than Shano. And is killed by Shano. ",
"Rourke is the lieutenant of the starship ``Stardust\" who sells out the ship to the Uranians. He is clearly a very crooked character from this one act alone, taking personal gain over the lives of his crew. He is described as \"sullen\" and \"chunky\". His one redeeming quality that could be found would be in when he tried to convince Shano not to board that ship, thus he would have saved his life. He calls Shano an old man, clearly giving off a rude and unpleasant demeanor. He is a shifty, complicated character, because while he sold the ship out to the Uranians, and is not very polite, he did look out for Shano. \n"
] |
63860
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SIGNAL RED
By HENRY GUTH
They tried to stop him. Earth Flight 21 was a suicide run, a coffin ship, they told him. Uranian death lay athwart the space lanes. But Shano already knew this was his last ride.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Mercurian night settled black and thick over the Q City Spaceport. Tentative fingers of light flicked and probed the sky, and winked out.
"Here she comes," somebody in the line ahead said.
Shano coughed, his whole skeletal body jerking. Arthritic joints sent flashes of pain along his limbs. Here she comes, he thought, feeling neither glad nor sad.
He coughed and slipped polarized goggles over his eyes.
The spaceport emerged bathed in infra red. Hangars, cradles, freighter catapults and long runways stood out in sharp, diamond-clear detail. High up, beyond the cone of illumination, a detached triple row of bright specks—portholes of the liner Stardust —sank slowly down.
There was no eagerness in him. Only a tiredness. A relief. Relief from a lifetime of beating around the planets. A life of digging, lifting, lugging and pounding. Like a work-worn Martian camel, he was going home to die.
As though on oiled pistons the ship sank into the light, its long shark-like hull glowing soft and silvery, and settled with a feathery snuggle into the cradle's ribs.
The passenger line quivered as a loud-speaker boomed:
" Stardust, now arrived at Cradle Six! Stardust, Cradle Six! All passengers for Venus and Earth prepare to board in ten minutes. "
Shano coughed, and wiped phlegm from his thin lips, his hand following around the bony contours of his face, feeling the hollows and the beard stubble and loose skin of his neck. He coughed and thought of the vanium mines of Pluto, and his gum-clogged lungs. A vague, pressing desire for home overwhelmed him. It had been so long.
" Attention! Attention, Stardust passengers! The signal is red. The signal is red. Refunds now being made. Refunds now. Take-off in five minutes. "
The man ahead swore and flicked up an arm. "Red," he groaned. "By the infinite galaxies, this is the last straw!" He charged away, knocking Shano aside as he passed.
Red signal. In bewildered anxiety Shano lifted the goggles from his eyes and stared into the sudden blackness. The red signal. Danger out there. Passengers advised to ground themselves, or travel at their own risk.
He felt the passengers bump and fumble past him, grumbling vexatiously.
A hot dread assailed him, and he coughed, plucking at his chest. Plucking at an urgency there.
Dropping the goggles to his rheumy eyes, he saw that the passenger line had dissolved. He moved, shuffling, to the gate, thrust his ticket into the scanner slot, and pushed through the turnstile when it clicked.
" Flight twenty-one, now arriving from Venus ," the loud-speaker said monotonously. Shano glanced briefly upward and saw the gleaming belly of twenty-one sinking into the spaceport cone of light.
He clawed his way up the gangway and thrust out his ticket to the lieutenant standing alone at the air lock. The lieutenant, a sullen, chunky man with a queer nick in his jawbone, refused the ticket.
"Haven't you heard, mister? Red signal. Go on back."
Shano coughed, and peered through the lenses of his goggles. "Please," he said. "Want to go home. I've a right." The nicked jaw stirred faint memories within his glazed mind.
The lieutenant punched his ticket. "It's your funeral, old man."
The loud-speaker blared. " Stardust, taking off in thirty seconds. The signal is red. Stardust, taking— "
With the words dinning in his ears, Shano stepped into the air lock. The officer followed, spun wheels, and the lock closed. The outside was shut off.
Lifting goggles they entered the hull, through a series of two more locks, closing each behind them.
"We're afloat," the officer said. "We've taken off." A fleck of light danced far back in his eye. Shano felt the pressure of acceleration gradually increasing, increasing, and hurried in.
Captain Menthlo, a silver-mustached Jupiterian, broad, huge, yet crushable as a beetle, talked while his hands manipulated a panel of studs in the control room. The pilot, his back encased in leather, sat in a bucket seat before him, listening into earphones.
"Surprised to learn of a passenger aboard," the captain said, glancing briefly sideways. "You're entitled to know of the danger ahead." He flicked a final stud, spoke to the pilot and at last turned a serious, squared face to Shano. "Old man," he said. "There's a Uranian fleet out there. We don't know how many ships in this sector. Flight twenty-one, which just landed, had a skirmish with one, and got away. We may not be so lucky. You know how these Uranian devils are."
Shano coughed, and wiped his mouth. "Dirty devils," he said. "I was driv' off the planet once, before this war started. I know things about them Uranian devils. Heard them in the mines around. Hears things, a laborer does."
The captain seemed for the first time to realize the social status of his lone passenger, and he became a little gruff.
"Want you to sign this waiver, saying you're traveling at your own risk. We'll expect you to keep to your cabin as much as possible. When the trouble comes we can't bother with a passenger. In a few hours we'll shut down the ship entirely, and every mechanical device aboard, to try to avoid detection." His mustaches rose like two spears from each side of his squared nose as his face changed to an alert watchfulness. "Going home, eh?" he said. "You've knocked around some, by the looks of you. Pluto, from the sound of that cough."
Shano scrawled his signature on the waiver. "Yeah," he said. "Pluto. Where a man's lungs fights gas." He blinked watery eyes. "Captain, what's a notched jaw mean to you?"
"Well, old man," the captain grasped Shano's shoulder and turned him around. "It means somebody cut himself, shaving. You stick tight to your cabin." He nodded curtly and indicated the door.
Descending the companionway to the next deck Shano observed the nick-jawed lieutenant staring out the viewport, apparently idling. The man turned and gripped Shano's thin arm.
"A light?" he said, tapping a cigarette. Shano produced a lighter disk and the chunky man puffed. He was an Earthman and his jaw seemed cut with a knife, notched like a piece of wood. Across the breast of his tunic was a purple band, with the name Rourke . "Why are you so anxious to get aboard, old man?" He searched Shano's face. "There's trouble ahead, you know."
Shano coughed, wracking his body, as forgotten memories stirred sluggishly in his mind. "Yup," he said, and jerked free and stumbled down the steel deck.
In his cabin he lay on the bunk, lighted a cigarette and smoked, coughing and staring at the rivet-studded bulkhead. The slow movement of his mind resolved into a struggle, one idea groping for the other.
What were the things he'd heard about nicked jaws? And where had he heard them? Digging ore on Pluto; talk in the pits? Secretive suspicions voiced in smoke-laden saloons of Mars? In the labor gangs of Uranus? Where? Shano smoked and didn't know. But he knew there was a rumor, and that it was the talk of ignorant men. The captain had evaded it. Shano smoked and coughed and stared at the steel bulkhead and waited.
The ship's alarm clanged. Shano jerked from his bunk like a broken watch spring. He crouched, trembling, on arthritic joints, as a loud-speaker blared throughout the ship.
" All hands! We now maintain dead silence. Close down and stop all machinery. Power off and lights out. An enemy fleet is out there, listening and watching for mechanical and electronic disturbance. Atmosphere will be maintained from emergency oxygen cylinders. Stop pumps. "
Shano crouched and listened as the ship's steady drone ceased and the vibrations ceased. The pumps stopped, the lights went out.
Pressing the cold steel bulkhead, Shano heard oxygen hiss through the pipes. Hiss and hiss and then flow soundlessly, filling the cabin and his lungs. He choked.
The cabin was like a mine shaft, dark and cold. Feet pounded on the deck outside.
Shano clawed open the door. He peered out anxiously.
Cold blobs of light, phosphorescent bulbs held in the fists of men, glimmered by. Phosphorescent bulbs, because the power was off. Shano blinked. He saw officers and men, their faces tight and pinched, hurrying in all directions. Hurrying to shut down the ship.
He acted impulsively. A young ensign strode by, drawn blaster in hand. Shano followed him; followed the bluish glow of his bulb, through labyrinthine passages and down a companionway, coughing and leering against the pain in his joints. The blue light winked out in the distance and Shano stopped.
He was suddenly alarmed. The captain had warned him to stay in his cabin. He looked back and forth, wondering how to return.
A bell clanged.
Shano saw a cold bulb glowing down the passageway, and he shuffled hopefully toward it. The bulb moved away. He saw an indistinct figure disappear through a door marked, ENGINE ROOM.
Shano paused uncertainly at the end of the passageway. A thick cluster of vertical pipes filled the corner. He peered at the pipes and saw a gray box snuggled behind them. It had two toggle switches and a radium dial that quivered delicately.
Shano scratched his scalp as boots pounded on the decks, above and below. He listened attentively to the ship's familiar noises diminishing one by one. And finally even the pounding of feet died out; everything became still. The silence shrieked in his ears.
The ship coasted. Shano could sense it coasting. He couldn't feel it or hear it, but he knew it was sliding ghost-like through space like a submarine dead under water, slipping quietly past a listening enemy.
The ship's speaker rasped softly. " Emergency. Battle posts. "
The captain's voice. Calm, brief. It sent a tremor through Shano's body. He heard a quick scuffle of feet again, running feet, directly overhead, and the captain's voice, more urgently, "Power on. They've heard us."
The words carried no accusation, but Shano realized what they meant. A slip-up. Something left running. Vibrations picked up quickly by detectors of the Uranian space fleet.
Shano coughed and heard the ship come to life around him. He pulled himself out of the spasm, cursing Pluto. Cursing his diseased, gum-clogged lungs. Cursing the Uranian fleet that was trying to prevent his going home—even to die.
This was a strange battle. Strange indeed. It was mostly silence.
Occasionally, as though from another world, came a brief, curt order.
"Port guns alert." Then hush and tension.
The deck lurched and the ship swung this way and that. Maybe dodging, maybe maneuvering—Shano didn't know. He felt the deck lurch, that was all.
"Fire number seven."
He heard the weird scream of a ray gun, and felt the constricting terror that seemed to belt the ship like an iron band.
This was a battle in space, and out there were Uranian cruisers trying to blast the Stardust out of the sky. Trying and trying, while the captain dodged and fired back—pitted his skill and knowledge against an enemy Shano couldn't see.
He wanted desperately to help the captain break through, and get to Earth. But he could only cling to the plastic pipes and cough.
The ship jounced and slid beneath his feet, and was filled with sound. It rocked and rolled. Shano caromed off the bulkhead.
"Hold fire."
He crawled to his knees on the slippery deck, grabbed the pipes and pulled himself erect, hand over hand. His eyes came level with the gray metal box behind the pipes. He squinted, fascinated, at the quivering dial needle. "Hey!" he said.
"Stand by."
Shano puzzled it out, his mind groping. He wasn't used to thinking. Only working with his hands.
This box. This needle that had quivered when the ship was closed down....
"It's over. Chased them off. Ready guns before laying to. Third watch on duty."
Shano sighed at the sudden release of tension throughout the space liner Stardust .
Smoke spewed from his nostrils. His forehead wrinkled with concentration. Those rumors: "Man sells out to Uranus, gets a nick cut in his jaw. Ever see a man with a nick in his jaw? Watch him, he's up to something." The talk of ignorant men. Shano remembered.
He poked behind the pipes and angrily slapped the toggle switches on the box. The captain would only scoff. He'd never believe there was a traitor aboard who had planted an electronic signal box, giving away the ship's position. He'd never believe the babblings of an old man.
He straightened up, glaring angrily. He knew. And the knowledge made him cold and furious. He watched the engine room emergency exit as it opened cautiously.
A chunky man backed out, holstering a flat blaster. He turned and saw Shano, standing smoking. He walked over and nudged Shano, his face dark. Shano blew smoke into the dark face.
"Old man," said Rourke. "What're you doing down here?"
Shano blinked.
Rourke fingered the nick in his jaw, eyes glinting. "You're supposed to be in your cabin," he said. "Didn't I warn you we'd run into trouble?"
Shano smoked and contemplated the chunky man. Estimated his strength and youth and felt the anger and frustration mount in him. "Devil," he said.
"Devil," he said and dug his cigarette into the other's face.
He lunged then, clawing. He dug the cigarette into Rourke's flushed face, and clung to his body. Rourke howled. He fell backward to the deck, slapping at his blistered face. He thrashed around and Shano clung to him, battered, pressing the cigarette relentlessly, coughing, cursing the pain in his joints.
Shano grasped Rourke's neck with his hands. He twisted the neck with his gnarled hands. Strong hands that had worked.
He got up when Rourke stopped thrashing. The face was purple and he was dead. Shano shivered. He crouched in the passageway shivering and coughing.
A tremendous grinding sounded amid-ships. Loud rending noises of protesting metal. The ship bucked like a hooked fish. Then it was still. An empty clank echoed through the hull. The captain's voice came, almost yelling. "Emergency! Emergency! Back to your posts. Engine room—report! Engine room—"
Shano picked himself off the deck, his mind muddled. He coughed and put a cigarette to his lips, flicking a lighter disk jerkily from his pocket. He blew smoke from his nostrils and heard the renewed pounding of feet. What was going on now?
"Engine room! Your screen is dead! Switch onto loud-speaker system. Engine room!"
Giddily, Shano heard clicks and rasps and then a thick voice, atom motors whirring in the background.
"Selector's gone, sir. Direct hit. Heat ray through the deck plates. We've sealed the tear. Might repair selector in five hours."
Shano coughed and sent a burst of smoke from his mouth.
"Captain!" A rasping, grating sound ensued from a grill above Shano's head, then a disconnected voice. "Get the men out of there. It's useless. Hurry it up!" A series of clicks and the heavy voice of the chief engineer. "Captain! Somebody's smashed the selector chamber. Engine room's full of toxia gas!"
Shano jumped. He prodded the body on the deck with his toe.
The Stardust's mechanical voice bellowed: "Engine room!" It reproduced the captain's heavy breathing and his tired voice. "We're about midway to Venus," it said. "There were two ships and we drove them off. But there may be others. They'll be coming back. They know we've been hit. We have to get away fast!"
Shano could see the captain in his mind, worried, squared face slick with moisture. Shouting into a control room mike. Trying to find out what the matter was with his space ship.
The engineer's answer came from the grill. "Impossible, sir. Engine room full of toxia gas. Not a suit aboard prepared to withstand it. And we have to keep it in there. Selector filaments won't function without the gas. Our only chance was to put a man in the engine room to repair the broken selector valve rods or keep them running by hand."
"Blast it!" roared the captain. "No way of getting in there? Can't you by-pass the selector?"
"No. It's the heart of the new cosmic drive, sir. The fuels must pass through selector valves before entering the tube chambers. Filaments will operate so long as toxia gas is there to burn, and will keep trying to open the valves and compensate for fluctuating engine temperature. But the rod pins have melted down, sir—they're common tungsten steel—and when the rods pull a valve open, they slip off and drop down, useless. It's a mess. If we could only get a man in there he might lift up the dropped end of a rod and slip it into place each time it fell, and keep the valves working and feeding fuel."
The speaker spluttered and Shano smoked thoughtfully, listening to the talk back and forth, between the captain and the engineer. He didn't understand it, but knew that everything was ended. They were broken down in space and would never make Earth. Those Uranian devils would come streaking back. Catch them floating, helpless, and blast them to bits. And he would never get home to die.
Shano coughed, and cursed his lungs. Time was when these gum-clogged lungs had saved his life. In the Plutonian mines. Gas explosions in the tunnels. Toxia gas, seeping in, burning the men's insides. But with gum-clogged lungs he'd been able to work himself clear. Just getting sick where other men had died, their insides burned out.
Shano smoked and thought.
They wouldn't even know, he told himself, squirming through the emergency exit into the engine room, and sealing it after him. And they wouldn't understand if they did. Pink mist swirled about him. Toxia gas. Shano coughed.
He squinted around at the massive, incomprehensible machinery. The guts of the space ship.
Then he saw the shattered, gold-gleaming cylinder, gas hissing from a fine nozzle, and filaments glowing bluish inside it, still working away. He saw five heavy Carrsteel rods hanging useless, on melted-down pins, and the slots their pronged ends hooked into. He looked at his hands, and shook his head.
"One try," he said to himself. "One try, Shano. One important thing in your life. Here's your opportunity. The toxia gas will get you. It'll kill you at this concentration. But you'll last for maybe twelve hours. Another man wouldn't last a minute. Another man's lungs aren't clogged with Juno gum."
He grasped a rod and lifted it, sweating under the weight, and slipped the forked end into its slot. Going home to die, he thought. Well, maybe not going home. Couldn't remember what Earth looked like anyway.
What was that again? Oh yeah—just lift them up, and when they drop off, lift them up again.
Shano coughed, and lifted the heavy rods into position. One jerked back suddenly and smoothly, and something went, "Pop, pop," behind him and machinery whirred. He lifted the rod and slipped it back on. Another jerked, pulled open a large valve, and dropped off. Shano bent, and lifted, coughing and coughing. He forgot what he was doing, mind blank the way it went when he worked. Just rhythmically fell into the job, the way a laborer does. He waited for a rod to slip and fall, then lifted it up and slipped it in place, skin sweating, joints shooting pain along his limbs. He heard the machinery working. He heard the high, howling whine of cosmic jets. He, Shano, was making the machinery go. He was running the cosmic drive.
A bell clanged somewhere. "Engine room! Engine room! We're under way! What happened?"
Silence, while Shano coughed and made the machinery go, thinking about the Earth he hadn't seen for many years.
"Captain!" the speaker bawled. "There's a man in there! Working the valve rods! Somebody is in the engine room and the gas isn't...."
Shano grinned, feeling good. Feeling happy. Lifting the heavy steel rods, driving the ship. Keeping the jets screaming and hurtling the liner Stardust toward Venus. He wondered if they'd found Rourke yet. If he could keep going for twelve hours they would get to Venus. After that....
"Home," he coughed. "Hell! Who wants to go home?"
He plucked at his agitated chest, thinking of a whole damn Uranian fleet swooping down on a spot in space, expecting to find a crippled ship there with a spy inside it. And finding nothing. Because of Shano. A useless old man.
Coughing came out all mixed up with laughing.
|
Who is Captain Linden and what happens to him throughout the story?
|
After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about The Serpent River by Don Wilcox.
Relevant chunks:
THE SERPENT RIVER
By Don Wilcox
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Other Worlds May 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The Code was rigid—no fraternization with the peoples of other planets! Earth wanted no "shotgun weddings" of the worlds of space!
"Split" Campbell and I brought our ship down to a quiet landing on the summit of a mile-wide naked rock, and I turned to the telescope for a closer view of the strange thing we had come to see.
It shone, eighteen or twenty miles away, in the light of the late afternoon sun. It was a long silvery serpent-like
something
that crawled slowly over the planet's surface.
There was no way of guessing how large it was, at this distance. It might have been a rope rolled into shape out of a mountain—or a chain of mountains. It might have been a river of bluish-gray dough that had shaped itself into a great cable. Its diameter? If it had been a hollow tube, cities could have flowed through it upright without bending their skyscrapers. It was, to the eye, an endless rope of cloud oozing along the surface of the land. No, not cloud, for it had the compactness of solid substance.
We could see it at several points among the low foothills. Even from this distance we could guess that it had been moving along its course for centuries. Moving like a sluggish snake. It followed a deep-worn path between the nearer hills and the high jagged mountains on the horizon.
What was it?
"Split" Campbell and I had been sent here to learn the answers. Our sponsor was the well known "EGGWE" (the Earth-Galaxy Good Will Expeditions.) We were under the EGGWE Code. We were the first expedition to this planet, but we had come equipped with two important pieces of advance information. The Keynes-Roy roving cameras (unmanned) had brought back to the Earth choice items of fact about various parts of the universe. From these photos we knew (1) that man lived on this planet, a humanoid closely resembling the humans of the Earth; and
(2) that a vast cylindrical "rope" crawled the surface of this land, continuously, endlessly.
We had intentionally landed at what we guessed would be a safe distance from the rope. If it were a living thing, like a serpent, we preferred not to disturb it. If it gave off heat or poisonous gases or deadly vibrations, we meant to keep our distance. If, on the other hand, it proved to be some sort of vegetable—a vine of glacier proportions—or a river of some silvery, creamy substance—we would move in upon it gradually, gathering facts as we progressed. I could depend upon
"Split" to record all observable phenomena with the accuracy of split-hairs.
Split was working at the reports like a drudge at this very moment.
I looked up from the telescope, expecting him to be waiting his turn eagerly. I misguessed. He didn't even glance up from his books. Rare young Campbell! Always a man of duty, never a man of impulse!
"Here Campbell, take a look at the 'rope'."
"Before I finish the reports, sir? If I recall our Code, Section Two, Order of Duties upon Landing: A—"
"Forget the Code. Take a look at the rope while the sun's on it.... See it?"
"Yes sir."
"Can you see it's moving? See the little clouds of dust coming up from under its belly?"
"Yes sir. An excellent view, Captain Linden."
"What do you think of it, Split? Ever see a sight like that before?"
"No sir."
"Well, what about it? Any comments?"
Split answered me with an enthusiastic, "By gollies, sir!" Then, with restraint, "It's precisely what I expected from the photographs, sir. Any orders, sir?"
"Relax, Split! That's the order. Relax!"
"Thanks—thanks, Cap!" That was his effort to sound informal, though coming from him it was strained. His training had given him an exaggerated notion of the importance of dignity and discipline.
He was naturally so conscientious it was painful. And to top it all, his scientific habit of thought made him want to stop and weigh his words even when speaking of casual things such as how much sugar he required in his coffee.
Needless to say, I had kidded him unmercifully over these traits. Across the millions of miles of space that we had recently traveled
(our first voyage together) I had amused myself at his expense. I had sworn that he would find, in time, that he couldn't even trim his fingernails without calipers, or comb his hair without actually physically splitting the hairs that cropped up in the middle of the part. That was when I had nicknamed him "Split"—and the wide ears that stuck out from his stubble-cut blond hair had glowed with the pink of selfconsciousness. Plainly, he liked the kidding. But if I thought I could rescue him from the weight of dignity and duty, I was mistaken.
Now he had turned the telescope for a view far to the right. He paused.
"What do you see?" I asked.
"I cannot say definitely. The exact scientific classification of the object I am observing would call for more detailed scrutiny—"
"You're seeing some sort of object?"
"Yes sir."
"What sort of object?"
"A living creature, sir—upright, wearing clothes—"
"A
man
?"
"To all appearances, sir—"
"You bounder, give me that telescope!"
2.
If you have explored the weird life of many a planet, as I have, you can appreciate the deep sense of excitement that comes over me when, looking out at a new world for the first time, I see a man-like animal.
Walking upright!
Wearing adornments in the nature of clothing!
I gazed, and my lungs filled with the breath of wonderment. A man! Across millions of miles of space—a man, like the men of the Earth.
Six times before in my life of exploration I had gazed at new realms within the approachable parts of our universe, but never before had the living creatures borne such wonderful resemblance to the human life of our Earth.
A man!
He might have been creeping on all fours.
He might have been skulking like a lesser animal.
He might have been entirely naked.
He was none of these—and at the very first moment of viewing him I felt a kinship toward him. Oh, he was primitive in appearance—but had my ancestors not been the same? Was this not a mirror of my own race a million years or so ago? I sensed that my own stream of life had somehow crossed with his in ages gone by. How? Who can ever know? By what faded charts of the movements through the sky will man ever be able to retrace relationships of forms of life among planets?
"Get ready to go out and meet him, Campbell," I said. "He's a friend."
Split Campbell gave me a look as if to say, Sir, you don't even know what sort of animal he is, actually, much less whether he's friendly or murderous.
"There are some things I can sense on first sight, Campbell. Take my word for it, he's a friend."
"I didn't say anything, sir."
"Good. Don't. Just get ready."
"We're going to go
out
—?"
"Yes," I said. "Orders."
"And meet both of them?" Split was at the telescope.
"Both?" I took the instrument from him. Both! "Well!"
"They seem to be coming out of the ground," Split said. "I see no signs of habitation, but apparently we've landed on top of an underground city—though I hasten to add that this is only an hypothesis."
"One's a male and the other's a female," I said.
"Another hypothesis," said Split.
The late evening sunshine gave us a clear view of our two "friends". They were fully a mile away. Split was certain they had not seen our ship, and to this conclusion I was in agreement. They had apparently come up out of the barren rock hillside to view the sunset. I studied them through the telescope while Split checked over equipment for a hike.
The man's walk was unhurried. He moved thoughtfully, one might guess. His bare chest and legs showed him to be statuesque in mold, cleanly muscled, fine of bone. His skin was almost the color of the cream-colored robe which flowed from his back, whipping lightly in the breeze. He wore a brilliant red sash about his middle, and this was matched by a red headdress that came down over his shoulders as a circular mantle.
The girl stood several yards distant, watching him. This was some sort of ritual, no doubt. He was not concerned with her, but with the setting sun. Its rays were almost horizontal, knifing through a break in the distant mountain skyline. He went through some routine motions, his moving arms highlighted by the lemon-colored light of evening.
The girl approached him. Two other persons appeared from somewhere back of her.... Three.... Four.... Five....
"Where do they come from?" Split had paused in the act of checking equipment to take his turn at the telescope. If he had not done so, I might not have made a discovery. The landscape was
moving
.
The long shadows that I had not noticed through the telescope were a prominent part of the picture I saw through the ship's window when I looked out across the scene with the naked eye. The shadows were moving.
They were tree shadows. They were moving toward the clearing where the crowd gathered. And the reason for their movement was that the trees themselves were moving.
"Notice anything?" I asked Split.
"The crowd is growing. We've certainly landed on top of a city." He gazed. "They're coming from underground."
Looking through the telescope, obviously he didn't catch the view of the moving trees.
"Notice anything else unusual?" I persisted.
"Yes. The females—I'm speaking hypothetically—but they
must
be females—are all wearing puffy white fur ornaments around their elbows. I wonder why?"
"You haven't noticed the trees?"
"The females are quite attractive," said Split.
I forgot about the moving trees, then, and took over the telescope. Mobile trees were not new to me. I had seen similar vegetation on other planets—"sponge-trees"—which possessed a sort of muscular quality. If these were similar, they were no doubt feeding along the surface of the slope below the rocky plateau. The people in the clearing beyond paid no attention to them.
I studied the crowd of people. Only the leader wore the brilliant garb. The others were more scantily clothed. All were handsome of build. The lemon-tinted sunlight glanced off the muscular shoulders of the males and the soft curves of the females.
"Those furry elbow ornaments on the females," I said to Split,
"they're for protection. The caves they live in must be narrow, so they pad their elbows."
"Why don't they pad their shoulders? They don't have anything on their shoulders."
"Are you complaining?"
We became fascinated in watching, from the seclusion of our ship. If we were to walk out, or make any sounds, we might have interrupted their meeting. Here they were in their native ritual of sunset, not knowing that people from another world watched. The tall leader must be making a speech. They sat around him in little huddles. He moved his arms in calm, graceful gestures.
"They'd better break it up!" Split said suddenly. "The jungles are moving in on them."
"They're spellbound," I said. "They're used to sponge-trees. Didn't you ever see moving trees?"
Split said sharply, "Those trees are marching! They're an army under cover. Look!"
I saw, then. The whole line of advancing vegetation was camouflage for a sneak attack. And all those natives sitting around in meeting were as innocent as a flock of sitting ducks. Split Campbell's voice was edged with alarm. "Captain! Those worshippers—how can we warn them? Oh-oh! Too late. Look!"
All at once the advancing sponge-trees were tossed back over the heads of the savage band concealed within. They were warriors—fifty or more of them—with painted naked bodies. They dashed forward in a wide semicircle, swinging crude weapons, bent on slaughter.
3.
They were waving short clubs or whips with stones tied to the ends. They charged up the slope, about sixty yards, swinging their weird clubs with a threat of death.
Wild disorder suddenly struck the audience. Campbell and I believed we were about to witness a massacre.
"Captain—
Jim
! You're not going to let this happen!"
Our sympathies had gone to the first groups, the peaceable ones. I had the same impulse as Campbell—to do something—anything! Yet here we sat in our ship, more than half a mile from our thirty-five or forty
"friends" in danger.
Our friends were panicked. But they didn't take flight. They didn't duck for the holes in the rocky hilltop. Instead, they rallied and packed themselves around their tall leader. They stood, a defiant wall.
"Can we shoot a ray, Jim?"
I didn't answer. Later I would recall that Split
could
drop his dignity under excitement—his "Captain Linden" and "sir." Just now he wanted any sort of split-second order.
We saw the naked warriors run out in a wide circle. They spun and weaved, they twirled their deadly clubs, they danced grotesquely. They were closing in. Closer and closer. It was all their party.
"Jim, can we shoot?"
"Hit number sixteen, Campbell."
Split touched the number sixteen signal.
The ship's siren wailed out over the land.
You could tell when the sound struck them. The circle of savage ones suddenly fell apart. The dancing broke into the wildest contortions you ever saw. As if they'd been spanked by a wave of electricity. The siren scream must have sounded like an animal cry from an unknown world. The attackers ran for the sponge-trees. The rootless jungle came to life. It jerked and jumped spasmodically down the slope. And our siren kept right on singing.
"Ready for that hike, Campbell? Give me my equipment coat." I got into it. I looked back to the telescope. The tall man of the party had behaved with exceptional calmness. He had turned to stare in our direction from the instant the siren sounded. He could no doubt make out the lines of our silvery ship in the shadows. Slowly, deliberately, he marched over the hilltop toward us.
Most of his party now scampered back to the safety of their hiding places in the ground. But a few—the brave ones, perhaps, or the officials of his group—came with him.
"He needs a stronger guard than that," Campbell grumbled.
Sixteen was still wailing. "Set it for ten minutes and come on," I said. Together we descended from the ship.
We took into our nostrils the tangy air, breathing fiercely, at first. We slogged along over the rock surface feeling our weight to be one-and-a-third times normal. We glanced down the slope apprehensively. We didn't want any footraces. The trees, however, were still retreating. Our siren would sing on for another eight minutes. And in case of further danger, we were equipped with the standard pocket arsenal of special purpose capsule bombs.
Soon we came face to face with the tall, stately old leader in the cream-and-red cloak.
Split and I stood together, close enough to exchange comments against the siren's wail. Fine looking people, we observed. Smooth faces. Like the features of Earth men. These creatures could walk down any main street back home. With a bit of makeup they would pass.
"Notice, Captain, they have strange looking eyes." "Very smooth."
"It's because they have no eyebrows ... no eye lashes." "Very smooth—handsome—attractive."
Then the siren went off.
The leader stood before me, apparently unafraid. He seemed to be waiting for me to explain my presence. His group of twelve gathered in close.
I had met such situations with ease before. "EGGWE" explorers come equipped. I held out a gift toward the leader. It was a singing medallion attached to a chain. It was disc-shaped, patterned after a large silver coin. It made music at the touch of a button. In clear, dainty bell tones it rang out its one tune, "Trail of Stars."
As it played I held it up for inspection. I placed it around my own neck, then offered it to the leader. I thought he was smiling. He was not overwhelmed by the "magic" of this gadget. He saw it for what it was, a token of friendship. There was a keenness about him that I liked. Yes, he was smiling. He bent his head forward and allowed me to place the gift around his neck.
"Tomboldo," he said, pointing to himself.
Split and I tried to imitate his breathy accents as we repeated aloud,
"Tomboldo."
We pointed to ourselves, in turn, and spoke our own names. And then, as the names of the others were pronounced, we tried to memorize each breathy sound that was uttered. I was able to remember four or five of them. One was Gravgak.
Gravgak's piercing eyes caused me to notice him. Suspicious eyes? I did not know these people's expressions well enough to be sure.
Gravgak was a guard, tall and muscular, whose arms and legs were painted with green and black diamond designs.
By motions and words we didn't understand, we inferred that we were invited to accompany the party back home, inside the hill, where we would be safe. I nodded to Campbell. "It's our chance to be guests of Tomboldo." Nothing could have pleased us more. For our big purpose—to understand the Serpent River—would be forwarded greatly if we could learn, through the people, what its meanings were. To analyze the river's substance, estimate its rate, its weight, its temperature, and to map its course—these facts were only a part of the information we sought. The fuller story would be to learn how the inhabitants of this planet regarded it: whether they loved or shunned it, and what legends they may have woven around it. All this knowledge would be useful when future expeditions of men from the Earth followed us (through EGGWE) for an extension of peaceful trade relationships.
Tomboldo depended upon the guard Gravgak to make sure that the way was safe. Gravgak was supposed to keep an eye on the line of floating trees that had taken flight down the hillside. Danger still lurked there, we knew. And now the siren that had frightened off the attack was silent. Our ship, locked against invaders, could be forgotten. We were guests of Tomboldo.
Gravgak was our guard, but he didn't work at it. He was too anxious to hear all the talk. In the excitement of our meeting, everyone ignored the growing darkness, the lurking dangers. Gravgak confronted us with agitated jabbering:
"Wollo—yeeta—vo—vandartch—vandartch! Grr—see—o—see—o—see—o!"
"See—o—see—o—see—o," one of the others echoed.
It began to make sense. They wanted us to repeat the siren noises. The enemy had threatened their lives. There could very well have been a wholesale slaughter. But as long as we could make the "see—o—see—o" we were all safe.
Split and I exchanged glances. He touched his hand to the equipment jacket, to remind me we were armed with something more miraculous than a yowling siren.
"See—o—see—o—see—o!" Others of Tomboldo's party echoed the demand. They must have seen the sponge-trees again moving toward our path.
"
See—o—see—o!
"
Our peaceful march turned into a spasm of terror. The sponge-trees came rushing up the slope, as if borne by a sudden gust of wind. They bounced over our path, and the war party spilled out of them.
Shouting. A wild swinging of clubs. And no cat-and-mouse tricks. No deliberate circling and closing in. An outright attack. Naked bodies gleaming in the semi-darkness. Arms swinging weapons, choosing the nearest victims. The luminous rocks on the ends of the clubs flashed. Shouting, screeching, hurling their clubs. The whizzing fury filled the air.
I hurled a capsule bomb. It struck at the base of a bouncing sponge-tree, and blew the thing to bits.
The attackers ran back into a huddle, screaming. Then they came forward, rushing defiantly.
Our muscular guard, Gravgak was too bold. He had picked up one of their clubs and he ran toward their advance, and to all of Tomboldo's party it must have appeared that he was bravely rushing to his death. Yet the gesture of the club he swung so wildly could have been intended as a
warning
! It could have meant, Run back, you fools, or these strange devils will throw fire at you.
I threw fire. And so did my lieutenant. He didn't wait for orders, thank goodness. He knew it was their lives or ours. Zip, zip, zip—BLANG-BLANG-BLANG! The bursts of fire at their feet ripped the rocks. The spray caught them and knocked them back. Three or four warriors in the fore ranks were torn up in the blasts. Others were flattened—and those who were able, ran.
They ran, not waiting for the cover of sponge-trees. Not bothering to pick up their clubs.
But the operation was not a complete success. We had suffered a serious casualty. The guard Gravgak. He had rushed out too far, and the first blast of fire and rock had knocked him down. Now Tomboldo and others of the party hovered over him.
His eyes opened a little. I thought he was staring at me, drilling me with suspicion. I worked over him with medicines. The crowd around us stood back in an attitude of awe as Split and I applied ready bandages, and held a stimulant to his nostrils that made him breath back to consciousness.
Suddenly he came to life. Lying there on his back, with the club still at his fingertips, he swung up on one elbow. The swift motion caused a cry of joy from the crowd. I heard a little of it—and then blacked out. For as the muscular Gravgak moved, his fingers closed over the handle of the club. It whizzed upward with him—apparently all by accident. The stone that dangled from the end of the club crashed into my head.
I went into instant darkness. Darkness, and a long, long silence.
4.
Vauna, the beautiful daughter of Tomboldo, came into my life during the weeks that I lay unconscious.
I must have talked aloud much during those feverish hours of darkness.
"Campbell!" I would call out of a nightmare. "Campbell, we're about to land. Is everything set? Check the instruments again, Campbell."
"S-s-sh!" The low hush of Split Campbell's voice would somehow penetrate my dream.
The voices about me were soft. My dreams echoed the soft female voices of this new, strange language.
"Campbell, are you there?... Have you forgotten the Code, Campbell?"
"Quiet, Captain."
"Who is it that's swabbing my face? I can't see."
"It's Vauna. She's smiling at you, Captain. Can't you see her?"
"Is this the pretty one we saw through the telescope?"
"One of them."
"And what of the other? There were two together. I remember—"
"Omosla is here too. She's Vauna's attendant. We're all looking after you, Captain Linden. Did you know I performed an operation to relieve the pressure on your brain? You must get well, Captain." The words of Campbell came through insistently.
After a silence that may have lasted for hours or days, I said,
"Campbell, you haven't forgot the EGGWE Code?"
"Of course not, Captain."
"Section Four?"
"Section Four," he repeated in a low voice, as if to pacify me and put me to sleep. "Conduct of EGGWE agents toward native inhabitants: A, No agent shall enter into any diplomatic agreement that shall be construed as binding—"
I interrupted. "Clause D?"
He picked it up. "D, no agent shall enter into a marriage contract with any native.... H-m-m. You're not trying to warn me, are you, Captain Linden? Or are you warning
yourself
?"
At that moment my eyes opened a little. Swimming before my blurred vision was the face of Vauna. I did remember her—yes, she must have haunted my dreams, for now my eyes burned in an effort to define her features more clearly. This was indeed Vauna, who had been one of the party of twelve, and had walked beside her father in the face of the attack. Deep within my subconscious the image of her beautiful face and figure had lingered. I murmured a single word of answer to Campbell's question. "Myself."
In the hours that followed, I came to know the soft footsteps of Vauna. The caverns in which she and her father and all these Benzendella people lived were pleasantly warm and fragrant. My misty impressions of their life about me were like the first impressions of a child learning about the world into which he has been born.
Sometimes I would hear Vauna and her attendant Omosla talking together. Often when Campbell would stop in this part of the cavern to inquire about me, Omosla would drop in also. She and Campbell were learning to converse in simple words. And Vauna and I—yes. If I could only avoid blacking out.
I wanted to see her.
So often my eyes would refuse to open. A thousand nightmares. Space ships shooting through meteor swarms. Stars like eyes. Eyes like stars. The eyes of Vauna, the daughter of Tomboldo. The sensitive stroke of Vauna's fingers, brushing my forehead, pressing my hand.
I regained my health gradually.
"Are you quite awake?" Vauna would ask me in her musical Benzendella words. "You speak better today. Your friend Campbell has brought you more recordings of our language, so you can learn to speak more. My father is eager to talk with you. But you must sleep more. You are still weak."
It gave me a weird sensation to awaken in the night, trying to adjust myself to my surroundings. The Benzendellas were sleep-singers. By night they murmured mysterious little songs through their sleep. Strange harmonies whispered through the caves.
And if I stirred restlessly, the footsteps of Vauna might come to me through the darkness. In her sleeping garments she would come to me, faintly visible in the pink light that filtered through from some corridor. She would whisper melodious Benzendella words and tell me to go back to sleep, and I would drift into the darkness of my endless dreams.
The day came when I awakened to see both Vauna and her father standing before me. Stern old Tomboldo, with his chalk-smooth face and not a hint of an eyebrow or eyelash, rapped his hand against my ribs, shook the fiber bed lightly, and smiled. From a pocket concealed in his flowing cape, he drew forth the musical watch, touched the button, and played, "Trail of Stars."
"I have learned to talk," I said.
"You have had a long sleep."
"I am well again. See, I can almost walk." But as I started to rise, the wave of blackness warned me, and I restrained my ambition. "I will walk soon."
"We will have much to talk about. Your friend has pointed to the stars and told me a strange story of your coming. We have walked around the ship. He has told me how it rides through the sky. I can hardly make myself believe." Tomboldo's eyes cast upward under the strong ridge of forehead where the eyebrows should have been. He was evidently trying to visualize the flight of a space ship. "We will have much to tell each other."
"I hope so," I said. "Campbell and I came to learn about the
serpent river
." I resorted to my own language for the last two words, not knowing the Benzendella equivalent.
I
made an eel-like motion with my arm. But they didn't understand. And before I could explain, the footsteps of other Benzendellas approached, and presently I looked around to see that quite an audience had gathered. The most prominent figure of the new group was the big muscular guard of the black and green diamond markings—Gravgak.
"You get well?" Gravgak said to me. His eyes drilled me closely.
"I get well," I said.
"The blow on the head," he said, "was not meant."
I looked at him. Everyone was looking at him, and I knew this was meant to be an occasion of apology. But the light of fire in Vauna's eyes told me that she did not believe. He saw her look, and his own eyes flashed darts of defiance. With an abrupt word to me, he wheeled and started off. "Get well!"
The crowd of men and women made way for him. But in the arched doorway he turned. "Vauna. I am ready to speak to you alone."
She started. I reached and barely touched her hand. She stopped. "I will talk with you later, Gravgak."
"Now!" he shouted. "Alone."
He stalked off. A moment later Vauna, after exchanging a word with her father, excused herself from the crowd and followed Gravgak.
From the way those in the room looked, I knew this must be a dramatic moment. It was as if she had acknowledged Gravgak as her master—or her lover. He had called for her. She had followed.
But her old father was still the master. He stepped toward the door.
"Vauna!... Gravgak!... Come back."
(I will always wonder what might have happened if he hadn't called them! Was my distrust of Gravgak justified? Had I become merely a jealous lover—or was I right in my hunch that the tall muscular guard was a potential traitor?)
Vauna reappeared at once. I believe she was glad that she had been called back.
Gravgak came sullenly. At the edge of the crowd in the arched doorway he stood scowling.
"While we are together," old Tomboldo said quietly, looking around at the assemblage, "I must tell you the decision of the council. Soon we will move back to the other part of the world."
There were low murmurs of approval through the chamber.
"We will wait a few days," Tomboldo went on, "until our new friend—" he pointed to me—"is well enough to travel. We would never leave him here to the mercy of the savage ones. He and his helper came through the sky in time to save us from being destroyed. We must never forget this kindness. When we ascend the
Kao-Wagwattl
, the ever moving
rope of life
, these friends shall come with us. On the back of the Kao-Wagwattl
they shall ride with us across the land
."
Question:
Who is Captain Linden and what happens to him throughout the story?
Answer:
|
[
"Captain Linden is the leader of the first manned expedition from Earth to the planet that is inhabited by the Benzendella people. His sponsorship is from the Earth-Galaxy Good Will Expeditions, \"EGGWE\" for short. Because a previous rover had discovered a mysterious silver river and some humanoid creatures, Linden and his lieutenant were sent to discover more. He hoped that interacting with the humanoids would allow him to learn some cultural significance behind what he referred to as the Serpent River, which he also planned on studying scientifically. After he landed, while Campbell was monitoring the humanoids, he noticed that trees were moving towards the people, and sensed an incoming attack. He ordered Campbell to start a siren from their ship to distract the attackers, and later led the two of them to meet the local Benzendella people. He presented their leader with a token of friendship, a medallion that played music. As another attack started, and a guard fell, Linden tried to tend to the guard but was knocked out and did not regain consciousness for a few weeks. As he slowly healed and felt more normal, he had to warn himself to be careful around Vauna, the Benzendella leader's daughter, who had been watching him at his bedside. She was very beautiful, and he knew it was against mission code to marry locals. ",
"Captain Linden is the leader of the first expedition to the planet. The trip is sponsored by the Earth-Galaxy Good Will Expeditions (EGGWE). From images brought back to Earth by a roving camera, they know that humanoids live on the planet, and there is a huge rope or serpent-like object or creature moving continuously across the surface. He and Split Campbell cautiously land a good distance from the rope-like object in case it is dangerous. Although he is in command, Linden has a good sense of humor and likes to joke with and poke fun at Split; in fact, Linden is the one who gave him his nickname. Linden allows some gray area in following the Code, for example, encouraging Campbell to look through the telescope at the rope before Campbell has finished writing his reports. After exclaiming rather unprofessionally at what he sees, Linden “orders” him to take it easy. The two men are on their first voyage together, and Linden has entertained himself on the journey of millions of miles by teasing Campbell. Linden has been to six other planets, but none of them had beings that were so similar to humans; the ones on the current planet look like the human ancestors from one million years ago, and Linden is very excited about this. Linden senses that the humanoids are friendly and trusts his intuition; this is why he decides to help them when the other group attacks them. He tries to befriend the leader by offering him a singing medallion on a chain, but what really impresses them is the way he and Campbell help them when the attackers return. After the battle, Linden is hit in the head by a rock attached to the club that Gravgak used when Gravgak jumps up after being roused to consciousness. Linden suffers a head injury and is unconscious for several days. While he is recuperating, the humanoid leader’s daughter Vauna cares for him, and he falls in love with her. Linden reminds Campbell of Clause D of the EGGWE Code, which states that none of their agents can marry a native but then admits he is reminding himself of this, not Campbell. When Gravgak states he is ready to talk to Vauna alone, Linden reaches for her hand, letting her know his feelings about her. Her father orders them to come back to the group, and when Tomboldo announces the group is ready to move back to the other part of the world, he invites Linden and Campbell to go with them.\n",
"Captain Jim Linden leads a fact-finding mission on behalf of the EGGWE to discover the identity of a large, silvery, rope-like entity on a planet earmarked for the establishment of an inter-planetary trade agreement. Jim and his partner Split work together to observe the object, and, while doing so, they meet the local people called the Benzendella. Jim is a calm and effective leader; he has captained six similar missions in the past and is experienced in interacting with native populations in order to establish strong relationships for the EGGWE. This experience comes to bear when a hostile group attacks the Benzendellas, and Jim uses this as an opportunity to assist them with his ship's siren. This interaction establishes trust with the Benzendellas, and he moves to deepen that trust by giving a peace gift-- a music-playing medallion. After Jim and Split help save the Benzendellas from a second attack and revive Gravgak when he is wounded, the Benzendellas provide Jim and Split a place to stay as Jim recovers from his own injury. During his state of unconsciousness, Jim learns the Benzendella language and falls in love with Vauna, Tomboldo's daughter.",
"Captain Linden is a member of the Earth-Galaxy Good Will Expeditions (EGGWE) and Lieteuant “Split” Campbell’s superior officer. He is a confident man and loves teasing Split. After having been on one expedition before, Linden and Split were ready to arrive on this planet and investigate the Serpent River. As they look out at the seemingly-barren world through their telescope, Linden notices people emerging from underground. He watches in awe as they all gather around one man and a woman, seemingly about to perform some sort of ritual. The shadows of the trees move, but he sees nothing abnormal about this. Warriors rush out of the trees to attack the Benzendella, so Captian Linden saves them by having Split press the siren button, #16. He uses the EGGWE code of conduct when addressing the leader, Tomboldo, and offers him a gift. They are invited underground to their home but are attacked by the warriors again before they can descend. Gravgak is injured, so Linden and Split try to take care of him. When he awakens, he smashes his club into Linden’s head, possibly on purpose. \nLinden wakes, days later, underground with Vauna by his side. Vauna is Tomboldo’s daughter, and Linden quickly develops feelings for her. The EGGWE code forbids its members to marry any natives, and he reminds himself of that. \nHe speaks with Tomboldo and Gravgak, the latter of which explains that it was an accident, though the look in his eyes and his tone of voice says otherwise. Tomboldo invites Linden and Split to join them on their journey aboard the Serpent River, as they travel across the planet looking for safety. \n"
] |
50923
|
THE SERPENT RIVER
By Don Wilcox
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Other Worlds May 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The Code was rigid—no fraternization with the peoples of other planets! Earth wanted no "shotgun weddings" of the worlds of space!
"Split" Campbell and I brought our ship down to a quiet landing on the summit of a mile-wide naked rock, and I turned to the telescope for a closer view of the strange thing we had come to see.
It shone, eighteen or twenty miles away, in the light of the late afternoon sun. It was a long silvery serpent-like
something
that crawled slowly over the planet's surface.
There was no way of guessing how large it was, at this distance. It might have been a rope rolled into shape out of a mountain—or a chain of mountains. It might have been a river of bluish-gray dough that had shaped itself into a great cable. Its diameter? If it had been a hollow tube, cities could have flowed through it upright without bending their skyscrapers. It was, to the eye, an endless rope of cloud oozing along the surface of the land. No, not cloud, for it had the compactness of solid substance.
We could see it at several points among the low foothills. Even from this distance we could guess that it had been moving along its course for centuries. Moving like a sluggish snake. It followed a deep-worn path between the nearer hills and the high jagged mountains on the horizon.
What was it?
"Split" Campbell and I had been sent here to learn the answers. Our sponsor was the well known "EGGWE" (the Earth-Galaxy Good Will Expeditions.) We were under the EGGWE Code. We were the first expedition to this planet, but we had come equipped with two important pieces of advance information. The Keynes-Roy roving cameras (unmanned) had brought back to the Earth choice items of fact about various parts of the universe. From these photos we knew (1) that man lived on this planet, a humanoid closely resembling the humans of the Earth; and
(2) that a vast cylindrical "rope" crawled the surface of this land, continuously, endlessly.
We had intentionally landed at what we guessed would be a safe distance from the rope. If it were a living thing, like a serpent, we preferred not to disturb it. If it gave off heat or poisonous gases or deadly vibrations, we meant to keep our distance. If, on the other hand, it proved to be some sort of vegetable—a vine of glacier proportions—or a river of some silvery, creamy substance—we would move in upon it gradually, gathering facts as we progressed. I could depend upon
"Split" to record all observable phenomena with the accuracy of split-hairs.
Split was working at the reports like a drudge at this very moment.
I looked up from the telescope, expecting him to be waiting his turn eagerly. I misguessed. He didn't even glance up from his books. Rare young Campbell! Always a man of duty, never a man of impulse!
"Here Campbell, take a look at the 'rope'."
"Before I finish the reports, sir? If I recall our Code, Section Two, Order of Duties upon Landing: A—"
"Forget the Code. Take a look at the rope while the sun's on it.... See it?"
"Yes sir."
"Can you see it's moving? See the little clouds of dust coming up from under its belly?"
"Yes sir. An excellent view, Captain Linden."
"What do you think of it, Split? Ever see a sight like that before?"
"No sir."
"Well, what about it? Any comments?"
Split answered me with an enthusiastic, "By gollies, sir!" Then, with restraint, "It's precisely what I expected from the photographs, sir. Any orders, sir?"
"Relax, Split! That's the order. Relax!"
"Thanks—thanks, Cap!" That was his effort to sound informal, though coming from him it was strained. His training had given him an exaggerated notion of the importance of dignity and discipline.
He was naturally so conscientious it was painful. And to top it all, his scientific habit of thought made him want to stop and weigh his words even when speaking of casual things such as how much sugar he required in his coffee.
Needless to say, I had kidded him unmercifully over these traits. Across the millions of miles of space that we had recently traveled
(our first voyage together) I had amused myself at his expense. I had sworn that he would find, in time, that he couldn't even trim his fingernails without calipers, or comb his hair without actually physically splitting the hairs that cropped up in the middle of the part. That was when I had nicknamed him "Split"—and the wide ears that stuck out from his stubble-cut blond hair had glowed with the pink of selfconsciousness. Plainly, he liked the kidding. But if I thought I could rescue him from the weight of dignity and duty, I was mistaken.
Now he had turned the telescope for a view far to the right. He paused.
"What do you see?" I asked.
"I cannot say definitely. The exact scientific classification of the object I am observing would call for more detailed scrutiny—"
"You're seeing some sort of object?"
"Yes sir."
"What sort of object?"
"A living creature, sir—upright, wearing clothes—"
"A
man
?"
"To all appearances, sir—"
"You bounder, give me that telescope!"
2.
If you have explored the weird life of many a planet, as I have, you can appreciate the deep sense of excitement that comes over me when, looking out at a new world for the first time, I see a man-like animal.
Walking upright!
Wearing adornments in the nature of clothing!
I gazed, and my lungs filled with the breath of wonderment. A man! Across millions of miles of space—a man, like the men of the Earth.
Six times before in my life of exploration I had gazed at new realms within the approachable parts of our universe, but never before had the living creatures borne such wonderful resemblance to the human life of our Earth.
A man!
He might have been creeping on all fours.
He might have been skulking like a lesser animal.
He might have been entirely naked.
He was none of these—and at the very first moment of viewing him I felt a kinship toward him. Oh, he was primitive in appearance—but had my ancestors not been the same? Was this not a mirror of my own race a million years or so ago? I sensed that my own stream of life had somehow crossed with his in ages gone by. How? Who can ever know? By what faded charts of the movements through the sky will man ever be able to retrace relationships of forms of life among planets?
"Get ready to go out and meet him, Campbell," I said. "He's a friend."
Split Campbell gave me a look as if to say, Sir, you don't even know what sort of animal he is, actually, much less whether he's friendly or murderous.
"There are some things I can sense on first sight, Campbell. Take my word for it, he's a friend."
"I didn't say anything, sir."
"Good. Don't. Just get ready."
"We're going to go
out
—?"
"Yes," I said. "Orders."
"And meet both of them?" Split was at the telescope.
"Both?" I took the instrument from him. Both! "Well!"
"They seem to be coming out of the ground," Split said. "I see no signs of habitation, but apparently we've landed on top of an underground city—though I hasten to add that this is only an hypothesis."
"One's a male and the other's a female," I said.
"Another hypothesis," said Split.
The late evening sunshine gave us a clear view of our two "friends". They were fully a mile away. Split was certain they had not seen our ship, and to this conclusion I was in agreement. They had apparently come up out of the barren rock hillside to view the sunset. I studied them through the telescope while Split checked over equipment for a hike.
The man's walk was unhurried. He moved thoughtfully, one might guess. His bare chest and legs showed him to be statuesque in mold, cleanly muscled, fine of bone. His skin was almost the color of the cream-colored robe which flowed from his back, whipping lightly in the breeze. He wore a brilliant red sash about his middle, and this was matched by a red headdress that came down over his shoulders as a circular mantle.
The girl stood several yards distant, watching him. This was some sort of ritual, no doubt. He was not concerned with her, but with the setting sun. Its rays were almost horizontal, knifing through a break in the distant mountain skyline. He went through some routine motions, his moving arms highlighted by the lemon-colored light of evening.
The girl approached him. Two other persons appeared from somewhere back of her.... Three.... Four.... Five....
"Where do they come from?" Split had paused in the act of checking equipment to take his turn at the telescope. If he had not done so, I might not have made a discovery. The landscape was
moving
.
The long shadows that I had not noticed through the telescope were a prominent part of the picture I saw through the ship's window when I looked out across the scene with the naked eye. The shadows were moving.
They were tree shadows. They were moving toward the clearing where the crowd gathered. And the reason for their movement was that the trees themselves were moving.
"Notice anything?" I asked Split.
"The crowd is growing. We've certainly landed on top of a city." He gazed. "They're coming from underground."
Looking through the telescope, obviously he didn't catch the view of the moving trees.
"Notice anything else unusual?" I persisted.
"Yes. The females—I'm speaking hypothetically—but they
must
be females—are all wearing puffy white fur ornaments around their elbows. I wonder why?"
"You haven't noticed the trees?"
"The females are quite attractive," said Split.
I forgot about the moving trees, then, and took over the telescope. Mobile trees were not new to me. I had seen similar vegetation on other planets—"sponge-trees"—which possessed a sort of muscular quality. If these were similar, they were no doubt feeding along the surface of the slope below the rocky plateau. The people in the clearing beyond paid no attention to them.
I studied the crowd of people. Only the leader wore the brilliant garb. The others were more scantily clothed. All were handsome of build. The lemon-tinted sunlight glanced off the muscular shoulders of the males and the soft curves of the females.
"Those furry elbow ornaments on the females," I said to Split,
"they're for protection. The caves they live in must be narrow, so they pad their elbows."
"Why don't they pad their shoulders? They don't have anything on their shoulders."
"Are you complaining?"
We became fascinated in watching, from the seclusion of our ship. If we were to walk out, or make any sounds, we might have interrupted their meeting. Here they were in their native ritual of sunset, not knowing that people from another world watched. The tall leader must be making a speech. They sat around him in little huddles. He moved his arms in calm, graceful gestures.
"They'd better break it up!" Split said suddenly. "The jungles are moving in on them."
"They're spellbound," I said. "They're used to sponge-trees. Didn't you ever see moving trees?"
Split said sharply, "Those trees are marching! They're an army under cover. Look!"
I saw, then. The whole line of advancing vegetation was camouflage for a sneak attack. And all those natives sitting around in meeting were as innocent as a flock of sitting ducks. Split Campbell's voice was edged with alarm. "Captain! Those worshippers—how can we warn them? Oh-oh! Too late. Look!"
All at once the advancing sponge-trees were tossed back over the heads of the savage band concealed within. They were warriors—fifty or more of them—with painted naked bodies. They dashed forward in a wide semicircle, swinging crude weapons, bent on slaughter.
3.
They were waving short clubs or whips with stones tied to the ends. They charged up the slope, about sixty yards, swinging their weird clubs with a threat of death.
Wild disorder suddenly struck the audience. Campbell and I believed we were about to witness a massacre.
"Captain—
Jim
! You're not going to let this happen!"
Our sympathies had gone to the first groups, the peaceable ones. I had the same impulse as Campbell—to do something—anything! Yet here we sat in our ship, more than half a mile from our thirty-five or forty
"friends" in danger.
Our friends were panicked. But they didn't take flight. They didn't duck for the holes in the rocky hilltop. Instead, they rallied and packed themselves around their tall leader. They stood, a defiant wall.
"Can we shoot a ray, Jim?"
I didn't answer. Later I would recall that Split
could
drop his dignity under excitement—his "Captain Linden" and "sir." Just now he wanted any sort of split-second order.
We saw the naked warriors run out in a wide circle. They spun and weaved, they twirled their deadly clubs, they danced grotesquely. They were closing in. Closer and closer. It was all their party.
"Jim, can we shoot?"
"Hit number sixteen, Campbell."
Split touched the number sixteen signal.
The ship's siren wailed out over the land.
You could tell when the sound struck them. The circle of savage ones suddenly fell apart. The dancing broke into the wildest contortions you ever saw. As if they'd been spanked by a wave of electricity. The siren scream must have sounded like an animal cry from an unknown world. The attackers ran for the sponge-trees. The rootless jungle came to life. It jerked and jumped spasmodically down the slope. And our siren kept right on singing.
"Ready for that hike, Campbell? Give me my equipment coat." I got into it. I looked back to the telescope. The tall man of the party had behaved with exceptional calmness. He had turned to stare in our direction from the instant the siren sounded. He could no doubt make out the lines of our silvery ship in the shadows. Slowly, deliberately, he marched over the hilltop toward us.
Most of his party now scampered back to the safety of their hiding places in the ground. But a few—the brave ones, perhaps, or the officials of his group—came with him.
"He needs a stronger guard than that," Campbell grumbled.
Sixteen was still wailing. "Set it for ten minutes and come on," I said. Together we descended from the ship.
We took into our nostrils the tangy air, breathing fiercely, at first. We slogged along over the rock surface feeling our weight to be one-and-a-third times normal. We glanced down the slope apprehensively. We didn't want any footraces. The trees, however, were still retreating. Our siren would sing on for another eight minutes. And in case of further danger, we were equipped with the standard pocket arsenal of special purpose capsule bombs.
Soon we came face to face with the tall, stately old leader in the cream-and-red cloak.
Split and I stood together, close enough to exchange comments against the siren's wail. Fine looking people, we observed. Smooth faces. Like the features of Earth men. These creatures could walk down any main street back home. With a bit of makeup they would pass.
"Notice, Captain, they have strange looking eyes." "Very smooth."
"It's because they have no eyebrows ... no eye lashes." "Very smooth—handsome—attractive."
Then the siren went off.
The leader stood before me, apparently unafraid. He seemed to be waiting for me to explain my presence. His group of twelve gathered in close.
I had met such situations with ease before. "EGGWE" explorers come equipped. I held out a gift toward the leader. It was a singing medallion attached to a chain. It was disc-shaped, patterned after a large silver coin. It made music at the touch of a button. In clear, dainty bell tones it rang out its one tune, "Trail of Stars."
As it played I held it up for inspection. I placed it around my own neck, then offered it to the leader. I thought he was smiling. He was not overwhelmed by the "magic" of this gadget. He saw it for what it was, a token of friendship. There was a keenness about him that I liked. Yes, he was smiling. He bent his head forward and allowed me to place the gift around his neck.
"Tomboldo," he said, pointing to himself.
Split and I tried to imitate his breathy accents as we repeated aloud,
"Tomboldo."
We pointed to ourselves, in turn, and spoke our own names. And then, as the names of the others were pronounced, we tried to memorize each breathy sound that was uttered. I was able to remember four or five of them. One was Gravgak.
Gravgak's piercing eyes caused me to notice him. Suspicious eyes? I did not know these people's expressions well enough to be sure.
Gravgak was a guard, tall and muscular, whose arms and legs were painted with green and black diamond designs.
By motions and words we didn't understand, we inferred that we were invited to accompany the party back home, inside the hill, where we would be safe. I nodded to Campbell. "It's our chance to be guests of Tomboldo." Nothing could have pleased us more. For our big purpose—to understand the Serpent River—would be forwarded greatly if we could learn, through the people, what its meanings were. To analyze the river's substance, estimate its rate, its weight, its temperature, and to map its course—these facts were only a part of the information we sought. The fuller story would be to learn how the inhabitants of this planet regarded it: whether they loved or shunned it, and what legends they may have woven around it. All this knowledge would be useful when future expeditions of men from the Earth followed us (through EGGWE) for an extension of peaceful trade relationships.
Tomboldo depended upon the guard Gravgak to make sure that the way was safe. Gravgak was supposed to keep an eye on the line of floating trees that had taken flight down the hillside. Danger still lurked there, we knew. And now the siren that had frightened off the attack was silent. Our ship, locked against invaders, could be forgotten. We were guests of Tomboldo.
Gravgak was our guard, but he didn't work at it. He was too anxious to hear all the talk. In the excitement of our meeting, everyone ignored the growing darkness, the lurking dangers. Gravgak confronted us with agitated jabbering:
"Wollo—yeeta—vo—vandartch—vandartch! Grr—see—o—see—o—see—o!"
"See—o—see—o—see—o," one of the others echoed.
It began to make sense. They wanted us to repeat the siren noises. The enemy had threatened their lives. There could very well have been a wholesale slaughter. But as long as we could make the "see—o—see—o" we were all safe.
Split and I exchanged glances. He touched his hand to the equipment jacket, to remind me we were armed with something more miraculous than a yowling siren.
"See—o—see—o—see—o!" Others of Tomboldo's party echoed the demand. They must have seen the sponge-trees again moving toward our path.
"
See—o—see—o!
"
Our peaceful march turned into a spasm of terror. The sponge-trees came rushing up the slope, as if borne by a sudden gust of wind. They bounced over our path, and the war party spilled out of them.
Shouting. A wild swinging of clubs. And no cat-and-mouse tricks. No deliberate circling and closing in. An outright attack. Naked bodies gleaming in the semi-darkness. Arms swinging weapons, choosing the nearest victims. The luminous rocks on the ends of the clubs flashed. Shouting, screeching, hurling their clubs. The whizzing fury filled the air.
I hurled a capsule bomb. It struck at the base of a bouncing sponge-tree, and blew the thing to bits.
The attackers ran back into a huddle, screaming. Then they came forward, rushing defiantly.
Our muscular guard, Gravgak was too bold. He had picked up one of their clubs and he ran toward their advance, and to all of Tomboldo's party it must have appeared that he was bravely rushing to his death. Yet the gesture of the club he swung so wildly could have been intended as a
warning
! It could have meant, Run back, you fools, or these strange devils will throw fire at you.
I threw fire. And so did my lieutenant. He didn't wait for orders, thank goodness. He knew it was their lives or ours. Zip, zip, zip—BLANG-BLANG-BLANG! The bursts of fire at their feet ripped the rocks. The spray caught them and knocked them back. Three or four warriors in the fore ranks were torn up in the blasts. Others were flattened—and those who were able, ran.
They ran, not waiting for the cover of sponge-trees. Not bothering to pick up their clubs.
But the operation was not a complete success. We had suffered a serious casualty. The guard Gravgak. He had rushed out too far, and the first blast of fire and rock had knocked him down. Now Tomboldo and others of the party hovered over him.
His eyes opened a little. I thought he was staring at me, drilling me with suspicion. I worked over him with medicines. The crowd around us stood back in an attitude of awe as Split and I applied ready bandages, and held a stimulant to his nostrils that made him breath back to consciousness.
Suddenly he came to life. Lying there on his back, with the club still at his fingertips, he swung up on one elbow. The swift motion caused a cry of joy from the crowd. I heard a little of it—and then blacked out. For as the muscular Gravgak moved, his fingers closed over the handle of the club. It whizzed upward with him—apparently all by accident. The stone that dangled from the end of the club crashed into my head.
I went into instant darkness. Darkness, and a long, long silence.
4.
Vauna, the beautiful daughter of Tomboldo, came into my life during the weeks that I lay unconscious.
I must have talked aloud much during those feverish hours of darkness.
"Campbell!" I would call out of a nightmare. "Campbell, we're about to land. Is everything set? Check the instruments again, Campbell."
"S-s-sh!" The low hush of Split Campbell's voice would somehow penetrate my dream.
The voices about me were soft. My dreams echoed the soft female voices of this new, strange language.
"Campbell, are you there?... Have you forgotten the Code, Campbell?"
"Quiet, Captain."
"Who is it that's swabbing my face? I can't see."
"It's Vauna. She's smiling at you, Captain. Can't you see her?"
"Is this the pretty one we saw through the telescope?"
"One of them."
"And what of the other? There were two together. I remember—"
"Omosla is here too. She's Vauna's attendant. We're all looking after you, Captain Linden. Did you know I performed an operation to relieve the pressure on your brain? You must get well, Captain." The words of Campbell came through insistently.
After a silence that may have lasted for hours or days, I said,
"Campbell, you haven't forgot the EGGWE Code?"
"Of course not, Captain."
"Section Four?"
"Section Four," he repeated in a low voice, as if to pacify me and put me to sleep. "Conduct of EGGWE agents toward native inhabitants: A, No agent shall enter into any diplomatic agreement that shall be construed as binding—"
I interrupted. "Clause D?"
He picked it up. "D, no agent shall enter into a marriage contract with any native.... H-m-m. You're not trying to warn me, are you, Captain Linden? Or are you warning
yourself
?"
At that moment my eyes opened a little. Swimming before my blurred vision was the face of Vauna. I did remember her—yes, she must have haunted my dreams, for now my eyes burned in an effort to define her features more clearly. This was indeed Vauna, who had been one of the party of twelve, and had walked beside her father in the face of the attack. Deep within my subconscious the image of her beautiful face and figure had lingered. I murmured a single word of answer to Campbell's question. "Myself."
In the hours that followed, I came to know the soft footsteps of Vauna. The caverns in which she and her father and all these Benzendella people lived were pleasantly warm and fragrant. My misty impressions of their life about me were like the first impressions of a child learning about the world into which he has been born.
Sometimes I would hear Vauna and her attendant Omosla talking together. Often when Campbell would stop in this part of the cavern to inquire about me, Omosla would drop in also. She and Campbell were learning to converse in simple words. And Vauna and I—yes. If I could only avoid blacking out.
I wanted to see her.
So often my eyes would refuse to open. A thousand nightmares. Space ships shooting through meteor swarms. Stars like eyes. Eyes like stars. The eyes of Vauna, the daughter of Tomboldo. The sensitive stroke of Vauna's fingers, brushing my forehead, pressing my hand.
I regained my health gradually.
"Are you quite awake?" Vauna would ask me in her musical Benzendella words. "You speak better today. Your friend Campbell has brought you more recordings of our language, so you can learn to speak more. My father is eager to talk with you. But you must sleep more. You are still weak."
It gave me a weird sensation to awaken in the night, trying to adjust myself to my surroundings. The Benzendellas were sleep-singers. By night they murmured mysterious little songs through their sleep. Strange harmonies whispered through the caves.
And if I stirred restlessly, the footsteps of Vauna might come to me through the darkness. In her sleeping garments she would come to me, faintly visible in the pink light that filtered through from some corridor. She would whisper melodious Benzendella words and tell me to go back to sleep, and I would drift into the darkness of my endless dreams.
The day came when I awakened to see both Vauna and her father standing before me. Stern old Tomboldo, with his chalk-smooth face and not a hint of an eyebrow or eyelash, rapped his hand against my ribs, shook the fiber bed lightly, and smiled. From a pocket concealed in his flowing cape, he drew forth the musical watch, touched the button, and played, "Trail of Stars."
"I have learned to talk," I said.
"You have had a long sleep."
"I am well again. See, I can almost walk." But as I started to rise, the wave of blackness warned me, and I restrained my ambition. "I will walk soon."
"We will have much to talk about. Your friend has pointed to the stars and told me a strange story of your coming. We have walked around the ship. He has told me how it rides through the sky. I can hardly make myself believe." Tomboldo's eyes cast upward under the strong ridge of forehead where the eyebrows should have been. He was evidently trying to visualize the flight of a space ship. "We will have much to tell each other."
"I hope so," I said. "Campbell and I came to learn about the
serpent river
." I resorted to my own language for the last two words, not knowing the Benzendella equivalent.
I
made an eel-like motion with my arm. But they didn't understand. And before I could explain, the footsteps of other Benzendellas approached, and presently I looked around to see that quite an audience had gathered. The most prominent figure of the new group was the big muscular guard of the black and green diamond markings—Gravgak.
"You get well?" Gravgak said to me. His eyes drilled me closely.
"I get well," I said.
"The blow on the head," he said, "was not meant."
I looked at him. Everyone was looking at him, and I knew this was meant to be an occasion of apology. But the light of fire in Vauna's eyes told me that she did not believe. He saw her look, and his own eyes flashed darts of defiance. With an abrupt word to me, he wheeled and started off. "Get well!"
The crowd of men and women made way for him. But in the arched doorway he turned. "Vauna. I am ready to speak to you alone."
She started. I reached and barely touched her hand. She stopped. "I will talk with you later, Gravgak."
"Now!" he shouted. "Alone."
He stalked off. A moment later Vauna, after exchanging a word with her father, excused herself from the crowd and followed Gravgak.
From the way those in the room looked, I knew this must be a dramatic moment. It was as if she had acknowledged Gravgak as her master—or her lover. He had called for her. She had followed.
But her old father was still the master. He stepped toward the door.
"Vauna!... Gravgak!... Come back."
(I will always wonder what might have happened if he hadn't called them! Was my distrust of Gravgak justified? Had I become merely a jealous lover—or was I right in my hunch that the tall muscular guard was a potential traitor?)
Vauna reappeared at once. I believe she was glad that she had been called back.
Gravgak came sullenly. At the edge of the crowd in the arched doorway he stood scowling.
"While we are together," old Tomboldo said quietly, looking around at the assemblage, "I must tell you the decision of the council. Soon we will move back to the other part of the world."
There were low murmurs of approval through the chamber.
"We will wait a few days," Tomboldo went on, "until our new friend—" he pointed to me—"is well enough to travel. We would never leave him here to the mercy of the savage ones. He and his helper came through the sky in time to save us from being destroyed. We must never forget this kindness. When we ascend the
Kao-Wagwattl
, the ever moving
rope of life
, these friends shall come with us. On the back of the Kao-Wagwattl
they shall ride with us across the land
."
|
What is the relationship like between Jeff and Ann?
|
After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about Butterfly 9 by Donald Keith.
Relevant chunks:
Butterfly 9
By DONALD KEITH
Illustrated by GAUGHAN
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction January 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Jeff needed a job and this man had a job to offer—one where giant economy-size trouble had labels like fakemake, bumsy and peekage!
I
At first, Jeff scarcely noticed the bold-looking man at the next table. Nor did Ann. Their minds were busy with Jeff's troubles.
"You're still the smartest color engineer in television," Ann told Jeff as they dallied with their food. "You'll bounce back. Now eat your supper."
"This beanery is too noisy and hot," he grumbled. "I can't eat. Can't talk. Can't think." He took a silver pillbox from his pocket and fumbled for a black one. Those were vitamin pills; the big red and yellow ones were sleeping capsules. He gulped the pill.
Ann looked disapproving in a wifely way. "Lately you chew pills like popcorn," she said. "Do you really need so many?"
"I need something. I'm sure losing my grip."
Ann stared at him. "Baby! How silly! Nothing happened, except you lost your lease. You'll build up a better company in a new spot. We're young yet."
Jeff sighed and glanced around the crowded little restaurant. He wished he could fly away somewhere. At that moment, he met the gaze of the mustachioed man at the next table.
The fellow seemed to be watching him and Ann. Something in his confident gaze made Jeff uneasy. Had they met before?
Ann whispered, "So you noticed him, too. Maybe he's following us. I think I saw him on the parking lot where we left the car."
Jeff shrugged his big shoulders. "If he's following us, he's nuts. We've got no secrets and no money."
"It must be my maddening beauty," said Ann.
"I'll kick him cross-eyed if he starts anything," Jeff said. "I'm just in the mood."
Ann giggled. "Honey, what big veins you have! Forget him. Let's talk about the engineering lab you're going to start. And let's eat."
He groaned. "I lose my appetite every time I think about the building being sold. It isn't worth the twelve grand. I wouldn't buy it for that if I could. What burns me is that, five years ago, I could have bought it for two thousand."
"If only we could go back five years." She shrugged fatalistically.
"But since we can't—"
The character at the next table leaned over and spoke to them, grinning. "You like to get away? You wish to go back?"
Jeff glanced across in annoyance. The man was evidently a salesman, with extra gall.
"Not now, thanks," Jeff said. "Haven't time."
The man waved his thick hand at the clock, as if to abolish time.
"Time? That is nothing. Your little lady. She spoke of go back five years. Maybe I help you."
He spoke in an odd clipped way, obviously a foreigner. His shirt was yellow. His suit had a silky sheen. Its peculiar tailoring emphasized the bulges in his stubby, muscular torso.
Ann smiled back at him. "You talk as if you could take us back to 1952. Is that what you really mean?"
"Why not? You think this silly. But I can show you."
Jeff rose to go. "Mister, you better get to a doctor. Ann, it's time we started home."
Ann laid a hand on his sleeve. "I haven't finished eating. Let's chat with the gent." She added in an undertone to Jeff, "Must be a psycho—but sort of an inspired one."
The man said to Ann, "You are kind lady, I think. Good to crazy people. I join you."
He did not wait for consent, but slid into a seat at their table with an easy grace that was almost arrogant.
"You are unhappy in 1957," he went on. "Discouraged. Restless. Why not take trip to another time?"
"Why not?" Ann said gaily. "How much does it cost?"
"Free trial trip. Cost nothing. See whether you like. Then maybe we talk money." He handed Jeff a card made of a stiff plastic substance.
Jeff glanced at it, then handed it to Ann with a half-smile. It read:
4-D TRAVEL BEURO Greet Snader, Traffic Ajent
"Mr. Snader's bureau is different," Jeff said to his wife. "He even spells it different."
Snader chuckled. "I come from other time. We spell otherwise."
"You mean you come from the future?"
"Just different time. I show you. You come with me?"
"Come where?" Jeff asked, studying Snader's mocking eyes. The man didn't seem a mere eccentric. He had a peculiar suggestion of humor and force.
"Come on little trip to different time," invited Snader. He added persuasively, "Could be back here in hour."
"It would be painless, I suppose?" Jeff gave it a touch of derision.
"Maybe not. That is risk you take. But look at me. I make trips every day. I look damaged?"
As a matter of fact, he did. His thick-fleshed face bore a scar and his nose was broad and flat, as if it had been broken. But Jeff politely agreed that he did not look damaged.
Ann was enjoying this. "Tell me more, Mr. Snader. How does your time travel work?"
"Cannot explain. Same if you are asked how subway train works. Too complicated." He flashed his white teeth. "You think time travel not possible. Just like television not possible to your grandfather."
Ann said, "Why invite us? We're not rich enough for expensive trips."
"Invite many people," Snader said quickly. "Not expensive. You know Missing Persons lists, from police? Dozens people disappear. They go with me to other time. Many stay."
"Oh, sure," Jeff said. "But how do you select the ones to invite?"
"Find ones like you, Mr. Elliott. Ones who want change, escape."
Jeff was slightly startled. How did this fellow know his name was Elliott?
Before he could ask, Ann popped another question. "Mr. Snader, you heard us talking. You know we're in trouble because Jeff missed a good chance five years ago. Do you claim people can really go back into the past and correct mistakes they've made?"
"They can go back. What they do when arrive? Depends on them."
"Don't you wish it were true?" she sighed to Jeff.
"You afraid to believe," said Snader, a glimmer of amusement in his restless eyes. "Why not try? What you lose? Come on, look at station. Very near here."
Ann jumped up. "It might be fun, Jeff. Let's see what he means, if anything."
Jeff's pulse quickened. He too felt a sort of midsummer night's madness—a yearning to forget his troubles. "Okay, just for kicks. But we go in my car."
Snader moved ahead to the cashier's stand. Jeff watched the weasel-like grace of his short, broad body.
"This is no ordinary oddball," Jeff told Ann. "He's tricky. He's got some gimmick."
"First I just played him along, to see how loony he was," Ann said.
"Now I wonder who's kidding whom." She concluded thoughtfully, "He's kind of handsome, in a tough way."
II
Snader's "station" proved to be a middle-sized, middle-cost home in a good neighborhood. Lights glowed in the windows. Jeff could hear the whisper of traffic on a boulevard a few blocks away. Through the warm dusk, he could dimly see the mountains on the horizon. All was peaceful.
Snader unlocked the front door with a key which he drew from a fine metal chain around his neck. He swept open the front door with a flourish and beamed at them, but Ann drew back.
"'Walk into my parlor, said the spider to the fly,'" she murmured to Jeff. "This could be a gambling hell. Or a dope den."
"No matter what kind of clip joint, it can't clip us much," he said.
"There's only four bucks in my wallet. My guess is it's a 'temple' for some daffy religious sect."
They went in. A fat man smiled at them from a desk in the hall. Snader said, "Meet Peter Powers. Local agent of our bureau."
The man didn't get up, but nodded comfortably and waved them toward the next room, after a glance at Snader's key.
The key opened this room's door, too. Its spring lock snapped shut after them.
The room was like a doctor's waiting room, with easy chairs along the walls. Its only peculiar aspects were a sign hanging from the middle of the ceiling and two movie screens—or were they giant television screens?—occupying a whole wall at either end of the room.
The sign bore the number 701 in bright yellow on black. Beneath it, an arrow pointed to the screen on the left with the word Ante , and to the right with the word Post .
Jeff studied the big screens. On each, a picture was in motion. One appeared to be moving through a long corridor, lined with seats like a railroad club car. The picture seemed to rush at them from the left wall. When he turned to the right, a similar endless chair-lined corridor moved toward him from that direction.
"Somebody worked hard on this layout," he said to Snader. "What's it for?"
"Time travel," said Snader. "You like?"
"Almost as good as Disneyland. These movies represent the stream of time, I suppose?"
Instead of answering, Snader pointed to the screen. The picture showed a group of people chatting in a fast-moving corridor. As it hurtled toward them, Snader flipped his hand in a genial salute. Two people in the picture waved back.
Ann gasped. "It was just as if they saw us."
"They did," Snader said. "No movie. Time travelers. In fourth dimension. To you, they look like flat picture. To them, we look flat."
"What's he supposed to be?" Jeff asked as the onrushing picture showed them briefly a figure bound hand and foot, huddled in one of the chairs. He stared at them piteously for an instant before the picture surged past.
Snader showed his teeth. "That was convict from my time. We have criminals, like in your time. But we do not kill. We make them work. Where he going? To end of line. To earliest year this time groove reach. About 600 A.D., your calendar. Authorities pick up when he get there. Put him to work."
"What kind of work?" Jeff asked.
"Building the groove further back."
"Sounds like interesting work."
Snader chortled and slapped him on the back. "Maybe you see it some day, but forget that now. You come with me. Little trip."
Jeff was perspiring. This was odder than he expected. Whatever the fakery, it was clever. His curiosity as a technician made him want to know about it. He asked Snader, "Where do you propose to go? And how?"
Snader said, "Watch me. Then look at other wall."
He moved gracefully to the screen on the left wall, stepped into it and disappeared. It was as if he had slid into opaque water.
Jeff and Ann blinked in mystification. Then they remembered his instruction to watch the other screen. They turned. After a moment, in the far distance down the long moving corridor, they could see a stocky figure. The motion of the picture brought him nearer. In a few seconds, he was recognizable as Snader—and as the picture brought him forward, he stepped down out of it and was with them again.
"Simple," Snader said. "I rode to next station. Then crossed over. Took other carrier back here."
"Brother, that's the best trick I've seen in years," Jeff said. "How did you do it? Can I do it, too?"
"I show you." Grinning like a wildcat, Snader linked his arms with Ann and Jeff, and walked them toward the screen. "Now," he said. "Step in."
Jeff submitted to Snader's pressure and stepped cautiously into the screen. Amazingly, he felt no resistance at all, no sense of change or motion. It was like stepping through a fog-bank into another room.
In fact, that was what they seemed to have done. They were in the chair-lined corridor. As Snader turned them around and seated them, they faced another moving picture screen. It seemed to rush through a dark tunnel toward a lighted square in the far distance.
The square grew on the screen. Soon they saw it was another room like the waiting room they had left, except that the number hanging from the ceiling was 702. They seemed to glide through it. Then they were in the dark tunnel again.
Ann was clutching Jeff's arm. He patted her hand. "Fun, hey? Like Alice through the looking-glass."
"You really think we're going back in time?" she whispered.
"Hardly! But we're seeing a million-dollar trick. I can't even begin to figure it out yet."
Another lighted room grew out of the tunnel on the screen, and when they had flickered through it, another and then another.
"Mr. Snader," Ann said unsteadily, "how long—how many years back are you taking us?"
Snader was humming to himself. "Six years. Station 725 fine place to stop."
For a little while, Jeff let himself think it might be true. "Six years ago, your dad was alive," he mused to Ann. "If this should somehow be real, we could see him again."
"We could if we went to our house. He lived with us then, remember? Would we see ourselves, six years younger? Or would—"
Snader took Jeff's arm and pulled him to his feet. The screen was moving through a room numbered 724.
"Soon now," Snader grunted happily. "Then no more questions."
He took an arm of each as he had before. When the screen was filled by a room with the number 725, he propelled them forward into it.
Again there was no sense of motion. They had simply stepped through a bright wall they could not feel. They found themselves in a replica of the room they had left at 701. On the wall, a picture of the continuous club-car corridor rolled toward them in a silent, endless stream.
"The same room," Ann said in disappointment. "They just changed the number. We haven't been anywhere."
Snader was fishing under his shirt for the key. He gave Ann a glance that was almost a leer. Then he carefully unlocked the door.
In the hall, a motherly old lady bustled up, but Snader brushed past her. "Official," he said, showing her the key. "No lodging."
He unlocked the front door without another word and carefully shut it behind them as Jeff and Ann followed him out of the house.
"Hey, where's my car?" Jeff demanded, looking up and down the street.
The whole street looked different. Where he had parked his roadster, there was now a long black limousine.
"Your car is in future," Snader said briskly. "Where it belong. Get in." He opened the door of the limousine.
Jeff felt a little flame of excitement licking inside him. Something was happening, he felt. Something exciting and dangerous.
"Snader," he said, "if you're kidnaping us, you made a mistake. Nobody on Earth will pay ransom for us."
Snader seemed amused. "You are foolish fellow. Silly talk about ransom. You in different time now."
"When does this gag stop?" Jeff demanded irritably. "You haven't fooled us. We're still in 1957."
"You are? Look around."
Jeff looked at the street again. He secretly admitted to himself that these were different trees and houses than he remembered. Even the telephone poles and street lights seemed peculiar, vaguely foreign-looking. It must be an elaborate practical joke. Snader had probably ushered them into one house, then through a tunnel and out another house.
"Get in," Snader said curtly.
Jeff decided to go along with the hoax or whatever it was. He could see no serious risk. He helped Ann into the back seat and sat beside her. Snader slammed the door and slid into the driver's seat. He started the engine with a roar and they rocketed away from the curb, narrowly missing another car.
Jeff yelled, "Easy, man! Look where you're going!"
Snader guffawed. "Tonight, you look where you are going."
Ann clung to Jeff. "Did you notice the house we came out of?"
"What about it?"
"It looked as though they were afraid people might try to break in. There were bars at the windows."
"Lots of houses are built that way, honey. Let's see, where are we?" He glanced at house numbers. "This is the 800 block. Remember that. And the street—" He peered up at a sign as they whirled around a corner.
"The street is Green Thru-Way. I never heard of a street like that."
III
They were headed back toward what should have been the boulevard. The car zoomed through a cloverleaf turn and up onto a broad freeway. Jeff knew for certain there was no freeway there in 1957—nor in any earlier year. But on the horizon, he could see the familiar dark bulk of the mountains. The whole line of moonlit ridges was the same as always.
"Ann," he said slowly, "I think this is for real. Somehow I guess we escaped from 1957. We've been transported in time."
She squeezed his arm. "If I'm dreaming, don't wake me! I was scared a minute ago. But now, oh, boy!"
"Likewise. But I still wonder what Snader's angle is." He leaned forward and tapped the driver on his meaty shoulder. "You brought us into the future instead of the past, didn't you?"
It was hard to know whether Snader was sleepy or just bored, but he shrugged briefly to show there was no reply coming. Then he yawned.
Jeff smiled tightly. "I guess we'll find out in good time. Let's sit back and enjoy the strangest ride of our lives."
As the limousine swept along through the traffic, there were plenty of big signs for turn-offs, but none gave any hint where they were. The names were unfamiliar. Even the language seemed grotesque. "Rite Channel for Creepers," he read. "Yaw for Torrey Rushway" flared at him from a fork in the freeway.
"This can't be the future," Ann said. "This limousine is almost new, but it doesn't even have an automatic gear shift—"
She broke off as the car shot down a ramp off the freeway and pulled up in front of an apartment house. Just beyond was a big shopping center, ablaze with lights and swarming with shoppers. Jeff did not recognize it, in spite of his familiarity with the city.
Snader bounded out, pulled open the rear door and jerked his head in a commanding gesture. But Jeff did not get out. He told Snader, "Let's have some answers before we go any further."
Snader gave him a hard grin. "You hear everything upstairs."
The building appeared harmless enough. Jeff looked thoughtfully at Ann.
She said, "It's just an apartment house. We've come this far. Might as well go in and see what's there."
Snader led them in, up to the sixth floor in an elevator and along a corridor with heavy carpets and soft gold lights. He knocked on a door.
A tall, silver-haired, important-looking man opened it and greeted them heartily.
"Solid man, Greet!" he exclaimed. "You're a real scratcher! And is this our sharp?" He gave Jeff a friendly but appraising look.
"Just what you order," Snader said proudly. "His name—Jeff Elliott. Fine sharp. Best in his circuit. He brings his lifemate, too. Ann Elliott."
The old man rubbed his smooth hands together. "Prime! I wish joy," he said to Ann and Jeff. "I'm Septo Kersey. Come in. Bullen's waiting."
He led them into a spacious drawing room with great windows looking out on the lights of the city. There was a leather chair in a corner, and in it sat a heavy man with a grim mouth. He made no move, but grunted a perfunctory "Wish joy" when Kersey introduced them. His cold eyes studied Jeff while Kersey seated them in big chairs.
Snader did not sit down, however. "No need for me now," he said, and moved toward the door with a mocking wave at Ann.
Bullen nodded. "You get the rest of your pay when Elliott proves out."
"Here, wait a minute!" Jeff called. But Snader was gone.
"Sit still," Bullen growled to Jeff. "You understand radioptics?"
The blood went to Jeff's head. "My business is television, if that's what you mean. What's this about?"
"Tell him, Kersey," the big man said, and stared out the window.
Kersey began, "You understand, I think, that you have come back in time. About six years back."
"That's a matter of opinion, but go on."
"I am general manager of Continental Radioptic Combine, owned by Mr. Dumont Bullen." He nodded toward the big man. "Chromatics have not yet been developed here in connection with radioptics. They are well understood in your time, are they not?"
"What's chromatics? Color television?"
"Exactly. You are an expert in—ah—colored television, I think."
Jeff nodded. "So what?"
The old man beamed at him. "You are here to work for our company. You will enable us to be first with chromatics in this time wave."
Jeff stood up. "Don't tell me who I'll work for."
Bullen slapped a big fist on the arm of his chair. "No fog about this! You're bought and paid for, Elliott! You'll get a fair labor contract, but you do what I say!"
"Why, the man thinks he owns you." Ann laughed shakily.
"You'll find my barmen know their law," Bullen said. "This isn't the way I like to recruit. But it was only way to get a man with your knowledge."
Kersey said politely, "You are here illegally, with no immigrate permit or citizen file. Therefore you cannot get work. But Mr. Bullen has taken an interest in your trouble. Through his influence, you can make a living. We even set aside an apartment in this building for you to live in. You are really very luxe, do you see?"
Jeff's legs felt weak. These highbinders seemed brutally confident. He wondered how he and Ann would find their way home through the strange streets. But he put on a bold front.
"I don't believe your line about time travel and I don't plan to work for you," he said. "My wife and I are walking out right now. Try and stop us, legally or any other way."
Kersey's smooth old face turned hard. But, unexpectedly, Bullen chuckled deep in his throat. "Good pop and bang. Like to see it. Go on, walk out. You hang in trouble, call up here—Butterfly 9, ask for Bullen. Whole exchange us. I'll meet you here about eleven tomorrow pre-noon."
"Don't hold your breath. Let's go, Ann."
When they were on the sidewalk, Ann took a deep breath. "We made it. For a minute, I thought there'd be a brawl. Why did they let us go?"
"No telling. Maybe they're harmless lunatics—or practical jokers." He looked over his shoulder as they walked down the street, but there was no sign of pursuit. "It's a long time since supper."
Her hand was cold in his and her face was white. To take her mind off their problem, he ambled toward the lighted shop windows.
"Look at that sign," he said, pointing to a poster over a display of neckties. "'Sleek neck-sashes, only a Dick and a dollop!' How do they expect to sell stuff with that crazy lingo?"
"It's jive talk. They must cater to the high-school crowd." Ann glanced nervously at the strolling people around them. "Jeff, where are we? This isn't any part of the city I've ever seen. It doesn't even look much like America." Her voice rose. "The way the women are dressed—it's not old-fashioned, just different."
"Baby, don't be scared. This is an adventure. Let's have fun." He pressed her hand soothingly and pulled her toward a lunch counter.
If the haberdasher's sign was jive, the restaurant spoke the same jargon. The signs on the wall and the bill of fare were baffling. Jeff pondered the list of beef shingles, scorchers, smack sticks and fruit chills, until he noticed that a couple at the counter were eating what clearly were hamburgers—though the "buns" looked more like tortillas.
Jeff jerked his thumb at them and told the waitress, "Two, please."
When the sandwiches arrived, they were ordinary enough. He and Ann ate in silence. A feeling of foreboding hung over them.
When they finished, the clerk gave him a check marked 1/20. Jeff looked at it thoughtfully, shrugged and handed it to the cashier with two dollar bills.
The man at the desk glanced at them and laughed. "Stage money, eh?"
"No, that's good money," Jeff assured him with a rather hollow smile.
"They're just new bills, that's all."
The cashier picked one up and looked at it curiously. "I'm afraid it's no good here," he said, and pushed it back.
The bottom dropped out of Jeff's stomach. "What kind of money do you want? This is all I have."
The cashier's smile faded. He caught the eye of a man in uniform on one of the stools. The uniform was dark green, but the man acted like a policeman. He loomed up beside Jeff.
"What's the rasper?" he demanded. Other customers, waiting to pay their checks, eyed Jeff curiously.
"I guess I'm in trouble," Jeff told him. "I'm a stranger here and I got something to eat under the impression that my money was legal tender. Do you know where I can exchange it?"
The officer picked up the dollar bill and fingered it with evident interest. He turned it over and studied the printing. "United States of America," he read aloud. "What are those?"
"It's the name of the country I come from," Jeff said carefully.
"I—uh—got on the wrong train, apparently, and must have come further than I thought. What's the name of this place?"
"This is Costa, West Goodland, in the Continental Federation. Say, you must come from an umpty remote part of the world if you don't know about this country." His eyes narrowed. "Where'd you learn to speak Federal, if you come from so far?"
Jeff said helplessly, "I can't explain, if you don't know about the United States. Listen, can you take me to a bank, or some place where they know about foreign exchange?"
The policeman scowled. "How'd you get into this country, anyway? You got immigrate clearance?"
An angry muttering started among the bystanders.
The policeman made up his mind. "You come with me."
At the police station, Jeff put his elbows dejectedly on the high counter while the policeman talked to an officer in charge. Some men whom Jeff took for reporters got up from a table and eased over to listen.
"I don't know whether to charge them with fakemake, bumsy, peekage or lunate," the policeman said as he finished.
His superior gave Jeff a long puzzled stare.
Jeff sighed. "I know it sounds impossible, but a man brought me in something he claimed was a time traveler. You speak the same language I do—more or less—but everything else is kind of unfamiliar. I belong in the United States, a country in North America. I can't believe I'm so far in the future that the United States has been forgotten."
There ensued a long, confused, inconclusive interrogation.
The man behind the desk asked questions which seemed stupid to Jeff and got answers which probably seemed stupid to him.
The reporters quizzed Jeff gleefully. "Come out, what are you advertising?" they kept asking. "Who got you up to this?"
The police puzzled over his driver's license and the other cards in his wallet. They asked repeatedly about the lack of a "Work License," which Jeff took to be some sort of union card. Evidently there was grave doubt that he had any legal right to be in the country.
In the end, Jeff and Ann were locked in separate cells for the night. Jeff groaned and pounded the bars as he thought of his wife, imprisoned and alone in a smelly jail. After hours of pacing the cell, he lay down in the cot and reached automatically for his silver pillbox. Then he hesitated.
In past weeks, his insomnia had grown worse and worse, so that lately he had begun taking stronger pills. After a longing glance at the big red and yellow capsules, he put the box away. Whatever tomorrow brought, it wouldn't find him slow and drowsy.
IV
He passed a wakeful night. In the early morning, he looked up to see a little man with a briefcase at his cell door.
"Wish joy, Mr. Elliott," the man said coolly. "I am one of Mr. Bullen's barmen. You know, represent at law? He sent me to arrange your release, if you are ready to be reasonable."
Jeff lay there and put his hands behind his head. "I doubt if I'm ready. I'm comfortable here. By the way, how did you know where I was?"
"No problem. When we read in this morning's newspapers about a man claiming to be a time traveler, we knew."
"All right. Now start explaining. Until I understand where I am, Bullen isn't getting me out of here."
The lawyer smiled and sat down. "Mr. Kersey told you yesterday—you've gone back six years. But you'll need some mental gymnastics to understand. Time is a dimension, not a stream of events like a movie film. A film never changes. Space does—and time does. For example, if a movie showed a burning house at Sixth and Main, would you expect to find a house burning whenever you returned to that corner?"
"You mean to say that if I went back to 1865, I wouldn't find the Civil War was over and Lincoln had been assassinated?"
"If you go back to the time you call 1865—which is most easily done—you will find that the people there know nothing of a Lincoln or that war."
Jeff looked blank. "What are they doing then?"
The little man spread his hands. "What are the people doing now at Sixth and Main? Certainly not the same things they were doing the day of the fire. We're talking about a dimension, not an event. Don't you grasp the difference between the two?"
"Nope. To me, 1865 means the end of the Civil War. How else can you speak of a point in time except by the events that happened then?"
"Well, if you go to a place in three-dimensional space—say, a lake in the mountains—how do you identify that place? By looking for landmarks. It doesn't matter that an eagle is soaring over a mountain peak. That's only an event. The peak is the landmark. You follow me?"
"So far. Keep talking."
Question:
What is the relationship like between Jeff and Ann?
Answer:
|
[
"Jeff and Ann Elliott are a married couple. Ann is supportive of Jeff, and assures him that with their youth he will be able to rebuild his failed business. She reassures him throughout the story, even at points where it ultimately leads them into deeper trouble - such as when she tells him it wouldn’t hurt to try Mr. Snader’s time travel. \n\nJeff is protective of Ann on several occasions, like at the start of the story suggesting he would start a brawl at the restaurant if the stranger was interested in Ann’s beauty. He is also upset enough with his business struggles that he needs to take sleeping pills, of which Ann is concerned about the amount.\n\nThey remain together in the story until they are held in separate jail cells. They do not have any major disagreements in the story, and seem to enjoy their time together, only hoping to improve their lot by trying a risky time travel adventure.\n",
"Jeff and Ann have a loving and supportive relationship. When Jeff is feeling down on himself, Ann reminds him that he’s great at his job and that he has plenty of time to bounce back. She worries about the number of pills he’s taking, and she insists that he stop worrying about losing his lease. She is genuinely concerned for his mental health and his overall well-being. The couple can easily joke around with one another. When Ann suggests that Snader might be following them, she makes light of the situation by suggesting that it’s because he’s attracted to her. Jeff, in turn, offers to physically assault him if he tries anything. After meeting Mr. Snader, both Jeff and Ann have a good time playing along with the scenario they never imagined themselves being a part of. It doesn’t take a lot of prodding on Ann’s part to make Jeff go to the station with her and Snader. They both have a devil-may-care attitude that makes this adventure worth checking out. \n\nLater, when they find themselves in a heap of trouble and end up in separate jail cells, Jeff can only think of Ann. He worries about her being all alone for the night. \n",
"Jeff and Ann are like many married couples; when one is down or frightened, the other tries to build him up or assure him that all will be fine. They switch between these roles with each other easily, suggesting that they have been married a good while. Ann is supportive of Jeff’s career and his skills, assuring him that he will be able to start over and be successful again. She also teases him and makes humorous comments to lighten his mood. When they disagree with each other, it isn’t antagonistic. When Jeff wants to leave but Ann wants to hear what Snader has to say, she simply puts her hand on Jeff’s arm and says she hasn’t finished eating and would like to hear what Snader has to say. Jeff and Ann also play off of each other. When Ann jumps up to see what Snader wants to show them, Jeff’s pulse picks up as he entertains the idea, too. They make decisions together; when Jeff is undecided about going into the apartment building, he looks to Ann to see her reaction. When she says they might as well go inside and see what is there, Jeff agrees and goes along with her. They make a good team: Bullen’s comment that Jeff is going to make his company be the first to produce chromatics, Jeff’s takes affront at the man’s boldness, and Ann is likewise disturbed.\n",
"Jeff and Ann react differently to most things, but in a way where they are able to balance each other out. For instance, when they meet Snader at the beginning of the story, Jeff is frustrated with the interruption to his dinner and does not want to hear more about what he thinks is bogus, but Ann is curious and wants to hear Snader out, to be entertained if nothing else. Ann is very supportive of Jeff and the story starts with her trying to console him about the recent failure of his business venture as a lease on a building he was using had ended. While reassuring him, she reminds him that he is excellent at what he does and have no trouble starting up again, but Jeff is feeling very grumpy and sad about the entire situation. Jeff is very cautious, and is concerned when he hears Snader use his last name, because he had never given the man his name. Ann is more on the curious side, willing to give anything a try, including a method of time travel she only knew about from a stranger she encountered at a restaurant. She does get a little bit nervous once she has actually stepped inside the device, but the fear dissipates once she is outside again in a whole new world. Although Jeff starts the story upset, he remains mostly calm throughout the story and even when he is hesitant he does not become overwhelmed with fear at his situation. He and Ann both have to encounter some issues with their money not working, and sorting out what to make of their situation, but they support each other and keep each other calm throughout the story. "
] |
51167
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Butterfly 9
By DONALD KEITH
Illustrated by GAUGHAN
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction January 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Jeff needed a job and this man had a job to offer—one where giant economy-size trouble had labels like fakemake, bumsy and peekage!
I
At first, Jeff scarcely noticed the bold-looking man at the next table. Nor did Ann. Their minds were busy with Jeff's troubles.
"You're still the smartest color engineer in television," Ann told Jeff as they dallied with their food. "You'll bounce back. Now eat your supper."
"This beanery is too noisy and hot," he grumbled. "I can't eat. Can't talk. Can't think." He took a silver pillbox from his pocket and fumbled for a black one. Those were vitamin pills; the big red and yellow ones were sleeping capsules. He gulped the pill.
Ann looked disapproving in a wifely way. "Lately you chew pills like popcorn," she said. "Do you really need so many?"
"I need something. I'm sure losing my grip."
Ann stared at him. "Baby! How silly! Nothing happened, except you lost your lease. You'll build up a better company in a new spot. We're young yet."
Jeff sighed and glanced around the crowded little restaurant. He wished he could fly away somewhere. At that moment, he met the gaze of the mustachioed man at the next table.
The fellow seemed to be watching him and Ann. Something in his confident gaze made Jeff uneasy. Had they met before?
Ann whispered, "So you noticed him, too. Maybe he's following us. I think I saw him on the parking lot where we left the car."
Jeff shrugged his big shoulders. "If he's following us, he's nuts. We've got no secrets and no money."
"It must be my maddening beauty," said Ann.
"I'll kick him cross-eyed if he starts anything," Jeff said. "I'm just in the mood."
Ann giggled. "Honey, what big veins you have! Forget him. Let's talk about the engineering lab you're going to start. And let's eat."
He groaned. "I lose my appetite every time I think about the building being sold. It isn't worth the twelve grand. I wouldn't buy it for that if I could. What burns me is that, five years ago, I could have bought it for two thousand."
"If only we could go back five years." She shrugged fatalistically.
"But since we can't—"
The character at the next table leaned over and spoke to them, grinning. "You like to get away? You wish to go back?"
Jeff glanced across in annoyance. The man was evidently a salesman, with extra gall.
"Not now, thanks," Jeff said. "Haven't time."
The man waved his thick hand at the clock, as if to abolish time.
"Time? That is nothing. Your little lady. She spoke of go back five years. Maybe I help you."
He spoke in an odd clipped way, obviously a foreigner. His shirt was yellow. His suit had a silky sheen. Its peculiar tailoring emphasized the bulges in his stubby, muscular torso.
Ann smiled back at him. "You talk as if you could take us back to 1952. Is that what you really mean?"
"Why not? You think this silly. But I can show you."
Jeff rose to go. "Mister, you better get to a doctor. Ann, it's time we started home."
Ann laid a hand on his sleeve. "I haven't finished eating. Let's chat with the gent." She added in an undertone to Jeff, "Must be a psycho—but sort of an inspired one."
The man said to Ann, "You are kind lady, I think. Good to crazy people. I join you."
He did not wait for consent, but slid into a seat at their table with an easy grace that was almost arrogant.
"You are unhappy in 1957," he went on. "Discouraged. Restless. Why not take trip to another time?"
"Why not?" Ann said gaily. "How much does it cost?"
"Free trial trip. Cost nothing. See whether you like. Then maybe we talk money." He handed Jeff a card made of a stiff plastic substance.
Jeff glanced at it, then handed it to Ann with a half-smile. It read:
4-D TRAVEL BEURO Greet Snader, Traffic Ajent
"Mr. Snader's bureau is different," Jeff said to his wife. "He even spells it different."
Snader chuckled. "I come from other time. We spell otherwise."
"You mean you come from the future?"
"Just different time. I show you. You come with me?"
"Come where?" Jeff asked, studying Snader's mocking eyes. The man didn't seem a mere eccentric. He had a peculiar suggestion of humor and force.
"Come on little trip to different time," invited Snader. He added persuasively, "Could be back here in hour."
"It would be painless, I suppose?" Jeff gave it a touch of derision.
"Maybe not. That is risk you take. But look at me. I make trips every day. I look damaged?"
As a matter of fact, he did. His thick-fleshed face bore a scar and his nose was broad and flat, as if it had been broken. But Jeff politely agreed that he did not look damaged.
Ann was enjoying this. "Tell me more, Mr. Snader. How does your time travel work?"
"Cannot explain. Same if you are asked how subway train works. Too complicated." He flashed his white teeth. "You think time travel not possible. Just like television not possible to your grandfather."
Ann said, "Why invite us? We're not rich enough for expensive trips."
"Invite many people," Snader said quickly. "Not expensive. You know Missing Persons lists, from police? Dozens people disappear. They go with me to other time. Many stay."
"Oh, sure," Jeff said. "But how do you select the ones to invite?"
"Find ones like you, Mr. Elliott. Ones who want change, escape."
Jeff was slightly startled. How did this fellow know his name was Elliott?
Before he could ask, Ann popped another question. "Mr. Snader, you heard us talking. You know we're in trouble because Jeff missed a good chance five years ago. Do you claim people can really go back into the past and correct mistakes they've made?"
"They can go back. What they do when arrive? Depends on them."
"Don't you wish it were true?" she sighed to Jeff.
"You afraid to believe," said Snader, a glimmer of amusement in his restless eyes. "Why not try? What you lose? Come on, look at station. Very near here."
Ann jumped up. "It might be fun, Jeff. Let's see what he means, if anything."
Jeff's pulse quickened. He too felt a sort of midsummer night's madness—a yearning to forget his troubles. "Okay, just for kicks. But we go in my car."
Snader moved ahead to the cashier's stand. Jeff watched the weasel-like grace of his short, broad body.
"This is no ordinary oddball," Jeff told Ann. "He's tricky. He's got some gimmick."
"First I just played him along, to see how loony he was," Ann said.
"Now I wonder who's kidding whom." She concluded thoughtfully, "He's kind of handsome, in a tough way."
II
Snader's "station" proved to be a middle-sized, middle-cost home in a good neighborhood. Lights glowed in the windows. Jeff could hear the whisper of traffic on a boulevard a few blocks away. Through the warm dusk, he could dimly see the mountains on the horizon. All was peaceful.
Snader unlocked the front door with a key which he drew from a fine metal chain around his neck. He swept open the front door with a flourish and beamed at them, but Ann drew back.
"'Walk into my parlor, said the spider to the fly,'" she murmured to Jeff. "This could be a gambling hell. Or a dope den."
"No matter what kind of clip joint, it can't clip us much," he said.
"There's only four bucks in my wallet. My guess is it's a 'temple' for some daffy religious sect."
They went in. A fat man smiled at them from a desk in the hall. Snader said, "Meet Peter Powers. Local agent of our bureau."
The man didn't get up, but nodded comfortably and waved them toward the next room, after a glance at Snader's key.
The key opened this room's door, too. Its spring lock snapped shut after them.
The room was like a doctor's waiting room, with easy chairs along the walls. Its only peculiar aspects were a sign hanging from the middle of the ceiling and two movie screens—or were they giant television screens?—occupying a whole wall at either end of the room.
The sign bore the number 701 in bright yellow on black. Beneath it, an arrow pointed to the screen on the left with the word Ante , and to the right with the word Post .
Jeff studied the big screens. On each, a picture was in motion. One appeared to be moving through a long corridor, lined with seats like a railroad club car. The picture seemed to rush at them from the left wall. When he turned to the right, a similar endless chair-lined corridor moved toward him from that direction.
"Somebody worked hard on this layout," he said to Snader. "What's it for?"
"Time travel," said Snader. "You like?"
"Almost as good as Disneyland. These movies represent the stream of time, I suppose?"
Instead of answering, Snader pointed to the screen. The picture showed a group of people chatting in a fast-moving corridor. As it hurtled toward them, Snader flipped his hand in a genial salute. Two people in the picture waved back.
Ann gasped. "It was just as if they saw us."
"They did," Snader said. "No movie. Time travelers. In fourth dimension. To you, they look like flat picture. To them, we look flat."
"What's he supposed to be?" Jeff asked as the onrushing picture showed them briefly a figure bound hand and foot, huddled in one of the chairs. He stared at them piteously for an instant before the picture surged past.
Snader showed his teeth. "That was convict from my time. We have criminals, like in your time. But we do not kill. We make them work. Where he going? To end of line. To earliest year this time groove reach. About 600 A.D., your calendar. Authorities pick up when he get there. Put him to work."
"What kind of work?" Jeff asked.
"Building the groove further back."
"Sounds like interesting work."
Snader chortled and slapped him on the back. "Maybe you see it some day, but forget that now. You come with me. Little trip."
Jeff was perspiring. This was odder than he expected. Whatever the fakery, it was clever. His curiosity as a technician made him want to know about it. He asked Snader, "Where do you propose to go? And how?"
Snader said, "Watch me. Then look at other wall."
He moved gracefully to the screen on the left wall, stepped into it and disappeared. It was as if he had slid into opaque water.
Jeff and Ann blinked in mystification. Then they remembered his instruction to watch the other screen. They turned. After a moment, in the far distance down the long moving corridor, they could see a stocky figure. The motion of the picture brought him nearer. In a few seconds, he was recognizable as Snader—and as the picture brought him forward, he stepped down out of it and was with them again.
"Simple," Snader said. "I rode to next station. Then crossed over. Took other carrier back here."
"Brother, that's the best trick I've seen in years," Jeff said. "How did you do it? Can I do it, too?"
"I show you." Grinning like a wildcat, Snader linked his arms with Ann and Jeff, and walked them toward the screen. "Now," he said. "Step in."
Jeff submitted to Snader's pressure and stepped cautiously into the screen. Amazingly, he felt no resistance at all, no sense of change or motion. It was like stepping through a fog-bank into another room.
In fact, that was what they seemed to have done. They were in the chair-lined corridor. As Snader turned them around and seated them, they faced another moving picture screen. It seemed to rush through a dark tunnel toward a lighted square in the far distance.
The square grew on the screen. Soon they saw it was another room like the waiting room they had left, except that the number hanging from the ceiling was 702. They seemed to glide through it. Then they were in the dark tunnel again.
Ann was clutching Jeff's arm. He patted her hand. "Fun, hey? Like Alice through the looking-glass."
"You really think we're going back in time?" she whispered.
"Hardly! But we're seeing a million-dollar trick. I can't even begin to figure it out yet."
Another lighted room grew out of the tunnel on the screen, and when they had flickered through it, another and then another.
"Mr. Snader," Ann said unsteadily, "how long—how many years back are you taking us?"
Snader was humming to himself. "Six years. Station 725 fine place to stop."
For a little while, Jeff let himself think it might be true. "Six years ago, your dad was alive," he mused to Ann. "If this should somehow be real, we could see him again."
"We could if we went to our house. He lived with us then, remember? Would we see ourselves, six years younger? Or would—"
Snader took Jeff's arm and pulled him to his feet. The screen was moving through a room numbered 724.
"Soon now," Snader grunted happily. "Then no more questions."
He took an arm of each as he had before. When the screen was filled by a room with the number 725, he propelled them forward into it.
Again there was no sense of motion. They had simply stepped through a bright wall they could not feel. They found themselves in a replica of the room they had left at 701. On the wall, a picture of the continuous club-car corridor rolled toward them in a silent, endless stream.
"The same room," Ann said in disappointment. "They just changed the number. We haven't been anywhere."
Snader was fishing under his shirt for the key. He gave Ann a glance that was almost a leer. Then he carefully unlocked the door.
In the hall, a motherly old lady bustled up, but Snader brushed past her. "Official," he said, showing her the key. "No lodging."
He unlocked the front door without another word and carefully shut it behind them as Jeff and Ann followed him out of the house.
"Hey, where's my car?" Jeff demanded, looking up and down the street.
The whole street looked different. Where he had parked his roadster, there was now a long black limousine.
"Your car is in future," Snader said briskly. "Where it belong. Get in." He opened the door of the limousine.
Jeff felt a little flame of excitement licking inside him. Something was happening, he felt. Something exciting and dangerous.
"Snader," he said, "if you're kidnaping us, you made a mistake. Nobody on Earth will pay ransom for us."
Snader seemed amused. "You are foolish fellow. Silly talk about ransom. You in different time now."
"When does this gag stop?" Jeff demanded irritably. "You haven't fooled us. We're still in 1957."
"You are? Look around."
Jeff looked at the street again. He secretly admitted to himself that these were different trees and houses than he remembered. Even the telephone poles and street lights seemed peculiar, vaguely foreign-looking. It must be an elaborate practical joke. Snader had probably ushered them into one house, then through a tunnel and out another house.
"Get in," Snader said curtly.
Jeff decided to go along with the hoax or whatever it was. He could see no serious risk. He helped Ann into the back seat and sat beside her. Snader slammed the door and slid into the driver's seat. He started the engine with a roar and they rocketed away from the curb, narrowly missing another car.
Jeff yelled, "Easy, man! Look where you're going!"
Snader guffawed. "Tonight, you look where you are going."
Ann clung to Jeff. "Did you notice the house we came out of?"
"What about it?"
"It looked as though they were afraid people might try to break in. There were bars at the windows."
"Lots of houses are built that way, honey. Let's see, where are we?" He glanced at house numbers. "This is the 800 block. Remember that. And the street—" He peered up at a sign as they whirled around a corner.
"The street is Green Thru-Way. I never heard of a street like that."
III
They were headed back toward what should have been the boulevard. The car zoomed through a cloverleaf turn and up onto a broad freeway. Jeff knew for certain there was no freeway there in 1957—nor in any earlier year. But on the horizon, he could see the familiar dark bulk of the mountains. The whole line of moonlit ridges was the same as always.
"Ann," he said slowly, "I think this is for real. Somehow I guess we escaped from 1957. We've been transported in time."
She squeezed his arm. "If I'm dreaming, don't wake me! I was scared a minute ago. But now, oh, boy!"
"Likewise. But I still wonder what Snader's angle is." He leaned forward and tapped the driver on his meaty shoulder. "You brought us into the future instead of the past, didn't you?"
It was hard to know whether Snader was sleepy or just bored, but he shrugged briefly to show there was no reply coming. Then he yawned.
Jeff smiled tightly. "I guess we'll find out in good time. Let's sit back and enjoy the strangest ride of our lives."
As the limousine swept along through the traffic, there were plenty of big signs for turn-offs, but none gave any hint where they were. The names were unfamiliar. Even the language seemed grotesque. "Rite Channel for Creepers," he read. "Yaw for Torrey Rushway" flared at him from a fork in the freeway.
"This can't be the future," Ann said. "This limousine is almost new, but it doesn't even have an automatic gear shift—"
She broke off as the car shot down a ramp off the freeway and pulled up in front of an apartment house. Just beyond was a big shopping center, ablaze with lights and swarming with shoppers. Jeff did not recognize it, in spite of his familiarity with the city.
Snader bounded out, pulled open the rear door and jerked his head in a commanding gesture. But Jeff did not get out. He told Snader, "Let's have some answers before we go any further."
Snader gave him a hard grin. "You hear everything upstairs."
The building appeared harmless enough. Jeff looked thoughtfully at Ann.
She said, "It's just an apartment house. We've come this far. Might as well go in and see what's there."
Snader led them in, up to the sixth floor in an elevator and along a corridor with heavy carpets and soft gold lights. He knocked on a door.
A tall, silver-haired, important-looking man opened it and greeted them heartily.
"Solid man, Greet!" he exclaimed. "You're a real scratcher! And is this our sharp?" He gave Jeff a friendly but appraising look.
"Just what you order," Snader said proudly. "His name—Jeff Elliott. Fine sharp. Best in his circuit. He brings his lifemate, too. Ann Elliott."
The old man rubbed his smooth hands together. "Prime! I wish joy," he said to Ann and Jeff. "I'm Septo Kersey. Come in. Bullen's waiting."
He led them into a spacious drawing room with great windows looking out on the lights of the city. There was a leather chair in a corner, and in it sat a heavy man with a grim mouth. He made no move, but grunted a perfunctory "Wish joy" when Kersey introduced them. His cold eyes studied Jeff while Kersey seated them in big chairs.
Snader did not sit down, however. "No need for me now," he said, and moved toward the door with a mocking wave at Ann.
Bullen nodded. "You get the rest of your pay when Elliott proves out."
"Here, wait a minute!" Jeff called. But Snader was gone.
"Sit still," Bullen growled to Jeff. "You understand radioptics?"
The blood went to Jeff's head. "My business is television, if that's what you mean. What's this about?"
"Tell him, Kersey," the big man said, and stared out the window.
Kersey began, "You understand, I think, that you have come back in time. About six years back."
"That's a matter of opinion, but go on."
"I am general manager of Continental Radioptic Combine, owned by Mr. Dumont Bullen." He nodded toward the big man. "Chromatics have not yet been developed here in connection with radioptics. They are well understood in your time, are they not?"
"What's chromatics? Color television?"
"Exactly. You are an expert in—ah—colored television, I think."
Jeff nodded. "So what?"
The old man beamed at him. "You are here to work for our company. You will enable us to be first with chromatics in this time wave."
Jeff stood up. "Don't tell me who I'll work for."
Bullen slapped a big fist on the arm of his chair. "No fog about this! You're bought and paid for, Elliott! You'll get a fair labor contract, but you do what I say!"
"Why, the man thinks he owns you." Ann laughed shakily.
"You'll find my barmen know their law," Bullen said. "This isn't the way I like to recruit. But it was only way to get a man with your knowledge."
Kersey said politely, "You are here illegally, with no immigrate permit or citizen file. Therefore you cannot get work. But Mr. Bullen has taken an interest in your trouble. Through his influence, you can make a living. We even set aside an apartment in this building for you to live in. You are really very luxe, do you see?"
Jeff's legs felt weak. These highbinders seemed brutally confident. He wondered how he and Ann would find their way home through the strange streets. But he put on a bold front.
"I don't believe your line about time travel and I don't plan to work for you," he said. "My wife and I are walking out right now. Try and stop us, legally or any other way."
Kersey's smooth old face turned hard. But, unexpectedly, Bullen chuckled deep in his throat. "Good pop and bang. Like to see it. Go on, walk out. You hang in trouble, call up here—Butterfly 9, ask for Bullen. Whole exchange us. I'll meet you here about eleven tomorrow pre-noon."
"Don't hold your breath. Let's go, Ann."
When they were on the sidewalk, Ann took a deep breath. "We made it. For a minute, I thought there'd be a brawl. Why did they let us go?"
"No telling. Maybe they're harmless lunatics—or practical jokers." He looked over his shoulder as they walked down the street, but there was no sign of pursuit. "It's a long time since supper."
Her hand was cold in his and her face was white. To take her mind off their problem, he ambled toward the lighted shop windows.
"Look at that sign," he said, pointing to a poster over a display of neckties. "'Sleek neck-sashes, only a Dick and a dollop!' How do they expect to sell stuff with that crazy lingo?"
"It's jive talk. They must cater to the high-school crowd." Ann glanced nervously at the strolling people around them. "Jeff, where are we? This isn't any part of the city I've ever seen. It doesn't even look much like America." Her voice rose. "The way the women are dressed—it's not old-fashioned, just different."
"Baby, don't be scared. This is an adventure. Let's have fun." He pressed her hand soothingly and pulled her toward a lunch counter.
If the haberdasher's sign was jive, the restaurant spoke the same jargon. The signs on the wall and the bill of fare were baffling. Jeff pondered the list of beef shingles, scorchers, smack sticks and fruit chills, until he noticed that a couple at the counter were eating what clearly were hamburgers—though the "buns" looked more like tortillas.
Jeff jerked his thumb at them and told the waitress, "Two, please."
When the sandwiches arrived, they were ordinary enough. He and Ann ate in silence. A feeling of foreboding hung over them.
When they finished, the clerk gave him a check marked 1/20. Jeff looked at it thoughtfully, shrugged and handed it to the cashier with two dollar bills.
The man at the desk glanced at them and laughed. "Stage money, eh?"
"No, that's good money," Jeff assured him with a rather hollow smile.
"They're just new bills, that's all."
The cashier picked one up and looked at it curiously. "I'm afraid it's no good here," he said, and pushed it back.
The bottom dropped out of Jeff's stomach. "What kind of money do you want? This is all I have."
The cashier's smile faded. He caught the eye of a man in uniform on one of the stools. The uniform was dark green, but the man acted like a policeman. He loomed up beside Jeff.
"What's the rasper?" he demanded. Other customers, waiting to pay their checks, eyed Jeff curiously.
"I guess I'm in trouble," Jeff told him. "I'm a stranger here and I got something to eat under the impression that my money was legal tender. Do you know where I can exchange it?"
The officer picked up the dollar bill and fingered it with evident interest. He turned it over and studied the printing. "United States of America," he read aloud. "What are those?"
"It's the name of the country I come from," Jeff said carefully.
"I—uh—got on the wrong train, apparently, and must have come further than I thought. What's the name of this place?"
"This is Costa, West Goodland, in the Continental Federation. Say, you must come from an umpty remote part of the world if you don't know about this country." His eyes narrowed. "Where'd you learn to speak Federal, if you come from so far?"
Jeff said helplessly, "I can't explain, if you don't know about the United States. Listen, can you take me to a bank, or some place where they know about foreign exchange?"
The policeman scowled. "How'd you get into this country, anyway? You got immigrate clearance?"
An angry muttering started among the bystanders.
The policeman made up his mind. "You come with me."
At the police station, Jeff put his elbows dejectedly on the high counter while the policeman talked to an officer in charge. Some men whom Jeff took for reporters got up from a table and eased over to listen.
"I don't know whether to charge them with fakemake, bumsy, peekage or lunate," the policeman said as he finished.
His superior gave Jeff a long puzzled stare.
Jeff sighed. "I know it sounds impossible, but a man brought me in something he claimed was a time traveler. You speak the same language I do—more or less—but everything else is kind of unfamiliar. I belong in the United States, a country in North America. I can't believe I'm so far in the future that the United States has been forgotten."
There ensued a long, confused, inconclusive interrogation.
The man behind the desk asked questions which seemed stupid to Jeff and got answers which probably seemed stupid to him.
The reporters quizzed Jeff gleefully. "Come out, what are you advertising?" they kept asking. "Who got you up to this?"
The police puzzled over his driver's license and the other cards in his wallet. They asked repeatedly about the lack of a "Work License," which Jeff took to be some sort of union card. Evidently there was grave doubt that he had any legal right to be in the country.
In the end, Jeff and Ann were locked in separate cells for the night. Jeff groaned and pounded the bars as he thought of his wife, imprisoned and alone in a smelly jail. After hours of pacing the cell, he lay down in the cot and reached automatically for his silver pillbox. Then he hesitated.
In past weeks, his insomnia had grown worse and worse, so that lately he had begun taking stronger pills. After a longing glance at the big red and yellow capsules, he put the box away. Whatever tomorrow brought, it wouldn't find him slow and drowsy.
IV
He passed a wakeful night. In the early morning, he looked up to see a little man with a briefcase at his cell door.
"Wish joy, Mr. Elliott," the man said coolly. "I am one of Mr. Bullen's barmen. You know, represent at law? He sent me to arrange your release, if you are ready to be reasonable."
Jeff lay there and put his hands behind his head. "I doubt if I'm ready. I'm comfortable here. By the way, how did you know where I was?"
"No problem. When we read in this morning's newspapers about a man claiming to be a time traveler, we knew."
"All right. Now start explaining. Until I understand where I am, Bullen isn't getting me out of here."
The lawyer smiled and sat down. "Mr. Kersey told you yesterday—you've gone back six years. But you'll need some mental gymnastics to understand. Time is a dimension, not a stream of events like a movie film. A film never changes. Space does—and time does. For example, if a movie showed a burning house at Sixth and Main, would you expect to find a house burning whenever you returned to that corner?"
"You mean to say that if I went back to 1865, I wouldn't find the Civil War was over and Lincoln had been assassinated?"
"If you go back to the time you call 1865—which is most easily done—you will find that the people there know nothing of a Lincoln or that war."
Jeff looked blank. "What are they doing then?"
The little man spread his hands. "What are the people doing now at Sixth and Main? Certainly not the same things they were doing the day of the fire. We're talking about a dimension, not an event. Don't you grasp the difference between the two?"
"Nope. To me, 1865 means the end of the Civil War. How else can you speak of a point in time except by the events that happened then?"
"Well, if you go to a place in three-dimensional space—say, a lake in the mountains—how do you identify that place? By looking for landmarks. It doesn't matter that an eagle is soaring over a mountain peak. That's only an event. The peak is the landmark. You follow me?"
"So far. Keep talking."
|
Who is Whonk, and what is his relevance to the story?
|
After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about Aide Memoire by Keith Laumer.
Relevant chunks:
Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
AIDE MEMOIRE
BY KEITH LAUMER
The Fustians looked like turtles—but
they could move fast when they chose!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1962.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Across the table from Retief, Ambassador Magnan rustled a stiff sheet
of parchment and looked grave.
"This aide memoire," he said, "was just handed to me by the Cultural
Attache. It's the third on the subject this week. It refers to the
matter of sponsorship of Youth groups—"
"Some youths," Retief said. "Average age, seventy-five."
"The Fustians are a long-lived people," Magnan snapped. "These matters
are relative. At seventy-five, a male Fustian is at a trying age—"
"That's right. He'll try anything—in the hope it will maim somebody."
"Precisely the problem," Magnan said. "But the Youth Movement is
the important news in today's political situation here on Fust. And
sponsorship of Youth groups is a shrewd stroke on the part of the
Terrestrial Embassy. At my suggestion, well nigh every member of the
mission has leaped at the opportunity to score a few p—that is, cement
relations with this emergent power group—the leaders of the future.
You, Retief, as Councillor, are the outstanding exception."
"I'm not convinced these hoodlums need my help in organizing their
rumbles," Retief said. "Now, if you have a proposal for a pest control
group—"
"To the Fustians this is no jesting matter," Magnan cut in. "This
group—" he glanced at the paper—"known as the Sexual, Cultural, and
Athletic Recreational Society, or SCARS for short, has been awaiting
sponsorship for a matter of weeks now."
"Meaning they want someone to buy them a clubhouse, uniforms, equipment
and anything else they need to complete their sexual, cultural and
athletic development," Retief said.
"If we don't act promptly," Magnan said, "the Groaci Embassy may well
anticipate us. They're very active here."
"That's an idea," said Retief. "Let 'em. After awhile they'll go broke
instead of us."
"Nonsense. The group requires a sponsor. I can't actually order you to
step forward. However...." Magnan let the sentence hang in the air.
Retief raised one eyebrow.
"For a minute there," he said, "I thought you were going to make a
positive statement."
Magnan leaned back, lacing his fingers over his stomach. "I don't think
you'll find a diplomat of my experience doing anything so naive," he
said.
"I like the adult Fustians," said Retief. "Too bad they have to lug
half a ton of horn around on their backs. I wonder if surgery would
help."
"Great heavens, Retief," Magnan sputtered. "I'm amazed that even you
would bring up a matter of such delicacy. A race's unfortunate physical
characteristics are hardly a fit matter for Terrestrial curiosity."
"Well, of course your experience of the Fustian mentality is greater
than mine. I've only been here a month. But it's been my experience,
Mr. Ambassador, that few races are above improving on nature. Otherwise
you, for example, would be tripping over your beard."
Magnan shuddered. "Please—never mention the idea to a Fustian."
Retief stood. "My own program for the day includes going over to the
dockyards. There are some features of this new passenger liner the
Fustians are putting together that I want to look into. With your
permission, Mr. Ambassador...?"
Magnan snorted. "Your pre-occupation with the trivial disturbs me,
Retief. More interest in substantive matters—such as working with
Youth groups—would create a far better impression."
"Before getting too involved with these groups, it might be a good idea
to find out a little more about them," said Retief. "Who organizes
them? There are three strong political parties here on Fust. What's the
alignment of this SCARS organization?"
"You forget, these are merely teenagers, so to speak," Magnan said.
"Politics mean nothing to them ... yet."
"Then there are the Groaci. Why their passionate interest in a
two-horse world like Fust? Normally they're concerned with nothing but
business. But what has Fust got that they could use?"
"You may rule out the commercial aspect in this instance," said Magnan.
"Fust possesses a vigorous steel-age manufacturing economy. The Groaci
are barely ahead of them."
"Barely," said Retief. "Just over the line into crude atomics ... like
fission bombs."
Magnan shook his head, turned back to his papers. "What market exists
for such devices on a world at peace? I suggest you address your
attention to the less spectacular but more rewarding work of studying
the social patterns of the local youth."
"I've studied them," said Retief. "And before I meet any of the local
youth socially I want to get myself a good blackjack."
II
Retief left the sprawling bungalow-type building that housed the
chancery of the Terrestrial Embassy, swung aboard a passing flat-car
and leaned back against the wooden guard rail as the heavy vehicle
trundled through the city toward the looming gantries of the shipyards.
It was a cool morning. A light breeze carried the fishy odor of Fusty
dwellings across the broad cobbled avenue. A few mature Fustians
lumbered heavily along in the shade of the low buildings, audibly
wheezing under the burden of their immense carapaces. Among them,
shell-less youths trotted briskly on scaly stub legs. The driver of the
flat-car, a labor-caste Fustian with his guild colors emblazoned on his
back, heaved at the tiller, swung the unwieldy conveyance through the
shipyard gates, creaked to a halt.
"Thus I come to the shipyard with frightful speed," he said in Fustian.
"Well I know the way of the naked-backs, who move always in haste."
Retief climbed down, handed him a coin. "You should take up
professional racing," he said. "Daredevil."
He crossed the littered yard and tapped at the door of a rambling shed.
Boards creaked inside. Then the door swung back.
A gnarled ancient with tarnished facial scales and a weathered carapace
peered out at Retief.
"Long-may-you-sleep," said Retief. "I'd like to take a look around, if
you don't mind. I understand you're laying the bedplate for your new
liner today."
"May-you-dream-of-the-deeps," the old fellow mumbled. He waved a stumpy
arm toward a group of shell-less Fustians standing by a massive hoist.
"The youths know more of bedplates than do I, who but tend the place of
papers."
"I know how you feel, old-timer," said Retief. "That sounds like the
story of my life. Among your papers do you have a set of plans for the
vessel? I understand it's to be a passenger liner."
The oldster nodded. He shuffled to a drawing file, rummaged, pulled out
a sheaf of curled prints and spread them on the table. Retief stood
silently, running a finger over the uppermost drawing, tracing lines....
"What does the naked-back here?" barked a deep voice behind Retief. He
turned. A heavy-faced Fustian youth, wrapped in a mantle, stood at the
open door. Beady yellow eyes set among fine scales bored into Retief.
"I came to take a look at your new liner," said Retief.
"We need no prying foreigners here," the youth snapped. His eye fell on
the drawings. He hissed in sudden anger.
"Doddering hulk!" he snapped at the ancient. "May you toss in
nightmares! Put by the plans!"
"My mistake," Retief said. "I didn't know this was a secret project."
The youth hesitated. "It is not a secret project," he muttered. "Why
should it be secret?"
"You tell me."
The youth worked his jaws and rocked his head from side to side in the
Fusty gesture of uncertainty. "There is nothing to conceal," he said.
"We merely construct a passenger liner."
"Then you don't mind if I look over the drawings," said Retief. "Who
knows? Maybe some day I'll want to reserve a suite for the trip out."
The youth turned and disappeared. Retief grinned at the oldster. "Went
for his big brother, I guess," he said. "I have a feeling I won't get
to study these in peace here. Mind if I copy them?"
"Willingly, light-footed one," said the old Fustian. "And mine is the
shame for the discourtesy of youth."
Retief took out a tiny camera, flipped a copying lens in place, leafed
through the drawings, clicking the shutter.
"A plague on these youths," said the oldster, "who grow more virulent
day by day."
"Why don't you elders clamp down?"
"Agile are they and we are slow of foot. And this unrest is new.
Unknown in my youth was such insolence."
"The police—"
"Bah!" the ancient rumbled. "None have we worthy of the name, nor have
we needed ought ere now."
"What's behind it?"
"They have found leaders. The spiv, Slock, is one. And I fear they plot
mischief." He pointed to the window. "They come, and a Soft One with
them."
Retief pocketed the camera, glanced out the window. A pale-featured
Groaci with an ornately decorated crest stood with the youths, who eyed
the hut, then started toward it.
"That's the military attache of the Groaci Embassy," Retief said. "I
wonder what he and the boys are cooking up together?"
"Naught that augurs well for the dignity of Fust," the oldster rumbled.
"Flee, agile one, while I engage their attentions."
"I was just leaving," Retief said. "Which way out?"
"The rear door," the Fustian gestured with a stubby member. "Rest well,
stranger on these shores." He moved to the entrance.
"Same to you, pop," said Retief. "And thanks."
He eased through the narrow back entrance, waited until voices were
raised at the front of the shed, then strolled off toward the gate.
The second dark of the third cycle was lightening when Retief left the
Embassy technical library and crossed the corridor to his office. He
flipped on a light. A note was tucked under a paperweight:
"Retief—I shall expect your attendance at the IAS dinner at first
dark of the fourth cycle. There will be a brief but, I hope, impressive
Sponsorship ceremony for the SCARS group, with full press coverage,
arrangements for which I have managed to complete in spite of your
intransigence."
Retief snorted and glanced at his watch. Less than three hours. Just
time to creep home by flat-car, dress in ceremonial uniform and creep
back.
Outside he flagged a lumbering bus. He stationed himself in a corner
and watched the yellow sun, Beta, rise rapidly above the low skyline.
The nearby sea was at high tide now, under the pull of the major sun
and the three moons, and the stiff breeze carried a mist of salt spray.
Retief turned up his collar against the dampness. In half an hour he
would be perspiring under the vertical rays of a third-noon sun, but
the thought failed to keep the chill off.
Two Youths clambered up on the platform, moving purposefully toward
Retief. He moved off the rail, watching them, weight balanced.
"That's close enough, kids," he said. "Plenty of room on this scow. No
need to crowd up."
"There are certain films," the lead Fustian muttered. His voice was
unusually deep for a Youth. He was wrapped in a heavy cloak and moved
awkwardly. His adolescence was nearly at an end, Retief guessed.
"I told you once," said Retief. "Don't crowd me."
The two stepped close, slit mouths snapping in anger. Retief put out a
foot, hooked it behind the scaly leg of the overaged juvenile and threw
his weight against the cloaked chest. The clumsy Fustian tottered, fell
heavily. Retief was past him and off the flat-car before the other
Youth had completed his vain lunge toward the spot Retief had occupied.
The Terrestrial waved cheerfully at the pair, hopped aboard another
vehicle, watched his would-be assailants lumber down from their car,
tiny heads twisted to follow his retreating figure.
So they wanted the film? Retief reflected, thumbing a cigar alight.
They were a little late. He had already filed it in the Embassy vault,
after running a copy for the reference files.
And a comparison of the drawings with those of the obsolete Mark XXXV
battle cruiser used two hundred years earlier by the Concordiat Naval
Arm showed them to be almost identical, gun emplacements and all. The
term "obsolete" was a relative one. A ship which had been outmoded in
the armories of the Galactic Powers could still be king of the walk in
the Eastern Arm.
But how had these two known of the film? There had been no one present
but himself and the old-timer—and he was willing to bet the elderly
Fustian hadn't told them anything.
At least not willingly....
Retief frowned, dropped the cigar over the side, waited until the
flat-car negotiated a mud-wallow, then swung down and headed for the
shipyard.
The door, hinges torn loose, had been propped loosely back in position.
Retief looked around at the battered interior of the shed. The old
fellow had put up a struggle.
There were deep drag-marks in the dust behind the building. Retief
followed them across the yard. They disappeared under the steel door of
a warehouse.
Retief glanced around. Now, at the mid-hour of the fourth cycle, the
workmen were heaped along the edge of the refreshment pond, deep in
their siesta. He took a multi-bladed tool from a pocket, tried various
fittings in the lock. It snicked open.
He eased the door aside far enough to enter.
Heaped bales loomed before him. Snapping on the tiny lamp in the handle
of the combination tool, Retief looked over the pile. One stack seemed
out of alignment ... and the dust had been scraped from the floor
before it. He pocketed the light, climbed up on the bales, looked over
into a nest made by stacking the bundles around a clear spot. The aged
Fustian lay in it, on his back, a heavy sack tied over his head.
Retief dropped down inside the ring of bales, sawed at the tough twine
and pulled the sack free.
"It's me, old fellow," Retief said. "The nosy stranger. Sorry I got you
into this."
The oldster threshed his gnarled legs. He rocked slightly and fell
back. "A curse on the cradle that rocked their infant slumbers," he
rumbled. "But place me back on my feet and I hunt down the youth,
Slock, though he flee to the bottommost muck of the Sea of Torments."
"How am I going to get you out of here? Maybe I'd better get some help."
"Nay. The perfidious Youths abound here," said the old Fustian. "It
would be your life."
"I doubt if they'd go that far."
"Would they not?" The Fustian stretched his neck. "Cast your light
here. But for the toughness of my hide...."
Retief put the beam of the light on the leathery neck. A great smear of
thick purplish blood welled from a ragged cut. The oldster chuckled, a
sound like a seal coughing.
"Traitor, they called me. For long they sawed at me—in vain. Then
they trussed me and dumped me here. They think to return with weapons
to complete the task."
"Weapons? I thought it was illegal!"
"Their evil genius, the Soft One," said the Fustian. "He would provide
fuel to the Devil himself."
"The Groaci again," said Retief. "I wonder what their angle is."
"And I must confess, I told them of you, ere I knew their full
intentions. Much can I tell you of their doings. But first, I pray, the
block and tackle."
Retief found the hoist where the Fustian directed him, maneuvered it
into position, hooked onto the edge of the carapace and hauled away.
The immense Fustian rose slowly, teetered ... then flopped on his chest.
Slowly he got to his feet.
"My name is Whonk, fleet one," he said. "My cows are yours."
"Thanks. I'm Retief. I'd like to meet the girls some time. But right
now, let's get out of here."
Whonk leaned his bulk against the ponderous stacks of baled kelp,
bulldozed them aside. "Slow am I to anger," he said, "but implacable in
my wrath. Slock, beware!"
"Hold it," said Retief suddenly. He sniffed. "What's that odor?" He
flashed the light around, played it over a dry stain on the floor. He
knelt, sniffed at the spot.
"What kind of cargo was stacked here, Whonk? And where is it now?"
Whonk considered. "There were drums," he said. "Four of them, quite
small, painted an evil green, the property of the Soft Ones, the
Groaci. They lay here a day and a night. At full dark of the first
period they came with stevedores and loaded them aboard the barge
Moss
Rock
."
"The VIP boat. Who's scheduled to use it?"
"I know not. But what matters this? Let us discuss cargo movements
after I have settled a score with certain Youths."
"We'd better follow this up first, Whonk. There's only one substance I
know of that's transported in drums and smells like that blot on the
floor. That's titanite: the hottest explosive this side of a uranium
pile."
III
Beta was setting as Retief, Whonk puffing at his heels, came up to the
sentry box beside the gangway leading to the plush interior of the
official luxury space barge
Moss Rock
.
"A sign of the times," said Whonk, glancing inside the empty shelter.
"A guard should stand here, but I see him not. Doubtless he crept away
to sleep."
"Let's go aboard and take a look around."
They entered the ship. Soft lights glowed in utter silence. A rough box
stood on the floor, rollers and pry-bars beside it—a discordant note
in the muted luxury of the setting. Whonk rummaged in it.
"Curious," he said. "What means this?" He held up a stained cloak of
orange and green, a metal bracelet, papers.
"Orange and green," mused Relief. "Whose colors are those?"
"I know not." Whonk glanced at the arm-band. "But this is lettered." He
passed the metal band to Retief.
"SCARS," Retief read. He looked at Whonk. "It seems to me I've heard
the name before," he murmured. "Let's get back to the Embassy—fast."
Back on the ramp Retief heard a sound ... and turned in time to duck
the charge of a hulking Fustian youth who thundered past him and
fetched up against the broad chest of Whonk, who locked him in a warm
embrace.
"Nice catch, Whonk. Where'd he sneak out of?"
"The lout hid there by the storage bin," rumbled Whonk. The captive
youth thumped fists and toes fruitlessly against the oldster's carapace.
"Hang onto him," said Retief. "He looks like the biting kind."
"No fear. Clumsy I am, yet not without strength."
"Ask him where the titanite is tucked away."
"Speak, witless grub," growled Whonk, "lest I tweak you in twain."
The youth gurgled.
"Better let up before you make a mess of him," said Retief. Whonk
lifted the Youth clear of the floor, then flung him down with a thump
that made the ground quiver. The younger Fustian glared up at the
elder, mouth snapping.
"This one was among those who trussed me and hid me away for the
killing," said Whonk. "In his repentance he will tell all to his elder."
"That's the same young squirt that tried to strike up an acquaintance
with me on the bus," Retief said. "He gets around."
The youth scrambled to hands and knees, scuttled for freedom. Retief
planted a foot on his dragging cloak; it ripped free. He stared at the
bare back of the Fustian—
"By the Great Egg!" Whonk exclaimed, tripping the refugee as he tried
to rise. "This is no Youth! His carapace has been taken from him!"
Retief looked at the scarred back. "I thought he looked a little old.
But I thought—"
"This is not possible," Whonk said wonderingly. "The great nerve trunks
are deeply involved. Not even the cleverest surgeon could excise the
carapace and leave the patient living."
"It looks like somebody did the trick. But let's take this boy with us
and get out of here. His folks may come home."
"Too late," said Whonk. Retief turned.
Three youths came from behind the sheds.
"Well," Retief said. "It looks like the SCARS are out in force tonight.
Where's your pal?" he said to the advancing trio. "The sticky little
bird with the eye-stalks? Back at his Embassy, leaving you suckers
holding the bag, I'll bet."
"Shelter behind me, Retief," said Whonk.
"Go get 'em, old-timer." Retief stooped, picked up one of the pry-bars.
"I'll jump around and distract them."
Whonk let out a whistling roar and charged for the immature Fustians.
They fanned out ... and one tripped, sprawled on his face. Retief
whirled the metal bar he had thrust between the Fustian's legs, slammed
it against the skull of another, who shook his head, turned on
Retief ... and bounced off the steel hull of the
Moss Rock
as Whonk
took him in full charge.
Retief used the bar on another head. His third blow laid the Fustian
on the pavement, oozing purple. The other two club members departed
hastily, seriously dented but still mobile.
Retief leaned on his club, breathing hard. "Tough heads these kids
have got. I'm tempted to chase those two lads down, but I've got
another errand to run. I don't know who the Groaci intended to blast,
but I have a sneaking suspicion somebody of importance was scheduled
for a boat ride in the next few hours. And three drums of titanite is
enough to vaporize this tub and everyone aboard her."
"The plot is foiled," said Whonk. "But what reason did they have?"
"The Groaci are behind it. I have an idea the SCARS didn't know about
this gambit."
"Which of these is the leader?" asked Whonk. He prodded a fallen Youth
with a horny toe. "Arise, dreaming one."
"Never mind him, Whonk. We'll tie these two up and leave them here. I
know where to find the boss."
A stolid crowd filled the low-ceilinged banquet hall. Retief scanned
the tables for the pale blobs of Terrestrial faces, dwarfed by the
giant armored bodies of the Fustians. Across the room Magnan fluttered
a hand. Retief headed toward him. A low-pitched vibration filled the
air: the rumble of subsonic Fustian music.
Retief slid into his place beside Magnan. "Sorry to be late, Mr.
Ambassador."
"I'm honored that you chose to appear at all," said Magnan coldly. He
turned back to the Fustian on his left.
"Ah, yes, Mr. Minister," he said. "Charming, most charming. So joyous."
The Fustian looked at him, beady-eyed. "It is the
Lament of
Hatching
," he said; "our National Dirge."
"Oh," said Magnan. "How interesting. Such a pleasing balance of
instruments—"
"It is a droon solo," said the Fustian, eyeing the Terrestrial
Ambassador suspiciously.
"Why don't you just admit you can't hear it," Retief whispered loudly.
"And if I may interrupt a moment—"
Magnan cleared his throat. "Now that our Mr. Retief has arrived,
perhaps we could rush right along to the Sponsorship ceremonies."
"This group," said Retief, leaning across Magnan, "the SCARS. How much
do you know about them, Mr. Minister?"
"Nothing at all," the huge Fustian elder rumbled. "For my taste, all
Youths should be kept penned with the livestock until they grow a
carapace to tame their irresponsibility."
"We mustn't lose sight of the importance of channeling youthful
energies," said Magnan.
"Labor gangs," said the minister. "In my youth we were indentured to
the dredge-masters. I myself drew a muck sledge."
"But in these modern times," put in Magnan, "surely it's incumbent on
us to make happy these golden hours."
The minister snorted. "Last week I had a golden hour. They set upon me
and pelted me with overripe stench-fruit."
"But this was merely a manifestation of normal youthful frustrations,"
cried Magnan. "Their essential tenderness—"
"You'd not find a tender spot on that lout yonder," the minister
said, pointing with a fork at a newly arrived Youth, "if you drilled
boreholes and blasted."
"Why, that's our guest of honor," said Magnan, "a fine young fellow!
Slop I believe his name is."
"Slock," said Retief. "Eight feet of armor-plated orneriness. And—"
Magnan rose and tapped on his glass. The Fustians winced at the, to
them, supersonic vibrations. They looked at each other muttering.
Magnan tapped louder. The Minister drew in his head, eyes closed. Some
of the Fustians rose, tottered for the doors; the noise level rose.
Magnan redoubled his efforts. The glass broke with a clatter and green
wine gushed on the tablecloth.
"What in the name of the Great Egg!" the Minister muttered. He blinked,
breathing deeply.
"Oh, forgive me," blurted Magnan, dabbing at the wine.
"Too bad the glass gave out," said Retief. "In another minute you'd
have cleared the hall. And then maybe I could have gotten a word in
sideways. There's a matter you should know about—"
"Your attention, please," Magnan said, rising. "I see that our fine
young guest has arrived, and I hope that the remainder of his committee
will be along in a moment. It is my pleasure to announce that our Mr.
Retief has had the good fortune to win out in the keen bidding for the
pleasure of sponsoring this lovely group."
Retief tugged at Magnan's sleeve. "Don't introduce me yet," he said. "I
want to appear suddenly. More dramatic, you know."
"Well," murmured Magnan, glancing down at Retief, "I'm gratified to
see you entering into the spirit of the event at last." He turned his
attention back to the assembled guests. "If our honored guest will join
me on the rostrum...?" he said. "The gentlemen of the press may want to
catch a few shots of the presentation."
Magnan stepped up on the low platform at the center of the wide room,
took his place beside the robed Fustian youth and beamed at the cameras.
"How gratifying it is to take this opportunity to express once more the
great pleasure we have in sponsoring SCARS," he said, talking slowly
for the benefit of the scribbling reporters. "We'd like to think that
in our modest way we're to be a part of all that the SCARS achieve
during the years ahead."
Magnan paused as a huge Fustian elder heaved his bulk up the two low
steps to the rostrum, approached the guest of honor. He watched as the
newcomer paused behind Slock, who did not see the new arrival.
Retief pushed through the crowd, stepped up to face the Fustian youth.
Slock stared at him, drew back.
"You know me, Slock," said Retief loudly. "An old fellow named Whonk
told you about me, just before you tried to saw his head off, remember?
It was when I came out to take a look at that battle cruiser you're
building."
IV
With a bellow Slock reached for Retief—and choked off in mid-cry as
the Fustian elder, Whonk, pinioned him from behind, lifting him clear
of the floor.
"Glad you reporters happened along," said Retief to the gaping newsmen.
"Slock here had a deal with a sharp operator from the Groaci Embassy.
The Groaci were to supply the necessary hardware and Slock, as foreman
at the shipyards, was to see that everything was properly installed.
The next step, I assume, would have been a local take-over, followed
by a little interplanetary war on Flamenco or one of the other nearby
worlds ... for which the Groaci would be glad to supply plenty of ammo."
Magnan found his tongue. "Are you mad, Retief?" he screeched. "This
group was vouched for by the Ministry of Youth!"
"The Ministry's overdue for a purge," snapped Retief. He turned back
to Slock. "I wonder if you were in on the little diversion that was
planned for today. When the
Moss Rock
blew, a variety of clues were
to be planted where they'd be easy to find ... with SCARS written all
over them. The Groaci would thus have neatly laid the whole affair
squarely at the door of the Terrestrial Embassy ... whose sponsorship
of the SCARS had received plenty of publicity."
"The
Moss Rock
?" said Magnan. "But that was—Retief! This is idiotic.
Slock himself was scheduled to go on a cruise tomorrow!"
Slock roared suddenly, twisting violently. Whonk teetered, his grip
loosened ... and Slock pulled free and was off the platform, butting
his way through the milling oldsters on the dining room floor. Magnan
watched, open-mouthed.
"The Groaci were playing a double game, as usual," Retief said. "They
intended to dispose of this fellow Slock, once he'd served their
purpose."
"Well, don't stand there," yelped Magnan over the uproar. "If Slock is
the ring-leader of a delinquent gang...!" He moved to give chase.
Retief grabbed his arm. "Don't jump down there! You'd have as much
chance of getting through as a jack-rabbit through a threshing contest."
Ten minutes later the crowd had thinned slightly. "We can get through
now," Whonk called. "This way." He lowered himself to the floor, bulled
through to the exit. Flashbulbs popped. Retief and Magnan followed in
Whonk's wake.
In the lounge Retief grabbed the phone, waited for the operator, gave a
code letter. No reply. He tried another.
"No good," he said after a full minute had passed. "Wonder what's
loose?" He slammed the phone back in its niche. "Let's grab a cab."
In the street the blue sun, Alpha, peered like an arc light under a low
cloud layer, casting flat shadows across the mud of the avenue. The
three mounted a passing flat-car. Whonk squatted, resting the weight of
his immense shell on the heavy plank flooring.
"Would that I too could lose this burden, as has the false youth we
bludgeoned aboard the
Moss Rock
," he sighed. "Soon will I be forced
into retirement. Then a mere keeper of a place of papers such as I
will rate no more than a slab on the public strand, with once-daily
feedings. And even for a man of high position, retirement is no
pleasure. A slab in the Park of Monuments is little better. A dismal
outlook for one's next thousand years!"
"You two carry on to the police station," said Retief. "I want to play
a hunch. But don't take too long. I may be painfully right."
"What—?" Magnan started.
"As you wish, Retief," said Whonk.
The flat-car trundled past the gate to the shipyard and Retief jumped
down, headed at a run for the VIP boat. The guard post still stood
vacant. The two Youths whom he and Whonk had left trussed were gone.
"That's the trouble with a peaceful world," Retief muttered. "No police
protection." He stepped down from the lighted entry and took up a
position behind the sentry box. Alpha rose higher, shedding a glaring
blue-white light without heat. Retief shivered. Maybe he'd guessed
wrong....
There was a sound in the near distance, like two elephants colliding.
Retief looked toward the gate. His giant acquaintance, Whonk, had
reappeared and was grappling with a hardly less massive opponent. A
small figure became visible in the melee, scuttled for the gate. Headed
off by the battling titans, he turned and made for the opposite side
of the shipyard. Retief waited, jumped out and gathered in the fleeing
Groaci.
"Well, Yith," he said, "how's tricks? You should pardon the expression."
"Release me, Retief!" the pale-featured alien lisped, his throat
bladder pulsating in agitation. "The behemoths vie for the privilege of
dismembering me out of hand!"
"I know how they feel. I'll see what I can do ... for a price."
"I appeal to you," Yith whispered hoarsely. "As a fellow diplomat, a
fellow alien, a fellow soft-back—"
"Why don't you appeal to Slock, as a fellow skunk?" said Retief. "Now
keep quiet ... and you may get out of this alive."
The heavier of the two struggling Fustians threw the other to the
ground. There was another brief flurry, and then the smaller figure was
on its back, helpless.
"That's Whonk, still on his feet," said Retief. "I wonder who he's
caught—and why."
Whonk came toward the
Moss Rock
dragging the supine Fustian, who
kicked vainly. Retief thrust Yith down well out of sight behind the
sentry box. "Better sit tight, Yith. Don't try to sneak off; I can
outrun you. Stay here and I'll see what I can do." He stepped out and
hailed Whonk.
Puffing like a steam engine Whonk pulled up before him. "Sleep,
Retief!" He panted. "You followed a hunch; I did the same. I saw
something strange in this one when we passed him on the avenue. I
watched, followed him here. Look! It is Slock, strapped into a dead
carapace! Now many things become clear."
Retief whistled. "So the Youths aren't all as young as they look.
Somebody's been holding out on the rest of you Fustians!"
"The Soft One," Whonk said. "You laid him by the heels, Retief. I saw.
Produce him now."
"Hold on a minute, Whonk. It won't do you any good—"
Whonk winked broadly. "I must take my revenge!" he roared. "I shall
test the texture of the Soft One! His pulped remains will be scoured up
by the ramp-washers and mailed home in bottles!"
Retief whirled at a sound, caught up with the scuttling Yith fifty feet
away, hauled him back to Whonk.
"It's up to you, Whonk," he said. "I know how important ceremonial
revenge is to you Fustians. I will not interfere."
"Mercy!" Yith hissed, eye-stalks whipping in distress. "I claim
diplomatic immunity!"
"No diplomat am I," rumbled Whonk. "Let me see; suppose I start with
one of those obscenely active eyes—" He reached....
"I have an idea," said Retief brightly. "Do you suppose—just this
once—you could forego the ceremonial revenge if Yith promised to
arrange for a Groaci Surgical Mission to de-carapace you elders?"
"But," Whonk protested, "those eyes! What a pleasure to pluck them, one
by one!"
"Yess," hissed Yith, "I swear it! Our most expert surgeons ... platoons
of them, with the finest of equipment."
"I have dreamed of how it would be to sit on this one, to feel him
squash beneath my bulk...."
"Light as a whissle feather shall you dance," Yith whispered.
"Shell-less shall you spring in the joy of renewed youth—"
"Maybe just one eye," said Whonk grudgingly. "That would leave him
four."
"Be a sport," said Retief.
"Well."
"It's a deal then," said Retief. "Yith, on your word as a diplomat,
an alien, a soft-back and a skunk, you'll set up the mission. Groaci
surgical skill is an export that will net you more than armaments.
It will be a whissle feather in your cap—if you bring it off. And
in return, Whonk won't sit on you. And I won't prefer charges of
interference in the internal affairs of a free world."
Behind Whonk there was a movement. Slock, wriggling free of the
borrowed carapace, struggled to his feet ... in time for Whonk to seize
him, lift him high and head for the entry to the
Moss Rock
.
"Hey," Retief called. "Where are you going?"
"I would not deny this one his reward," called Whonk. "He hoped to
cruise in luxury. So be it."
"Hold on," said Retief. "That tub is loaded with titanite!"
"Stand not in my way, Retief. For this one in truth owes me a
vengeance."
Retief watched as the immense Fustian bore his giant burden up the ramp
and disappeared within the ship.
"I guess Whonk means business," he said to Yith, who hung in his grasp,
all five eyes goggling. "And he's a little too big for me to stop."
Whonk reappeared, alone, climbed down.
"What did you do with him?" said Retief. "Tell him you were going to—"
"We had best withdraw," said Whonk. "The killing radius of the drive is
fifty yards."
"You mean—"
"The controls are set for Groaci. Long-may-he-sleep."
"It was quite a bang," said Retief. "But I guess you saw it, too."
"No, confound it," Magnan said. "When I remonstrated with Hulk, or
Whelk—"
"Whonk."
"—the ruffian thrust me into an alley bound in my own cloak. I'll most
certainly complain to the Minister."
"How about the surgical mission?"
"A most generous offer," said Magnan. "Frankly, I was astonished. I
think perhaps we've judged the Groaci too harshly."
"I hear the Ministry of Youth has had a rough morning of it," said
Retief. "And a lot of rumors are flying to the effect that Youth Groups
are on the way out."
Magnan cleared his throat, shuffled papers. "I—ah—have explained to
the press that last night's—ah—"
"Fiasco."
"—affair was necessary in order to place the culprits in an untenable
position. Of course, as to the destruction of the VIP vessel and the
presumed death of, uh, Slop."
"The Fustians understand," said Retief. "Whonk wasn't kidding about
ceremonial vengeance."
"The Groaci had been guilty of gross misuse of diplomatic privilege,"
said Magnan. "I think that a note—or perhaps an Aide Memoire: less
formal...."
"The
Moss Rock
was bound for Groaci," said Retief. "She was already
in her transit orbit when she blew. The major fragments will arrive on
schedule in a month or so. It should provide quite a meteorite display.
I think that should be all the
aide
the Groaci's
memoires
will need
to keep their tentacles off Fust."
"But diplomatic usage—"
"Then, too, the less that's put in writing, the less they can blame you
for, if anything goes wrong."
"That's true," said Magnan, lips pursed. "Now you're thinking
constructively, Retief. We may make a diplomat of you yet." He smiled
expansively.
"Maybe. But I refuse to let it depress me." Retief stood up. "I'm
taking a few weeks off ... if you have no objection, Mr. Ambassador. My
pal Whonk wants to show me an island down south where the fishing is
good."
"But there are some extremely important matters coming up," said
Magnan. "We're planning to sponsor Senior Citizen Groups—"
"Count me out. All groups give me an itch."
"Why, what an astonishing remark, Retief! After all, we diplomats are
ourselves a group."
"Uh-huh," Retief said.
Magnan sat quietly, mouth open, and watched as Retief stepped into the
hall and closed the door gently behind him.
Question:
Who is Whonk, and what is his relevance to the story?
Answer:
|
[
"Whonk is a very old Fustian who works as a clerk at the shipyards. He meets Retief when Retief comes to to inquire about seeing plans for the new passenger liner. Whonk is neutral and correct, but not especially friendly. His partnership, and it seems fair to say, friendship with Retief really begins when Retief returns to the shipyard to look for Whonk and finds that the Fustian thugs who tried and failed to kill him, due to his thick, mature skin and shell, have left him tied up, in an undignified position on his back.\nRetief apologizes for putting him in danger, and gets the old Fustian back on his feet. Whonk is so grateful that he tells Retief, “My cows are yours,” a heartfelt, traditional Fustian expression of gratitude. \nWhonk is extremely angry about what the Fustian Slock and his gang have done to him, and throws in his lot with Retief. Thereafter, every time Retief is in physical danger from Fustians, Whonk is right there to help. \nAt the end of the story, Whonk steps in again to help Retief capture Yith, a member of the Groaci diplomatic mission, and Slock the rebel adult Fustian with no carapace. His desire for vengeance against these two nearly overwhelms his good sense. He puts Slock on the Moss Rose with the titanite that Slock had intended to use against Fustian politicians, and sets the rocket to blast off to Groaci, knowing that it would below up before it got there. \nBut Retief manages to settle him down enough not to take Yith apart piece by piece, by getting the Groaci to do something that would make Whonk’s life a lot easier and more pleasant: surgically remove his carapace. \nWhonk is steadfast, reliable, implacable – a good sidekick for Retief.\n",
"Whonk is the older Fustian who helps Retief uncover the Groacian plot. He is looking after papers when Retief asks to see the plans of the new ship being built, but is hurt by the gang members and Youths that come in after Retief leaves. He is still willing to help Retief after this, and the two of them work together to piece together their evidence. Being older means that Whonk has a very heavy shell that keeps him from moving quickly, but he is very strong--he manages to capture a number of characters throughout the story to keep them from running away. Not only is Whonk the reason Retief was able to confirm that the new ship was indeed meant to be a battle cruiser, helping to uncover the plot, but the two of them become friends and go on a fishing trip together at the end of the story.",
"Whonk is an elderly Fustian who works managing documents at the shipyard where Retief goes to investigate the new passenger ship being built there. Whonk shares the documents with Retief, who notices its similarities to a defunct ship design that had been previously used in combat. Whonk educates Retief on the rebellious ways of the younger Fustians before they witness a Groaci military attache consulting with some youth outside his office. The youth attack Whonk after Retief’s departure, nearly severing his head. When Retief returns to help him, Whonk is very grateful and continues to help Retief on his mission to discover the real connection between the Groaci and SCARS. Whonk guides Retief to the “Moss Rock” and helps Retief defeat yet another group of attacking youth. Whonk discovers that one of the youths is not a youth at all but rather an older Fustian with a detached shell. He is baffled by this. After a fracas at the sponsorship ceremony, Retief captures the Groaci attaché, and Whonk apprehends Slock, whom he quickly discovers is also an older Fustian with a surgically-removed shell. Retief convinces Whonk to forego his act of vengeance on the Groaci, and in exchange the Groaci would provide the elders of Fust with the same surgical procedure provided to the SCARS members. Pleased with this arrangement, Whonk agrees, but he is still seeking vengeance. He places Slock aboard the “Moss Rock” and sends it on a path to Groaci. The ship explodes on the way, killing Slock, and sending a message to the Groaci to stay away from Fust.",
"Whonk is an older Fustian who is very polite and helpful to Retief. He lets Retief look at the blueprints for the passenger ship that the younger Fustians are building with the Groacis and then apologizes for the rudeness of the younger Fustian who confronts Retief for looking at the plans. Whonk becomes Retief’s ally right away; he holds off the younger Fustians who come back to confront Retief, giving Retief a chance to sneak out the back door. After two younger Fustians tell Retief they want his films from his pictures of the plans, he realizes they must have gotten the information about the pictures from Whonk and knew Whonk wouldn’t have given it to them freely. When he checks on Whonk, he finds him tied up. The younger Fustians had tried to kill him. From then on, the two work together, checking the Moss Rock for explosives that have been removed from the storage area. When attackers come, Whonk protects Retief and blocks the attackers with his carapace. Whonk provides Retief with information that he needs to determine who is involved in criminal activity and what that criminal activity is. At the end of the story, he provides justice for Slock by putting him aboard the Moss Rock before it blows up so that he gets his just rewards. When everything settles, Whonk offers to take Retief on a fishing vacation."
] |
61198
|
Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
AIDE MEMOIRE
BY KEITH LAUMER
The Fustians looked like turtles—but
they could move fast when they chose!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, July 1962.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Across the table from Retief, Ambassador Magnan rustled a stiff sheet
of parchment and looked grave.
"This aide memoire," he said, "was just handed to me by the Cultural
Attache. It's the third on the subject this week. It refers to the
matter of sponsorship of Youth groups—"
"Some youths," Retief said. "Average age, seventy-five."
"The Fustians are a long-lived people," Magnan snapped. "These matters
are relative. At seventy-five, a male Fustian is at a trying age—"
"That's right. He'll try anything—in the hope it will maim somebody."
"Precisely the problem," Magnan said. "But the Youth Movement is
the important news in today's political situation here on Fust. And
sponsorship of Youth groups is a shrewd stroke on the part of the
Terrestrial Embassy. At my suggestion, well nigh every member of the
mission has leaped at the opportunity to score a few p—that is, cement
relations with this emergent power group—the leaders of the future.
You, Retief, as Councillor, are the outstanding exception."
"I'm not convinced these hoodlums need my help in organizing their
rumbles," Retief said. "Now, if you have a proposal for a pest control
group—"
"To the Fustians this is no jesting matter," Magnan cut in. "This
group—" he glanced at the paper—"known as the Sexual, Cultural, and
Athletic Recreational Society, or SCARS for short, has been awaiting
sponsorship for a matter of weeks now."
"Meaning they want someone to buy them a clubhouse, uniforms, equipment
and anything else they need to complete their sexual, cultural and
athletic development," Retief said.
"If we don't act promptly," Magnan said, "the Groaci Embassy may well
anticipate us. They're very active here."
"That's an idea," said Retief. "Let 'em. After awhile they'll go broke
instead of us."
"Nonsense. The group requires a sponsor. I can't actually order you to
step forward. However...." Magnan let the sentence hang in the air.
Retief raised one eyebrow.
"For a minute there," he said, "I thought you were going to make a
positive statement."
Magnan leaned back, lacing his fingers over his stomach. "I don't think
you'll find a diplomat of my experience doing anything so naive," he
said.
"I like the adult Fustians," said Retief. "Too bad they have to lug
half a ton of horn around on their backs. I wonder if surgery would
help."
"Great heavens, Retief," Magnan sputtered. "I'm amazed that even you
would bring up a matter of such delicacy. A race's unfortunate physical
characteristics are hardly a fit matter for Terrestrial curiosity."
"Well, of course your experience of the Fustian mentality is greater
than mine. I've only been here a month. But it's been my experience,
Mr. Ambassador, that few races are above improving on nature. Otherwise
you, for example, would be tripping over your beard."
Magnan shuddered. "Please—never mention the idea to a Fustian."
Retief stood. "My own program for the day includes going over to the
dockyards. There are some features of this new passenger liner the
Fustians are putting together that I want to look into. With your
permission, Mr. Ambassador...?"
Magnan snorted. "Your pre-occupation with the trivial disturbs me,
Retief. More interest in substantive matters—such as working with
Youth groups—would create a far better impression."
"Before getting too involved with these groups, it might be a good idea
to find out a little more about them," said Retief. "Who organizes
them? There are three strong political parties here on Fust. What's the
alignment of this SCARS organization?"
"You forget, these are merely teenagers, so to speak," Magnan said.
"Politics mean nothing to them ... yet."
"Then there are the Groaci. Why their passionate interest in a
two-horse world like Fust? Normally they're concerned with nothing but
business. But what has Fust got that they could use?"
"You may rule out the commercial aspect in this instance," said Magnan.
"Fust possesses a vigorous steel-age manufacturing economy. The Groaci
are barely ahead of them."
"Barely," said Retief. "Just over the line into crude atomics ... like
fission bombs."
Magnan shook his head, turned back to his papers. "What market exists
for such devices on a world at peace? I suggest you address your
attention to the less spectacular but more rewarding work of studying
the social patterns of the local youth."
"I've studied them," said Retief. "And before I meet any of the local
youth socially I want to get myself a good blackjack."
II
Retief left the sprawling bungalow-type building that housed the
chancery of the Terrestrial Embassy, swung aboard a passing flat-car
and leaned back against the wooden guard rail as the heavy vehicle
trundled through the city toward the looming gantries of the shipyards.
It was a cool morning. A light breeze carried the fishy odor of Fusty
dwellings across the broad cobbled avenue. A few mature Fustians
lumbered heavily along in the shade of the low buildings, audibly
wheezing under the burden of their immense carapaces. Among them,
shell-less youths trotted briskly on scaly stub legs. The driver of the
flat-car, a labor-caste Fustian with his guild colors emblazoned on his
back, heaved at the tiller, swung the unwieldy conveyance through the
shipyard gates, creaked to a halt.
"Thus I come to the shipyard with frightful speed," he said in Fustian.
"Well I know the way of the naked-backs, who move always in haste."
Retief climbed down, handed him a coin. "You should take up
professional racing," he said. "Daredevil."
He crossed the littered yard and tapped at the door of a rambling shed.
Boards creaked inside. Then the door swung back.
A gnarled ancient with tarnished facial scales and a weathered carapace
peered out at Retief.
"Long-may-you-sleep," said Retief. "I'd like to take a look around, if
you don't mind. I understand you're laying the bedplate for your new
liner today."
"May-you-dream-of-the-deeps," the old fellow mumbled. He waved a stumpy
arm toward a group of shell-less Fustians standing by a massive hoist.
"The youths know more of bedplates than do I, who but tend the place of
papers."
"I know how you feel, old-timer," said Retief. "That sounds like the
story of my life. Among your papers do you have a set of plans for the
vessel? I understand it's to be a passenger liner."
The oldster nodded. He shuffled to a drawing file, rummaged, pulled out
a sheaf of curled prints and spread them on the table. Retief stood
silently, running a finger over the uppermost drawing, tracing lines....
"What does the naked-back here?" barked a deep voice behind Retief. He
turned. A heavy-faced Fustian youth, wrapped in a mantle, stood at the
open door. Beady yellow eyes set among fine scales bored into Retief.
"I came to take a look at your new liner," said Retief.
"We need no prying foreigners here," the youth snapped. His eye fell on
the drawings. He hissed in sudden anger.
"Doddering hulk!" he snapped at the ancient. "May you toss in
nightmares! Put by the plans!"
"My mistake," Retief said. "I didn't know this was a secret project."
The youth hesitated. "It is not a secret project," he muttered. "Why
should it be secret?"
"You tell me."
The youth worked his jaws and rocked his head from side to side in the
Fusty gesture of uncertainty. "There is nothing to conceal," he said.
"We merely construct a passenger liner."
"Then you don't mind if I look over the drawings," said Retief. "Who
knows? Maybe some day I'll want to reserve a suite for the trip out."
The youth turned and disappeared. Retief grinned at the oldster. "Went
for his big brother, I guess," he said. "I have a feeling I won't get
to study these in peace here. Mind if I copy them?"
"Willingly, light-footed one," said the old Fustian. "And mine is the
shame for the discourtesy of youth."
Retief took out a tiny camera, flipped a copying lens in place, leafed
through the drawings, clicking the shutter.
"A plague on these youths," said the oldster, "who grow more virulent
day by day."
"Why don't you elders clamp down?"
"Agile are they and we are slow of foot. And this unrest is new.
Unknown in my youth was such insolence."
"The police—"
"Bah!" the ancient rumbled. "None have we worthy of the name, nor have
we needed ought ere now."
"What's behind it?"
"They have found leaders. The spiv, Slock, is one. And I fear they plot
mischief." He pointed to the window. "They come, and a Soft One with
them."
Retief pocketed the camera, glanced out the window. A pale-featured
Groaci with an ornately decorated crest stood with the youths, who eyed
the hut, then started toward it.
"That's the military attache of the Groaci Embassy," Retief said. "I
wonder what he and the boys are cooking up together?"
"Naught that augurs well for the dignity of Fust," the oldster rumbled.
"Flee, agile one, while I engage their attentions."
"I was just leaving," Retief said. "Which way out?"
"The rear door," the Fustian gestured with a stubby member. "Rest well,
stranger on these shores." He moved to the entrance.
"Same to you, pop," said Retief. "And thanks."
He eased through the narrow back entrance, waited until voices were
raised at the front of the shed, then strolled off toward the gate.
The second dark of the third cycle was lightening when Retief left the
Embassy technical library and crossed the corridor to his office. He
flipped on a light. A note was tucked under a paperweight:
"Retief—I shall expect your attendance at the IAS dinner at first
dark of the fourth cycle. There will be a brief but, I hope, impressive
Sponsorship ceremony for the SCARS group, with full press coverage,
arrangements for which I have managed to complete in spite of your
intransigence."
Retief snorted and glanced at his watch. Less than three hours. Just
time to creep home by flat-car, dress in ceremonial uniform and creep
back.
Outside he flagged a lumbering bus. He stationed himself in a corner
and watched the yellow sun, Beta, rise rapidly above the low skyline.
The nearby sea was at high tide now, under the pull of the major sun
and the three moons, and the stiff breeze carried a mist of salt spray.
Retief turned up his collar against the dampness. In half an hour he
would be perspiring under the vertical rays of a third-noon sun, but
the thought failed to keep the chill off.
Two Youths clambered up on the platform, moving purposefully toward
Retief. He moved off the rail, watching them, weight balanced.
"That's close enough, kids," he said. "Plenty of room on this scow. No
need to crowd up."
"There are certain films," the lead Fustian muttered. His voice was
unusually deep for a Youth. He was wrapped in a heavy cloak and moved
awkwardly. His adolescence was nearly at an end, Retief guessed.
"I told you once," said Retief. "Don't crowd me."
The two stepped close, slit mouths snapping in anger. Retief put out a
foot, hooked it behind the scaly leg of the overaged juvenile and threw
his weight against the cloaked chest. The clumsy Fustian tottered, fell
heavily. Retief was past him and off the flat-car before the other
Youth had completed his vain lunge toward the spot Retief had occupied.
The Terrestrial waved cheerfully at the pair, hopped aboard another
vehicle, watched his would-be assailants lumber down from their car,
tiny heads twisted to follow his retreating figure.
So they wanted the film? Retief reflected, thumbing a cigar alight.
They were a little late. He had already filed it in the Embassy vault,
after running a copy for the reference files.
And a comparison of the drawings with those of the obsolete Mark XXXV
battle cruiser used two hundred years earlier by the Concordiat Naval
Arm showed them to be almost identical, gun emplacements and all. The
term "obsolete" was a relative one. A ship which had been outmoded in
the armories of the Galactic Powers could still be king of the walk in
the Eastern Arm.
But how had these two known of the film? There had been no one present
but himself and the old-timer—and he was willing to bet the elderly
Fustian hadn't told them anything.
At least not willingly....
Retief frowned, dropped the cigar over the side, waited until the
flat-car negotiated a mud-wallow, then swung down and headed for the
shipyard.
The door, hinges torn loose, had been propped loosely back in position.
Retief looked around at the battered interior of the shed. The old
fellow had put up a struggle.
There were deep drag-marks in the dust behind the building. Retief
followed them across the yard. They disappeared under the steel door of
a warehouse.
Retief glanced around. Now, at the mid-hour of the fourth cycle, the
workmen were heaped along the edge of the refreshment pond, deep in
their siesta. He took a multi-bladed tool from a pocket, tried various
fittings in the lock. It snicked open.
He eased the door aside far enough to enter.
Heaped bales loomed before him. Snapping on the tiny lamp in the handle
of the combination tool, Retief looked over the pile. One stack seemed
out of alignment ... and the dust had been scraped from the floor
before it. He pocketed the light, climbed up on the bales, looked over
into a nest made by stacking the bundles around a clear spot. The aged
Fustian lay in it, on his back, a heavy sack tied over his head.
Retief dropped down inside the ring of bales, sawed at the tough twine
and pulled the sack free.
"It's me, old fellow," Retief said. "The nosy stranger. Sorry I got you
into this."
The oldster threshed his gnarled legs. He rocked slightly and fell
back. "A curse on the cradle that rocked their infant slumbers," he
rumbled. "But place me back on my feet and I hunt down the youth,
Slock, though he flee to the bottommost muck of the Sea of Torments."
"How am I going to get you out of here? Maybe I'd better get some help."
"Nay. The perfidious Youths abound here," said the old Fustian. "It
would be your life."
"I doubt if they'd go that far."
"Would they not?" The Fustian stretched his neck. "Cast your light
here. But for the toughness of my hide...."
Retief put the beam of the light on the leathery neck. A great smear of
thick purplish blood welled from a ragged cut. The oldster chuckled, a
sound like a seal coughing.
"Traitor, they called me. For long they sawed at me—in vain. Then
they trussed me and dumped me here. They think to return with weapons
to complete the task."
"Weapons? I thought it was illegal!"
"Their evil genius, the Soft One," said the Fustian. "He would provide
fuel to the Devil himself."
"The Groaci again," said Retief. "I wonder what their angle is."
"And I must confess, I told them of you, ere I knew their full
intentions. Much can I tell you of their doings. But first, I pray, the
block and tackle."
Retief found the hoist where the Fustian directed him, maneuvered it
into position, hooked onto the edge of the carapace and hauled away.
The immense Fustian rose slowly, teetered ... then flopped on his chest.
Slowly he got to his feet.
"My name is Whonk, fleet one," he said. "My cows are yours."
"Thanks. I'm Retief. I'd like to meet the girls some time. But right
now, let's get out of here."
Whonk leaned his bulk against the ponderous stacks of baled kelp,
bulldozed them aside. "Slow am I to anger," he said, "but implacable in
my wrath. Slock, beware!"
"Hold it," said Retief suddenly. He sniffed. "What's that odor?" He
flashed the light around, played it over a dry stain on the floor. He
knelt, sniffed at the spot.
"What kind of cargo was stacked here, Whonk? And where is it now?"
Whonk considered. "There were drums," he said. "Four of them, quite
small, painted an evil green, the property of the Soft Ones, the
Groaci. They lay here a day and a night. At full dark of the first
period they came with stevedores and loaded them aboard the barge
Moss
Rock
."
"The VIP boat. Who's scheduled to use it?"
"I know not. But what matters this? Let us discuss cargo movements
after I have settled a score with certain Youths."
"We'd better follow this up first, Whonk. There's only one substance I
know of that's transported in drums and smells like that blot on the
floor. That's titanite: the hottest explosive this side of a uranium
pile."
III
Beta was setting as Retief, Whonk puffing at his heels, came up to the
sentry box beside the gangway leading to the plush interior of the
official luxury space barge
Moss Rock
.
"A sign of the times," said Whonk, glancing inside the empty shelter.
"A guard should stand here, but I see him not. Doubtless he crept away
to sleep."
"Let's go aboard and take a look around."
They entered the ship. Soft lights glowed in utter silence. A rough box
stood on the floor, rollers and pry-bars beside it—a discordant note
in the muted luxury of the setting. Whonk rummaged in it.
"Curious," he said. "What means this?" He held up a stained cloak of
orange and green, a metal bracelet, papers.
"Orange and green," mused Relief. "Whose colors are those?"
"I know not." Whonk glanced at the arm-band. "But this is lettered." He
passed the metal band to Retief.
"SCARS," Retief read. He looked at Whonk. "It seems to me I've heard
the name before," he murmured. "Let's get back to the Embassy—fast."
Back on the ramp Retief heard a sound ... and turned in time to duck
the charge of a hulking Fustian youth who thundered past him and
fetched up against the broad chest of Whonk, who locked him in a warm
embrace.
"Nice catch, Whonk. Where'd he sneak out of?"
"The lout hid there by the storage bin," rumbled Whonk. The captive
youth thumped fists and toes fruitlessly against the oldster's carapace.
"Hang onto him," said Retief. "He looks like the biting kind."
"No fear. Clumsy I am, yet not without strength."
"Ask him where the titanite is tucked away."
"Speak, witless grub," growled Whonk, "lest I tweak you in twain."
The youth gurgled.
"Better let up before you make a mess of him," said Retief. Whonk
lifted the Youth clear of the floor, then flung him down with a thump
that made the ground quiver. The younger Fustian glared up at the
elder, mouth snapping.
"This one was among those who trussed me and hid me away for the
killing," said Whonk. "In his repentance he will tell all to his elder."
"That's the same young squirt that tried to strike up an acquaintance
with me on the bus," Retief said. "He gets around."
The youth scrambled to hands and knees, scuttled for freedom. Retief
planted a foot on his dragging cloak; it ripped free. He stared at the
bare back of the Fustian—
"By the Great Egg!" Whonk exclaimed, tripping the refugee as he tried
to rise. "This is no Youth! His carapace has been taken from him!"
Retief looked at the scarred back. "I thought he looked a little old.
But I thought—"
"This is not possible," Whonk said wonderingly. "The great nerve trunks
are deeply involved. Not even the cleverest surgeon could excise the
carapace and leave the patient living."
"It looks like somebody did the trick. But let's take this boy with us
and get out of here. His folks may come home."
"Too late," said Whonk. Retief turned.
Three youths came from behind the sheds.
"Well," Retief said. "It looks like the SCARS are out in force tonight.
Where's your pal?" he said to the advancing trio. "The sticky little
bird with the eye-stalks? Back at his Embassy, leaving you suckers
holding the bag, I'll bet."
"Shelter behind me, Retief," said Whonk.
"Go get 'em, old-timer." Retief stooped, picked up one of the pry-bars.
"I'll jump around and distract them."
Whonk let out a whistling roar and charged for the immature Fustians.
They fanned out ... and one tripped, sprawled on his face. Retief
whirled the metal bar he had thrust between the Fustian's legs, slammed
it against the skull of another, who shook his head, turned on
Retief ... and bounced off the steel hull of the
Moss Rock
as Whonk
took him in full charge.
Retief used the bar on another head. His third blow laid the Fustian
on the pavement, oozing purple. The other two club members departed
hastily, seriously dented but still mobile.
Retief leaned on his club, breathing hard. "Tough heads these kids
have got. I'm tempted to chase those two lads down, but I've got
another errand to run. I don't know who the Groaci intended to blast,
but I have a sneaking suspicion somebody of importance was scheduled
for a boat ride in the next few hours. And three drums of titanite is
enough to vaporize this tub and everyone aboard her."
"The plot is foiled," said Whonk. "But what reason did they have?"
"The Groaci are behind it. I have an idea the SCARS didn't know about
this gambit."
"Which of these is the leader?" asked Whonk. He prodded a fallen Youth
with a horny toe. "Arise, dreaming one."
"Never mind him, Whonk. We'll tie these two up and leave them here. I
know where to find the boss."
A stolid crowd filled the low-ceilinged banquet hall. Retief scanned
the tables for the pale blobs of Terrestrial faces, dwarfed by the
giant armored bodies of the Fustians. Across the room Magnan fluttered
a hand. Retief headed toward him. A low-pitched vibration filled the
air: the rumble of subsonic Fustian music.
Retief slid into his place beside Magnan. "Sorry to be late, Mr.
Ambassador."
"I'm honored that you chose to appear at all," said Magnan coldly. He
turned back to the Fustian on his left.
"Ah, yes, Mr. Minister," he said. "Charming, most charming. So joyous."
The Fustian looked at him, beady-eyed. "It is the
Lament of
Hatching
," he said; "our National Dirge."
"Oh," said Magnan. "How interesting. Such a pleasing balance of
instruments—"
"It is a droon solo," said the Fustian, eyeing the Terrestrial
Ambassador suspiciously.
"Why don't you just admit you can't hear it," Retief whispered loudly.
"And if I may interrupt a moment—"
Magnan cleared his throat. "Now that our Mr. Retief has arrived,
perhaps we could rush right along to the Sponsorship ceremonies."
"This group," said Retief, leaning across Magnan, "the SCARS. How much
do you know about them, Mr. Minister?"
"Nothing at all," the huge Fustian elder rumbled. "For my taste, all
Youths should be kept penned with the livestock until they grow a
carapace to tame their irresponsibility."
"We mustn't lose sight of the importance of channeling youthful
energies," said Magnan.
"Labor gangs," said the minister. "In my youth we were indentured to
the dredge-masters. I myself drew a muck sledge."
"But in these modern times," put in Magnan, "surely it's incumbent on
us to make happy these golden hours."
The minister snorted. "Last week I had a golden hour. They set upon me
and pelted me with overripe stench-fruit."
"But this was merely a manifestation of normal youthful frustrations,"
cried Magnan. "Their essential tenderness—"
"You'd not find a tender spot on that lout yonder," the minister
said, pointing with a fork at a newly arrived Youth, "if you drilled
boreholes and blasted."
"Why, that's our guest of honor," said Magnan, "a fine young fellow!
Slop I believe his name is."
"Slock," said Retief. "Eight feet of armor-plated orneriness. And—"
Magnan rose and tapped on his glass. The Fustians winced at the, to
them, supersonic vibrations. They looked at each other muttering.
Magnan tapped louder. The Minister drew in his head, eyes closed. Some
of the Fustians rose, tottered for the doors; the noise level rose.
Magnan redoubled his efforts. The glass broke with a clatter and green
wine gushed on the tablecloth.
"What in the name of the Great Egg!" the Minister muttered. He blinked,
breathing deeply.
"Oh, forgive me," blurted Magnan, dabbing at the wine.
"Too bad the glass gave out," said Retief. "In another minute you'd
have cleared the hall. And then maybe I could have gotten a word in
sideways. There's a matter you should know about—"
"Your attention, please," Magnan said, rising. "I see that our fine
young guest has arrived, and I hope that the remainder of his committee
will be along in a moment. It is my pleasure to announce that our Mr.
Retief has had the good fortune to win out in the keen bidding for the
pleasure of sponsoring this lovely group."
Retief tugged at Magnan's sleeve. "Don't introduce me yet," he said. "I
want to appear suddenly. More dramatic, you know."
"Well," murmured Magnan, glancing down at Retief, "I'm gratified to
see you entering into the spirit of the event at last." He turned his
attention back to the assembled guests. "If our honored guest will join
me on the rostrum...?" he said. "The gentlemen of the press may want to
catch a few shots of the presentation."
Magnan stepped up on the low platform at the center of the wide room,
took his place beside the robed Fustian youth and beamed at the cameras.
"How gratifying it is to take this opportunity to express once more the
great pleasure we have in sponsoring SCARS," he said, talking slowly
for the benefit of the scribbling reporters. "We'd like to think that
in our modest way we're to be a part of all that the SCARS achieve
during the years ahead."
Magnan paused as a huge Fustian elder heaved his bulk up the two low
steps to the rostrum, approached the guest of honor. He watched as the
newcomer paused behind Slock, who did not see the new arrival.
Retief pushed through the crowd, stepped up to face the Fustian youth.
Slock stared at him, drew back.
"You know me, Slock," said Retief loudly. "An old fellow named Whonk
told you about me, just before you tried to saw his head off, remember?
It was when I came out to take a look at that battle cruiser you're
building."
IV
With a bellow Slock reached for Retief—and choked off in mid-cry as
the Fustian elder, Whonk, pinioned him from behind, lifting him clear
of the floor.
"Glad you reporters happened along," said Retief to the gaping newsmen.
"Slock here had a deal with a sharp operator from the Groaci Embassy.
The Groaci were to supply the necessary hardware and Slock, as foreman
at the shipyards, was to see that everything was properly installed.
The next step, I assume, would have been a local take-over, followed
by a little interplanetary war on Flamenco or one of the other nearby
worlds ... for which the Groaci would be glad to supply plenty of ammo."
Magnan found his tongue. "Are you mad, Retief?" he screeched. "This
group was vouched for by the Ministry of Youth!"
"The Ministry's overdue for a purge," snapped Retief. He turned back
to Slock. "I wonder if you were in on the little diversion that was
planned for today. When the
Moss Rock
blew, a variety of clues were
to be planted where they'd be easy to find ... with SCARS written all
over them. The Groaci would thus have neatly laid the whole affair
squarely at the door of the Terrestrial Embassy ... whose sponsorship
of the SCARS had received plenty of publicity."
"The
Moss Rock
?" said Magnan. "But that was—Retief! This is idiotic.
Slock himself was scheduled to go on a cruise tomorrow!"
Slock roared suddenly, twisting violently. Whonk teetered, his grip
loosened ... and Slock pulled free and was off the platform, butting
his way through the milling oldsters on the dining room floor. Magnan
watched, open-mouthed.
"The Groaci were playing a double game, as usual," Retief said. "They
intended to dispose of this fellow Slock, once he'd served their
purpose."
"Well, don't stand there," yelped Magnan over the uproar. "If Slock is
the ring-leader of a delinquent gang...!" He moved to give chase.
Retief grabbed his arm. "Don't jump down there! You'd have as much
chance of getting through as a jack-rabbit through a threshing contest."
Ten minutes later the crowd had thinned slightly. "We can get through
now," Whonk called. "This way." He lowered himself to the floor, bulled
through to the exit. Flashbulbs popped. Retief and Magnan followed in
Whonk's wake.
In the lounge Retief grabbed the phone, waited for the operator, gave a
code letter. No reply. He tried another.
"No good," he said after a full minute had passed. "Wonder what's
loose?" He slammed the phone back in its niche. "Let's grab a cab."
In the street the blue sun, Alpha, peered like an arc light under a low
cloud layer, casting flat shadows across the mud of the avenue. The
three mounted a passing flat-car. Whonk squatted, resting the weight of
his immense shell on the heavy plank flooring.
"Would that I too could lose this burden, as has the false youth we
bludgeoned aboard the
Moss Rock
," he sighed. "Soon will I be forced
into retirement. Then a mere keeper of a place of papers such as I
will rate no more than a slab on the public strand, with once-daily
feedings. And even for a man of high position, retirement is no
pleasure. A slab in the Park of Monuments is little better. A dismal
outlook for one's next thousand years!"
"You two carry on to the police station," said Retief. "I want to play
a hunch. But don't take too long. I may be painfully right."
"What—?" Magnan started.
"As you wish, Retief," said Whonk.
The flat-car trundled past the gate to the shipyard and Retief jumped
down, headed at a run for the VIP boat. The guard post still stood
vacant. The two Youths whom he and Whonk had left trussed were gone.
"That's the trouble with a peaceful world," Retief muttered. "No police
protection." He stepped down from the lighted entry and took up a
position behind the sentry box. Alpha rose higher, shedding a glaring
blue-white light without heat. Retief shivered. Maybe he'd guessed
wrong....
There was a sound in the near distance, like two elephants colliding.
Retief looked toward the gate. His giant acquaintance, Whonk, had
reappeared and was grappling with a hardly less massive opponent. A
small figure became visible in the melee, scuttled for the gate. Headed
off by the battling titans, he turned and made for the opposite side
of the shipyard. Retief waited, jumped out and gathered in the fleeing
Groaci.
"Well, Yith," he said, "how's tricks? You should pardon the expression."
"Release me, Retief!" the pale-featured alien lisped, his throat
bladder pulsating in agitation. "The behemoths vie for the privilege of
dismembering me out of hand!"
"I know how they feel. I'll see what I can do ... for a price."
"I appeal to you," Yith whispered hoarsely. "As a fellow diplomat, a
fellow alien, a fellow soft-back—"
"Why don't you appeal to Slock, as a fellow skunk?" said Retief. "Now
keep quiet ... and you may get out of this alive."
The heavier of the two struggling Fustians threw the other to the
ground. There was another brief flurry, and then the smaller figure was
on its back, helpless.
"That's Whonk, still on his feet," said Retief. "I wonder who he's
caught—and why."
Whonk came toward the
Moss Rock
dragging the supine Fustian, who
kicked vainly. Retief thrust Yith down well out of sight behind the
sentry box. "Better sit tight, Yith. Don't try to sneak off; I can
outrun you. Stay here and I'll see what I can do." He stepped out and
hailed Whonk.
Puffing like a steam engine Whonk pulled up before him. "Sleep,
Retief!" He panted. "You followed a hunch; I did the same. I saw
something strange in this one when we passed him on the avenue. I
watched, followed him here. Look! It is Slock, strapped into a dead
carapace! Now many things become clear."
Retief whistled. "So the Youths aren't all as young as they look.
Somebody's been holding out on the rest of you Fustians!"
"The Soft One," Whonk said. "You laid him by the heels, Retief. I saw.
Produce him now."
"Hold on a minute, Whonk. It won't do you any good—"
Whonk winked broadly. "I must take my revenge!" he roared. "I shall
test the texture of the Soft One! His pulped remains will be scoured up
by the ramp-washers and mailed home in bottles!"
Retief whirled at a sound, caught up with the scuttling Yith fifty feet
away, hauled him back to Whonk.
"It's up to you, Whonk," he said. "I know how important ceremonial
revenge is to you Fustians. I will not interfere."
"Mercy!" Yith hissed, eye-stalks whipping in distress. "I claim
diplomatic immunity!"
"No diplomat am I," rumbled Whonk. "Let me see; suppose I start with
one of those obscenely active eyes—" He reached....
"I have an idea," said Retief brightly. "Do you suppose—just this
once—you could forego the ceremonial revenge if Yith promised to
arrange for a Groaci Surgical Mission to de-carapace you elders?"
"But," Whonk protested, "those eyes! What a pleasure to pluck them, one
by one!"
"Yess," hissed Yith, "I swear it! Our most expert surgeons ... platoons
of them, with the finest of equipment."
"I have dreamed of how it would be to sit on this one, to feel him
squash beneath my bulk...."
"Light as a whissle feather shall you dance," Yith whispered.
"Shell-less shall you spring in the joy of renewed youth—"
"Maybe just one eye," said Whonk grudgingly. "That would leave him
four."
"Be a sport," said Retief.
"Well."
"It's a deal then," said Retief. "Yith, on your word as a diplomat,
an alien, a soft-back and a skunk, you'll set up the mission. Groaci
surgical skill is an export that will net you more than armaments.
It will be a whissle feather in your cap—if you bring it off. And
in return, Whonk won't sit on you. And I won't prefer charges of
interference in the internal affairs of a free world."
Behind Whonk there was a movement. Slock, wriggling free of the
borrowed carapace, struggled to his feet ... in time for Whonk to seize
him, lift him high and head for the entry to the
Moss Rock
.
"Hey," Retief called. "Where are you going?"
"I would not deny this one his reward," called Whonk. "He hoped to
cruise in luxury. So be it."
"Hold on," said Retief. "That tub is loaded with titanite!"
"Stand not in my way, Retief. For this one in truth owes me a
vengeance."
Retief watched as the immense Fustian bore his giant burden up the ramp
and disappeared within the ship.
"I guess Whonk means business," he said to Yith, who hung in his grasp,
all five eyes goggling. "And he's a little too big for me to stop."
Whonk reappeared, alone, climbed down.
"What did you do with him?" said Retief. "Tell him you were going to—"
"We had best withdraw," said Whonk. "The killing radius of the drive is
fifty yards."
"You mean—"
"The controls are set for Groaci. Long-may-he-sleep."
"It was quite a bang," said Retief. "But I guess you saw it, too."
"No, confound it," Magnan said. "When I remonstrated with Hulk, or
Whelk—"
"Whonk."
"—the ruffian thrust me into an alley bound in my own cloak. I'll most
certainly complain to the Minister."
"How about the surgical mission?"
"A most generous offer," said Magnan. "Frankly, I was astonished. I
think perhaps we've judged the Groaci too harshly."
"I hear the Ministry of Youth has had a rough morning of it," said
Retief. "And a lot of rumors are flying to the effect that Youth Groups
are on the way out."
Magnan cleared his throat, shuffled papers. "I—ah—have explained to
the press that last night's—ah—"
"Fiasco."
"—affair was necessary in order to place the culprits in an untenable
position. Of course, as to the destruction of the VIP vessel and the
presumed death of, uh, Slop."
"The Fustians understand," said Retief. "Whonk wasn't kidding about
ceremonial vengeance."
"The Groaci had been guilty of gross misuse of diplomatic privilege,"
said Magnan. "I think that a note—or perhaps an Aide Memoire: less
formal...."
"The
Moss Rock
was bound for Groaci," said Retief. "She was already
in her transit orbit when she blew. The major fragments will arrive on
schedule in a month or so. It should provide quite a meteorite display.
I think that should be all the
aide
the Groaci's
memoires
will need
to keep their tentacles off Fust."
"But diplomatic usage—"
"Then, too, the less that's put in writing, the less they can blame you
for, if anything goes wrong."
"That's true," said Magnan, lips pursed. "Now you're thinking
constructively, Retief. We may make a diplomat of you yet." He smiled
expansively.
"Maybe. But I refuse to let it depress me." Retief stood up. "I'm
taking a few weeks off ... if you have no objection, Mr. Ambassador. My
pal Whonk wants to show me an island down south where the fishing is
good."
"But there are some extremely important matters coming up," said
Magnan. "We're planning to sponsor Senior Citizen Groups—"
"Count me out. All groups give me an itch."
"Why, what an astonishing remark, Retief! After all, we diplomats are
ourselves a group."
"Uh-huh," Retief said.
Magnan sat quietly, mouth open, and watched as Retief stepped into the
hall and closed the door gently behind him.
|
Who is Kay Smith, and what are her characteristics?
|
After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about The Girls from Fieu Dayol by Robert F. Young.
Relevant chunks:
The Girls From Fieu Dayol
By ROBERT F. YOUNG
They were lovely and quick to learn—and their only faults were little ones!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Up until the moment when he first looked into Hippolyte Adolphe Taine's History of English Literature , Herbert Quidley's penchant for old books had netted him nothing in the way of romance and intrigue. Not that he was a stranger to either. Far from it. But hitherto the background for both had been bedrooms and bars, not libraries.
On page 21 of the Taine tome he happened upon a sheet of yellow copy paper folded in four. Unfolding it, he read:
asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj Cai: Sities towms copeis wotnid. Gind snoll doper nckli! Wilbe Fieu Dayol fot ig habe mot toseo knwo—te bijk weil en snoll doper—Klio, asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj
Since when, Quidley wondered, refolding the paper and putting it back in the book, had high-school typing students taken to reading Taine? Thoughtfully he replaced the book on the shelf and moved deeper into the literature section.
He had just taken down Xenophon's Anabasis when he saw the girl walk in the door.
Let it be said forthwith that old books were not the only item on Herbert Quidley's penchant-list. He liked old wood, too, and old paintings, not to mention old wine and old whiskey. But most of all he liked young girls. He especially liked them when they looked the way Helen of Troy must have looked when Paris took one gander at her and started building his ladder. This one was tall, with hyacinth hair and liquid blue eyes, and she had a Grecian symmetry of shape that would have made Paris' eyes pop had he been around to take notice. Paris wasn't, but Quidley's eyes, did the job.
After coming in the door, the girl deposited a book on the librarian's desk and headed for the literature section. Quickly Quidley lowered his eyes to the Anabasis and henceforth followed her progress out of their corners. When she came to the O's she paused, took down a book and glanced through it. Then she replaced it and moved on to the P's ... the Q's ... the R's. Barely three feet from him she paused again and took down Taine's History of English Literature .
He simply could not believe it. The odds against two persons taking an interest in so esoteric a volume on a single night in a single library were ten thousand to one. And yet there was no gainsaying that the volume was in the girl's hands, and that she was riffling through it with the air of a seasoned browser.
Presently she returned the book to the shelf, selected another—seemingly at random—and took it over to the librarian's desk. She waited statuesquely while the librarian processed it, then tucked it under her arm and whisked out the door into the misty April night. As soon as she disappeared, Quidley stepped over to the T's and took Taine down once more. Just as he had suspected. The makeshift bookmark was gone.
He remembered how the asdf-;lkj exercise had given way to several lines of gibberish and then reappeared again. A camouflaged message? Or was it merely what it appeared to be on the surface—the efforts of an impatient typing student to type before his time?
He returned Taine to the shelf. After learning from the librarian that the girl's name was Kay Smith, he went out and got in his hardtop. The name rang a bell. Halfway home he realized why. The typing exercise had contained the word "Cai", and if you pronounced it with hard c, you got
"Kai"—or "Kay". Obviously, then, the exercise had been a message, and had been deliberately inserted in a book no average person would dream of borrowing.
By whom—her boy friend?
Quidley winced. He was allergic to the term. Not that he ever let the presence of a boy friend deter him when he set out to conquer, but because the term itself brought to mind the word "fiance," and the word
"fiance" brought to mind still another word, one which repelled him violently. I.e., "marriage". Just the same, he decided to keep Taine's History under observation for a while.
Her boy friend turned out to be her girl friend, and her girl friend turned out to be a tall and lissome, lovely with a Helenesque air of her own. From the vantage point of a strategically located reading table, where he was keeping company with his favorite little magazine, The Zeitgeist , Quidley watched her take a seemingly haphazard route to the shelf where Taine's History reposed, take the volume down, surreptitiously slip a folded sheet of yellow paper between its pages and return it to the shelf.
After she left he wasted no time in acquainting himself with the second message. It was as unintelligible as the first:
asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj Cai: Habe wotnid ig ist ending ifedererer te. T'lide sid Fieu Dayol po jestig toseo knwo, bijk weil en snoll doper entling—Yoolna. asdf ;lkj asdf
;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj
Well, perhaps not quite as unintelligible. He knew, at least, who Cai was, and he knew—from the reappearance of the words wotnid , Fieu Dayol and snoll doper —that the two communications were in the same code. And certainly it was reasonable to assume that the last word— Yoolna —was the name of the girl he had just seen, and that she was a different person from the Klio whose name had appended the first message.
He refolded the paper, replaced it between the pages, returned the book to the shelf and went back to the reading table and The Zeitgeist .
Kay didn't show up till almost closing time, and he was beginning to think that perhaps she wouldn't come around for the pickup till tomorrow when she finally walked in the door. She employed the same tactics she had employed the previous night, arriving, as though by chance, at the T-section and transferring the message with the same undetectable legerdemain to her purse. This time, when she walked out the door, he was not far behind her.
She climbed into a sleek convertible and pulled into the street. It took him but a moment to gain his hardtop and start out after her. When, several blocks later, she pulled to the curb in front of an all-night coffee bar, he followed suit. After that, it was merely a matter of following her inside.
He decided on Operation Spill-the-sugar. It had stood him in good stead before, and he was rather fond of it. The procedure was quite simple. First you took note of the position of the sugar dispensers, then you situated yourself so that your intended victim was between you and the nearest one, then you ordered coffee without sugar in a low voice, and after the counterman or countergirl had served you, you waited till he/she was out of earshot and asked your i.v. to please pass the sugar. When she did so you let the dispenser slip from your fingers in such a way that some of its contents spilled on her lap—
"I'm terribly sorry," he said, righting it. "Here, let me brush it off."
"It's all right, it's only sugar," she said, laughing.
"I'm hopelessly clumsy," he continued smoothly, brushing the gleaming crystals from her pleated skirt, noting the clean sweep of her thighs.
"I beseech you to forgive me."
"You're forgiven," she said, and he noticed then that she spoke with a slight accent.
"If you like, you can send it to the cleaners and have them send the bill to me. My address is 61 Park Place." He pulled out his wallet, chose an appropriate card, and handed it to her—
Herbert Quidley: Profiliste
Her forehead crinkled. " Profiliste? "
"I paint profiles with words," he said. "You may have run across some of my pieces in the Better Magazines. I employ a variety of pseudonyms, of course."
"How interesting." She pronounced it "anteresting."
"Not famous profiles, you understand. Just profiles that strike my fancy." He paused. She had raised her cup to her lips and was taking a dainty sip. "You have a rather striking profile yourself, Miss—"
"Smith. Kay Smith." She set the cup back on the counter and turned and faced him. For a second her eyes seemed to expand till they preoccupied his entire vision, till he could see nothing but their disturbingly clear—and suddenly cold—blueness. Panic touched him, then vanished when she said, "Would you really consider word-painting my profile, Mr. Quidley?"
Would he! "When can I call?"
She hesitated for a moment. Then: "I think it will be better if I call on you. There are quite a number of people living in our—our house. I'm afraid the quarters would be much too cramped for an artist like yourself to concentrate."
Quidley glowed. Usually it required two or three days, and sometimes a week, to reach the apartment phase. "Fine," he said. "When can I expect you?"
She stood up and he got to his feet beside her. She was even taller than he had thought. In fact, if he hadn't been wearing Cuban heels, she'd have been taller than he was. "I'll be in town night after next," she said. "Will nine o'clock be convenient for you?"
"Perfectly."
"Good-by for now then, Mr. Quidley."
He was so elated that when he arrived at his apartment he actually did try to write a profile. His own, of course. He sat down at his custom-built chrome-trimmed desk, inserted a blank sheet of paper in his custom-built typewriter and tried to arrange his thoughts. But as usual his mind raced ahead of the moment, and he saw the title, Self Profile , nestling noticeably on the contents page of one of the Better Magazines, and presently he saw the piece itself in all its splendid array of colorful rhetoric, sparkling imagery and scintillating wit, occupying a two-page spread.
It was some time before he returned to reality, and when he did the first thing that met his eyes was the uncompromisingly blank sheet of paper. Hurriedly he typed out a letter to his father, requesting an advance on his allowance, then, after a tall glass of vintage wine, he went to bed.
In telling him that she would be in town two nights hence, Kay had unwittingly apprised him that there would be no exchange of messages until that time, so the next evening he skipped his vigil at the library. The following evening, however, after readying his apartment for the forthcoming assignation, he hied himself to his reading-table post and took up The Zeitgeist once again.
He had not thought it possible that there could be a third such woman.
And yet there she was, walking in the door, tall and blue-eyed and graceful; dark of hair and noble of mien; browsing in the philosophy section now, now the fiction section, now moving leisurely into the literature aisle and toward the T's....
The camouflage had varied, but the message was typical enough:
fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; Cai: Gind en snoll doper nckli! Wotnid antwaterer Fieu Dayol hid jestig snoll doper ifedererer te. Dep gogensplo snoll dopers ensing!—Gorka. fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl;
Judging from the repeated use of the words, snoll dopers were the topic of the day. Annoyed, Quidley replaced the message and put the book back on the shelf. Then he returned to his apartment to await Kay.
He wondered what her reaction would be if he asked her point-blank what a snoll doper was; whether she would reveal the nature of the amateur secret society to which she and Klio and Yoolna and Gorka belonged. It virtually had to be an amateur secret society. Unless, of course, they were foreigners. But what on earth foreign organization would be quixotic enough to employ Taine's History of English Literature as a communications medium when there was a telephone in every drugstore and a mailbox on every corner?
Somehow the words "what on earth foreign organization" got turned around in his mind and became "what foreign organization on earth" and before he could summon his common sense to succor him, he experienced a rather bad moment. By the time the door chimes sounded he was his normal self again.
He straightened his tie with nervous fingers, checked to see if his shirt cuffs protruded the proper length from his coat sleeves, and looked around the room to see if everything was in place. Everything was—the typewriter uncovered and centered on the chrome-trimmed desk, with the sheaf of crinkly first-sheets beside it; the reference books stacked imposingly nearby; Harper's , The Atlantic and The Saturday Review showing conspicuously in the magazine rack; the newly opened bottle of bourbon and the two snifter glasses on the sideboard; the small table set cozily for two—
The chimes sounded again. He opened the door.
She walked in with a demure, "Hello." He took her wrap. When he saw what she was wearing he had to tilt his head back so that his eyes wouldn't fall out of their sockets.
Skin, mostly, in the upper regions. White, glowing skin on which her long hair lay like forest pools. As for her dress, it was as though she had fallen forward into immaculate snow, half-burying her breasts before catching herself on her elbows, then turning into a sitting position, the snow clinging to her skin in a glistening veneer; arising finally to her feet, resplendently attired.
He went over to the sideboard, picked up the bottle of bourbon. She followed. He set the two snifter glasses side by side and tilted the bottle. "Say when." "When!" "I admire your dress—never saw anything quite like it." "Thank you. The material is something new. Feel it."
"It's—it's almost like foam rubber. Cigarette?" "Thanks.... Is something wrong, Mr. Quidley?" "No, of course not. Why?" "Your hands are trembling." "Oh. I'm—I'm afraid it's the present company, Miss Smith." "Call me Kay."
They touched glasses: "Your liquor is as exquisite as your living room, Herbert. I shall have to come here more often." "I hope you will, Kay."
"Though such conduct, I'm told, is morally reprehensible on the planet Earth." "Not in this particular circle. Your hair is lovely." "Thank you.... You haven't mentioned my perfume yet. Perhaps I'm standing too far away.... There!" "It's—it's as lovely as your hair, Kay." "Um, kiss me again." "I—I never figured—I mean, I engaged a caterer to serve us dinner at 9:30." "Call him up. Make it 10:30."
The following evening found Quidley on tenter-hooks. The snoll-doper mystery had acquired a new tang. He could hardly wait till the next message transfer took place.
He decided to spend the evening plotting the epic novel which he intended to write someday. He set to work immediately. He plotted mentally, of course—notes were for the hacks and the other commercial non-geniuses who infested the modern literary world. Closing his eyes, he saw the whole vivid panorama of epic action and grand adventure flowing like a mighty and majestic river before his literary vision: the authentic and awe-inspiring background; the hordes of colorful characters; the handsome virile hero, the compelling Helenesque heroine.... God, it was going to be great! The best thing he'd ever done! See, already there was a crowd of book lovers in front of the bookstore, staring into the window where the new Herbert Quidley was on display, trying to force its way into the jammed interior.... Cut to interior. FIRST EAGER CUSTOMER: Tell me quickly, are there any more copies of the new Herbert Quidley left? BOOK CLERK: A few. You don't know how lucky you are to get here before the first printing ran out. FIRST EAGER CUSTOMER: Give me a dozen. I want to make sure that my children and my children's children have a plentiful supply. BOOK CLERK: Sorry. Only one to a customer. Next? SECOND EAGER CUSTOMER: Tell me quickly, are ... there ... any ... more ... copies ... of—
ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ....
Message no. 4, except for a slight variation in camouflage, ran true to form:
a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj Cai: Habe te snoll dopers ensing? Wotnid ne Fieu Dayol ist ifederereret, hid jestig snoll doper. Gind ed, olro—Jilka. a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj
Quidley sighed. What, he asked himself, standing in the library aisle and staring at the indecipherable words, was a normal girl like Kay doing in such a childish secret society? From the way she and her correspondents carried on you'd almost think they were Martian girl scouts on an interplanetary camping trip, trying for their merit badges in communications!
You could hardly call Kay a girl scout, though.
Nevertheless, she was the key figure in the snoll-doper enigma. The fact annoyed him, especially when he considered that a snoll doper , for all he knew, could be anything from a Chinese fortune cooky to an H-bomb.
He remembered Kay's odd accent. Was that the way a person would speak English if her own language ran something like " ist ifedereret, hid jestig snoll doper adwo ?"
He remembered the way she had looked at him in the coffee bar.
He remembered the material of her dress.
He remembered how she had come to his room.
"I didn't know you had a taste for Taine."
Her voice seemed to come from far away, but she was standing right beside him, tall and bewitching; Helenesque as ever. Her blue eyes became great wells into which he found himself falling. With an effort, he pulled himself back. "You're early tonight," he said lamely.
She appropriated the message, read it. "Put the book back," she said presently. Then, when he complied: "Come on."
"Where are we going?"
"I'm going to deliver a snoll doper to Jilka. After that I'm going to take you home to meet my folks."
The relieved sigh he heard was his own.
They climbed into her convertible and she nosed it into the moving line of cars. "How long have you been reading my mail?" she asked.
"Since the night before I met you."
"Was that the reason you spilled the sugar?"
"Part of the reason," he said. "What's a snoll doper ?"
She laughed. "I don't think I'd better tell you just yet."
He sighed again. "But if Jilka wanted a snoll doper ," he said after a while, "why in the world didn't she call you up and say so?"
"Regulations." She pulled over to the curb in front of a brick apartment building. "This is where Jilka lives. I'll explain when I get back."
He watched her get out, walk up the walk to the entrance and let herself in. He leaned his head back on the seat, lit a cigarette and exhaled a mixture of smoke and relief. On the way to meet her folks. So it was just an ordinary secret society after all. And here he'd been thinking that she was the key figure in a Martian plot to blow up Earth—
Her folks !
Abruptly the full implication of the words got through to him, and he sat bolt-up-right on the seat. He was starting to climb out of the car when he saw Kay coming down the walk. Anyway, running away wouldn't solve his problem. A complete disappearing act was in order, and a complete disappearing act would take time. Meanwhile he would play along with her.
A station wagon came up behind them, slowed, and matched its speed with theirs. "Someone's following us," Quidley said.
"Probably Jilka."
Five minutes later the station wagon turned down a side street and disappeared. "She's no longer with us," Quidley said.
"She's got to pick someone up. She'll meet us later."
"At your folks'?"
"At the ship."
The city was thinning out around them now, and a few stars were visible in the night sky. Quidley watched them thoughtfully for a while. Then:
"What ship?" he said.
"The one we're going to Fieu Dayol on."
" Fieu Dayol? "
"Persei 17 to you. I said I was going to take you home to meet my folks, didn't I?"
"In other words, you're kidnapping me."
She shook her head vehemently. "I most certainly am not! Neither according to interstellar law or your own. When you compromised me, you made yourself liable in the eyes of both."
"But why pick on me? There must be plenty of men on Fieu Dayol . Why don't you marry one of them?"
"For two reasons: one, you're the particular man who compromised me. Two, there are not plenty of men on Fieu Dayol . Our race is identical to yours in everything except population-balance between the sexes. At periodic intervals the women on Fieu Dayol so greatly outnumber the men that those of us who are temperamentally and emotionally unfitted to become spinsters have to look for wotnids —or mates—on other worlds. It's quite legal and quite respectable. As a matter of fact, we even have schools specializing in alien cultures to expedite our activities. Our biggest problem is the Interstellar statute forbidding us the use of local communications services and forbidding us to appear in public places. It was devised to facilitate the prosecution of interstellar black marketeers, but we're subject to it, too, and have to contrive communications systems of our own."
"But why were all the messages addressed to you?"
"They weren't messages. They were requisitions. I'm the ship's stock girl."
April fields stretched darkly away on either side of the highway. Presently she turned down a rutted road between two of them and they bounced and swayed back to a black blur of trees. "Here we are," she said.
Gradually he made out the sphere. It blended so flawlessly with its background that he wouldn't have been able to see it at all if he hadn't been informed of its existence. A gangplank sloped down from an open lock and came to rest just within the fringe of the trees.
Lights danced in the darkness behind them as another car jounced down the rutted road. "Jilka," Kay said. "I wonder if she got him."
Apparently she had. At least there was a man with her—a rather woebegone, wilted creature who didn't even look up as they passed. Quidley watched them ascend the gangplank, the man in the lead, and disappear into the ship.
"Next," Kay said.
Quidley shook his head. "You're not taking me to another planet!"
She opened her purse and pulled out a small metallic object "A little while ago you asked me what a snoll doper was," she said.
"Unfortunately interstellar law severely limits us in our choice of marriageable males, and we can take only those who refuse to conform to the sexual mores of their own societies." She did something to the object that caused it to extend itself into a long, tubular affair.
" This is a snoll doper ."
She prodded his ribs. "March," she said.
He marched. Halfway up the plank he glanced back over his shoulder for a better look at the object pressed against his back.
It bore a striking resemblance to a shotgun.
Question:
Who is Kay Smith, and what are her characteristics?
Answer:
|
[
"She is tall with hyacinth long hair and blue eyes. Her skin is glowingly white. Her body shape is Grecian symmetric. She fascinates Herbert Quidley, a man who finds out the secret letter in Taine’s book, when she walks in the library. She is the receiver of secret messages in the book, and she goes to the library almost every day to pick up the letter in the book. She wears a pleated skirt when Herbert Quidley spills the sugar on her thighs. She speaks with a slight accent that she pronounces “interesting” with “anteresting.” She walks demurely. She wears a dress that exposes a lot of her skin when she goes to Quidley’s apartment, which indicates her intention to have sexual behaviors with him. She owns a convertible, and her purse hides a gun. She is the stock girl on the ship to Fieu Dayol, and her job is to deliver guns to her members, which is why she goes to the library to pick up the secret letters, the requisitions for the guns. It is revealed at the end that she comes to the Earth to bring men to her planet.",
"Kay Smith is a beautiful girl who is pursued by Herbert. Kay uses a bookmark and a book to communicate with her friends. At the end we learn that Kay comes from an alien planet, and that she uses the books to communicate with her crew of women who also came from her planet. We also learn that Kay is looking for a mate to take to her planet, as there aren’t enough men for each woman in her home planet. Kay ends up taking Herbert hostage into her ship in order to make him her mate.",
"\nKay Smith is a tall woman with hyacinth hair and liquid blue eyes. She also has the Grecian symmetry of shape that instantly caught Quidley’s attention. Kay is described as a mysterious person, going to the library to leave messages in the Taine book. Later, when she meets Quidley at the coffee shop, Kay is shown to be very polite. She is also straightforward as well, telling him that they will be meeting at his apartment even though Quidley does not usually make this exception. Although Kay is a pleasant person, she does become more assertive once she is found out. She forces Quidley to come with her, calling him the man who compromised her. When Quidley does not want to go back to Fieu Dayol with her, she threatens him with her snoll doper. ",
"Kay Smith is a young girl from Fieu Dayol. She came to Earth to get a male partner and is the ship’s stock girl. She is quite confident when she talks to Quidley. She is determined and charming - Kay manages to seduce Quidley very quickly and then orders him to reschedule the dinner. She is pragmatic and sly - we understand that after noticing how she can change the way she converses with Quidley and be both talkative and secretive, depending on her personal goal. Kay is good at planning and manages to almost lure Quidley into the ship by just concealing the information that can alienate him. She knows how to use a weapon. "
] |
61048
|
The Girls From Fieu Dayol
By ROBERT F. YOUNG
They were lovely and quick to learn—and their only faults were little ones!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Up until the moment when he first looked into Hippolyte Adolphe Taine's History of English Literature , Herbert Quidley's penchant for old books had netted him nothing in the way of romance and intrigue. Not that he was a stranger to either. Far from it. But hitherto the background for both had been bedrooms and bars, not libraries.
On page 21 of the Taine tome he happened upon a sheet of yellow copy paper folded in four. Unfolding it, he read:
asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj Cai: Sities towms copeis wotnid. Gind snoll doper nckli! Wilbe Fieu Dayol fot ig habe mot toseo knwo—te bijk weil en snoll doper—Klio, asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj
Since when, Quidley wondered, refolding the paper and putting it back in the book, had high-school typing students taken to reading Taine? Thoughtfully he replaced the book on the shelf and moved deeper into the literature section.
He had just taken down Xenophon's Anabasis when he saw the girl walk in the door.
Let it be said forthwith that old books were not the only item on Herbert Quidley's penchant-list. He liked old wood, too, and old paintings, not to mention old wine and old whiskey. But most of all he liked young girls. He especially liked them when they looked the way Helen of Troy must have looked when Paris took one gander at her and started building his ladder. This one was tall, with hyacinth hair and liquid blue eyes, and she had a Grecian symmetry of shape that would have made Paris' eyes pop had he been around to take notice. Paris wasn't, but Quidley's eyes, did the job.
After coming in the door, the girl deposited a book on the librarian's desk and headed for the literature section. Quickly Quidley lowered his eyes to the Anabasis and henceforth followed her progress out of their corners. When she came to the O's she paused, took down a book and glanced through it. Then she replaced it and moved on to the P's ... the Q's ... the R's. Barely three feet from him she paused again and took down Taine's History of English Literature .
He simply could not believe it. The odds against two persons taking an interest in so esoteric a volume on a single night in a single library were ten thousand to one. And yet there was no gainsaying that the volume was in the girl's hands, and that she was riffling through it with the air of a seasoned browser.
Presently she returned the book to the shelf, selected another—seemingly at random—and took it over to the librarian's desk. She waited statuesquely while the librarian processed it, then tucked it under her arm and whisked out the door into the misty April night. As soon as she disappeared, Quidley stepped over to the T's and took Taine down once more. Just as he had suspected. The makeshift bookmark was gone.
He remembered how the asdf-;lkj exercise had given way to several lines of gibberish and then reappeared again. A camouflaged message? Or was it merely what it appeared to be on the surface—the efforts of an impatient typing student to type before his time?
He returned Taine to the shelf. After learning from the librarian that the girl's name was Kay Smith, he went out and got in his hardtop. The name rang a bell. Halfway home he realized why. The typing exercise had contained the word "Cai", and if you pronounced it with hard c, you got
"Kai"—or "Kay". Obviously, then, the exercise had been a message, and had been deliberately inserted in a book no average person would dream of borrowing.
By whom—her boy friend?
Quidley winced. He was allergic to the term. Not that he ever let the presence of a boy friend deter him when he set out to conquer, but because the term itself brought to mind the word "fiance," and the word
"fiance" brought to mind still another word, one which repelled him violently. I.e., "marriage". Just the same, he decided to keep Taine's History under observation for a while.
Her boy friend turned out to be her girl friend, and her girl friend turned out to be a tall and lissome, lovely with a Helenesque air of her own. From the vantage point of a strategically located reading table, where he was keeping company with his favorite little magazine, The Zeitgeist , Quidley watched her take a seemingly haphazard route to the shelf where Taine's History reposed, take the volume down, surreptitiously slip a folded sheet of yellow paper between its pages and return it to the shelf.
After she left he wasted no time in acquainting himself with the second message. It was as unintelligible as the first:
asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj Cai: Habe wotnid ig ist ending ifedererer te. T'lide sid Fieu Dayol po jestig toseo knwo, bijk weil en snoll doper entling—Yoolna. asdf ;lkj asdf
;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj
Well, perhaps not quite as unintelligible. He knew, at least, who Cai was, and he knew—from the reappearance of the words wotnid , Fieu Dayol and snoll doper —that the two communications were in the same code. And certainly it was reasonable to assume that the last word— Yoolna —was the name of the girl he had just seen, and that she was a different person from the Klio whose name had appended the first message.
He refolded the paper, replaced it between the pages, returned the book to the shelf and went back to the reading table and The Zeitgeist .
Kay didn't show up till almost closing time, and he was beginning to think that perhaps she wouldn't come around for the pickup till tomorrow when she finally walked in the door. She employed the same tactics she had employed the previous night, arriving, as though by chance, at the T-section and transferring the message with the same undetectable legerdemain to her purse. This time, when she walked out the door, he was not far behind her.
She climbed into a sleek convertible and pulled into the street. It took him but a moment to gain his hardtop and start out after her. When, several blocks later, she pulled to the curb in front of an all-night coffee bar, he followed suit. After that, it was merely a matter of following her inside.
He decided on Operation Spill-the-sugar. It had stood him in good stead before, and he was rather fond of it. The procedure was quite simple. First you took note of the position of the sugar dispensers, then you situated yourself so that your intended victim was between you and the nearest one, then you ordered coffee without sugar in a low voice, and after the counterman or countergirl had served you, you waited till he/she was out of earshot and asked your i.v. to please pass the sugar. When she did so you let the dispenser slip from your fingers in such a way that some of its contents spilled on her lap—
"I'm terribly sorry," he said, righting it. "Here, let me brush it off."
"It's all right, it's only sugar," she said, laughing.
"I'm hopelessly clumsy," he continued smoothly, brushing the gleaming crystals from her pleated skirt, noting the clean sweep of her thighs.
"I beseech you to forgive me."
"You're forgiven," she said, and he noticed then that she spoke with a slight accent.
"If you like, you can send it to the cleaners and have them send the bill to me. My address is 61 Park Place." He pulled out his wallet, chose an appropriate card, and handed it to her—
Herbert Quidley: Profiliste
Her forehead crinkled. " Profiliste? "
"I paint profiles with words," he said. "You may have run across some of my pieces in the Better Magazines. I employ a variety of pseudonyms, of course."
"How interesting." She pronounced it "anteresting."
"Not famous profiles, you understand. Just profiles that strike my fancy." He paused. She had raised her cup to her lips and was taking a dainty sip. "You have a rather striking profile yourself, Miss—"
"Smith. Kay Smith." She set the cup back on the counter and turned and faced him. For a second her eyes seemed to expand till they preoccupied his entire vision, till he could see nothing but their disturbingly clear—and suddenly cold—blueness. Panic touched him, then vanished when she said, "Would you really consider word-painting my profile, Mr. Quidley?"
Would he! "When can I call?"
She hesitated for a moment. Then: "I think it will be better if I call on you. There are quite a number of people living in our—our house. I'm afraid the quarters would be much too cramped for an artist like yourself to concentrate."
Quidley glowed. Usually it required two or three days, and sometimes a week, to reach the apartment phase. "Fine," he said. "When can I expect you?"
She stood up and he got to his feet beside her. She was even taller than he had thought. In fact, if he hadn't been wearing Cuban heels, she'd have been taller than he was. "I'll be in town night after next," she said. "Will nine o'clock be convenient for you?"
"Perfectly."
"Good-by for now then, Mr. Quidley."
He was so elated that when he arrived at his apartment he actually did try to write a profile. His own, of course. He sat down at his custom-built chrome-trimmed desk, inserted a blank sheet of paper in his custom-built typewriter and tried to arrange his thoughts. But as usual his mind raced ahead of the moment, and he saw the title, Self Profile , nestling noticeably on the contents page of one of the Better Magazines, and presently he saw the piece itself in all its splendid array of colorful rhetoric, sparkling imagery and scintillating wit, occupying a two-page spread.
It was some time before he returned to reality, and when he did the first thing that met his eyes was the uncompromisingly blank sheet of paper. Hurriedly he typed out a letter to his father, requesting an advance on his allowance, then, after a tall glass of vintage wine, he went to bed.
In telling him that she would be in town two nights hence, Kay had unwittingly apprised him that there would be no exchange of messages until that time, so the next evening he skipped his vigil at the library. The following evening, however, after readying his apartment for the forthcoming assignation, he hied himself to his reading-table post and took up The Zeitgeist once again.
He had not thought it possible that there could be a third such woman.
And yet there she was, walking in the door, tall and blue-eyed and graceful; dark of hair and noble of mien; browsing in the philosophy section now, now the fiction section, now moving leisurely into the literature aisle and toward the T's....
The camouflage had varied, but the message was typical enough:
fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; Cai: Gind en snoll doper nckli! Wotnid antwaterer Fieu Dayol hid jestig snoll doper ifedererer te. Dep gogensplo snoll dopers ensing!—Gorka. fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl;
Judging from the repeated use of the words, snoll dopers were the topic of the day. Annoyed, Quidley replaced the message and put the book back on the shelf. Then he returned to his apartment to await Kay.
He wondered what her reaction would be if he asked her point-blank what a snoll doper was; whether she would reveal the nature of the amateur secret society to which she and Klio and Yoolna and Gorka belonged. It virtually had to be an amateur secret society. Unless, of course, they were foreigners. But what on earth foreign organization would be quixotic enough to employ Taine's History of English Literature as a communications medium when there was a telephone in every drugstore and a mailbox on every corner?
Somehow the words "what on earth foreign organization" got turned around in his mind and became "what foreign organization on earth" and before he could summon his common sense to succor him, he experienced a rather bad moment. By the time the door chimes sounded he was his normal self again.
He straightened his tie with nervous fingers, checked to see if his shirt cuffs protruded the proper length from his coat sleeves, and looked around the room to see if everything was in place. Everything was—the typewriter uncovered and centered on the chrome-trimmed desk, with the sheaf of crinkly first-sheets beside it; the reference books stacked imposingly nearby; Harper's , The Atlantic and The Saturday Review showing conspicuously in the magazine rack; the newly opened bottle of bourbon and the two snifter glasses on the sideboard; the small table set cozily for two—
The chimes sounded again. He opened the door.
She walked in with a demure, "Hello." He took her wrap. When he saw what she was wearing he had to tilt his head back so that his eyes wouldn't fall out of their sockets.
Skin, mostly, in the upper regions. White, glowing skin on which her long hair lay like forest pools. As for her dress, it was as though she had fallen forward into immaculate snow, half-burying her breasts before catching herself on her elbows, then turning into a sitting position, the snow clinging to her skin in a glistening veneer; arising finally to her feet, resplendently attired.
He went over to the sideboard, picked up the bottle of bourbon. She followed. He set the two snifter glasses side by side and tilted the bottle. "Say when." "When!" "I admire your dress—never saw anything quite like it." "Thank you. The material is something new. Feel it."
"It's—it's almost like foam rubber. Cigarette?" "Thanks.... Is something wrong, Mr. Quidley?" "No, of course not. Why?" "Your hands are trembling." "Oh. I'm—I'm afraid it's the present company, Miss Smith." "Call me Kay."
They touched glasses: "Your liquor is as exquisite as your living room, Herbert. I shall have to come here more often." "I hope you will, Kay."
"Though such conduct, I'm told, is morally reprehensible on the planet Earth." "Not in this particular circle. Your hair is lovely." "Thank you.... You haven't mentioned my perfume yet. Perhaps I'm standing too far away.... There!" "It's—it's as lovely as your hair, Kay." "Um, kiss me again." "I—I never figured—I mean, I engaged a caterer to serve us dinner at 9:30." "Call him up. Make it 10:30."
The following evening found Quidley on tenter-hooks. The snoll-doper mystery had acquired a new tang. He could hardly wait till the next message transfer took place.
He decided to spend the evening plotting the epic novel which he intended to write someday. He set to work immediately. He plotted mentally, of course—notes were for the hacks and the other commercial non-geniuses who infested the modern literary world. Closing his eyes, he saw the whole vivid panorama of epic action and grand adventure flowing like a mighty and majestic river before his literary vision: the authentic and awe-inspiring background; the hordes of colorful characters; the handsome virile hero, the compelling Helenesque heroine.... God, it was going to be great! The best thing he'd ever done! See, already there was a crowd of book lovers in front of the bookstore, staring into the window where the new Herbert Quidley was on display, trying to force its way into the jammed interior.... Cut to interior. FIRST EAGER CUSTOMER: Tell me quickly, are there any more copies of the new Herbert Quidley left? BOOK CLERK: A few. You don't know how lucky you are to get here before the first printing ran out. FIRST EAGER CUSTOMER: Give me a dozen. I want to make sure that my children and my children's children have a plentiful supply. BOOK CLERK: Sorry. Only one to a customer. Next? SECOND EAGER CUSTOMER: Tell me quickly, are ... there ... any ... more ... copies ... of—
ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ....
Message no. 4, except for a slight variation in camouflage, ran true to form:
a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj Cai: Habe te snoll dopers ensing? Wotnid ne Fieu Dayol ist ifederereret, hid jestig snoll doper. Gind ed, olro—Jilka. a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj
Quidley sighed. What, he asked himself, standing in the library aisle and staring at the indecipherable words, was a normal girl like Kay doing in such a childish secret society? From the way she and her correspondents carried on you'd almost think they were Martian girl scouts on an interplanetary camping trip, trying for their merit badges in communications!
You could hardly call Kay a girl scout, though.
Nevertheless, she was the key figure in the snoll-doper enigma. The fact annoyed him, especially when he considered that a snoll doper , for all he knew, could be anything from a Chinese fortune cooky to an H-bomb.
He remembered Kay's odd accent. Was that the way a person would speak English if her own language ran something like " ist ifedereret, hid jestig snoll doper adwo ?"
He remembered the way she had looked at him in the coffee bar.
He remembered the material of her dress.
He remembered how she had come to his room.
"I didn't know you had a taste for Taine."
Her voice seemed to come from far away, but she was standing right beside him, tall and bewitching; Helenesque as ever. Her blue eyes became great wells into which he found himself falling. With an effort, he pulled himself back. "You're early tonight," he said lamely.
She appropriated the message, read it. "Put the book back," she said presently. Then, when he complied: "Come on."
"Where are we going?"
"I'm going to deliver a snoll doper to Jilka. After that I'm going to take you home to meet my folks."
The relieved sigh he heard was his own.
They climbed into her convertible and she nosed it into the moving line of cars. "How long have you been reading my mail?" she asked.
"Since the night before I met you."
"Was that the reason you spilled the sugar?"
"Part of the reason," he said. "What's a snoll doper ?"
She laughed. "I don't think I'd better tell you just yet."
He sighed again. "But if Jilka wanted a snoll doper ," he said after a while, "why in the world didn't she call you up and say so?"
"Regulations." She pulled over to the curb in front of a brick apartment building. "This is where Jilka lives. I'll explain when I get back."
He watched her get out, walk up the walk to the entrance and let herself in. He leaned his head back on the seat, lit a cigarette and exhaled a mixture of smoke and relief. On the way to meet her folks. So it was just an ordinary secret society after all. And here he'd been thinking that she was the key figure in a Martian plot to blow up Earth—
Her folks !
Abruptly the full implication of the words got through to him, and he sat bolt-up-right on the seat. He was starting to climb out of the car when he saw Kay coming down the walk. Anyway, running away wouldn't solve his problem. A complete disappearing act was in order, and a complete disappearing act would take time. Meanwhile he would play along with her.
A station wagon came up behind them, slowed, and matched its speed with theirs. "Someone's following us," Quidley said.
"Probably Jilka."
Five minutes later the station wagon turned down a side street and disappeared. "She's no longer with us," Quidley said.
"She's got to pick someone up. She'll meet us later."
"At your folks'?"
"At the ship."
The city was thinning out around them now, and a few stars were visible in the night sky. Quidley watched them thoughtfully for a while. Then:
"What ship?" he said.
"The one we're going to Fieu Dayol on."
" Fieu Dayol? "
"Persei 17 to you. I said I was going to take you home to meet my folks, didn't I?"
"In other words, you're kidnapping me."
She shook her head vehemently. "I most certainly am not! Neither according to interstellar law or your own. When you compromised me, you made yourself liable in the eyes of both."
"But why pick on me? There must be plenty of men on Fieu Dayol . Why don't you marry one of them?"
"For two reasons: one, you're the particular man who compromised me. Two, there are not plenty of men on Fieu Dayol . Our race is identical to yours in everything except population-balance between the sexes. At periodic intervals the women on Fieu Dayol so greatly outnumber the men that those of us who are temperamentally and emotionally unfitted to become spinsters have to look for wotnids —or mates—on other worlds. It's quite legal and quite respectable. As a matter of fact, we even have schools specializing in alien cultures to expedite our activities. Our biggest problem is the Interstellar statute forbidding us the use of local communications services and forbidding us to appear in public places. It was devised to facilitate the prosecution of interstellar black marketeers, but we're subject to it, too, and have to contrive communications systems of our own."
"But why were all the messages addressed to you?"
"They weren't messages. They were requisitions. I'm the ship's stock girl."
April fields stretched darkly away on either side of the highway. Presently she turned down a rutted road between two of them and they bounced and swayed back to a black blur of trees. "Here we are," she said.
Gradually he made out the sphere. It blended so flawlessly with its background that he wouldn't have been able to see it at all if he hadn't been informed of its existence. A gangplank sloped down from an open lock and came to rest just within the fringe of the trees.
Lights danced in the darkness behind them as another car jounced down the rutted road. "Jilka," Kay said. "I wonder if she got him."
Apparently she had. At least there was a man with her—a rather woebegone, wilted creature who didn't even look up as they passed. Quidley watched them ascend the gangplank, the man in the lead, and disappear into the ship.
"Next," Kay said.
Quidley shook his head. "You're not taking me to another planet!"
She opened her purse and pulled out a small metallic object "A little while ago you asked me what a snoll doper was," she said.
"Unfortunately interstellar law severely limits us in our choice of marriageable males, and we can take only those who refuse to conform to the sexual mores of their own societies." She did something to the object that caused it to extend itself into a long, tubular affair.
" This is a snoll doper ."
She prodded his ribs. "March," she said.
He marched. Halfway up the plank he glanced back over his shoulder for a better look at the object pressed against his back.
It bore a striking resemblance to a shotgun.
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What is the relationship between Edna and Harry?
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After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about Breakdown by Herbert D. Kastle.
Relevant chunks:
BREAKDOWN
By HERBERT D. KASTLE
Illustrated by COWLES
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine June 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
He didn't know exactly when it had started, but it had been going on for weeks. Edna begged him to see the doctor living in that new house two miles past Dugan's farm, but he refused. He point-blank refused to admit he was sick that way—in the head!
Of course, a man could grow forgetful. He had to admit there were moments when he had all sorts of mixed-up memories and thoughts in his mind. And sometimes—like right now, lying in bed beside Edna, watching the first hint of light touch the windows—he began sweating with fear. A horrible, gut-wrenching fear, all the more horrible because it was based on nothing.
The chicken-run came alive; the barn followed minutes later. There were chores to do, the same chores he'd done all his forty-one years. Except that now, with the new regulations about wheat and corn, he had only a vegetable patch to farm. Sure, he got paid for letting the fields remain empty. But it just didn't seem right, all that land going to waste....
Davie. Blond hair and a round, tanned face and strong arms growing stronger each day from helping out after school.
He turned and shook Edna. "What happened to Davie?"
She cleared her throat, mumbled, "Huh? What happened to who?"
"I said, what...." But then it slipped away. Davie? No, that was part of a dream he'd had last week. He and Edna had no children.
He felt the fear again, and got up fast to escape it. Edna opened her eyes as soon as his weight left the bed. "Like hotcakes for breakfast?"
"Eggs," he said. "Bacon." And then, seeing her face change, he remembered. "Course," he muttered. "Can't have bacon. Rationed."
She was fully awake now. "If you'd only go see Dr. Hamming, Harry. Just for a checkup. Or let me call him so he could—"
"You stop that! You stop that right now, and for good! I don't want to hear no more about doctors. I get laid up, I'll call one. And it won't be that Hamming who I ain't never seen in my life! It'll be Timkins, who took care'n us and brought our son into the world and...."
She began to cry, and he realized he'd said something crazy again. They had no son, never had a son. And Timkins—he'd died and they'd gone to his funeral. Or so Edna said.
He himself just couldn't remember it.
He went to the bed and sat down beside her. "Sorry. That was just a dream I had. I'm still half asleep this morning. Couldn't fall off last night, not till real late. Guess I'm a little nervous, what with all the new regulations and not working regular. I never meant we had a son." He waited then, hoping she'd say they had had a son, and he'd died or gone away. But of course she didn't.
He went to the bathroom and washed. By the time he came to the kitchen, Edna had hotcakes on a plate and coffee in a cup. He sat down and ate. Part way through the meal, he paused. "Got an awful craving for meat," he said. "Goddam those rations! Man can't even butcher his own stock for his own table!"
"We're having meat for lunch," she said placatingly. "Nice cut of multi-pro."
"Multi-pro," he scoffed. "God knows what's in it. Like spam put through a grinder a hundred times and then baked into slabs. Can't hardly taste any meat there."
"Well, we got no choice. Country's on emergency rations. The current crisis, you know."
The way she said it irritated him. Like it was Scripture; like no one could question one word of it without being damned to Hell. He finished quickly and without speaking went on out to the barn.
He milked and curried and fed and cleaned, and still was done inside of two hours. Then he walked slowly, head down, across the hay-strewn floor. He stopped, put out his hand as if to find a pole or beam that was too familiar to require raising his eyes, and almost fell as he leaned in that direction. Regaining his balance after a sideward staggering shuffle, he looked around, startled. "Why, this ain't the way I had my barn...."
He heard his own voice, and stopped. He fought the flash of senseless panic. Of course this was the way he'd had his barn built, because it was his barn!
He rubbed his hard hands together and said aloud, "Get down to the patch. Them tomatoes need fertilizer for tang." He walked outside and took a deep breath. Air was different, wasn't it? Sweet and pure and clean, like country air always was and always would be; but still, different somehow. Maybe sharper. Or was sharp the word? Maybe....
He went quickly across the yard, past the pig-pen—he'd had twelve pigs, hadn't he? Now he had four—behind the house to where the half-acre truck farm lay greening in the sun. He got to work. Sometime later, Edna called to him. "Delivery last night, Harry. I took some. Pick up rest?"
"Yes," he shouted.
She disappeared.
He walked slowly back to the house. As he came into the front yard, moving toward the road and the supply bin, something occurred to him. The car. He hadn't seen the old Chevvy in ... how long? It'd be nice to take a ride to town, see a movie, maybe have a few beers.
No. It was against the travel regulations. He couldn't go further than Walt and Gloria Shanks' place. They couldn't go further than his. And the gas rationing. Besides, he'd sold the car, hadn't he? Because it was no use to him lying in the tractor shed.
He whirled, staring out across the fields to his left. Why, the tractor shed had stood just fifty feet from the house!
No, he'd torn it down. The tractor was in town, being overhauled and all. He was leaving it there until he had use for it.
He went on toward the road, his head beginning to throb. Why should a man his age, hardly sick at all since he was a kid, suddenly start losing hold this way? Edna was worried. The Shanks had noticed it too.
He was at the supply bin—like an old-fashioned wood bin; a box with a sloping flap lid. Deliveries of food and clothing and home medicines and other things were left here. You wrote down what you needed, and they left it—or whatever they allowed you—with a bill. You paid the bill by leaving money in the bin, and the next week you found a receipt and your new stuff and your new bill. And almost always you found some money from the government, for not planting wheat or not planting corn. It came out just about even.
He hauled out a sack of flour, half the amount of sugar Edna had ordered, some dried fruit, a new Homekit Medicine Shelf. He carried it into the house, and noticed a slip of paper pinned to the sugar bag. A television program guide.
Edna hustled over excitedly. "Anything good on this week, Harry?"
He looked down the listings, and frowned. "All old movies. Still only one channel. Still only from nine to eleven at night." He gave it to her, turned away; then stopped and waited. He'd said the same thing last week. And she had said the films were all new to her.
She said it now. "Why Harry, I've never seen this movie with Clark Gable. Nor the comedy with Red Skeleton. Nor the other five neither."
"I'm gonna lie down," he said flatly. He turned and stepped forward, and found himself facing the stove. Not the door to the hall; the stove. "But the door...." he began. He cut himself short. He turned and saw the door a few feet to the left, beside the table. He went there and out and up the stairs (they too had moved; they too weren't right) and into the bedroom and lay down. The bedroom was wrong. The bed was wrong. The windows were wrong.
The world was wrong! Lord, the whole damned world was wrong!
Edna didn't wake him, so they had a late lunch. Then he went back to the barn and let the four cows and four sheep and two horses into the pastures. Then he checked to see that Edna had fed the chickens right. They had only a dozen or so now.
When had he sold the rest? And when had he sold his other livestock?
Or had they died somehow? A rough winter? Disease?
He stood in the yard, a tall, husky man with pale brown hair and a face that had once been long, lean and strong and was now only long and lean. He blinked gray eyes and tried hard to remember, then turned and went to the house. Edna was soaking dishes in the sink, according to regulations—one sinkful of dishwater a day. And one tub of bath water twice a week.
She was looking at him. He realized his anger and confusion must be showing. He managed a smile. "You remember how much we got for our livestock, Edna?"
"Same as everyone else," she said. "Government agents paid flat rates."
He remembered then, or thought he did. The headache was back. He went upstairs and slept again, but this time he had dreams, many of them, and all confused and all frightening. He was glad to get up. And he was glad to hear Walt and Gloria talking to Edna downstairs.
He washed his face, combed his hair and went down. Walt and Gloria were sitting on the sofa, Edna in the blue armchair. Walt was saying he'd gotten the new TV picture tube he'd ordered. "Found it in the supply bin this morning. Spent the whole day installing it according to the book of directions."
Harry said hi and they all said hi and he sat down and they talked about TV and gardens and livestock. Then Harry said, "How's Penny?"
"Fine," Gloria answered. "I'm starting her on the kindergarten book next week."
"She's five already?" Harry asked.
"Almost six," Walt said. "Emergency Education Regulations state that the child should be five years nine months old before embarking on kindergarten book."
"And Frances?" Harry asked. "Your oldest? She must be starting high...." He stopped, because they were all staring at him, and because he couldn't remember Frances clearly. "Just a joke," he said, laughing and rising. "Let's eat. I'm starved."
They ate in the kitchen. They talked—or rather Edna, Gloria and Walt did. Harry nodded and said uh-huh and used his mouth for chewing.
Walt and Gloria went home at ten-fifteen. They said goodbye at the door and Harry walked away. He heard Gloria whispering something about Doctor Hamming.
He was sitting in the living room when Edna came in. She was crying.
"Harry, please see the doctor."
He got up. "I'm going out. I might even sleep out!"
"But why, Harry, why?"
He couldn't stand to see her crying. He went to her, kissed her wet cheek, spoke more softly. "It'll do me good, like when I was a kid."
"If you say so, Harry."
He left quickly. He went outside and across the yard to the road. He looked up it and down it, to the north and to the south. It was a bright night with moon and stars, but he saw nothing, no one. The road was empty. It was always empty, except when Walt and Gloria walked over from their place a mile or so south. But once it hadn't been empty. Once there'd been cars, people....
He had to do something. Just sitting and looking at the sky wouldn't help him. He had to go somewhere, see someone.
He went to the barn and looked for his saddle. There was no saddle. But he'd had one hanging right behind the door. Or had he?
He threw a blanket over Plum, the big mare, and tied it with a piece of wash line. He used another piece for a bridle, since he couldn't find that either, and didn't bother making a bit. He mounted, and Plum moved out of the barn and onto the road. He headed north, toward town.
Then he realized he couldn't go along the road this way. He'd be reported. Breaking travel regulations was a serious offense. He didn't know what they did to you, but it wasn't anything easy like a fine.
He cut into an unfenced, unplanted field.
His headache was back, worse now than it had ever been. His entire head throbbed, and he leaned forward and put his cheek against Plum's mane. The mare whinnied uneasily, but he kicked her sides and she moved forward. He lay there, just wanting to go somewhere, just wanting to leave his headache and confusion behind.
He didn't know how long it was, but Plum was moving cautiously now. He raised his head. They were approaching a fence. He noticed a gate off to the right, and pulled the rope so Plum went that way. They reached the gate and he got down to open it, and saw the sign. "Phineas Grotton Farm." He looked up at the sky, found the constellations, turned his head, and nodded. He'd started north, and Plum had continued north. He'd crossed land belonging both to himself and the Franklins. Now he was leaving the Franklin farm. North of the Franklins were the Bessers. Who was this Phineas Grotton? Had he bought out Lon Besser? But anything like that would've gotten around.
Was he forgetting again?
Well, no matter. Mr. Grotton would have to excuse his trespass. He opened the gate, led Plum through it, closed the gate. He mounted and rode forward, still north, toward the small Pangborn place and after the Pangborns the biggest farm in the county—old Wallace Elverton's place. The fields here, as everywhere in the county, lay fallow. Seemed as if the government had so much grain stored up they'd be able to get along without crops for years more.
He looked around. Somehow, the country bothered him. He wasn't sure why, but ... everything was wrong.
His head weighed an agonized ton. He put it down again. Plum went sedately forward. After a while she stopped. Harry looked up. Another fence. And what a fence! About ten feet of heavy steel mesh, topped by three feet of barbed-wire—five separate strands. What in the world had Sam Pangborn been thinking of to put up a monster like this?
He looked around. The gate should be further west. He rode that way. He found no gate. He turned back, heading east. No gate. Nothing but fence. And wasn't the fence gradually curving inward? He looked back. Yes, there was a slight inward curve.
He dismounted and tied Plum to the fence, then stepped back and figured the best way to get to the other side.
The best way, the only way, was to claw, clutch and clamber, as they used to say back when he was a kid.
It took some doing. He tore his shirt on the barbed wire, but he got over and began walking, straight ahead, due north. The earth changed beneath his feet. He stooped and touched it. Sand. Hard-packed sand. He'd never seen the like of it in this county.
He walked on. A sound came to him; a rising-falling whisper. He listened to it, and looked up every so often at the sky, to make sure he was heading in the right direction.
And the sand ended. His shoes plunked over flooring.
Flooring!
He knelt to make sure, and his hand felt wooden planks. He rose, and glanced up to see if he was still outdoors. Then he laughed. It was a sick laugh, so he stopped it.
He took another step. His shoes sounded against the wood. He walked. More wood. Wood that went on, as the sand had. And the roaring sound growing louder. And the air changing, smelling like air never had before in Cultwait County.
His entire body trembled. His mind trembled too. He walked, and came to a waist-high metal railing, and made a tiny sound deep in his throat. He looked out over water, endless water rolling in endless waves under the night sky. Crashing water, topped with reflected silver from the moon. Pounding water, filling the air with spray.
He put out his hands and grasped the railing. It was wet. He raised damp fingers to his mouth. Salt.
He stepped back, back, and turned and ran. He ran wildly, blindly, until he could run no more. Then he fell, feeling the sand beneath him, and shut his eyes and mind to everything.
Much later, he got up and went to the fence and climbed it. He came down on the other side and looked around and saw Plum. He walked to her, mounted her, sat still. The thoughts, or dreams, or whatever they were which had been torturing him these past few weeks began torturing him again.
It was getting light. His head was splitting.
Davie. His son Davie. Fourteen years old. Going to high school in town....
Town! He should've gone there in the first place! He would ride east, to the road, then head south, back toward home. That would bring him right down Main Street. Regulations or not, he'd talk to people, find out what was happening.
He kicked Plum's sides. The mare began to move. He kept kicking until she broke into a brisk canter. He held on with hands and legs.
Why hadn't he seen the Pangborns and Elvertons lately—a long time lately?
The ocean. He'd seen the ocean. Not a reservoir or lake made by flooding and by damming, but salt water and enormous. An ocean, where there could be no ocean. The Pangborns and Elvertons had been where that ocean was now. And after the Elvertons had come the Dobsons. And after them the new plastics plant. And after that the city of Crossville. And after that....
He was passing his own farm. He hadn't come through town, and yet here he was at his own farm. Could he have forgotten where town was? Could it be north of his home, not south? Could a man get so confused as to forget things he'd known all his life?
He reached the Shanks' place, and passed it at a trot. Then he was beyond their boundaries and breaking regulations again. He stayed on the road. He went by a small house and saw colored folks in the yard. There'd been no colored folks here. There'd been Eli Bergen and his family and his mother, in a bigger, newer house. The colored folks heard Plum's hooves and looked up and stared. Then a man raised his voice. "Mistah, you breakin' regulations! Mistah, the police gonnah get you!"
He rode on. He came to another house, neat and white, with three children playing on a grassy lawn. They saw him and ran inside. A moment later, adult voices yelled after him:
"You theah! Stop!"
"Call the sheriff! He's headin' foah Piney Woods!"
There was no place called Piney Woods in this county.
Was this how a man's mind went?
He came to another house, and another. He passed ten all told, and people shouted at him for breaking regulations, and the last three or four sounded like Easterners. And their houses looked like pictures of New England he'd seen in magazines.
He rode on. He never did come to town. He came to a ten-foot fence with a three-foot barbed-wire extension. He got off Plum and ripped his clothing climbing. He walked over hard-packed sand, and then wood, and came to a low metal railing. He looked out at the ocean, gleaming in bright sunlight, surging and seething endlessly. He felt the earth sway beneath him. He staggered, and dropped to his hands and knees, and shook his head like a fighter hit too many times. Then he got up and went back to the fence and heard a sound. It was a familiar sound, yet strange too. He shaded his eyes against the climbing sun. Then he saw it—a car. A car!
It was one of those tiny foreign jobs that run on practically no gas at all. It stopped beside him and two men got out. Young men with lined, tired faces; they wore policemen's uniforms. "You broke regulations, Mr. Burr. You'll have to come with us."
He nodded. He wanted to. He wanted to be taken care of. He turned toward Plum.
The other officer was walking around the horse. "Rode her hard," he said, and he sounded real worried. "Shouldn't have done that, Mr. Burr. We have so very few now...."
The officer holding Harry's arm said, "Pete."
The officer examining Plum said, "It won't make any difference in a while."
Harry looked at both of them, and felt sharp, personal fear.
"Take the horse back to his farm," the officer holding Harry said. He opened the door of the little car and pushed Harry inside. He went around to the driver's side and got behind the wheel and drove away. Harry looked back. Pete was leading Plum after them; not riding him, walking him. "He sure must like horses," he said.
"Yes."
"Am I going to jail?"
"No."
"Where then?"
"The doctor's place."
They stopped in front of the new house two miles past Dugan's farm. Except he'd never seen it before. Or had he? Everyone seemed to know about it—or was everyone only Edna and the Shanks?
He got out of the car. The officer took his arm and led him up the path. Harry noticed that the new house was big.
When they came inside, he knew it wasn't like any house he'd ever seen or heard of. There was this long central passageway, and dozens of doors branched off it on both sides, and stairways went down from it in at least three places that he could see, and at the far end—a good two hundred yards away—a big ramp led upward. And it was all gray plaster walls and dull black floors and cold white lighting, like a hospital, or a modern factory, or maybe a government building. Except that he didn't see or hear people.
He did hear something ; a low, rumbling noise. The further they came along the hall, the louder the rumbling grew. It seemed to be deep down somewhere.
They went through one of the doors on the right, into a windowless room. A thin little man with bald head and frameless glasses was there, putting on a white coat. His veiny hands shook. He looked a hundred years old. "Where's Petey?" he asked.
"Pete's all right, Dad. Just leading a horse back to Burr's farm."
The old man sighed. "I didn't know what form it would take. I expected one or two cases, but I couldn't predict whether it would be gradual or sudden, whether or not it would lead to violence."
"No violence, Dad."
"Fine, Stan." He looked at Harry. "I'm going to give you a little treatment, Mr. Burr. It'll settle your nerves and make everything...."
"What happened to Davie?" Harry asked, things pushing at his brain again.
Stan helped him up. "Just step this way, Mr. Burr."
He didn't resist. He went through the second door into the room with the big chair. He sat down and let them strap his arms and legs and let them lower the metal thing over his head. He felt needles pierce his scalp and the back of his neck. He let them do what they wanted; he would let them kill him if they wanted. All he asked was one answer so as to know whether or not he was insane.
"What happened to my son Davie?"
The old man walked across the room and examined what looked like the insides of a dozen big radios. He turned, his hand on a switch.
"Please," Harry whispered. "Just tell me about my son."
The doctor blinked behind his glasses, and then his hand left the switch. "Dead," he said, his voice a rustling of dried leaves. "Like so many millions of others. Dead, when the bombs fell. Dead, as everyone knew they would be and no one did anything to prevent. Dead. Perhaps the whole world is dead—except for us."
Harry stared at him.
"I can't take the time to explain it all. I have too much to do. Just three of us—myself and my two sons. My wife lost her mind. I should have helped her as I'm helping you."
"I don't understand," Harry said. "I remember people, and things, and where are they now? Dead? People can die, but farms, cities...."
"I haven't the time," the doctor repeated, voice rising. "I have to run a world. Three of us, to run a world! I built it as best I could, but how large could I make it? The money. The years and years of work. The people calling me insane when they found out ... but a few giving me more money, and the work going on. And those few caught like everyone else, unprepared when the holocaust started, unprepared and unable to reach my world. So they died. As I knew they would. As they should have known they would."
Harry felt the rumbling beneath him. Engines?
"You survived," the doctor said. "Your wife. A few hundred others in the rural areas. One other family in your area. I survived because I lived for survival, like a mole deep in the earth, expecting the catastrophe every minute. I survived because I gave up living to survive." He laughed, high and thin.
His son said, "Please, Dad...."
"No! I want to talk to someone sane ! You and Petey and I—we're all insane, you know. Three years now, playing God, waiting for some land, any land, to become habitable. And knowing everything, and surrounded by people who are sane only because I made sure they would know nothing." He stepped forward, glaring at Harry. "Now do you understand? I went across the country, picking up a few of the few left alive. Most were farmers, and even where some weren't I picked the farmers anyway. Because farmers are what we'll need, and all the rest can evolve later. I put you and the others, eighty-six all told, from every section of the country, on my world, the only uncontaminated land left. I gave you back your old lives. I couldn't give you big crops because we don't need big crops. We would only exhaust our limited soil with big crops. But I gave you vegetable gardens and livestock and, best of all, sanity ! I wiped the insane moments from your minds. I gave you peace and consigned myself, my sons, my own wife...."
He choked and stopped.
Stan ran across the room to the switch. Harry watched him, and his brain struggled with an impossible concept. He heard the engines and remembered the ocean on two sides; on four sides had he bothered to check south and east; on all sides if that fence continued to curve inward. Ocean, and there was no ocean in Iowa.
And this wasn't Iowa.
The explosions had ripped the world, and he'd tried to get to town to save Davie, and there'd been no town and there'd been no people and there'd been only death and poison in the air and even those few people left had begun to die, and then the truck with the huge trailer had come, the gleaming trailer with the little man and his trembling wife and his two sons....
Suddenly, he understood. And understanding brought not peace but the greatest terror he'd ever known. He screamed, "We're on...." but the switch was thrown and there was no more speech. For an hour. Then he got out of the chair and said, "Sure glad I took my wife's advice and came to see you, Doctor Hamming. I feel better already, and after only one.... What do you call these treatments?"
"Diathermy," the little doctor muttered.
Harry gave him a five-dollar bill. The doctor gave him two singles in change. "That's certainly reasonable enough," Harry said.
The doctor nodded. "There's a police officer in the hall. He'll drive you home so there won't be any trouble with the travel regulations."
Harry said, "Thanks. Think we'll ever see the end of travel regulations and rationing and all the rest of the emergency?"
"You will, Mr. Burr."
Harry walked to the door.
"We're on an ark," the doctor said.
Harry turned around, smiling. "What?"
"A test, Mr. Burr. You passed it. Goodbye."
Harry went home. He told Edna he felt just great! She said she'd been worried when an officer found Plum wandering on the road; she thought maybe Harry had gone off somewhere and broken travel regulations.
"Me?" he exclaimed, amazed. "Break travel regulations? I'd as soon kill a pig!"
Question:
What is the relationship between Edna and Harry?
Answer:
|
[
"Harry and Edna Burr are married. Initially, Edna is very concerned about Harry because of the strange memories that he experiences. She tries to plead with him to see a doctor, but he refuses to believe it. Harry is seen getting impatient with Edna, mainly because she is confused about the questions or people that he talks about. Even though she is concerned, Edna is good at comforting Harry. When he complains about the lack of meat, she tells him that they will have some multi-pro for lunch. The two of them split their duties as well, with Edna doing a lot of the housework and Harry doing the more manual labor. She also tries to suggest activities to do, such as asking what’s on the channel for this week. Edna loves Harry very much, but she does encourage him to seek a doctor to help his mental health. At the end, when Harry returns from his treatment, she asks if he has gone out to break any regulations. He only laughs and says he would rather kill a pig than do that. ",
"Harry and Edna are husband and wife who both live on their farm, next to their neighbours Walt and Gloria. Harry appears to be increasing confused and distorted in his memory of the places, people and things around. Because of this, Edna is worried about him and wishes for him to visit the doctor's office. Harry constantly refuses her request, for he is unwilling to admit anything is wrong with him and that he does not want to see an unfamiliar doctor. Supposedly the two of them have a son together named Davie. However, when Harry accidentally mentions him as a figment of his dream, Edna doesn't correct him that he passed or of his existence, and so Harry assumes from her that Davie was not real. \n\nWhen the neighbors come over for dinner, Harry slips up again and Edna begins to cry. He decides to go out for a walk and potentially sleep there like he had done as a kid as to not further worry her. \n\nAt the end of the story after his visit to his doctor, Edna is relieved. She expresses that she thought Harry may have gone off somewhere - but after gone to the doctors - Harry would never have dreamt to do such a thing. ",
"Harry and Edna are in a marital relationship. Harry is Edna’s husband, and Edna is Harry’s wife. Edna cares for Harry a lot. Whenever Harry behaves as if he forgets the reality and sinks into the seemingly fake memory, she always asks him to see the doctor even though he never accepts her advice. Harry gains a lot of information about the present from Edna as he cannot remembers a lot of things, or to say, his memory is mismatched with what Edna has told him. Harry cherishes Edna so much that he can’t bear to see her cry. When Edna was crying, he would speak softly and kiss her.",
"Throughout the story, Edna becomes more and more upset because of Harry’s strange behavior. At the beginning, after Harry mentions their non-existent son, meat, and their dead family doctor, she starts crying and asks him to see a doctor. He tells her he’s still half-asleep. During breakfast, he gets irritated by how she calmly accepts the rations and the state limitations on food and travel. He makes several unordinary remarks during the day and makes seemingly strange comments about their neighbors' children. After their friends leave, she starts crying and asking Harry to see a doctor. Harry cannot stand her crying and goes for a walk. In the end, their relationship is supposed to get better since doctor Hamming improved his mental state."
] |
51662
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BREAKDOWN
By HERBERT D. KASTLE
Illustrated by COWLES
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine June 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
He didn't know exactly when it had started, but it had been going on for weeks. Edna begged him to see the doctor living in that new house two miles past Dugan's farm, but he refused. He point-blank refused to admit he was sick that way—in the head!
Of course, a man could grow forgetful. He had to admit there were moments when he had all sorts of mixed-up memories and thoughts in his mind. And sometimes—like right now, lying in bed beside Edna, watching the first hint of light touch the windows—he began sweating with fear. A horrible, gut-wrenching fear, all the more horrible because it was based on nothing.
The chicken-run came alive; the barn followed minutes later. There were chores to do, the same chores he'd done all his forty-one years. Except that now, with the new regulations about wheat and corn, he had only a vegetable patch to farm. Sure, he got paid for letting the fields remain empty. But it just didn't seem right, all that land going to waste....
Davie. Blond hair and a round, tanned face and strong arms growing stronger each day from helping out after school.
He turned and shook Edna. "What happened to Davie?"
She cleared her throat, mumbled, "Huh? What happened to who?"
"I said, what...." But then it slipped away. Davie? No, that was part of a dream he'd had last week. He and Edna had no children.
He felt the fear again, and got up fast to escape it. Edna opened her eyes as soon as his weight left the bed. "Like hotcakes for breakfast?"
"Eggs," he said. "Bacon." And then, seeing her face change, he remembered. "Course," he muttered. "Can't have bacon. Rationed."
She was fully awake now. "If you'd only go see Dr. Hamming, Harry. Just for a checkup. Or let me call him so he could—"
"You stop that! You stop that right now, and for good! I don't want to hear no more about doctors. I get laid up, I'll call one. And it won't be that Hamming who I ain't never seen in my life! It'll be Timkins, who took care'n us and brought our son into the world and...."
She began to cry, and he realized he'd said something crazy again. They had no son, never had a son. And Timkins—he'd died and they'd gone to his funeral. Or so Edna said.
He himself just couldn't remember it.
He went to the bed and sat down beside her. "Sorry. That was just a dream I had. I'm still half asleep this morning. Couldn't fall off last night, not till real late. Guess I'm a little nervous, what with all the new regulations and not working regular. I never meant we had a son." He waited then, hoping she'd say they had had a son, and he'd died or gone away. But of course she didn't.
He went to the bathroom and washed. By the time he came to the kitchen, Edna had hotcakes on a plate and coffee in a cup. He sat down and ate. Part way through the meal, he paused. "Got an awful craving for meat," he said. "Goddam those rations! Man can't even butcher his own stock for his own table!"
"We're having meat for lunch," she said placatingly. "Nice cut of multi-pro."
"Multi-pro," he scoffed. "God knows what's in it. Like spam put through a grinder a hundred times and then baked into slabs. Can't hardly taste any meat there."
"Well, we got no choice. Country's on emergency rations. The current crisis, you know."
The way she said it irritated him. Like it was Scripture; like no one could question one word of it without being damned to Hell. He finished quickly and without speaking went on out to the barn.
He milked and curried and fed and cleaned, and still was done inside of two hours. Then he walked slowly, head down, across the hay-strewn floor. He stopped, put out his hand as if to find a pole or beam that was too familiar to require raising his eyes, and almost fell as he leaned in that direction. Regaining his balance after a sideward staggering shuffle, he looked around, startled. "Why, this ain't the way I had my barn...."
He heard his own voice, and stopped. He fought the flash of senseless panic. Of course this was the way he'd had his barn built, because it was his barn!
He rubbed his hard hands together and said aloud, "Get down to the patch. Them tomatoes need fertilizer for tang." He walked outside and took a deep breath. Air was different, wasn't it? Sweet and pure and clean, like country air always was and always would be; but still, different somehow. Maybe sharper. Or was sharp the word? Maybe....
He went quickly across the yard, past the pig-pen—he'd had twelve pigs, hadn't he? Now he had four—behind the house to where the half-acre truck farm lay greening in the sun. He got to work. Sometime later, Edna called to him. "Delivery last night, Harry. I took some. Pick up rest?"
"Yes," he shouted.
She disappeared.
He walked slowly back to the house. As he came into the front yard, moving toward the road and the supply bin, something occurred to him. The car. He hadn't seen the old Chevvy in ... how long? It'd be nice to take a ride to town, see a movie, maybe have a few beers.
No. It was against the travel regulations. He couldn't go further than Walt and Gloria Shanks' place. They couldn't go further than his. And the gas rationing. Besides, he'd sold the car, hadn't he? Because it was no use to him lying in the tractor shed.
He whirled, staring out across the fields to his left. Why, the tractor shed had stood just fifty feet from the house!
No, he'd torn it down. The tractor was in town, being overhauled and all. He was leaving it there until he had use for it.
He went on toward the road, his head beginning to throb. Why should a man his age, hardly sick at all since he was a kid, suddenly start losing hold this way? Edna was worried. The Shanks had noticed it too.
He was at the supply bin—like an old-fashioned wood bin; a box with a sloping flap lid. Deliveries of food and clothing and home medicines and other things were left here. You wrote down what you needed, and they left it—or whatever they allowed you—with a bill. You paid the bill by leaving money in the bin, and the next week you found a receipt and your new stuff and your new bill. And almost always you found some money from the government, for not planting wheat or not planting corn. It came out just about even.
He hauled out a sack of flour, half the amount of sugar Edna had ordered, some dried fruit, a new Homekit Medicine Shelf. He carried it into the house, and noticed a slip of paper pinned to the sugar bag. A television program guide.
Edna hustled over excitedly. "Anything good on this week, Harry?"
He looked down the listings, and frowned. "All old movies. Still only one channel. Still only from nine to eleven at night." He gave it to her, turned away; then stopped and waited. He'd said the same thing last week. And she had said the films were all new to her.
She said it now. "Why Harry, I've never seen this movie with Clark Gable. Nor the comedy with Red Skeleton. Nor the other five neither."
"I'm gonna lie down," he said flatly. He turned and stepped forward, and found himself facing the stove. Not the door to the hall; the stove. "But the door...." he began. He cut himself short. He turned and saw the door a few feet to the left, beside the table. He went there and out and up the stairs (they too had moved; they too weren't right) and into the bedroom and lay down. The bedroom was wrong. The bed was wrong. The windows were wrong.
The world was wrong! Lord, the whole damned world was wrong!
Edna didn't wake him, so they had a late lunch. Then he went back to the barn and let the four cows and four sheep and two horses into the pastures. Then he checked to see that Edna had fed the chickens right. They had only a dozen or so now.
When had he sold the rest? And when had he sold his other livestock?
Or had they died somehow? A rough winter? Disease?
He stood in the yard, a tall, husky man with pale brown hair and a face that had once been long, lean and strong and was now only long and lean. He blinked gray eyes and tried hard to remember, then turned and went to the house. Edna was soaking dishes in the sink, according to regulations—one sinkful of dishwater a day. And one tub of bath water twice a week.
She was looking at him. He realized his anger and confusion must be showing. He managed a smile. "You remember how much we got for our livestock, Edna?"
"Same as everyone else," she said. "Government agents paid flat rates."
He remembered then, or thought he did. The headache was back. He went upstairs and slept again, but this time he had dreams, many of them, and all confused and all frightening. He was glad to get up. And he was glad to hear Walt and Gloria talking to Edna downstairs.
He washed his face, combed his hair and went down. Walt and Gloria were sitting on the sofa, Edna in the blue armchair. Walt was saying he'd gotten the new TV picture tube he'd ordered. "Found it in the supply bin this morning. Spent the whole day installing it according to the book of directions."
Harry said hi and they all said hi and he sat down and they talked about TV and gardens and livestock. Then Harry said, "How's Penny?"
"Fine," Gloria answered. "I'm starting her on the kindergarten book next week."
"She's five already?" Harry asked.
"Almost six," Walt said. "Emergency Education Regulations state that the child should be five years nine months old before embarking on kindergarten book."
"And Frances?" Harry asked. "Your oldest? She must be starting high...." He stopped, because they were all staring at him, and because he couldn't remember Frances clearly. "Just a joke," he said, laughing and rising. "Let's eat. I'm starved."
They ate in the kitchen. They talked—or rather Edna, Gloria and Walt did. Harry nodded and said uh-huh and used his mouth for chewing.
Walt and Gloria went home at ten-fifteen. They said goodbye at the door and Harry walked away. He heard Gloria whispering something about Doctor Hamming.
He was sitting in the living room when Edna came in. She was crying.
"Harry, please see the doctor."
He got up. "I'm going out. I might even sleep out!"
"But why, Harry, why?"
He couldn't stand to see her crying. He went to her, kissed her wet cheek, spoke more softly. "It'll do me good, like when I was a kid."
"If you say so, Harry."
He left quickly. He went outside and across the yard to the road. He looked up it and down it, to the north and to the south. It was a bright night with moon and stars, but he saw nothing, no one. The road was empty. It was always empty, except when Walt and Gloria walked over from their place a mile or so south. But once it hadn't been empty. Once there'd been cars, people....
He had to do something. Just sitting and looking at the sky wouldn't help him. He had to go somewhere, see someone.
He went to the barn and looked for his saddle. There was no saddle. But he'd had one hanging right behind the door. Or had he?
He threw a blanket over Plum, the big mare, and tied it with a piece of wash line. He used another piece for a bridle, since he couldn't find that either, and didn't bother making a bit. He mounted, and Plum moved out of the barn and onto the road. He headed north, toward town.
Then he realized he couldn't go along the road this way. He'd be reported. Breaking travel regulations was a serious offense. He didn't know what they did to you, but it wasn't anything easy like a fine.
He cut into an unfenced, unplanted field.
His headache was back, worse now than it had ever been. His entire head throbbed, and he leaned forward and put his cheek against Plum's mane. The mare whinnied uneasily, but he kicked her sides and she moved forward. He lay there, just wanting to go somewhere, just wanting to leave his headache and confusion behind.
He didn't know how long it was, but Plum was moving cautiously now. He raised his head. They were approaching a fence. He noticed a gate off to the right, and pulled the rope so Plum went that way. They reached the gate and he got down to open it, and saw the sign. "Phineas Grotton Farm." He looked up at the sky, found the constellations, turned his head, and nodded. He'd started north, and Plum had continued north. He'd crossed land belonging both to himself and the Franklins. Now he was leaving the Franklin farm. North of the Franklins were the Bessers. Who was this Phineas Grotton? Had he bought out Lon Besser? But anything like that would've gotten around.
Was he forgetting again?
Well, no matter. Mr. Grotton would have to excuse his trespass. He opened the gate, led Plum through it, closed the gate. He mounted and rode forward, still north, toward the small Pangborn place and after the Pangborns the biggest farm in the county—old Wallace Elverton's place. The fields here, as everywhere in the county, lay fallow. Seemed as if the government had so much grain stored up they'd be able to get along without crops for years more.
He looked around. Somehow, the country bothered him. He wasn't sure why, but ... everything was wrong.
His head weighed an agonized ton. He put it down again. Plum went sedately forward. After a while she stopped. Harry looked up. Another fence. And what a fence! About ten feet of heavy steel mesh, topped by three feet of barbed-wire—five separate strands. What in the world had Sam Pangborn been thinking of to put up a monster like this?
He looked around. The gate should be further west. He rode that way. He found no gate. He turned back, heading east. No gate. Nothing but fence. And wasn't the fence gradually curving inward? He looked back. Yes, there was a slight inward curve.
He dismounted and tied Plum to the fence, then stepped back and figured the best way to get to the other side.
The best way, the only way, was to claw, clutch and clamber, as they used to say back when he was a kid.
It took some doing. He tore his shirt on the barbed wire, but he got over and began walking, straight ahead, due north. The earth changed beneath his feet. He stooped and touched it. Sand. Hard-packed sand. He'd never seen the like of it in this county.
He walked on. A sound came to him; a rising-falling whisper. He listened to it, and looked up every so often at the sky, to make sure he was heading in the right direction.
And the sand ended. His shoes plunked over flooring.
Flooring!
He knelt to make sure, and his hand felt wooden planks. He rose, and glanced up to see if he was still outdoors. Then he laughed. It was a sick laugh, so he stopped it.
He took another step. His shoes sounded against the wood. He walked. More wood. Wood that went on, as the sand had. And the roaring sound growing louder. And the air changing, smelling like air never had before in Cultwait County.
His entire body trembled. His mind trembled too. He walked, and came to a waist-high metal railing, and made a tiny sound deep in his throat. He looked out over water, endless water rolling in endless waves under the night sky. Crashing water, topped with reflected silver from the moon. Pounding water, filling the air with spray.
He put out his hands and grasped the railing. It was wet. He raised damp fingers to his mouth. Salt.
He stepped back, back, and turned and ran. He ran wildly, blindly, until he could run no more. Then he fell, feeling the sand beneath him, and shut his eyes and mind to everything.
Much later, he got up and went to the fence and climbed it. He came down on the other side and looked around and saw Plum. He walked to her, mounted her, sat still. The thoughts, or dreams, or whatever they were which had been torturing him these past few weeks began torturing him again.
It was getting light. His head was splitting.
Davie. His son Davie. Fourteen years old. Going to high school in town....
Town! He should've gone there in the first place! He would ride east, to the road, then head south, back toward home. That would bring him right down Main Street. Regulations or not, he'd talk to people, find out what was happening.
He kicked Plum's sides. The mare began to move. He kept kicking until she broke into a brisk canter. He held on with hands and legs.
Why hadn't he seen the Pangborns and Elvertons lately—a long time lately?
The ocean. He'd seen the ocean. Not a reservoir or lake made by flooding and by damming, but salt water and enormous. An ocean, where there could be no ocean. The Pangborns and Elvertons had been where that ocean was now. And after the Elvertons had come the Dobsons. And after them the new plastics plant. And after that the city of Crossville. And after that....
He was passing his own farm. He hadn't come through town, and yet here he was at his own farm. Could he have forgotten where town was? Could it be north of his home, not south? Could a man get so confused as to forget things he'd known all his life?
He reached the Shanks' place, and passed it at a trot. Then he was beyond their boundaries and breaking regulations again. He stayed on the road. He went by a small house and saw colored folks in the yard. There'd been no colored folks here. There'd been Eli Bergen and his family and his mother, in a bigger, newer house. The colored folks heard Plum's hooves and looked up and stared. Then a man raised his voice. "Mistah, you breakin' regulations! Mistah, the police gonnah get you!"
He rode on. He came to another house, neat and white, with three children playing on a grassy lawn. They saw him and ran inside. A moment later, adult voices yelled after him:
"You theah! Stop!"
"Call the sheriff! He's headin' foah Piney Woods!"
There was no place called Piney Woods in this county.
Was this how a man's mind went?
He came to another house, and another. He passed ten all told, and people shouted at him for breaking regulations, and the last three or four sounded like Easterners. And their houses looked like pictures of New England he'd seen in magazines.
He rode on. He never did come to town. He came to a ten-foot fence with a three-foot barbed-wire extension. He got off Plum and ripped his clothing climbing. He walked over hard-packed sand, and then wood, and came to a low metal railing. He looked out at the ocean, gleaming in bright sunlight, surging and seething endlessly. He felt the earth sway beneath him. He staggered, and dropped to his hands and knees, and shook his head like a fighter hit too many times. Then he got up and went back to the fence and heard a sound. It was a familiar sound, yet strange too. He shaded his eyes against the climbing sun. Then he saw it—a car. A car!
It was one of those tiny foreign jobs that run on practically no gas at all. It stopped beside him and two men got out. Young men with lined, tired faces; they wore policemen's uniforms. "You broke regulations, Mr. Burr. You'll have to come with us."
He nodded. He wanted to. He wanted to be taken care of. He turned toward Plum.
The other officer was walking around the horse. "Rode her hard," he said, and he sounded real worried. "Shouldn't have done that, Mr. Burr. We have so very few now...."
The officer holding Harry's arm said, "Pete."
The officer examining Plum said, "It won't make any difference in a while."
Harry looked at both of them, and felt sharp, personal fear.
"Take the horse back to his farm," the officer holding Harry said. He opened the door of the little car and pushed Harry inside. He went around to the driver's side and got behind the wheel and drove away. Harry looked back. Pete was leading Plum after them; not riding him, walking him. "He sure must like horses," he said.
"Yes."
"Am I going to jail?"
"No."
"Where then?"
"The doctor's place."
They stopped in front of the new house two miles past Dugan's farm. Except he'd never seen it before. Or had he? Everyone seemed to know about it—or was everyone only Edna and the Shanks?
He got out of the car. The officer took his arm and led him up the path. Harry noticed that the new house was big.
When they came inside, he knew it wasn't like any house he'd ever seen or heard of. There was this long central passageway, and dozens of doors branched off it on both sides, and stairways went down from it in at least three places that he could see, and at the far end—a good two hundred yards away—a big ramp led upward. And it was all gray plaster walls and dull black floors and cold white lighting, like a hospital, or a modern factory, or maybe a government building. Except that he didn't see or hear people.
He did hear something ; a low, rumbling noise. The further they came along the hall, the louder the rumbling grew. It seemed to be deep down somewhere.
They went through one of the doors on the right, into a windowless room. A thin little man with bald head and frameless glasses was there, putting on a white coat. His veiny hands shook. He looked a hundred years old. "Where's Petey?" he asked.
"Pete's all right, Dad. Just leading a horse back to Burr's farm."
The old man sighed. "I didn't know what form it would take. I expected one or two cases, but I couldn't predict whether it would be gradual or sudden, whether or not it would lead to violence."
"No violence, Dad."
"Fine, Stan." He looked at Harry. "I'm going to give you a little treatment, Mr. Burr. It'll settle your nerves and make everything...."
"What happened to Davie?" Harry asked, things pushing at his brain again.
Stan helped him up. "Just step this way, Mr. Burr."
He didn't resist. He went through the second door into the room with the big chair. He sat down and let them strap his arms and legs and let them lower the metal thing over his head. He felt needles pierce his scalp and the back of his neck. He let them do what they wanted; he would let them kill him if they wanted. All he asked was one answer so as to know whether or not he was insane.
"What happened to my son Davie?"
The old man walked across the room and examined what looked like the insides of a dozen big radios. He turned, his hand on a switch.
"Please," Harry whispered. "Just tell me about my son."
The doctor blinked behind his glasses, and then his hand left the switch. "Dead," he said, his voice a rustling of dried leaves. "Like so many millions of others. Dead, when the bombs fell. Dead, as everyone knew they would be and no one did anything to prevent. Dead. Perhaps the whole world is dead—except for us."
Harry stared at him.
"I can't take the time to explain it all. I have too much to do. Just three of us—myself and my two sons. My wife lost her mind. I should have helped her as I'm helping you."
"I don't understand," Harry said. "I remember people, and things, and where are they now? Dead? People can die, but farms, cities...."
"I haven't the time," the doctor repeated, voice rising. "I have to run a world. Three of us, to run a world! I built it as best I could, but how large could I make it? The money. The years and years of work. The people calling me insane when they found out ... but a few giving me more money, and the work going on. And those few caught like everyone else, unprepared when the holocaust started, unprepared and unable to reach my world. So they died. As I knew they would. As they should have known they would."
Harry felt the rumbling beneath him. Engines?
"You survived," the doctor said. "Your wife. A few hundred others in the rural areas. One other family in your area. I survived because I lived for survival, like a mole deep in the earth, expecting the catastrophe every minute. I survived because I gave up living to survive." He laughed, high and thin.
His son said, "Please, Dad...."
"No! I want to talk to someone sane ! You and Petey and I—we're all insane, you know. Three years now, playing God, waiting for some land, any land, to become habitable. And knowing everything, and surrounded by people who are sane only because I made sure they would know nothing." He stepped forward, glaring at Harry. "Now do you understand? I went across the country, picking up a few of the few left alive. Most were farmers, and even where some weren't I picked the farmers anyway. Because farmers are what we'll need, and all the rest can evolve later. I put you and the others, eighty-six all told, from every section of the country, on my world, the only uncontaminated land left. I gave you back your old lives. I couldn't give you big crops because we don't need big crops. We would only exhaust our limited soil with big crops. But I gave you vegetable gardens and livestock and, best of all, sanity ! I wiped the insane moments from your minds. I gave you peace and consigned myself, my sons, my own wife...."
He choked and stopped.
Stan ran across the room to the switch. Harry watched him, and his brain struggled with an impossible concept. He heard the engines and remembered the ocean on two sides; on four sides had he bothered to check south and east; on all sides if that fence continued to curve inward. Ocean, and there was no ocean in Iowa.
And this wasn't Iowa.
The explosions had ripped the world, and he'd tried to get to town to save Davie, and there'd been no town and there'd been no people and there'd been only death and poison in the air and even those few people left had begun to die, and then the truck with the huge trailer had come, the gleaming trailer with the little man and his trembling wife and his two sons....
Suddenly, he understood. And understanding brought not peace but the greatest terror he'd ever known. He screamed, "We're on...." but the switch was thrown and there was no more speech. For an hour. Then he got out of the chair and said, "Sure glad I took my wife's advice and came to see you, Doctor Hamming. I feel better already, and after only one.... What do you call these treatments?"
"Diathermy," the little doctor muttered.
Harry gave him a five-dollar bill. The doctor gave him two singles in change. "That's certainly reasonable enough," Harry said.
The doctor nodded. "There's a police officer in the hall. He'll drive you home so there won't be any trouble with the travel regulations."
Harry said, "Thanks. Think we'll ever see the end of travel regulations and rationing and all the rest of the emergency?"
"You will, Mr. Burr."
Harry walked to the door.
"We're on an ark," the doctor said.
Harry turned around, smiling. "What?"
"A test, Mr. Burr. You passed it. Goodbye."
Harry went home. He told Edna he felt just great! She said she'd been worried when an officer found Plum wandering on the road; she thought maybe Harry had gone off somewhere and broken travel regulations.
"Me?" he exclaimed, amazed. "Break travel regulations? I'd as soon kill a pig!"
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How are Opperly and Farquar alike and different?
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After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about Appointment In Tomorrow by Fritz Leiber.
Relevant chunks:
Appointment in Tomorrow
BY FRITZ LEIBER
Illustrated by ED ALEXANDER
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction July 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Is it possible to have a world without moral values? Or does lack of morality become a moral value, also?
The first angry rays of the sun—which, startlingly enough, still rose in the east at 24 hour intervals—pierced the lacy tops of Atlantic combers and touched thousands of sleeping Americans with unconscious fear, because of their unpleasant similarity to the rays from World War III's atomic bombs.
They turned to blood the witch-circle of rusty steel skeletons around Inferno in Manhattan. Without comment, they pointed a cosmic finger at the tarnished brass plaque commemorating the martyrdom of the Three Physicists after the dropping of the Hell Bomb. They tenderly touched the rosy skin and strawberry bruises on the naked shoulders of a girl sleeping off a drunk on the furry and radiantly heated floor of a nearby roof garden. They struck green magic from the glassy blot that was Old Washington. Twelve hours before, they had revealed things as eerily beautiful, and as ravaged, in Asia and Russia. They pinked the white walls of the Colonial dwelling of Morton Opperly near the Institute for Advanced Studies; upstairs they slanted impartially across the Pharoahlike and open-eyed face of the elderly physicist and the ugly, sleep-surly one of young Willard Farquar in the next room. And in nearby New Washington they made of the spire of the Thinkers' Foundation a blue and optimistic glory that outshone White House, Jr.
It was America approaching the end of the Twentieth Century. America of juke-box burlesque and your local radiation hospital. America of the mask-fad for women and Mystic Christianity. America of the off-the-bosom dress and the New Blue Laws. America of the Endless War and the loyalty detector. America of marvelous Maizie and the monthly rocket to Mars. America of the Thinkers and (a few remembered) the Institute. "Knock on titanium," "Whadya do for black-outs," "Please, lover, don't think when I'm around," America, as combat-shocked and crippled as the rest of the bomb-shattered planet.
Not one impudent photon of the sunlight penetrated the triple-paned, polarizing windows of Jorj Helmuth's bedroom in the Thinker's Foundation, yet the clock in his brain awakened him to the minute, or almost. Switching off the Educational Sandman in the midst of the phrase, "... applying tensor calculus to the nucleus," he took a deep, even breath and cast his mind to the limits of the world and his knowledge. It was a somewhat shadowy vision, but, he noted with impartial approval, definitely less shadowy than yesterday morning.
Employing a rapid mental scanning technique, he next cleared his memory chains of false associations, including those acquired while asleep. These chores completed, he held his finger on a bedside button, which rotated the polarizing window panes until the room slowly filled with a muted daylight. Then, still flat on his back, he turned his head until he could look at the remarkably beautiful blonde girl asleep beside him.
Remembering last night, he felt a pang of exasperation, which he instantly quelled by taking his mind to a higher and dispassionate level from which he could look down on the girl and even himself as quaint, clumsy animals. Still, he grumbled silently, Caddy might have had enough consideration to clear out before he awoke. He wondered if he shouldn't have used his hypnotic control of the girl to smooth their relationship last night, and for a moment the word that would send her into deep trance trembled on the tip of his tongue. But no, that special power of his over her was reserved for far more important purposes.
Pumping dynamic tension into his 20-year-old muscles and confidence into his 60-year-old mind, the 40-year-old Thinker rose from bed. No covers had to be thrown off; the nuclear heating unit made them unnecessary. He stepped into his clothing—the severe tunic, tights and sockassins of the modern business man. Next he glanced at the message tape beside his phone, washed down with ginger ale a vita-amino-enzyme tablet, and walked to the window. There, gazing along the rows of newly planted mutant oaks lining Decontamination Avenue, his smooth face broke into a smile.
It had come to him, the next big move in the intricate game making up his life—and mankind's. Come to him during sleep, as so many of his best decisions did, because he regularly employed the time-saving technique of somno-thought, which could function at the same time as somno-learning.
He set his who?-where? robot for "Rocket Physicist" and "Genius Class." While it worked, he dictated to his steno-robot the following brief message:
Dear Fellow Scientist:
A project is contemplated that will have a crucial bearing on man's future in deep space. Ample non-military Government funds are available. There was a time when professional men scoffed at the Thinkers. Then there was a time when the Thinkers perforce neglected the professional men. Now both times are past. May they never return! I would like to consult you this afternoon, three o'clock sharp, Thinkers' Foundation I.
Jorj Helmuth
Meanwhile the who?-where? had tossed out a dozen cards. He glanced through them, hesitated at the name "Willard Farquar," looked at the sleeping girl, then quickly tossed them all into the addresso-robot and plugged in the steno-robot.
The buzz-light blinked green and he switched the phone to audio.
"The President is waiting to see Maizie, sir," a clear feminine voice announced. "He has the general staff with him."
"Martian peace to him," Jorj Helmuth said. "Tell him I'll be down in a few minutes."
Huge as a primitive nuclear reactor, the great electronic brain loomed above the knot of hush-voiced men. It almost filled a two-story room in the Thinkers' Foundation. Its front was an orderly expanse of controls, indicators, telltales, and terminals, the upper ones reached by a chair on a boom.
Although, as far as anyone knew, it could sense only the information and questions fed into it on a tape, the human visitors could not resist the impulse to talk in whispers and glance uneasily at the great cryptic cube. After all, it had lately taken to moving some of its own controls—the permissible ones—and could doubtless improvise a hearing apparatus if it wanted to.
For this was the thinking machine beside which the Marks and Eniacs and Maniacs and Maddidas and Minervas and Mimirs were less than Morons. This was the machine with a million times as many synapses as the human brain, the machine that remembered by cutting delicate notches in the rims of molecules (instead of kindergarten paper-punching or the Coney Island shimmying of columns of mercury). This was the machine that had given instructions on building the last three-quarters of itself. This was the goal, perhaps, toward which fallible human reasoning and biased human judgment and feeble human ambition had evolved.
This was the machine that really thought—a million-plus!
This was the machine that the timid cyberneticists and stuffy professional scientists had said could not be built. Yet this was the machine that the Thinkers, with characteristic Yankee push, had built. And nicknamed, with characteristic Yankee irreverence and girl-fondness, "Maizie."
Gazing up at it, the President of the United States felt a chord plucked within him that hadn't been sounded for decades, the dark and shivery organ chord of his Baptist childhood. Here, in a strange sense, although his reason rejected it, he felt he stood face to face with the living God: infinitely stern with the sternness of reality, yet infinitely just. No tiniest error or wilful misstep could ever escape the scrutiny of this vast mentality. He shivered.
The grizzled general—there was also one who was gray—was thinking that this was a very odd link in the chain of command. Some shadowy and usually well-controlled memories from World War II faintly stirred his ire. Here he was giving orders to a being immeasurably more intelligent than himself. And always orders of the "Tell me how to kill that man" rather than the "Kill that man" sort. The distinction bothered him obscurely. It relieved him to know that Maizie had built-in controls which made her always the servant of humanity, or of humanity's right-minded leaders—even the Thinkers weren't certain which.
The gray general was thinking uneasily, and, like the President, at a more turbid level, of the resemblance between Papal infallibility and the dictates of the machine. Suddenly his bony wrists began to tremble. He asked himself: Was this the Second Coming? Mightn't an incarnation be in metal rather than flesh?
The austere Secretary of State was remembering what he'd taken such pains to make everyone forget: his youthful flirtation at Lake Success with Buddhism. Sitting before his guru , his teacher, feeling the Occidental's awe at the wisdom of the East, or its pretense, he had felt a little like this.
The burly Secretary of Space, who had come up through United Rockets, was thanking his stars that at any rate the professional scientists weren't responsible for this job. Like the grizzled general, he'd always felt suspicious of men who kept telling you how to do things, rather than doing them themselves. In World War III he'd had his fill of the professional physicists, with their eternal taint of a misty sort of radicalism and free-thinking. The Thinkers were better—more disciplined, more human. They'd called their brain-machine Maizie, which helped take the curse off her. Somewhat.
The President's Secretary, a paunchy veteran of party caucuses, was also glad that it was the Thinkers who had created the machine, though he trembled at the power that it gave them over the Administration. Still, you could do business with the Thinkers. And nobody (not even the Thinkers) could do business (that sort of business) with Maizie!
Before that great square face with its thousands of tiny metal features, only Jorj Helmuth seemed at ease, busily entering on the tape the complex Questions of the Day that the high officials had handed him: logistics for the Endless War in Pakistan, optimum size for next year's sugar-corn crop, current thought trends in average Soviet minds—profound questions, yet many of them phrased with surprising simplicity. For figures, technical jargon, and layman's language were alike to Maizie; there was no need to translate into mathematical shorthand, as with the lesser brain-machines.
The click of the taper went on until the Secretary of State had twice nervously fired a cigaret with his ultrasonic lighter and twice quickly put it away. No one spoke.
Jorj looked up at the Secretary of Space. "Section Five, Question Four—whom would that come from?"
The burly man frowned. "That would be the physics boys, Opperly's group. Is anything wrong?"
Jorj did not answer. A bit later he quit taping and began to adjust controls, going up on the boom-chair to reach some of them. Eventually he came down and touched a few more, then stood waiting.
From the great cube came a profound, steady purring. Involuntarily the six officials backed off a bit. Somehow it was impossible for a man to get used to the sound of Maizie starting to think.
Jorj turned, smiling. "And now, gentlemen, while we wait for Maizie to celebrate, there should be just enough time for us to watch the takeoff of the Mars rocket." He switched on a giant television screen. The others made a quarter turn, and there before them glowed the rich ochres and blues of a New Mexico sunrise and, in the middle distance, a silvery mighty spindle.
Like the generals, the Secretary of Space suppressed a scowl. Here was something that ought to be spang in the center of his official territory, and the Thinkers had locked him completely out of it. That rocket there—just an ordinary Earth satellite vehicle commandeered from the Army, but equipped by the Thinkers with Maizie-designed nuclear motors capable of the Mars journey and more. The first spaceship—and the Secretary of Space was not in on it!
Still, he told himself, Maizie had decreed it that way. And when he remembered what the Thinkers had done for him in rescuing him from breakdown with their mental science, in rescuing the whole Administration from collapse he realized he had to be satisfied. And that was without taking into consideration the amazing additional mental discoveries that the Thinkers were bringing down from Mars.
"Lord," the President said to Jorj as if voicing the Secretary's feeling, "I wish you people could bring a couple of those wise little devils back with you this trip. Be a good thing for the country."
Jorj looked at him a bit coldly. "It's quite unthinkable," he said.
"The telepathic abilities of the Martians make them extremely sensitive. The conflicts of ordinary Earth minds would impinge on them psychotically, even fatally. As you know, the Thinkers were able to contact them only because of our degree of learned mental poise and errorless memory-chains. So for the present it must be our task alone to glean from the Martians their astounding mental skills. Of course, some day in the future, when we have discovered how to armor the minds of the Martians—"
"Sure, I know," the President said hastily. "Shouldn't have mentioned it, Jorj."
Conversation ceased. They waited with growing tension for the great violet flames to bloom from the base of the silvery shaft.
Meanwhile the question tape, like a New Year's streamer tossed out a high window into the night, sped on its dark way along spinning rollers. Curling with an intricate aimlessness curiously like that of such a streamer, it tantalized the silvery fingers of a thousand relays, saucily evaded the glances of ten thousand electric eyes, impishly darted down a narrow black alleyway of memory banks, and, reaching the center of the cube, suddenly emerged into a small room where a suave fat man in shorts sat drinking beer.
He flipped the tape over to him with practiced finger, eyeing it as a stockbroker might have studied a ticker tape. He read the first question, closed his eyes and frowned for five seconds. Then with the staccato self-confidence of a hack writer, he began to tape out the answer.
For many minutes the only sounds were the rustle of the paper ribbon and the click of the taper, except for the seconds the fat man took to close his eyes, or to drink or pour beer. Once, too, he lifted a phone, asked a concise question, waited half a minute, listened to an answer, then went back to the grind.
Until he came to Section Five, Question Four. That time he did his thinking with his eyes open.
The question was: "Does Maizie stand for Maelzel?"
He sat for a while slowly scratching his thigh. His loose, persuasive lips tightened, without closing, into the shape of a snarl.
Suddenly he began to tape again.
"Maizie does not stand for Maelzel. Maizie stands for amazing, humorously given the form of a girl's name. Section Six, Answer One: The mid-term election viewcasts should be spaced as follows...."
But his lips didn't lose the shape of a snarl.
Five hundred miles above the ionosphere, the Mars rocket cut off its fuel and slumped gratefully into an orbit that would carry it effortlessly around the world at that altitude. The pilot unstrapped himself and stretched, but he didn't look out the viewport at the dried-mud disc that was Earth, cloaked in its haze of blue sky. He knew he had two maddening months ahead of him in which to do little more than that. Instead, he unstrapped Sappho.
Used to free fall from two previous experiences, and loving it, the fluffy little cat was soon bounding about the cabin in curves and gyrations that would have made her the envy of all back-alley and parlor felines on the planet below. A miracle cat in the dream world of free fall. For a long time she played with a string that the man would toss out lazily. Sometimes she caught the string on the fly, sometimes she swam for it frantically.
After a while the man grew bored with the game. He unlocked a drawer and began to study the details of the wisdom he would discover on Mars this trip—priceless spiritual insights that would be balm to war-battered mankind.
The cat carefully selected a spot three feet off the floor, curled up on the air, and went to sleep.
Jorj Helmuth snipped the emerging answer tape into sections and handed each to the appropriate man. Most of them carefully tucked theirs away with little more than a glance, but the Secretary of Space puzzled over his.
"Who the devil would Maelzel be?" he asked.
A remote look came into the eyes of the Secretary of State. "Edgar Allen Poe," he said frowningly, with eyes half-closed.
The grizzled general snapped his fingers. "Sure! Maelzel's Chess player. Read it when I was a kid. About an automaton that was supposed to play chess. Poe proved it hid a man inside it."
The Secretary of Space frowned. "Now what's the point in a fool question like that?"
"You said it came from Opperly's group?" Jorj asked sharply.
The Secretary of Space nodded. The others looked at the two men puzzledly.
"Who would that be?" Jorj pressed. "The group, I mean."
The Secretary of Space shrugged. "Oh, the usual little bunch over at the Institute. Hindeman, Gregory, Opperly himself. Oh, yes, and young Farquar."
"Sounds like Opperly's getting senile," Jorj commented coldly. "I'd investigate."
The Secretary of Space nodded. He suddenly looked tough. "I will. Right away."
Sunlight striking through French windows spotlighted a ballet of dust motes untroubled by air-conditioning. Morton Opperly's living room was well-kept but worn and quite behind the times. Instead of reading tapes there were books; instead of steno-robots, pen and ink; while in place of a four by six TV screen, a Picasso hung on the wall. Only Opperly knew that the painting was still faintly radioactive, that it had been riskily so when he'd smuggled it out of his bomb-singed apartment in New York City.
The two physicists fronted each other across a coffee table. The face of the elder was cadaverous, large-eyed, and tender—fined down by a long life of abstract thought. That of the younger was forceful, sensuous, bulky as his body, and exceptionally ugly. He looked rather like a bear.
Opperly was saying, "So when he asked who was responsible for the Maelzel question, I said I didn't remember." He smiled. "They still allow me my absent-mindedness, since it nourishes their contempt. Almost my sole remaining privilege." The smile faded. "Why do you keep on teasing the zoo animals, Willard?" he asked without rancor. "I've maintained many times that we shouldn't truckle to them by yielding to their demand that we ask Maizie questions. You and the rest have overruled me. But then to use those questions to convey veiled insults isn't reasonable. Apparently the Secretary of Space was bothered enough about this last one to pay me a 'copter call within twenty minutes of this morning's meeting at the Foundation. Why do you do it, Willard?"
The features of the other convulsed unpleasantly. "Because the Thinkers are charlatans who must be exposed," he rapped out. "We know their Maizie is no more than a tealeaf-reading fake. We've traced their Mars rockets and found they go nowhere. We know their Martian mental science is bunk."
"But we've already exposed the Thinkers very thoroughly," Opperly interposed quietly. "You know the good it did."
Farquar hunched his Japanese-wrestler shoulders. "Then it's got to be done until it takes."
Opperly studied the bowl of mutated flowers by the coffee pot. "I think you just want to tease the animals, for some personal reason of which you probably aren't aware."
Farquar scowled. "We're the ones in the cages."
Opperly continued his inspection of the flowers' bells. "All the more reason not to poke sticks through the bars at the lions and tigers strolling outside. No, Willard, I'm not counseling appeasement. But consider the age in which we live. It wants magicians." His voice grew especially tranquil. "A scientist tells people the truth. When times are good—that is, when the truth offers no threat—people don't mind. But when times are very, very bad...." A shadow darkened his eyes.
"Well, we all know what happened to—" And he mentioned three names that had been household words in the middle of the century. They were the names on the brass plaque dedicated to the martyred three physicists.
He went on, "A magician, on the other hand, tells people what they wish were true—that perpetual motion works, that cancer can be cured by colored lights, that a psychosis is no worse than a head cold, that they'll live forever. In good times magicians are laughed at. They're a luxury of the spoiled wealthy few. But in bad times people sell their souls for magic cures, and buy perpetual motion machines to power their war rockets."
Farquar clenched his fist. "All the more reason to keep chipping away at the Thinkers. Are we supposed to beg off from a job because it's difficult and dangerous?"
Opperly shook his head. "We're to keep clear of the infection of violence. In my day, Willard, I was one of the Frightened Men. Later I was one of the Angry Men and then one of the Minds of Despair. Now I'm convinced that all my reactions were futile."
"Exactly!" Farquar agreed harshly. "You reacted. You didn't act. If you men who discovered atomic energy had only formed a secret league, if you'd only had the foresight and the guts to use your tremendous bargaining position to demand the power to shape mankind's future...."
"By the time you were born, Willard," Opperly interrupted dreamily,
"Hitler was merely a name in the history books. We scientists weren't the stuff out of which cloak-and-dagger men are made. Can you imagine Oppenheimer wearing a mask or Einstein sneaking into the Old White House with a bomb in his briefcase?" He smiled. "Besides, that's not the way power is seized. New ideas aren't useful to the man bargaining for power—only established facts or lies are."
"Just the same, it would have been a good thing if you'd had a little violence in you."
"No," Opperly said.
"I've got violence in me," Farquar announced, shoving himself to his feet.
Opperly looked up from the flowers. "I think you have," he agreed.
"But what are we to do?" Farquar demanded. "Surrender the world to charlatans without a struggle?"
Opperly mused for a while. "I don't know what the world needs now. Everyone knows Newton as the great scientist. Few remember that he spent half his life muddling with alchemy, looking for the philosopher's stone. Which Newton did the world need then?"
"Now you are justifying the Thinkers!"
"No, I leave that to history."
"And history consists of the actions of men," Farquar concluded. "I intend to act. The Thinkers are vulnerable, their power fantastically precarious. What's it based on? A few lucky guesses. Faith-healing. Some science hocus-pocus, on the level of those juke-box burlesque acts between the strips. Dubious mental comfort given to a few nerve-torn neurotics in the Inner Cabinet—and their wives. The fact that the Thinkers' clever stage-managing won the President a doubtful election. The erroneous belief that the Soviets pulled out of Iraq and Iran because of the Thinkers' Mind Bomb threat. A brain-machine that's just a cover for Jan Tregarron's guesswork. Oh, yes, and that hogwash of
'Martian wisdom.' All of it mere bluff! A few pushes at the right times and points are all that are needed—and the Thinkers know it! I'll bet they're terrified already, and will be more so when they find that we're gunning for them. Eventually they'll be making overtures to us, turning to us for help. You wait and see."
"I am thinking again of Hitler," Opperly interposed quietly. "On his first half dozen big steps, he had nothing but bluff. His generals were against him. They knew they were in a cardboard fort. Yet he won every battle, until the last. Moreover," he pressed on, cutting Farquar short, "the power of the Thinkers isn't based on what they've got, but on what the world hasn't got—peace, honor, a good conscience...."
The front-door knocker clanked. Farquar answered it. A skinny old man with a radiation scar twisting across his temple handed him a tiny cylinder. "Radiogram for you, Willard." He grinned across the hall at Opperly. "When are you going to get a phone put in, Mr. Opperly?"
The physicist waved to him. "Next year, perhaps, Mr. Berry."
The old man snorted with good-humored incredulity and trudged off.
"What did I tell you about the Thinkers making overtures?" Farquar chortled suddenly. "It's come sooner than I expected. Look at this."
He held out the radiogram, but the older man didn't take it. Instead he asked, "Who's it from? Tregarron?"
"No, from Helmuth. There's a lot of sugar corn about man's future in deep space, but the real reason is clear. They know that they're going to have to produce an actual nuclear rocket pretty soon, and for that they'll need our help."
"An invitation?"
Farquar nodded. "For this afternoon." He noticed Opperly's anxious though distant frown. "What's the matter?" he asked. "Are you bothered about my going? Are you thinking it might be a trap—that after the Maelzel question they may figure I'm better rubbed out?"
The older man shook his head. "I'm not afraid for your life, Willard. That's yours to risk as you choose. No, I'm worried about other things they might do to you."
"What do you mean?" Farquar asked.
Opperly looked at him with a gentle appraisal. "You're a strong and vital man, Willard, with a strong man's prides and desires." His voice trailed off for a bit. Then, "Excuse me, Willard, but wasn't there a girl once? A Miss Arkady?"
Farquar's ungainly figure froze. He nodded curtly, face averted.
"And didn't she go off with a Thinker?"
"If girls find me ugly, that's their business," Farquar said harshly, still not looking at Opperly. "What's that got to do with this invitation?"
Opperly didn't answer the question. His eyes got more distant. Finally he said, "In my day we had it a lot easier. A scientist was an academician, cushioned by tradition."
Willard snorted. "Science had already entered the era of the police inspectors, with laboratory directors and political appointees stifling enterprise."
"Perhaps," Opperly agreed. "Still, the scientist lived the safe, restricted, highly respectable life of a university man. He wasn't exposed to the temptations of the world."
Farquar turned on him. "Are you implying that the Thinkers will somehow be able to buy me off?"
"Not exactly."
"You think I'll be persuaded to change my aims?" Farquar demanded angrily.
Opperly shrugged his helplessness. "No, I don't think you'll change your aims."
Clouds encroaching from the west blotted the parallelogram of sunlight between the two men.
As the slideway whisked him gently along the corridor toward his apartment, Jorj was thinking of his spaceship. For a moment the silver-winged vision crowded everything else out of his mind.
Just think, a spaceship with sails! He smiled a bit, marveling at the paradox.
Direct atomic power. Direct utilization of the force of the flying neutrons. No more ridiculous business of using a reactor to drive a steam engine, or boil off something for a jet exhaust—processes that were as primitive and wasteful as burning gunpowder to keep yourself warm.
Chemical jets would carry his spaceship above the atmosphere. Then would come the thrilling order, "Set sail for Mars!" The vast umbrella would unfold and open out around the stern, its rear or Earthward side a gleaming expanse of radioactive ribbon perhaps only an atom thick and backed with a material that would reflect neutrons. Atoms in the ribbon would split, blasting neutrons astern at fantastic velocities. Reaction would send the spaceship hurtling forward.
In airless space, the expanse of sails would naturally not retard the ship. More radioactive ribbon, manufactured as needed in the ship itself, would feed out onto the sail as that already there became exhausted.
A spaceship with direct nuclear drive—and he, a Thinker, had conceived it completely except for the technical details! Having strengthened his mind by hard years of somno-learning, mind-casting, memory-straightening, and sensory training, he had assured himself of the executive power to control the technicians and direct their specialized abilities. Together they would build the true Mars rocket.
But that would only be a beginning. They would build the true Mind Bomb. They would build the true Selective Microbe Slayer. They would discover the true laws of ESP and the inner life. They would even—his imagination hesitated a moment, then strode boldly forward—build the true Maizie!
And then ... then the Thinkers would be on even terms with the scientists. Rather, they'd be far ahead. No more deception.
He was so exalted by this thought that he almost let the slideway carry him past his door. He stepped inside and called, "Caddy!" He waited a moment, then walked through the apartment, but she wasn't there.
Confound the girl, he couldn't help thinking. This morning, when she should have made herself scarce, she'd sprawled about sleeping. Now, when he felt like seeing her, when her presence would have added a pleasant final touch to his glowing mood, she chose to be absent. He really should use his hypnotic control on her, he decided, and again there sprang into his mind the word—a pet form of her name—that would send her into obedient trance.
No, he told himself again, that was to be reserved for some moment of crisis or desperate danger, when he would need someone to strike suddenly and unquestioningly for himself and mankind. Caddy was merely a wilful and rather silly girl, incapable at present of understanding the tremendous tensions under which he operated. When he had time for it, he would train her up to be a fitting companion without hypnosis.
Yet the fact of her absence had a subtly disquieting effect. It shook his perfect self-confidence just a fraction. He asked himself if he'd been wise in summoning the rocket physicists without consulting Tregarron.
But this mood, too, he conquered quickly. Tregarron wasn't his boss, but just the Thinker's most clever salesman, an expert in the mumbo-jumbo so necessary for social control in this chaotic era. He himself, Jorj Helmuth, was the real leader in theoretics and all-over strategy, the mind behind the mind behind Maizie.
He stretched himself on the bed, almost instantly achieved maximum relaxation, turned on the somno-learner, and began the two hour rest he knew would be desirable before the big conference.
Question:
How are Opperly and Farquar alike and different?
Answer:
|
[
"Opperly and Farquar are both physicists. They both have the same role in society as possessing knowledge and abilities to create technology and machinery. However, despite their similar titles, they are drastically different, both in appearance and character. Opperly is an elderly man, who looks timid and meek, though wise, next to the young, large, and impulsive Farquar. Opperly acts as a rational voice, discouraging Farquar from his rebellious and violent nature, specifically towards the Thinkers. Opperly, having lived through history, is hesitant to threaten the authority of the Thinkers and instead understands that society is in need of them. He believes that scientists should not have a place in taking action and being violent, and instead should allow the Thinkers to uphold the nation. Farquar, on the other hand, is a man of action who believes the Thinkers are immoral and inauthentic. He contrasts Opperly's reasonable nature with passion and free thinking.",
"Morton Opperly and Willard Farquar are both physicists, though they hail from different generations. They share in the knowledge that the Thinkers’ have deceived members at the highest level of government and have exposed them, to little success. Opperly, an older physicist from the age of academic scientists, is reserved and skeptical about future attempts to do the same. Farquar, however, is youthful and frustrated about their situation. Whereas Opperly is unable to imagine scientists such as Einstein and Oppenheimer using violence to achieve their ends, Farquar condemns them for wasting their opportunities to shape the future with their knowledge of atomic power. ",
"Morton Opperly is an elderly physicist. William Farquar is much younger and he too is a scientist. Opperly’s positions reflected his elderly age with his living room having books, pen and ink, and a Picasso painting. Farquar wants to continue to poke at the Thinkers to expose them for their lies. Opperly does not agree with this strategy because he does not know what is best for the planet. While he does not agree with Farquar’s desire to act upon their knowledge of the Thinkers’ lies, he does call them animals. Farquar responds by saying that he feels like an animal because he feels trapped in a cage. Opperly believes it is not worth fighting with the Thinkers, but Farquar wants the fight and he wants violence. ",
"Opperly believes that the world needs magicians right now, not them, the physicists. In the bad times, people would go desperately looking for the magic cure, while in the good times the magicians are laughed at and physicists respected. He understands that the power of the Thinkers lies in what they do not have at the moment, which is peace, honor, good conscience, etc. Farquar on the other hand thinks that they need to perform action. Thus after overruling Opperly, Farquar and other physicists decided to send teasing questions for Maizie to answer. This question indeed got Jorj, the Thinker, unhappy, and he tells the Secretary of Space to investigate it. \n\nFarquar predicts that the Thinkers will need their help in building all those machineries that they faked. Indeed, the invitation gets to them, and it is sent by Jorj stating that they should work together, and mentioning that the Thinkers have quite a lot of government funds. While Opperly thinks that the Thinkers did not simply send the invitation asking for their help, Farquar believes that he will not be persuaded to change his mind at all. "
] |
51152
|
Appointment in Tomorrow
BY FRITZ LEIBER
Illustrated by ED ALEXANDER
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction July 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Is it possible to have a world without moral values? Or does lack of morality become a moral value, also?
The first angry rays of the sun—which, startlingly enough, still rose in the east at 24 hour intervals—pierced the lacy tops of Atlantic combers and touched thousands of sleeping Americans with unconscious fear, because of their unpleasant similarity to the rays from World War III's atomic bombs.
They turned to blood the witch-circle of rusty steel skeletons around Inferno in Manhattan. Without comment, they pointed a cosmic finger at the tarnished brass plaque commemorating the martyrdom of the Three Physicists after the dropping of the Hell Bomb. They tenderly touched the rosy skin and strawberry bruises on the naked shoulders of a girl sleeping off a drunk on the furry and radiantly heated floor of a nearby roof garden. They struck green magic from the glassy blot that was Old Washington. Twelve hours before, they had revealed things as eerily beautiful, and as ravaged, in Asia and Russia. They pinked the white walls of the Colonial dwelling of Morton Opperly near the Institute for Advanced Studies; upstairs they slanted impartially across the Pharoahlike and open-eyed face of the elderly physicist and the ugly, sleep-surly one of young Willard Farquar in the next room. And in nearby New Washington they made of the spire of the Thinkers' Foundation a blue and optimistic glory that outshone White House, Jr.
It was America approaching the end of the Twentieth Century. America of juke-box burlesque and your local radiation hospital. America of the mask-fad for women and Mystic Christianity. America of the off-the-bosom dress and the New Blue Laws. America of the Endless War and the loyalty detector. America of marvelous Maizie and the monthly rocket to Mars. America of the Thinkers and (a few remembered) the Institute. "Knock on titanium," "Whadya do for black-outs," "Please, lover, don't think when I'm around," America, as combat-shocked and crippled as the rest of the bomb-shattered planet.
Not one impudent photon of the sunlight penetrated the triple-paned, polarizing windows of Jorj Helmuth's bedroom in the Thinker's Foundation, yet the clock in his brain awakened him to the minute, or almost. Switching off the Educational Sandman in the midst of the phrase, "... applying tensor calculus to the nucleus," he took a deep, even breath and cast his mind to the limits of the world and his knowledge. It was a somewhat shadowy vision, but, he noted with impartial approval, definitely less shadowy than yesterday morning.
Employing a rapid mental scanning technique, he next cleared his memory chains of false associations, including those acquired while asleep. These chores completed, he held his finger on a bedside button, which rotated the polarizing window panes until the room slowly filled with a muted daylight. Then, still flat on his back, he turned his head until he could look at the remarkably beautiful blonde girl asleep beside him.
Remembering last night, he felt a pang of exasperation, which he instantly quelled by taking his mind to a higher and dispassionate level from which he could look down on the girl and even himself as quaint, clumsy animals. Still, he grumbled silently, Caddy might have had enough consideration to clear out before he awoke. He wondered if he shouldn't have used his hypnotic control of the girl to smooth their relationship last night, and for a moment the word that would send her into deep trance trembled on the tip of his tongue. But no, that special power of his over her was reserved for far more important purposes.
Pumping dynamic tension into his 20-year-old muscles and confidence into his 60-year-old mind, the 40-year-old Thinker rose from bed. No covers had to be thrown off; the nuclear heating unit made them unnecessary. He stepped into his clothing—the severe tunic, tights and sockassins of the modern business man. Next he glanced at the message tape beside his phone, washed down with ginger ale a vita-amino-enzyme tablet, and walked to the window. There, gazing along the rows of newly planted mutant oaks lining Decontamination Avenue, his smooth face broke into a smile.
It had come to him, the next big move in the intricate game making up his life—and mankind's. Come to him during sleep, as so many of his best decisions did, because he regularly employed the time-saving technique of somno-thought, which could function at the same time as somno-learning.
He set his who?-where? robot for "Rocket Physicist" and "Genius Class." While it worked, he dictated to his steno-robot the following brief message:
Dear Fellow Scientist:
A project is contemplated that will have a crucial bearing on man's future in deep space. Ample non-military Government funds are available. There was a time when professional men scoffed at the Thinkers. Then there was a time when the Thinkers perforce neglected the professional men. Now both times are past. May they never return! I would like to consult you this afternoon, three o'clock sharp, Thinkers' Foundation I.
Jorj Helmuth
Meanwhile the who?-where? had tossed out a dozen cards. He glanced through them, hesitated at the name "Willard Farquar," looked at the sleeping girl, then quickly tossed them all into the addresso-robot and plugged in the steno-robot.
The buzz-light blinked green and he switched the phone to audio.
"The President is waiting to see Maizie, sir," a clear feminine voice announced. "He has the general staff with him."
"Martian peace to him," Jorj Helmuth said. "Tell him I'll be down in a few minutes."
Huge as a primitive nuclear reactor, the great electronic brain loomed above the knot of hush-voiced men. It almost filled a two-story room in the Thinkers' Foundation. Its front was an orderly expanse of controls, indicators, telltales, and terminals, the upper ones reached by a chair on a boom.
Although, as far as anyone knew, it could sense only the information and questions fed into it on a tape, the human visitors could not resist the impulse to talk in whispers and glance uneasily at the great cryptic cube. After all, it had lately taken to moving some of its own controls—the permissible ones—and could doubtless improvise a hearing apparatus if it wanted to.
For this was the thinking machine beside which the Marks and Eniacs and Maniacs and Maddidas and Minervas and Mimirs were less than Morons. This was the machine with a million times as many synapses as the human brain, the machine that remembered by cutting delicate notches in the rims of molecules (instead of kindergarten paper-punching or the Coney Island shimmying of columns of mercury). This was the machine that had given instructions on building the last three-quarters of itself. This was the goal, perhaps, toward which fallible human reasoning and biased human judgment and feeble human ambition had evolved.
This was the machine that really thought—a million-plus!
This was the machine that the timid cyberneticists and stuffy professional scientists had said could not be built. Yet this was the machine that the Thinkers, with characteristic Yankee push, had built. And nicknamed, with characteristic Yankee irreverence and girl-fondness, "Maizie."
Gazing up at it, the President of the United States felt a chord plucked within him that hadn't been sounded for decades, the dark and shivery organ chord of his Baptist childhood. Here, in a strange sense, although his reason rejected it, he felt he stood face to face with the living God: infinitely stern with the sternness of reality, yet infinitely just. No tiniest error or wilful misstep could ever escape the scrutiny of this vast mentality. He shivered.
The grizzled general—there was also one who was gray—was thinking that this was a very odd link in the chain of command. Some shadowy and usually well-controlled memories from World War II faintly stirred his ire. Here he was giving orders to a being immeasurably more intelligent than himself. And always orders of the "Tell me how to kill that man" rather than the "Kill that man" sort. The distinction bothered him obscurely. It relieved him to know that Maizie had built-in controls which made her always the servant of humanity, or of humanity's right-minded leaders—even the Thinkers weren't certain which.
The gray general was thinking uneasily, and, like the President, at a more turbid level, of the resemblance between Papal infallibility and the dictates of the machine. Suddenly his bony wrists began to tremble. He asked himself: Was this the Second Coming? Mightn't an incarnation be in metal rather than flesh?
The austere Secretary of State was remembering what he'd taken such pains to make everyone forget: his youthful flirtation at Lake Success with Buddhism. Sitting before his guru , his teacher, feeling the Occidental's awe at the wisdom of the East, or its pretense, he had felt a little like this.
The burly Secretary of Space, who had come up through United Rockets, was thanking his stars that at any rate the professional scientists weren't responsible for this job. Like the grizzled general, he'd always felt suspicious of men who kept telling you how to do things, rather than doing them themselves. In World War III he'd had his fill of the professional physicists, with their eternal taint of a misty sort of radicalism and free-thinking. The Thinkers were better—more disciplined, more human. They'd called their brain-machine Maizie, which helped take the curse off her. Somewhat.
The President's Secretary, a paunchy veteran of party caucuses, was also glad that it was the Thinkers who had created the machine, though he trembled at the power that it gave them over the Administration. Still, you could do business with the Thinkers. And nobody (not even the Thinkers) could do business (that sort of business) with Maizie!
Before that great square face with its thousands of tiny metal features, only Jorj Helmuth seemed at ease, busily entering on the tape the complex Questions of the Day that the high officials had handed him: logistics for the Endless War in Pakistan, optimum size for next year's sugar-corn crop, current thought trends in average Soviet minds—profound questions, yet many of them phrased with surprising simplicity. For figures, technical jargon, and layman's language were alike to Maizie; there was no need to translate into mathematical shorthand, as with the lesser brain-machines.
The click of the taper went on until the Secretary of State had twice nervously fired a cigaret with his ultrasonic lighter and twice quickly put it away. No one spoke.
Jorj looked up at the Secretary of Space. "Section Five, Question Four—whom would that come from?"
The burly man frowned. "That would be the physics boys, Opperly's group. Is anything wrong?"
Jorj did not answer. A bit later he quit taping and began to adjust controls, going up on the boom-chair to reach some of them. Eventually he came down and touched a few more, then stood waiting.
From the great cube came a profound, steady purring. Involuntarily the six officials backed off a bit. Somehow it was impossible for a man to get used to the sound of Maizie starting to think.
Jorj turned, smiling. "And now, gentlemen, while we wait for Maizie to celebrate, there should be just enough time for us to watch the takeoff of the Mars rocket." He switched on a giant television screen. The others made a quarter turn, and there before them glowed the rich ochres and blues of a New Mexico sunrise and, in the middle distance, a silvery mighty spindle.
Like the generals, the Secretary of Space suppressed a scowl. Here was something that ought to be spang in the center of his official territory, and the Thinkers had locked him completely out of it. That rocket there—just an ordinary Earth satellite vehicle commandeered from the Army, but equipped by the Thinkers with Maizie-designed nuclear motors capable of the Mars journey and more. The first spaceship—and the Secretary of Space was not in on it!
Still, he told himself, Maizie had decreed it that way. And when he remembered what the Thinkers had done for him in rescuing him from breakdown with their mental science, in rescuing the whole Administration from collapse he realized he had to be satisfied. And that was without taking into consideration the amazing additional mental discoveries that the Thinkers were bringing down from Mars.
"Lord," the President said to Jorj as if voicing the Secretary's feeling, "I wish you people could bring a couple of those wise little devils back with you this trip. Be a good thing for the country."
Jorj looked at him a bit coldly. "It's quite unthinkable," he said.
"The telepathic abilities of the Martians make them extremely sensitive. The conflicts of ordinary Earth minds would impinge on them psychotically, even fatally. As you know, the Thinkers were able to contact them only because of our degree of learned mental poise and errorless memory-chains. So for the present it must be our task alone to glean from the Martians their astounding mental skills. Of course, some day in the future, when we have discovered how to armor the minds of the Martians—"
"Sure, I know," the President said hastily. "Shouldn't have mentioned it, Jorj."
Conversation ceased. They waited with growing tension for the great violet flames to bloom from the base of the silvery shaft.
Meanwhile the question tape, like a New Year's streamer tossed out a high window into the night, sped on its dark way along spinning rollers. Curling with an intricate aimlessness curiously like that of such a streamer, it tantalized the silvery fingers of a thousand relays, saucily evaded the glances of ten thousand electric eyes, impishly darted down a narrow black alleyway of memory banks, and, reaching the center of the cube, suddenly emerged into a small room where a suave fat man in shorts sat drinking beer.
He flipped the tape over to him with practiced finger, eyeing it as a stockbroker might have studied a ticker tape. He read the first question, closed his eyes and frowned for five seconds. Then with the staccato self-confidence of a hack writer, he began to tape out the answer.
For many minutes the only sounds were the rustle of the paper ribbon and the click of the taper, except for the seconds the fat man took to close his eyes, or to drink or pour beer. Once, too, he lifted a phone, asked a concise question, waited half a minute, listened to an answer, then went back to the grind.
Until he came to Section Five, Question Four. That time he did his thinking with his eyes open.
The question was: "Does Maizie stand for Maelzel?"
He sat for a while slowly scratching his thigh. His loose, persuasive lips tightened, without closing, into the shape of a snarl.
Suddenly he began to tape again.
"Maizie does not stand for Maelzel. Maizie stands for amazing, humorously given the form of a girl's name. Section Six, Answer One: The mid-term election viewcasts should be spaced as follows...."
But his lips didn't lose the shape of a snarl.
Five hundred miles above the ionosphere, the Mars rocket cut off its fuel and slumped gratefully into an orbit that would carry it effortlessly around the world at that altitude. The pilot unstrapped himself and stretched, but he didn't look out the viewport at the dried-mud disc that was Earth, cloaked in its haze of blue sky. He knew he had two maddening months ahead of him in which to do little more than that. Instead, he unstrapped Sappho.
Used to free fall from two previous experiences, and loving it, the fluffy little cat was soon bounding about the cabin in curves and gyrations that would have made her the envy of all back-alley and parlor felines on the planet below. A miracle cat in the dream world of free fall. For a long time she played with a string that the man would toss out lazily. Sometimes she caught the string on the fly, sometimes she swam for it frantically.
After a while the man grew bored with the game. He unlocked a drawer and began to study the details of the wisdom he would discover on Mars this trip—priceless spiritual insights that would be balm to war-battered mankind.
The cat carefully selected a spot three feet off the floor, curled up on the air, and went to sleep.
Jorj Helmuth snipped the emerging answer tape into sections and handed each to the appropriate man. Most of them carefully tucked theirs away with little more than a glance, but the Secretary of Space puzzled over his.
"Who the devil would Maelzel be?" he asked.
A remote look came into the eyes of the Secretary of State. "Edgar Allen Poe," he said frowningly, with eyes half-closed.
The grizzled general snapped his fingers. "Sure! Maelzel's Chess player. Read it when I was a kid. About an automaton that was supposed to play chess. Poe proved it hid a man inside it."
The Secretary of Space frowned. "Now what's the point in a fool question like that?"
"You said it came from Opperly's group?" Jorj asked sharply.
The Secretary of Space nodded. The others looked at the two men puzzledly.
"Who would that be?" Jorj pressed. "The group, I mean."
The Secretary of Space shrugged. "Oh, the usual little bunch over at the Institute. Hindeman, Gregory, Opperly himself. Oh, yes, and young Farquar."
"Sounds like Opperly's getting senile," Jorj commented coldly. "I'd investigate."
The Secretary of Space nodded. He suddenly looked tough. "I will. Right away."
Sunlight striking through French windows spotlighted a ballet of dust motes untroubled by air-conditioning. Morton Opperly's living room was well-kept but worn and quite behind the times. Instead of reading tapes there were books; instead of steno-robots, pen and ink; while in place of a four by six TV screen, a Picasso hung on the wall. Only Opperly knew that the painting was still faintly radioactive, that it had been riskily so when he'd smuggled it out of his bomb-singed apartment in New York City.
The two physicists fronted each other across a coffee table. The face of the elder was cadaverous, large-eyed, and tender—fined down by a long life of abstract thought. That of the younger was forceful, sensuous, bulky as his body, and exceptionally ugly. He looked rather like a bear.
Opperly was saying, "So when he asked who was responsible for the Maelzel question, I said I didn't remember." He smiled. "They still allow me my absent-mindedness, since it nourishes their contempt. Almost my sole remaining privilege." The smile faded. "Why do you keep on teasing the zoo animals, Willard?" he asked without rancor. "I've maintained many times that we shouldn't truckle to them by yielding to their demand that we ask Maizie questions. You and the rest have overruled me. But then to use those questions to convey veiled insults isn't reasonable. Apparently the Secretary of Space was bothered enough about this last one to pay me a 'copter call within twenty minutes of this morning's meeting at the Foundation. Why do you do it, Willard?"
The features of the other convulsed unpleasantly. "Because the Thinkers are charlatans who must be exposed," he rapped out. "We know their Maizie is no more than a tealeaf-reading fake. We've traced their Mars rockets and found they go nowhere. We know their Martian mental science is bunk."
"But we've already exposed the Thinkers very thoroughly," Opperly interposed quietly. "You know the good it did."
Farquar hunched his Japanese-wrestler shoulders. "Then it's got to be done until it takes."
Opperly studied the bowl of mutated flowers by the coffee pot. "I think you just want to tease the animals, for some personal reason of which you probably aren't aware."
Farquar scowled. "We're the ones in the cages."
Opperly continued his inspection of the flowers' bells. "All the more reason not to poke sticks through the bars at the lions and tigers strolling outside. No, Willard, I'm not counseling appeasement. But consider the age in which we live. It wants magicians." His voice grew especially tranquil. "A scientist tells people the truth. When times are good—that is, when the truth offers no threat—people don't mind. But when times are very, very bad...." A shadow darkened his eyes.
"Well, we all know what happened to—" And he mentioned three names that had been household words in the middle of the century. They were the names on the brass plaque dedicated to the martyred three physicists.
He went on, "A magician, on the other hand, tells people what they wish were true—that perpetual motion works, that cancer can be cured by colored lights, that a psychosis is no worse than a head cold, that they'll live forever. In good times magicians are laughed at. They're a luxury of the spoiled wealthy few. But in bad times people sell their souls for magic cures, and buy perpetual motion machines to power their war rockets."
Farquar clenched his fist. "All the more reason to keep chipping away at the Thinkers. Are we supposed to beg off from a job because it's difficult and dangerous?"
Opperly shook his head. "We're to keep clear of the infection of violence. In my day, Willard, I was one of the Frightened Men. Later I was one of the Angry Men and then one of the Minds of Despair. Now I'm convinced that all my reactions were futile."
"Exactly!" Farquar agreed harshly. "You reacted. You didn't act. If you men who discovered atomic energy had only formed a secret league, if you'd only had the foresight and the guts to use your tremendous bargaining position to demand the power to shape mankind's future...."
"By the time you were born, Willard," Opperly interrupted dreamily,
"Hitler was merely a name in the history books. We scientists weren't the stuff out of which cloak-and-dagger men are made. Can you imagine Oppenheimer wearing a mask or Einstein sneaking into the Old White House with a bomb in his briefcase?" He smiled. "Besides, that's not the way power is seized. New ideas aren't useful to the man bargaining for power—only established facts or lies are."
"Just the same, it would have been a good thing if you'd had a little violence in you."
"No," Opperly said.
"I've got violence in me," Farquar announced, shoving himself to his feet.
Opperly looked up from the flowers. "I think you have," he agreed.
"But what are we to do?" Farquar demanded. "Surrender the world to charlatans without a struggle?"
Opperly mused for a while. "I don't know what the world needs now. Everyone knows Newton as the great scientist. Few remember that he spent half his life muddling with alchemy, looking for the philosopher's stone. Which Newton did the world need then?"
"Now you are justifying the Thinkers!"
"No, I leave that to history."
"And history consists of the actions of men," Farquar concluded. "I intend to act. The Thinkers are vulnerable, their power fantastically precarious. What's it based on? A few lucky guesses. Faith-healing. Some science hocus-pocus, on the level of those juke-box burlesque acts between the strips. Dubious mental comfort given to a few nerve-torn neurotics in the Inner Cabinet—and their wives. The fact that the Thinkers' clever stage-managing won the President a doubtful election. The erroneous belief that the Soviets pulled out of Iraq and Iran because of the Thinkers' Mind Bomb threat. A brain-machine that's just a cover for Jan Tregarron's guesswork. Oh, yes, and that hogwash of
'Martian wisdom.' All of it mere bluff! A few pushes at the right times and points are all that are needed—and the Thinkers know it! I'll bet they're terrified already, and will be more so when they find that we're gunning for them. Eventually they'll be making overtures to us, turning to us for help. You wait and see."
"I am thinking again of Hitler," Opperly interposed quietly. "On his first half dozen big steps, he had nothing but bluff. His generals were against him. They knew they were in a cardboard fort. Yet he won every battle, until the last. Moreover," he pressed on, cutting Farquar short, "the power of the Thinkers isn't based on what they've got, but on what the world hasn't got—peace, honor, a good conscience...."
The front-door knocker clanked. Farquar answered it. A skinny old man with a radiation scar twisting across his temple handed him a tiny cylinder. "Radiogram for you, Willard." He grinned across the hall at Opperly. "When are you going to get a phone put in, Mr. Opperly?"
The physicist waved to him. "Next year, perhaps, Mr. Berry."
The old man snorted with good-humored incredulity and trudged off.
"What did I tell you about the Thinkers making overtures?" Farquar chortled suddenly. "It's come sooner than I expected. Look at this."
He held out the radiogram, but the older man didn't take it. Instead he asked, "Who's it from? Tregarron?"
"No, from Helmuth. There's a lot of sugar corn about man's future in deep space, but the real reason is clear. They know that they're going to have to produce an actual nuclear rocket pretty soon, and for that they'll need our help."
"An invitation?"
Farquar nodded. "For this afternoon." He noticed Opperly's anxious though distant frown. "What's the matter?" he asked. "Are you bothered about my going? Are you thinking it might be a trap—that after the Maelzel question they may figure I'm better rubbed out?"
The older man shook his head. "I'm not afraid for your life, Willard. That's yours to risk as you choose. No, I'm worried about other things they might do to you."
"What do you mean?" Farquar asked.
Opperly looked at him with a gentle appraisal. "You're a strong and vital man, Willard, with a strong man's prides and desires." His voice trailed off for a bit. Then, "Excuse me, Willard, but wasn't there a girl once? A Miss Arkady?"
Farquar's ungainly figure froze. He nodded curtly, face averted.
"And didn't she go off with a Thinker?"
"If girls find me ugly, that's their business," Farquar said harshly, still not looking at Opperly. "What's that got to do with this invitation?"
Opperly didn't answer the question. His eyes got more distant. Finally he said, "In my day we had it a lot easier. A scientist was an academician, cushioned by tradition."
Willard snorted. "Science had already entered the era of the police inspectors, with laboratory directors and political appointees stifling enterprise."
"Perhaps," Opperly agreed. "Still, the scientist lived the safe, restricted, highly respectable life of a university man. He wasn't exposed to the temptations of the world."
Farquar turned on him. "Are you implying that the Thinkers will somehow be able to buy me off?"
"Not exactly."
"You think I'll be persuaded to change my aims?" Farquar demanded angrily.
Opperly shrugged his helplessness. "No, I don't think you'll change your aims."
Clouds encroaching from the west blotted the parallelogram of sunlight between the two men.
As the slideway whisked him gently along the corridor toward his apartment, Jorj was thinking of his spaceship. For a moment the silver-winged vision crowded everything else out of his mind.
Just think, a spaceship with sails! He smiled a bit, marveling at the paradox.
Direct atomic power. Direct utilization of the force of the flying neutrons. No more ridiculous business of using a reactor to drive a steam engine, or boil off something for a jet exhaust—processes that were as primitive and wasteful as burning gunpowder to keep yourself warm.
Chemical jets would carry his spaceship above the atmosphere. Then would come the thrilling order, "Set sail for Mars!" The vast umbrella would unfold and open out around the stern, its rear or Earthward side a gleaming expanse of radioactive ribbon perhaps only an atom thick and backed with a material that would reflect neutrons. Atoms in the ribbon would split, blasting neutrons astern at fantastic velocities. Reaction would send the spaceship hurtling forward.
In airless space, the expanse of sails would naturally not retard the ship. More radioactive ribbon, manufactured as needed in the ship itself, would feed out onto the sail as that already there became exhausted.
A spaceship with direct nuclear drive—and he, a Thinker, had conceived it completely except for the technical details! Having strengthened his mind by hard years of somno-learning, mind-casting, memory-straightening, and sensory training, he had assured himself of the executive power to control the technicians and direct their specialized abilities. Together they would build the true Mars rocket.
But that would only be a beginning. They would build the true Mind Bomb. They would build the true Selective Microbe Slayer. They would discover the true laws of ESP and the inner life. They would even—his imagination hesitated a moment, then strode boldly forward—build the true Maizie!
And then ... then the Thinkers would be on even terms with the scientists. Rather, they'd be far ahead. No more deception.
He was so exalted by this thought that he almost let the slideway carry him past his door. He stepped inside and called, "Caddy!" He waited a moment, then walked through the apartment, but she wasn't there.
Confound the girl, he couldn't help thinking. This morning, when she should have made herself scarce, she'd sprawled about sleeping. Now, when he felt like seeing her, when her presence would have added a pleasant final touch to his glowing mood, she chose to be absent. He really should use his hypnotic control on her, he decided, and again there sprang into his mind the word—a pet form of her name—that would send her into obedient trance.
No, he told himself again, that was to be reserved for some moment of crisis or desperate danger, when he would need someone to strike suddenly and unquestioningly for himself and mankind. Caddy was merely a wilful and rather silly girl, incapable at present of understanding the tremendous tensions under which he operated. When he had time for it, he would train her up to be a fitting companion without hypnosis.
Yet the fact of her absence had a subtly disquieting effect. It shook his perfect self-confidence just a fraction. He asked himself if he'd been wise in summoning the rocket physicists without consulting Tregarron.
But this mood, too, he conquered quickly. Tregarron wasn't his boss, but just the Thinker's most clever salesman, an expert in the mumbo-jumbo so necessary for social control in this chaotic era. He himself, Jorj Helmuth, was the real leader in theoretics and all-over strategy, the mind behind the mind behind Maizie.
He stretched himself on the bed, almost instantly achieved maximum relaxation, turned on the somno-learner, and began the two hour rest he knew would be desirable before the big conference.
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Why are so many Earthmen desolate?
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After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about Saboteur of Space by Robert Abernathy.
Relevant chunks:
Saboteur of Space
By ROBERT ABERNATHY
Fresh power was coming to Earth, energy which would bring life to a dying planet. Only two men stood in its way, one a cowardly rat, the other a murderous martyr; both pawns in a cosmic game where death moved his chessmen of fate—and even the winner would lose.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Ryd Randl stood, slouching a little, in the darkened footway, and watched the sky over Dynamopolis come alive with searchlights. The shuttered glow of Burshis' Stumble Inn was only a few yards off to his right, but even that lodestone failed before the novel interest of a ship about to ground in the one-time Port of Ten Thousand Ships.
Now he made out the flicker of the braking drive a mile or so overhead, and presently soft motor thunder came down to blanket the almost lightless city with sound. A beam swayed through the throbbing darkness, caught the descending ship and held it, a small gleaming minnow slipping through the dark heavens. A faint glow rose from Pi Mesa, where the spaceport lay above the city, as a runway lighted up—draining the last reserves of the city's stored power, but draining them gladly now that, in those autumn days of the historic year 819, relief was in sight.
Ryd shrugged limply; the play was meaningless to him. He turned to shuffle down the inviting ramp into the glowing interior of Burshis' dive.
The place was crowded with men and smoke. Perhaps half the former were asleep, on tables or on the floor; but for the few places like Burshis' which were still open under the power shortage, many would have frozen, these days, in the chilly nights at fourteen thousand feet. For Dynamopolis sprawled atop the world, now as in the old days when it had been built to be the power center of North America.
The rocket blasts crescendoed and died up on Pi Mesa as Ryd wedged himself with difficulty into the group along the bar. If anyone recognized him, they showed it only by looking fixedly at something else. Only Burshis Yuns kept his static smile and nodded with surprising friendliness at Ryd's pinched, old-young face.
Ryd was startled by the nod. Burshis finished serving another customer and maneuvered down the stained chrome-and-synthyl bar. Ryd was heartened.
"Say, Burshis," he started nervously, as the bulky man halted with his back to him. But Burshis turned, still smiling, shaking his head so that his jowls quivered.
"No loans," he said flatly. "But just one on the house, Ryd."
The drink almost spilled itself in Ryd's hand. Clutching it convulsively, he made his eyes narrow and said suspiciously, "What you setting 'em up for, Burshis? It's the first time since—"
Burshis' smile stayed put. He said affably, "Didn't you hear that ship that just came down on the Mesa? That was the ship from Mars—the escort they were sending with the power cylinder. The power's coming in again." He turned to greet a coin-tapping newcomer, added over his shoulder: "You know what that means, Ryd. Some life around here again. Jobs for all the bums in this town—even for you."
He left Ryd frowning, thinking fuzzily. A warming gulp seemed to clear his head. Jobs. So they thought they could put that over on him again, huh? Well, he'd show them. He was smart; he was a damn good helio man—no, that had been ten years ago. But now he was out of the habit of working, anyway. No job for Ryd Randl. They gave him one once and then took it away. He drank still more deeply.
The man on Ryd's immediate right leaned toward him. He laid a hand on his arm, gripping it hard, and said quietly: "So you're Ryd Randl."
Ryd had a bad moment before he saw that the face wasn't that of any plain-clothes man he knew. For that matter, it didn't belong to anybody he had ever known—an odd, big-boned face, strikingly ugly, with a beak-nose that was yet not too large for the hard jaw or too bleak for the thin mouth below it. An expensive transparent hat slanted over the face, and from its iridescent shadows gleamed eyes that were alert and almost frighteningly black. Ryd noted that the man wore a dark-gray cellotex of a sort rarely seen in joints like Burshis'.
"Suppose we step outside, Ryd. I'd like to talk to you."
"What's the idea?" demanded Ryd, his small store of natural courage floated to the top by alcohol.
The other seemed to realize that he was getting ahead of himself. He leaned back slightly, drew a deep breath, and said slowly and distinctly. "Would you care to make some money, my friend?"
" Huh? Why, yeh—I guess so—"
"Then come with me." The hand still on his arm was insistent. In his daze, Ryd let himself be drawn away from the bar into the sluggish crowd; then he suddenly remembered his unfinished drink, and made frantic gestures. Deliberately misunderstanding, the tall stranger fumbled briefly, tossed a coin on the counter-top, and hustled Ryd out, past the blue-and-gold-lit meloderge that was softly pouring out its endlessly changing music, through the swinging doors into the dark.
Outside, between lightless buildings, the still cold closed in on them. They kept walking—so fast that Ryd began to lose his breath, long-accustomed though his lungs were to the high, thin air.
"So you're Ryd Randl," repeated the stranger after a moment's silence.
"I might have known you. But I'd almost given up finding you tonight."
Ryd tried feebly to wrench free, stumbled. "Look," he gasped. "If you're a cop, say so!"
The other laughed shortly. "No. I'm just a man about to offer you a chance. For a come-back, Ryd—a chance to live again.... My name—you can call me Mury."
Ryd was voiceless. Something seemed increasingly ominous about the tall, spare man at his side. He wished himself back in Burshis' with his first free drink in a month. The thought of it brought tears to his eyes.
"How long have you been out of a job, Ryd?"
"Nine ... ten years. Say, what's it to you?"
"And why, Ryd?"
"Why...? Look, mister, I was a helio operator." He hunched his narrow shoulders and spread his hands in an habitual gesture of defeat. "Damn good one, too—I was a foreman ten years ago. But I don't have the physique for Mars—I might just have made it then , but I thought the plant was going to open again and—"
And that was it. The almost airless Martian sky, with its burning actinic rays, is so favorable for the use of the helio-dynamic engine. And after the middle of the eighth century, robot labor gave Mars its full economic independence—and domination. For power is—power; and there is the Restriction Act to keep men on Earth even if more than two in ten could live healthily on the outer world.
"Ten years ago," Mury nodded as if satisfied. "That must have been the Power Company of North America—the main plant by Dynamopolis itself, that shut down in December, 809. They were the last to close down outside the military bases in the Kun Lun."
Ryd was pacing beside him now. He felt a queer upsurge of confidence in this strange man; for too long he had met no sympathy and all too few men who talked his language. He burst out: "They wouldn't take me, damn them! Said my record wasn't good enough for them. That is, I didn't have a drag with any of the Poligerents."
"I know all about your record," said Mury softly.
Ryd's suspicions came back abruptly, and he reverted to his old kicked-dog manner. "How do you know? And what's it to you?"
All at once, Mury came to a stop, and swung around to face him squarely, hard eyes compelling. They were on an overpass, not far from where the vast, almost wholly deserted offices of the Triplanet Freighting Company sprawled over a square mile of city. A half-smile twisted Mury's thin lips.
"Don't misunderstand me, Ryd—you mean nothing at all to me as an individual. But you're one of a vast mass of men for whom I am working—the billions caught in the net of a corrupt government and sold as an economic prey to the ruthless masters of Mars. This, after they've borne all the hardships of a year of embargo, have offered their hands willingly to the rebuilding of decadent Earth, only to be refused by the weak leaders who can neither defy the enemy nor capitulate frankly to him."
Ryd was dazed. His mind had never been constructed to cope with such ideas and the past few years had not improved its capabilities. "Are you talking about the power cylinder?" he demanded blurrily.
Mury cast a glance toward the Milky Way as if to descry the Martian cargo projectile somewhere up among its countless lights. He said simply, "Yes."
"I don't get it," mumbled Ryd, frowning. He found words that he had heard somewhere a day or so before, in some bar or flophouse: "The power cylinder is going to be the salvation of Earth. It's a shot in the arm—no, right in the heart of Earth industry, here in Dynamopolis. It will turn the wheels and light the cities and—"
"To hell with that!" snapped Mury, suddenly savage. His hands came up slightly, the fingers flexing; then dropped back to his sides. "Don't you know you're repeating damnable lies?"
Ryd could only stare, cringing and bewildered. Mury went on with a passion shocking after his smooth calm:
"The power shell is aid, yes—but with what a price! It's the thirty pieces of silver for which the venal fools who rule our nations have sold the whole planet to Mars. Because they lack the courage and vision to retool Earth's plants and factories for the inescapable conflict, they're selling us out—making Earth, the first home of man, a colony of the Red Planet. Do you know what Earth is to the great Martian land-owners? Do you? " He paused out of breath; then finished venomously, "Earth is a great pool of labor ready to be tapped, cheaper than robots—cheap as slaves !"
"What about it?" gulped Ryd, drawing away from the fanatic. "What you want me to do about it?"
Mury took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. His face was once more bleakly impassive; only the mouth was an ugly line. "We're going to do something about it, you and I. Tonight. Now."
Ryd was nearly sober. And wholly terrified. He got out chokingly,
"What's that mean?"
"The power shell—isn't coming in as planned."
"You can't do that."
" We can," said Mury with a heavy accent on the first word. "And there are fifty thousand credits in it for you, Ryd. Are you with us?"
Suspicion was chill reality now in Ryd's mind. And he knew one thing certainly—if he refused now to accompany Mury, he would be killed, by this man or another of his kind. For the secret power known only as We never took chances. Whispered-of, terrible, and world-embracing, desperate upshot of the times in its principles of dynamitism, war, and panclasm—that was We .
The question hung in the air for a long moment. Then Ryd, with an effort, said, "Sure." A moment later it struck him that the monosyllabic assent was suspicious; he added quickly, "I got nothing to lose, see?" It was, he realized, the cold truth.
"You won't lose," said Mury. He seemed to relax. But the menace with which he had clothed himself clung, as he turned back on the way they had come.
Ryd followed dog-like, his feet in their worn shoes moving without his volition. He was frightened. Out of his very fright came a longing to placate Mury, assure him that he, Ryd, was on the same side whatever happened....
After some steps he stole a sidelong glance at his tall companion, and whined, "Where ... where we going now?"
Mury paused in his long stride, removed a hand from a pocket of the gray topcoat that wrapped him as in somber thoughts. Wordlessly, he pointed as Ryd had known he would—toward where a pale man-made dawn seemed breaking over Pi Mesa.
II
"One blow for freedom!" said Mury with caught breath. His voice fell upon air scarcely stilled since the sodden thump of the blow that had killed the guard.
The body lay between them, face down on the graveled way in the inky moon-shadow. On one side Pi Mesa stretched away two hundred yards to drop sharply into the night; on the other was the unlighted mass of the long, continuous, low buildings that housed now unused fuel pumps and servicing equipment. Looking down at the dead huddle at his feet, a little stunned by the reality of this, Ryd knew that he was in it now. He was caught in the machinery.
Mury hefted the length of steel in his hand once more, as if testing the weight that had crushed a man's skull so easily. Then, with a short wrist-flip, he sent it flying into the dried weeds which had over-grown the aero field on the mesa's rim during the summer months after State order had grounded all fliers in America.
"All right, Ryd," he said coolly. "Trade clothes with this fellow. I've brought you this far—you're taking me the rest of the way."
The rest of the way.
Ryd was still panting, and his side was paining from the strenuous exertion of the long climb up the side of the mountain, far from the guarded highway. His fingers, numbed by the cold of the high, thin air, shook as he knelt and fumbled with the zippers of the dead guard's uniform. The belted gun, however, was heavy and oddly comforting as he clumsily buckled it about his hips. He knew enough of weapons to recognize this as, not the usual paralyzer, but a flame pistol, powerful and deadly. He let his hand linger on its butt; then strong fingers tightened on his bony wrist, and he looked up with a start into the sardonic black eyes of the Panclast.
"No use now for firearms," said Mury. "All the guns we could carry wouldn't help us if we were caught out there. That gun is just a stage property for the little play we're going to give in about three minutes—when you'll act a guardsman escorting me, a Poligerent of Dynamopolis, aboard the towship Shahrazad ."
For a moment Ryd felt relief—he had hazily imagined that Mury's hatred of Mars and all things Martian might have led him to try to sabotage the Martian warship which lay somewhere on the runways beyond the long, low buildings, and which would be closely guarded. But the towship would also be guarded ... he shivered in the cold, dry night air.
Mury had melted into the shadow a few yards away. There was a light scraping, then a green flame sputtered, briefly lighting up his hands and face, and narrowing at once to a thin, singing needle of light. He had turned a pocket electron torch against the lock-mechanism of a small, disused metal door.
Ryd watched in painful suspense. There was no sound in his ears save for the hard, dry shrilling of the ray as it bit into the steel. It seemed to be crying: run, run —but he remembered the power that knew how to punish better than the law, and stood still, shivering.
The lock gave way and the door slipped aside. A light went on inside, and Ryd's heart stopped, backfired, and started again, raggedly. The same automatic mechanism that had turned the lights on had started the air-fresher, which picked up speed with a soft whine, sweeping out the long-stale atmosphere. Mury motioned to Ryd to follow him in.
It was still musty in the narrow passage, between the closely-pressing walls, beneath the great tubes and cable sheathings that fluted the ceiling overhead. A stairway spiraled up on the right to the control cupola somewhere overhead; even in the airtight gallery a thin film of dust lay on every step. Up there were the meters and switches of the disused terminal facilities of the spaceport; beyond the metal door marked CAUTION, just beyond the stairwell, lay the long runway down which the ships of space had glided to be serviced, refueled, and launched into the sky once more by now dormant machines.
"Wait," said Mury succinctly; he vanished up the spiral stair, his long legs taking two steps at a time. After an aching minute's silence, he was back. All was clear as seen from the turret-windows overhead.
They emerged in shadow, hugging the wall. Almost a quarter of a mile to the right the megalith of the Communications Tower, crowned with many lights where the signal-men sat godlike in its summit. Its floodlights shed a vast oval of light out over the mesa, where the mile-long runways—no longer polished mirror-like as in the days of Dynamopolis' glory—stretched away into the darkness of the table land. A handful of odd ships—mere remnant of the hundreds that Pi Mesa port had berthed—huddled under the solenoid wickets, as if driven together by the chill of the thin, knife-like wind that blew across the mesa.
As the two paced slowly across the runways, Ryd had a sense of protective isolation in the vast impersonality of the spaceport. Surely, in this Titanic desolation of metal slabs and flat-roofed buildings, dominated by the one great tower, total insignificance must mean safety for them.
And indeed no guard challenged them. There were armed men watching for all intruders out on the desert beyond the runways, but once inside, Ryd's borrowed blue seemed to serve as passport enough. Nonetheless, the passport's knees were shaking when they stood at last, inconspicuous still, at the shadowed base of the Communications Tower.
Not far off, a half-dozen dignitaries, huddled close together in the midst of these Cyclopean man-made things that dwarfed their policies, their principles and ambitions, stood talking rather nervously with two officers, aristocratically gaudy in the scarlet of the Martian Fleet. Blue-clad guardsmen of Earth watched from a distance—watched boredly enough.
And out on the steel-stripped tarmac, under the solenoid of Number Two Runway, lay a towship, backed like a stegosaur with its massive magnets—the Shahrazad , panting like a dragon amid rolling clouds of steam. She was plainly ready to go into space. The bottom dropped out of Ryd's stomach before he realized that a warning at least must be sounded before the ship could lift. But that might come any moment now.
"Relax," said Mury in a low voice. "Nothing's gone wrong. We'll be aboard the Shahrazad when she lifts." For a moment his black eyes shifted, hardening, toward Runway Four. The Martian warship lay there beyond the solenoid, a spiteful hundred-foot swordfish of steel, with blind gunvalves, row on row, along its sleek sides and turret-blisters. It had not yet been tugged onto the turntable; it could not be leaving again very soon, though Earth weight was undoubtedly incommoding its crew. About it a few figures stood that were stiffly erect and immobile, as tall as tall men. From head to toe they were scarlet.
"Robots!" gasped Ryd, clutching his companion's arm convulsively.
"Martian soldier robots!"
"They're unarmed, harmless. They aren't your police with built-in weapons. Only the humans are dangerous. But we've got to move. For God's sake, take it easy."
Ryd licked dry lips. "Are we going—out into space?"
"Where else?" said Mury.
The official-looking individual in the expensive topcoat and sport hat had reached the starboard airlock of the towship before anyone thought to question his authorization, escorted as he was by a blue-uniformed guardsman. When another sentry, pacing between runways a hundred yards from the squat space vessel, paused to wonder, it was—as it came about—just a little too late.
The guard turned and swung briskly off to intercept the oddly-behaving pair, hand crowding the butt of his pistol, for he was growing uneasy. His alarm mounted rapidly, till he nearly sprained an ankle in sprinting across the last of the two intervening runways, between the solenoid wickets. Those metal arches, crowding one on the other in perspective, formed a tunnel that effectively shielded the Shahrazad's airlocks from more distant view; the gang of notables attracted by the occasion was already being shepherded back to safety by the Communications guards, whose attention was thus well taken up.
The slight man in guardsman's blue glanced over his shoulder and vanished abruptly into the circular lock. His companion wheeled on the topmost step, looking down with some irritation on his unhandsome face, but with no apparent doubt of his command of the situation.
"Yes?" he inquired frostily.
"What goes on here?" snapped the guard, frowning at the tall figure silhouetted against the glow in the airlock. "The crew's signaled all aboard and the ship lifts in two minutes. You ought to be—"
"I am Semul Mury, Poligerent for the City of Dynamopolis," interrupted the tall man with asperity. "The City is naturally interested in the delivery of the power which will revivify our industries." He paused, sighed, shifting his weight to the next lower step of the gangway. "I suppose you'll want to re-check my credentials?"
The guard was somewhat confused; a Poligerent, in ninth-century bureaucracy, was a force to be reckoned with. But he contrived to nod with an appearance of brusqueness.
Fully expecting official papers, signed and garnished with all the pompous seals of a chartered metropolis, the guard was dazed to receive instead a terrific left-handed foul to the pit of the stomach, and as he reeled dizzily, retching and clawing for his gun, to find that gun no longer holstered but in the hand of the self-styled Poligerent, pointing at its licensed owner.
"I think," Mury said quietly, flexing his left wrist with care the while his right held the gun steady, "that you'd better come aboard with us."
The guard was not more cowardly than the run of politically-appointed civic guardsmen. But a flame gun kills more frightfully than the ancient electric chair. He complied, grasping the railing with both hands as he stumbled before Mury up the gangway—for he was still very sick indeed, wholly apart from his bewilderment, which was enormous.
Above, Ryd Randl waited in the lock, flattened against the curved wall, white and jittering. The inner door was shut, an impenetrable countersunk mirror of metal.
"Cover him, Ryd," ordered Mury flatly. In obedience Ryd lugged out the heavy flame pistol and pointed it; his finger was dangerously tremulous on the firing lever. He moistened his lips to voice his fears; but Mury, pocketing the other gun, threw the three-way switch on the side panel, the switch that should have controlled the inner lock.
Nothing happened.
"Oh, God. We're caught. We're trapped!" The outer gangway had slid up, the lock wheezed shut, forming an impenetrable crypt of niosteel.
Mury smiled with supernal calm. "We won't be here long," he said. Then, to quiet Ryd's fears, he went on: "The central control panel and the three local switches inside, between, and outside the locks are on the circuit in that order. Unless the locks were closed from the switch just beyond the inner lock, that lock will open when the central control panel is cut out in preparation for lifting."
Almost as he paused and drew breath, a light sprang out over the switch he had closed and the inner lock swung silently free of its gaskets. Ryd felt a trembling relief; but Mury's voice lashed out like a whip as he slipped cat-like into the passage.
"Keep him covered. Back out of the lock."
Ryd backed—the white, tense face of the prisoner holding his own nervous gaze—and, almost out of the lock, stumbled over the metal pressure rings. And the gun was out of his unsure grip, clattering somewhere near his slithering feet, as he started to fall.
He saw the guardsman hurl himself forward; then he was flung spinning, back against the engine-room door. In a flash, even as he struggled to keep on his feet, he saw the man in the airlock coming up from a crouch, shifting the pistol in his right hand to reach its firing lever; he saw Mury sidestep swiftly and throw the master control switch outside.
The inner lock whooshed shut, barely missing Ryd. At the same instant, the flame gun lighted locks and passage with one terrific flash, and a scorched, discolored spot appeared on the beveled metal of the opposite lock a foot from Mury's right shoulder.
"You damned clumsy little fool—" said Mury with soft intensity. Then, while the air around the metal walls still buzzed and snapped with blue sparks, he whirled and went up the control-room gangway in two quick bounds. Even as he went the flame gun thundered again in the starboard airlock.
Mury was just in time, for the pilot had been about to flash "Ready" to the Communications Tower when the explosions had given him pause. But the latter and his two companions were neither ready nor armed; clamped in their seats at the controls, already marked, they were helpless in an instant before the leveled menace of the gun. And the imprisoned guardsman, having wasted most of his charges, was helpless, too, in his little cell of steel.
"It's been tried before," said one of the masked men. He had a blond, youthful thatch and a smooth healthy face below the mask, together with an astrogator's triangled stars which made him ex officio the brains of the vessel. "Stealing a ship—it can't be done any more."
"It's been done again," said Mury grimly. "And you don't know the half of it. But—you will. I'll need you. As for your friends—" The gun muzzle shifted slightly to indicate the pilot and the engineer. "Out of those clamps. You're going to ride this out in the portside airlock."
He had to repeat the command, in tones that snapped with menace, before they started with fumbling, rebellious hands to strip their armor from themselves. The burly engineer was muttering phrases of obscene fervor; the weedy young pilot was wild-eyed. The blond astrogator, sitting still masked and apparently unmoved, demanded:
"What do you think you're trying to do?"
"What do you think?" demanded Mury in return. "I'm taking the ship into space. On schedule and on course—to meet the power shell." The flame gun moved with a jerk. "And as for you—what's your name?"
"Yet Arliess."
"You want to make the trip alive, don't you, Yet Arliess?"
The young astrogator stared at him and at the gun through masking goggles; then he sank into his seat with a slow shudder. "Why, yes," he said as if in wonder, "I do."
III
Shahrazad drove steadily forward into deep space, vibrating slightly to the tremendous thrust of her powerful engines. The small, cramped cabin was stiflingly hot to the three armored men who sat before its banked dials, watching their steady needles.
Ryd had blacked out, darkness washing into his eyes and consciousness draining from his head, as the space ship had pitched out into emptiness over the end of the runway on Pi Mesa and Mury had cut in the maindrive. Pressure greater than anything he had ever felt had crushed him; his voice had been snatched from his lips by those terrible forces and lost beneath the opening thunder of the three-inch tubes. Up and up, while the acceleration climbed to seven gravities—and Ryd had lost every sensation, not to regain them until Earth was dropping away under the towship's keel.
A single gravity held them back and down in the tilted seats, and the control panels seemed to curve half above them, their banks of lights confused with the stars coldly through the great nose window. In the control room all sounds impinged on a background made up of the insect hum of air-purifiers, the almost supersonic whine of the fast-spinning gyroscopes somewhere behind them, the deep continuous growl of the engines.
Mury's voice broke through that steady murmur, coming from Ryd's right.
"You can unfasten your anticlamps, Ryd," he said dryly. "That doesn't mean you," to the young navigator, on his other hand as he sat in the pilot's seat with his pressure-clamps thrown back and his gloved hands free to caress the multiplex controls before him. Clipped to the sloping dash at his left elbow was a loaded flame gun.
Ryd emerged, with much bungling, from his padded clamps, and shook his head groggily as he ran a hand through his slightly thinning hair. He ventured shakily, "Where are we?"
Mury smiled slightly. "Only our astrogator," he indicated Arliess, still masked and fettered, "can tell you that with precision. I understand only enough of astrogational practice to make sure that he is holding to the course outlined on the log. For that matter ... he is an intelligent young man and if he were not blinded by notions of duty to an outworn system.... We are now somewhere near the orbit of the Moon. Isn't that right, Arliess?"
The other did not seem to hear; he sat staring blindly before him through his goggles at the slowly-changing chart, where cryptic lights burned, some moving like glowing paramecia along fine-traced luminous tracks.
Mury too sat silent and immobile for a minute or more. Then, abruptly, he inclined his universal chair far to the right, and his long frame seemed to tense oddly. His finger stabbed out one of the sparks of light.
"What's that, Arliess?"
The astrogator broke his silence. "A ship."
"I know that well enough. What ship?"
"I supposed you had examined the log. It would have told you that that's the liner Alborak , out of Aeropolis with a diplomatic mission for Mars."
Mury shook his head regretfully. "That won't wash, Arliess. Even if you suppose her off course, no liner aspace ever carried a tenth of that drive."
"I don't know what you're talking about," said Arliess. But his voice was raw and unsteady.
"I'm talking about this. That ship is a warship, and it's looking for us—will intercept us inside of twenty minutes at the most!"
Question:
Why are so many Earthmen desolate?
Answer:
|
[
"The Earthmen are desolate because their ability to support themselves has been taken away by the people in power. Like many others, Ryd was a helio engineer, and he made a good living in the North American city of Dynamopolis. However, about a decade ago, all of the buildings were shuttered, and the Port of Ten Thousand Ships, Pi Mesa, was essentially closed. The people who live in Dynamopolis were actually luckier than other Terrestrials because theirs was the final port to close. \nThe people in charge discovered that Mars has a thinner atmosphere, and they decided to move all of the work to the red planet. However, they did not transport the Terrestrials to a new land and give them an opportunity to continue working. Instead, they created robots who could easily do the humans’ jobs for a lot less money. \nElectricity is hard to come by on Dynamopolis, and the energy that is left goes to Pi Mesa. Although people like the local bartender, Burshis, believe the people in power when they say that energy will soon be restored when the power cylinder is brought to Earth, others, like Mury and Ryd, are much more skeptical. They see the writing on the wall: the Terrestrials will continue to be used and abused, and all of the much-needed resources will go towards Mars, the new frontier. \n",
"Many Earthmen are desolate because the economy is so bad. Many of them lost their jobs up to a decade ago and have not been able to find work since then. Many businesses are shut down since they don’t have the power to operate. Many of the men in the bar must be homeless as Ryd thinks to himself that Burshis’ bar is one of the few open places, and approximately half of the men inside are asleep on the tables or on the floor to get out of the cold so they don’t freeze to death. The loss of power occurred because helio-dynamic engines worked so much better in the Martian atmosphere and because robot labor made Mars fully independent economically. Furthermore, the government issued the Restriction Act to keep Earthmen on Earth and prevent them from moving to Mars or elsewhere to seek employment. The men in charge of Earth’s governments have also made a deal with Mars for the power cell to restore power to Earth, but in exchange, Earth will be a Martian colony, making Earthmen slaves to Martians for all practical purposes.",
"They do not have jobs and the planet appears to be totally reliant on the aid being provided by Mars. Since the planet Earth was sold to Mars, they have become a colony to Mars. Some people on Earth (represented by Mury) are of the opinion that Earth’s government is not acting in a way that benefits their lives, thus leaving them in desolation because the current relationship between the planets allows Mars to pay people from Earth extremely low wages.\n",
"Although it was originally the largest power center, lack of resources, funding, and jobs have led Dynamopolis down a dark path. Many people were laid off as the power plants shut down, including the 809 shutdown of the Power Company of North America. \nThe space station, landing pad, and runway hovers above Dynamopolis. Pi Mesa is the only working spaceport in Dynamopolis. \nThe lack of power and the Restriction Act forced everything to stop. Earthmen weren’t allowed to go to Mars, even though they had full economic independence and the space to support them. So, now Dynamopolis is making a deal with Mars: power for labor. After losing all their jobs (a power center with no power), it was no wonder that the earthmen wound up in the situation that they did. \n"
] |
62997
|
Saboteur of Space
By ROBERT ABERNATHY
Fresh power was coming to Earth, energy which would bring life to a dying planet. Only two men stood in its way, one a cowardly rat, the other a murderous martyr; both pawns in a cosmic game where death moved his chessmen of fate—and even the winner would lose.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Ryd Randl stood, slouching a little, in the darkened footway, and watched the sky over Dynamopolis come alive with searchlights. The shuttered glow of Burshis' Stumble Inn was only a few yards off to his right, but even that lodestone failed before the novel interest of a ship about to ground in the one-time Port of Ten Thousand Ships.
Now he made out the flicker of the braking drive a mile or so overhead, and presently soft motor thunder came down to blanket the almost lightless city with sound. A beam swayed through the throbbing darkness, caught the descending ship and held it, a small gleaming minnow slipping through the dark heavens. A faint glow rose from Pi Mesa, where the spaceport lay above the city, as a runway lighted up—draining the last reserves of the city's stored power, but draining them gladly now that, in those autumn days of the historic year 819, relief was in sight.
Ryd shrugged limply; the play was meaningless to him. He turned to shuffle down the inviting ramp into the glowing interior of Burshis' dive.
The place was crowded with men and smoke. Perhaps half the former were asleep, on tables or on the floor; but for the few places like Burshis' which were still open under the power shortage, many would have frozen, these days, in the chilly nights at fourteen thousand feet. For Dynamopolis sprawled atop the world, now as in the old days when it had been built to be the power center of North America.
The rocket blasts crescendoed and died up on Pi Mesa as Ryd wedged himself with difficulty into the group along the bar. If anyone recognized him, they showed it only by looking fixedly at something else. Only Burshis Yuns kept his static smile and nodded with surprising friendliness at Ryd's pinched, old-young face.
Ryd was startled by the nod. Burshis finished serving another customer and maneuvered down the stained chrome-and-synthyl bar. Ryd was heartened.
"Say, Burshis," he started nervously, as the bulky man halted with his back to him. But Burshis turned, still smiling, shaking his head so that his jowls quivered.
"No loans," he said flatly. "But just one on the house, Ryd."
The drink almost spilled itself in Ryd's hand. Clutching it convulsively, he made his eyes narrow and said suspiciously, "What you setting 'em up for, Burshis? It's the first time since—"
Burshis' smile stayed put. He said affably, "Didn't you hear that ship that just came down on the Mesa? That was the ship from Mars—the escort they were sending with the power cylinder. The power's coming in again." He turned to greet a coin-tapping newcomer, added over his shoulder: "You know what that means, Ryd. Some life around here again. Jobs for all the bums in this town—even for you."
He left Ryd frowning, thinking fuzzily. A warming gulp seemed to clear his head. Jobs. So they thought they could put that over on him again, huh? Well, he'd show them. He was smart; he was a damn good helio man—no, that had been ten years ago. But now he was out of the habit of working, anyway. No job for Ryd Randl. They gave him one once and then took it away. He drank still more deeply.
The man on Ryd's immediate right leaned toward him. He laid a hand on his arm, gripping it hard, and said quietly: "So you're Ryd Randl."
Ryd had a bad moment before he saw that the face wasn't that of any plain-clothes man he knew. For that matter, it didn't belong to anybody he had ever known—an odd, big-boned face, strikingly ugly, with a beak-nose that was yet not too large for the hard jaw or too bleak for the thin mouth below it. An expensive transparent hat slanted over the face, and from its iridescent shadows gleamed eyes that were alert and almost frighteningly black. Ryd noted that the man wore a dark-gray cellotex of a sort rarely seen in joints like Burshis'.
"Suppose we step outside, Ryd. I'd like to talk to you."
"What's the idea?" demanded Ryd, his small store of natural courage floated to the top by alcohol.
The other seemed to realize that he was getting ahead of himself. He leaned back slightly, drew a deep breath, and said slowly and distinctly. "Would you care to make some money, my friend?"
" Huh? Why, yeh—I guess so—"
"Then come with me." The hand still on his arm was insistent. In his daze, Ryd let himself be drawn away from the bar into the sluggish crowd; then he suddenly remembered his unfinished drink, and made frantic gestures. Deliberately misunderstanding, the tall stranger fumbled briefly, tossed a coin on the counter-top, and hustled Ryd out, past the blue-and-gold-lit meloderge that was softly pouring out its endlessly changing music, through the swinging doors into the dark.
Outside, between lightless buildings, the still cold closed in on them. They kept walking—so fast that Ryd began to lose his breath, long-accustomed though his lungs were to the high, thin air.
"So you're Ryd Randl," repeated the stranger after a moment's silence.
"I might have known you. But I'd almost given up finding you tonight."
Ryd tried feebly to wrench free, stumbled. "Look," he gasped. "If you're a cop, say so!"
The other laughed shortly. "No. I'm just a man about to offer you a chance. For a come-back, Ryd—a chance to live again.... My name—you can call me Mury."
Ryd was voiceless. Something seemed increasingly ominous about the tall, spare man at his side. He wished himself back in Burshis' with his first free drink in a month. The thought of it brought tears to his eyes.
"How long have you been out of a job, Ryd?"
"Nine ... ten years. Say, what's it to you?"
"And why, Ryd?"
"Why...? Look, mister, I was a helio operator." He hunched his narrow shoulders and spread his hands in an habitual gesture of defeat. "Damn good one, too—I was a foreman ten years ago. But I don't have the physique for Mars—I might just have made it then , but I thought the plant was going to open again and—"
And that was it. The almost airless Martian sky, with its burning actinic rays, is so favorable for the use of the helio-dynamic engine. And after the middle of the eighth century, robot labor gave Mars its full economic independence—and domination. For power is—power; and there is the Restriction Act to keep men on Earth even if more than two in ten could live healthily on the outer world.
"Ten years ago," Mury nodded as if satisfied. "That must have been the Power Company of North America—the main plant by Dynamopolis itself, that shut down in December, 809. They were the last to close down outside the military bases in the Kun Lun."
Ryd was pacing beside him now. He felt a queer upsurge of confidence in this strange man; for too long he had met no sympathy and all too few men who talked his language. He burst out: "They wouldn't take me, damn them! Said my record wasn't good enough for them. That is, I didn't have a drag with any of the Poligerents."
"I know all about your record," said Mury softly.
Ryd's suspicions came back abruptly, and he reverted to his old kicked-dog manner. "How do you know? And what's it to you?"
All at once, Mury came to a stop, and swung around to face him squarely, hard eyes compelling. They were on an overpass, not far from where the vast, almost wholly deserted offices of the Triplanet Freighting Company sprawled over a square mile of city. A half-smile twisted Mury's thin lips.
"Don't misunderstand me, Ryd—you mean nothing at all to me as an individual. But you're one of a vast mass of men for whom I am working—the billions caught in the net of a corrupt government and sold as an economic prey to the ruthless masters of Mars. This, after they've borne all the hardships of a year of embargo, have offered their hands willingly to the rebuilding of decadent Earth, only to be refused by the weak leaders who can neither defy the enemy nor capitulate frankly to him."
Ryd was dazed. His mind had never been constructed to cope with such ideas and the past few years had not improved its capabilities. "Are you talking about the power cylinder?" he demanded blurrily.
Mury cast a glance toward the Milky Way as if to descry the Martian cargo projectile somewhere up among its countless lights. He said simply, "Yes."
"I don't get it," mumbled Ryd, frowning. He found words that he had heard somewhere a day or so before, in some bar or flophouse: "The power cylinder is going to be the salvation of Earth. It's a shot in the arm—no, right in the heart of Earth industry, here in Dynamopolis. It will turn the wheels and light the cities and—"
"To hell with that!" snapped Mury, suddenly savage. His hands came up slightly, the fingers flexing; then dropped back to his sides. "Don't you know you're repeating damnable lies?"
Ryd could only stare, cringing and bewildered. Mury went on with a passion shocking after his smooth calm:
"The power shell is aid, yes—but with what a price! It's the thirty pieces of silver for which the venal fools who rule our nations have sold the whole planet to Mars. Because they lack the courage and vision to retool Earth's plants and factories for the inescapable conflict, they're selling us out—making Earth, the first home of man, a colony of the Red Planet. Do you know what Earth is to the great Martian land-owners? Do you? " He paused out of breath; then finished venomously, "Earth is a great pool of labor ready to be tapped, cheaper than robots—cheap as slaves !"
"What about it?" gulped Ryd, drawing away from the fanatic. "What you want me to do about it?"
Mury took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. His face was once more bleakly impassive; only the mouth was an ugly line. "We're going to do something about it, you and I. Tonight. Now."
Ryd was nearly sober. And wholly terrified. He got out chokingly,
"What's that mean?"
"The power shell—isn't coming in as planned."
"You can't do that."
" We can," said Mury with a heavy accent on the first word. "And there are fifty thousand credits in it for you, Ryd. Are you with us?"
Suspicion was chill reality now in Ryd's mind. And he knew one thing certainly—if he refused now to accompany Mury, he would be killed, by this man or another of his kind. For the secret power known only as We never took chances. Whispered-of, terrible, and world-embracing, desperate upshot of the times in its principles of dynamitism, war, and panclasm—that was We .
The question hung in the air for a long moment. Then Ryd, with an effort, said, "Sure." A moment later it struck him that the monosyllabic assent was suspicious; he added quickly, "I got nothing to lose, see?" It was, he realized, the cold truth.
"You won't lose," said Mury. He seemed to relax. But the menace with which he had clothed himself clung, as he turned back on the way they had come.
Ryd followed dog-like, his feet in their worn shoes moving without his volition. He was frightened. Out of his very fright came a longing to placate Mury, assure him that he, Ryd, was on the same side whatever happened....
After some steps he stole a sidelong glance at his tall companion, and whined, "Where ... where we going now?"
Mury paused in his long stride, removed a hand from a pocket of the gray topcoat that wrapped him as in somber thoughts. Wordlessly, he pointed as Ryd had known he would—toward where a pale man-made dawn seemed breaking over Pi Mesa.
II
"One blow for freedom!" said Mury with caught breath. His voice fell upon air scarcely stilled since the sodden thump of the blow that had killed the guard.
The body lay between them, face down on the graveled way in the inky moon-shadow. On one side Pi Mesa stretched away two hundred yards to drop sharply into the night; on the other was the unlighted mass of the long, continuous, low buildings that housed now unused fuel pumps and servicing equipment. Looking down at the dead huddle at his feet, a little stunned by the reality of this, Ryd knew that he was in it now. He was caught in the machinery.
Mury hefted the length of steel in his hand once more, as if testing the weight that had crushed a man's skull so easily. Then, with a short wrist-flip, he sent it flying into the dried weeds which had over-grown the aero field on the mesa's rim during the summer months after State order had grounded all fliers in America.
"All right, Ryd," he said coolly. "Trade clothes with this fellow. I've brought you this far—you're taking me the rest of the way."
The rest of the way.
Ryd was still panting, and his side was paining from the strenuous exertion of the long climb up the side of the mountain, far from the guarded highway. His fingers, numbed by the cold of the high, thin air, shook as he knelt and fumbled with the zippers of the dead guard's uniform. The belted gun, however, was heavy and oddly comforting as he clumsily buckled it about his hips. He knew enough of weapons to recognize this as, not the usual paralyzer, but a flame pistol, powerful and deadly. He let his hand linger on its butt; then strong fingers tightened on his bony wrist, and he looked up with a start into the sardonic black eyes of the Panclast.
"No use now for firearms," said Mury. "All the guns we could carry wouldn't help us if we were caught out there. That gun is just a stage property for the little play we're going to give in about three minutes—when you'll act a guardsman escorting me, a Poligerent of Dynamopolis, aboard the towship Shahrazad ."
For a moment Ryd felt relief—he had hazily imagined that Mury's hatred of Mars and all things Martian might have led him to try to sabotage the Martian warship which lay somewhere on the runways beyond the long, low buildings, and which would be closely guarded. But the towship would also be guarded ... he shivered in the cold, dry night air.
Mury had melted into the shadow a few yards away. There was a light scraping, then a green flame sputtered, briefly lighting up his hands and face, and narrowing at once to a thin, singing needle of light. He had turned a pocket electron torch against the lock-mechanism of a small, disused metal door.
Ryd watched in painful suspense. There was no sound in his ears save for the hard, dry shrilling of the ray as it bit into the steel. It seemed to be crying: run, run —but he remembered the power that knew how to punish better than the law, and stood still, shivering.
The lock gave way and the door slipped aside. A light went on inside, and Ryd's heart stopped, backfired, and started again, raggedly. The same automatic mechanism that had turned the lights on had started the air-fresher, which picked up speed with a soft whine, sweeping out the long-stale atmosphere. Mury motioned to Ryd to follow him in.
It was still musty in the narrow passage, between the closely-pressing walls, beneath the great tubes and cable sheathings that fluted the ceiling overhead. A stairway spiraled up on the right to the control cupola somewhere overhead; even in the airtight gallery a thin film of dust lay on every step. Up there were the meters and switches of the disused terminal facilities of the spaceport; beyond the metal door marked CAUTION, just beyond the stairwell, lay the long runway down which the ships of space had glided to be serviced, refueled, and launched into the sky once more by now dormant machines.
"Wait," said Mury succinctly; he vanished up the spiral stair, his long legs taking two steps at a time. After an aching minute's silence, he was back. All was clear as seen from the turret-windows overhead.
They emerged in shadow, hugging the wall. Almost a quarter of a mile to the right the megalith of the Communications Tower, crowned with many lights where the signal-men sat godlike in its summit. Its floodlights shed a vast oval of light out over the mesa, where the mile-long runways—no longer polished mirror-like as in the days of Dynamopolis' glory—stretched away into the darkness of the table land. A handful of odd ships—mere remnant of the hundreds that Pi Mesa port had berthed—huddled under the solenoid wickets, as if driven together by the chill of the thin, knife-like wind that blew across the mesa.
As the two paced slowly across the runways, Ryd had a sense of protective isolation in the vast impersonality of the spaceport. Surely, in this Titanic desolation of metal slabs and flat-roofed buildings, dominated by the one great tower, total insignificance must mean safety for them.
And indeed no guard challenged them. There were armed men watching for all intruders out on the desert beyond the runways, but once inside, Ryd's borrowed blue seemed to serve as passport enough. Nonetheless, the passport's knees were shaking when they stood at last, inconspicuous still, at the shadowed base of the Communications Tower.
Not far off, a half-dozen dignitaries, huddled close together in the midst of these Cyclopean man-made things that dwarfed their policies, their principles and ambitions, stood talking rather nervously with two officers, aristocratically gaudy in the scarlet of the Martian Fleet. Blue-clad guardsmen of Earth watched from a distance—watched boredly enough.
And out on the steel-stripped tarmac, under the solenoid of Number Two Runway, lay a towship, backed like a stegosaur with its massive magnets—the Shahrazad , panting like a dragon amid rolling clouds of steam. She was plainly ready to go into space. The bottom dropped out of Ryd's stomach before he realized that a warning at least must be sounded before the ship could lift. But that might come any moment now.
"Relax," said Mury in a low voice. "Nothing's gone wrong. We'll be aboard the Shahrazad when she lifts." For a moment his black eyes shifted, hardening, toward Runway Four. The Martian warship lay there beyond the solenoid, a spiteful hundred-foot swordfish of steel, with blind gunvalves, row on row, along its sleek sides and turret-blisters. It had not yet been tugged onto the turntable; it could not be leaving again very soon, though Earth weight was undoubtedly incommoding its crew. About it a few figures stood that were stiffly erect and immobile, as tall as tall men. From head to toe they were scarlet.
"Robots!" gasped Ryd, clutching his companion's arm convulsively.
"Martian soldier robots!"
"They're unarmed, harmless. They aren't your police with built-in weapons. Only the humans are dangerous. But we've got to move. For God's sake, take it easy."
Ryd licked dry lips. "Are we going—out into space?"
"Where else?" said Mury.
The official-looking individual in the expensive topcoat and sport hat had reached the starboard airlock of the towship before anyone thought to question his authorization, escorted as he was by a blue-uniformed guardsman. When another sentry, pacing between runways a hundred yards from the squat space vessel, paused to wonder, it was—as it came about—just a little too late.
The guard turned and swung briskly off to intercept the oddly-behaving pair, hand crowding the butt of his pistol, for he was growing uneasy. His alarm mounted rapidly, till he nearly sprained an ankle in sprinting across the last of the two intervening runways, between the solenoid wickets. Those metal arches, crowding one on the other in perspective, formed a tunnel that effectively shielded the Shahrazad's airlocks from more distant view; the gang of notables attracted by the occasion was already being shepherded back to safety by the Communications guards, whose attention was thus well taken up.
The slight man in guardsman's blue glanced over his shoulder and vanished abruptly into the circular lock. His companion wheeled on the topmost step, looking down with some irritation on his unhandsome face, but with no apparent doubt of his command of the situation.
"Yes?" he inquired frostily.
"What goes on here?" snapped the guard, frowning at the tall figure silhouetted against the glow in the airlock. "The crew's signaled all aboard and the ship lifts in two minutes. You ought to be—"
"I am Semul Mury, Poligerent for the City of Dynamopolis," interrupted the tall man with asperity. "The City is naturally interested in the delivery of the power which will revivify our industries." He paused, sighed, shifting his weight to the next lower step of the gangway. "I suppose you'll want to re-check my credentials?"
The guard was somewhat confused; a Poligerent, in ninth-century bureaucracy, was a force to be reckoned with. But he contrived to nod with an appearance of brusqueness.
Fully expecting official papers, signed and garnished with all the pompous seals of a chartered metropolis, the guard was dazed to receive instead a terrific left-handed foul to the pit of the stomach, and as he reeled dizzily, retching and clawing for his gun, to find that gun no longer holstered but in the hand of the self-styled Poligerent, pointing at its licensed owner.
"I think," Mury said quietly, flexing his left wrist with care the while his right held the gun steady, "that you'd better come aboard with us."
The guard was not more cowardly than the run of politically-appointed civic guardsmen. But a flame gun kills more frightfully than the ancient electric chair. He complied, grasping the railing with both hands as he stumbled before Mury up the gangway—for he was still very sick indeed, wholly apart from his bewilderment, which was enormous.
Above, Ryd Randl waited in the lock, flattened against the curved wall, white and jittering. The inner door was shut, an impenetrable countersunk mirror of metal.
"Cover him, Ryd," ordered Mury flatly. In obedience Ryd lugged out the heavy flame pistol and pointed it; his finger was dangerously tremulous on the firing lever. He moistened his lips to voice his fears; but Mury, pocketing the other gun, threw the three-way switch on the side panel, the switch that should have controlled the inner lock.
Nothing happened.
"Oh, God. We're caught. We're trapped!" The outer gangway had slid up, the lock wheezed shut, forming an impenetrable crypt of niosteel.
Mury smiled with supernal calm. "We won't be here long," he said. Then, to quiet Ryd's fears, he went on: "The central control panel and the three local switches inside, between, and outside the locks are on the circuit in that order. Unless the locks were closed from the switch just beyond the inner lock, that lock will open when the central control panel is cut out in preparation for lifting."
Almost as he paused and drew breath, a light sprang out over the switch he had closed and the inner lock swung silently free of its gaskets. Ryd felt a trembling relief; but Mury's voice lashed out like a whip as he slipped cat-like into the passage.
"Keep him covered. Back out of the lock."
Ryd backed—the white, tense face of the prisoner holding his own nervous gaze—and, almost out of the lock, stumbled over the metal pressure rings. And the gun was out of his unsure grip, clattering somewhere near his slithering feet, as he started to fall.
He saw the guardsman hurl himself forward; then he was flung spinning, back against the engine-room door. In a flash, even as he struggled to keep on his feet, he saw the man in the airlock coming up from a crouch, shifting the pistol in his right hand to reach its firing lever; he saw Mury sidestep swiftly and throw the master control switch outside.
The inner lock whooshed shut, barely missing Ryd. At the same instant, the flame gun lighted locks and passage with one terrific flash, and a scorched, discolored spot appeared on the beveled metal of the opposite lock a foot from Mury's right shoulder.
"You damned clumsy little fool—" said Mury with soft intensity. Then, while the air around the metal walls still buzzed and snapped with blue sparks, he whirled and went up the control-room gangway in two quick bounds. Even as he went the flame gun thundered again in the starboard airlock.
Mury was just in time, for the pilot had been about to flash "Ready" to the Communications Tower when the explosions had given him pause. But the latter and his two companions were neither ready nor armed; clamped in their seats at the controls, already marked, they were helpless in an instant before the leveled menace of the gun. And the imprisoned guardsman, having wasted most of his charges, was helpless, too, in his little cell of steel.
"It's been tried before," said one of the masked men. He had a blond, youthful thatch and a smooth healthy face below the mask, together with an astrogator's triangled stars which made him ex officio the brains of the vessel. "Stealing a ship—it can't be done any more."
"It's been done again," said Mury grimly. "And you don't know the half of it. But—you will. I'll need you. As for your friends—" The gun muzzle shifted slightly to indicate the pilot and the engineer. "Out of those clamps. You're going to ride this out in the portside airlock."
He had to repeat the command, in tones that snapped with menace, before they started with fumbling, rebellious hands to strip their armor from themselves. The burly engineer was muttering phrases of obscene fervor; the weedy young pilot was wild-eyed. The blond astrogator, sitting still masked and apparently unmoved, demanded:
"What do you think you're trying to do?"
"What do you think?" demanded Mury in return. "I'm taking the ship into space. On schedule and on course—to meet the power shell." The flame gun moved with a jerk. "And as for you—what's your name?"
"Yet Arliess."
"You want to make the trip alive, don't you, Yet Arliess?"
The young astrogator stared at him and at the gun through masking goggles; then he sank into his seat with a slow shudder. "Why, yes," he said as if in wonder, "I do."
III
Shahrazad drove steadily forward into deep space, vibrating slightly to the tremendous thrust of her powerful engines. The small, cramped cabin was stiflingly hot to the three armored men who sat before its banked dials, watching their steady needles.
Ryd had blacked out, darkness washing into his eyes and consciousness draining from his head, as the space ship had pitched out into emptiness over the end of the runway on Pi Mesa and Mury had cut in the maindrive. Pressure greater than anything he had ever felt had crushed him; his voice had been snatched from his lips by those terrible forces and lost beneath the opening thunder of the three-inch tubes. Up and up, while the acceleration climbed to seven gravities—and Ryd had lost every sensation, not to regain them until Earth was dropping away under the towship's keel.
A single gravity held them back and down in the tilted seats, and the control panels seemed to curve half above them, their banks of lights confused with the stars coldly through the great nose window. In the control room all sounds impinged on a background made up of the insect hum of air-purifiers, the almost supersonic whine of the fast-spinning gyroscopes somewhere behind them, the deep continuous growl of the engines.
Mury's voice broke through that steady murmur, coming from Ryd's right.
"You can unfasten your anticlamps, Ryd," he said dryly. "That doesn't mean you," to the young navigator, on his other hand as he sat in the pilot's seat with his pressure-clamps thrown back and his gloved hands free to caress the multiplex controls before him. Clipped to the sloping dash at his left elbow was a loaded flame gun.
Ryd emerged, with much bungling, from his padded clamps, and shook his head groggily as he ran a hand through his slightly thinning hair. He ventured shakily, "Where are we?"
Mury smiled slightly. "Only our astrogator," he indicated Arliess, still masked and fettered, "can tell you that with precision. I understand only enough of astrogational practice to make sure that he is holding to the course outlined on the log. For that matter ... he is an intelligent young man and if he were not blinded by notions of duty to an outworn system.... We are now somewhere near the orbit of the Moon. Isn't that right, Arliess?"
The other did not seem to hear; he sat staring blindly before him through his goggles at the slowly-changing chart, where cryptic lights burned, some moving like glowing paramecia along fine-traced luminous tracks.
Mury too sat silent and immobile for a minute or more. Then, abruptly, he inclined his universal chair far to the right, and his long frame seemed to tense oddly. His finger stabbed out one of the sparks of light.
"What's that, Arliess?"
The astrogator broke his silence. "A ship."
"I know that well enough. What ship?"
"I supposed you had examined the log. It would have told you that that's the liner Alborak , out of Aeropolis with a diplomatic mission for Mars."
Mury shook his head regretfully. "That won't wash, Arliess. Even if you suppose her off course, no liner aspace ever carried a tenth of that drive."
"I don't know what you're talking about," said Arliess. But his voice was raw and unsteady.
"I'm talking about this. That ship is a warship, and it's looking for us—will intercept us inside of twenty minutes at the most!"
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What is the plot of the story?
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After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about The Highest Mountain by Bryce Walton.
Relevant chunks:
THE HIGHEST MOUNTAIN
By BRYCE WALTON
Illustrated by BOB HAYES
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
First one up this tallest summit in the Solar System was a rotten egg ... a very rotten egg!
Bruce heard their feet on the gravel outside and got up reluctantly to open the door for them. He'd been reading some of Byron's poems he'd sneaked aboard the ship; after that he had been on the point of dozing off, and now one of those strangely realistic dreams would have to be postponed for a while. Funny, those dreams. There were faces in them of human beings, or of ghosts, and other forms that weren't human at all, but seemed real and alive—except that they were also just parts of a last unconscious desire to escape death. Maybe that was it.
"'Oh that my young life were a lasting dream, my spirit not awakening till the beam of an eternity should bring the 'morrow," Bruce said. He smiled without feeling much of anything and added, "Thanks, Mr. Poe."
Jacobs and Anhauser stood outside. The icy wind cut through and into Bruce, but he didn't seem to notice. Anhauser's bulk loomed even larger in the special cold-resisting suiting. Jacobs' thin face frowned slyly at Bruce.
"Come on in, boys, and get warm," Bruce invited.
"Hey, poet, you're still here!" Anhauser said, looking astonished.
"We thought you'd be running off somewhere," Jacobs said.
Bruce reached for the suit on its hook, started climbing into it.
"Where?" he asked. "Mars looks alike wherever you go. Where did you think I'd be running to?"
"Any place just so it was away from here and us," Anhauser said.
"I don't have to do that. You are going away from me. That takes care of that, doesn't it?"
"Ah, come on, get the hell out of there," Jacobs said. He pulled the revolver from its holster and pointed it at Bruce. "We got to get some sleep. We're starting up that mountain at five in the morning."
"I know," Bruce said. "I'll be glad to see you climb the mountain."
Outside, in the weird light of the double moons, Bruce looked up at the gigantic overhang of the mountain. It was unbelievable. The mountain didn't seem to belong here. He'd thought so when they'd first hit Mars eight months back and discovered the other four rockets that had never got back to Earth—all lying side by side under the mountain's shadow, like little white chalk marks on a tallyboard.
They'd estimated its height at over 45,000 feet, which was a lot higher than any mountain on Earth. Yet Mars was much older, geologically. The entire face of the planet was smoothed into soft, undulating red hills by erosion. And there in the middle of barren nothingness rose that one incredible mountain. On certain nights when the stars were right, it had seemed to Bruce as though it were pointing an accusing finger at Earth—or a warning one.
With Jacobs and Anhauser and the remainder of the crew of the ship, Mars V , seven judges sat in a semi-circle and Bruce stood there in front of them for the inquest.
In the middle of the half-moon of inquisition, with his long legs stretched out and his hands folded on his belly, sat Captain Terrence. His uniform was black. On his arm was the silver fist insignia of the Conqueror Corps. Marsha Rennels sat on the extreme right and now there was no emotion at all on her trim, neat face.
He remembered her as she had been years ago, but at the moment he wasn't looking very hard to see anything on her face. It was too late. They had gotten her young and it was too late.
Terrence's big, square face frowned a little. Bruce was aware suddenly of the sound of the bleak, never-ending wind against the plastilene shelter. He remembered the strange misty shapes that had come to him in his dreams, the voices that had called to him, and how disappointed he had been when he woke from them.
"This is a mere formality," Terrence finally said, "since we all know you killed Lieutenant Doran a few hours ago. Marsha saw you kill him. Whatever you say goes on the record, of course."
"For whom?" Bruce asked.
"What kind of question is that? For the authorities on Earth when we get back."
"When you get back? Like the crews of those other four ships out there?" Bruce laughed without much humor.
Terrence rubbed a palm across his lips, dropped the hand quickly again to his belly. "You want to make a statement or not? You shot Doran in the head with a rifle. No provocation for the attack. You've wasted enough of my time with your damn arguments and anti-social behavior. This is a democratic group. Everyone has his say. But you've said too much, and done too much. Freedom doesn't allow you to go around killing fellow crew-members!"
"Any idea that there was any democracy or freedom left died on Venus," Bruce said.
"Now we get another lecture!" Terrence exploded. He leaned forward.
"You're sick, Bruce. They did a bad psych job on you. They should never have sent you on this trip. We need strength, all the strength we can find. You don't belong here."
"I know," Bruce agreed indifferently. "I was drafted for this trip. I told them I shouldn't be brought along. I said I didn't want any part of it."
"Because you're afraid. You're not Conqueror material. That's why you backed down when we all voted to climb the mountain. And what the devil does Venus—?"
Max Drexel's freckles slipped into the creases across his high forehead. "Haven't you heard him expounding on the injustice done to the Venusian aborigines, Captain? If you haven't, you aren't thoroughly educated to the crackpot idealism still infecting certain people."
"I haven't heard it," Terrence admitted. "What injustice?"
Bruce said, "I guess it couldn't really be considered an injustice any longer. Values have changed too much. Doran and I were part of the crew of that first ship to hit Venus, five years ago. Remember? One of the New Era's more infamous dates. Drexel says the Venusians were aborigines. No one ever got a chance to find out. We ran into this village. No one knows how old it was. There were intelligent beings there. One community left on the whole planet, maybe a few thousand inhabitants. They made their last mistake when they came out to greet us. Without even an attempt at communication, they were wiped out. The village was burned and everything alive in it was destroyed."
Bruce felt the old weakness coming into his knees, the sweat beginning to run down his face. He took a deep breath and stood there before the cold nihilistic stares of fourteen eyes.
"No," Bruce said. "I apologize. None of you know what I'm talking about."
Terrence nodded. "You're psycho. It's as simple as that. They pick the most capable for these conquests. Even the flights are processes of elimination. Eventually we get the very best, the most resilient, the real conquering blood. You just don't pass, Bruce. Listen, what do you think gives you the right to stand here in judgment against the laws of the whole Solar System?"
"There are plenty on Earth who agree with me," Bruce said. "I can say what I think now because you can't do more than kill me and you'll do that regardless...."
He stopped. This was ridiculous, a waste of his time. And theirs. They had established a kind of final totalitarianism since the New Era. The psychologists, the Pavlovian Reflex boys, had done that. If you didn't want to be reconditioned to fit into the social machine like a human vacuum tube, you kept your mouth shut. And for many, when the mouth was kept shut long enough, the mind pretty well forgot what it had wanted to open the mouth for in the first place.
A minority in both segments of a world split into two factions. Both had been warring diplomatically and sometimes physically, for centuries, clung to old ideas of freedom, democracy, self-determinism, individualism. To most, the words had no meaning now. It was a question of which set of conquering heroes could conquer the most space first. So far, only Venus had fallen. They had done a good, thorough job there. Four ships had come to Mars and their crews had disappeared. This was the fifth attempt—
Terrence said, "why did you shoot Doran?"
"I didn't like him enough to take the nonsense he was handing me, and when he shot the—" Bruce hesitated.
"What? When he shot what?"
Bruce felt an odd tingling in his stomach. The wind's voice seemed to sharpen and rise to a kind of wail.
"All right, I'll tell you. I was sleeping, having a dream. Doran woke me up. Marsha was with him. I'd forgotten about that geological job we were supposed to be working on. I've had these dreams ever since we got here."
"What kind of dreams?"
Someone laughed.
"Just fantastic stuff. Ask your Pavlovian there," Bruce said. "People talk to me, and there are other things in the dreams. Voices and some kind of shapes that aren't what you would call human at all."
Someone coughed. There was obvious embarrassment in the room.
"It's peculiar, but many faces and voices are those of crew members of some of the ships out there, the ones that never got back to Earth."
Terrence grinned. "Ghosts, Bruce?"
"Maybe. This planet may not be a dead ball of clay. I've had a feeling there's something real in the dreams, but I can't figure it out. You're still interested?"
Terrence nodded and glanced to either side.
"We've seen no indication of any kind of life whatsoever," Bruce pointed out. "Not even an insect, or any kind of plant life except some fungi and lichen down in the crevices. That never seemed logical to me from the start. We've covered the planet everywhere except one place—"
"The mountain," Terrence said. "You've been afraid even to talk about scaling it."
"Not afraid," Bruce objected. "I don't see any need to climb it. Coming to Mars, conquering space, isn't that enough? It happens that the crew of the first ship here decided to climb the mountain, and that set a precedent. Every ship that has come here has had to climb it. Why? Because they had to accept the challenge. And what's happened to them? Like you, they all had the necessary equipment to make a successful climb, but no one's ever come back down. No contact with anything up there.
"Captain, I'm not accepting a ridiculous challenge like that. Why should I? I didn't come here to conquer anything, even a mountain. The challenge of coming to Mars, of going on to where ever you guys intend going before something bigger than you are stops you—it doesn't interest me."
"Nothing's bigger than the destiny of Earth!" Terrence said, sitting up straight and rigid.
"I know," Bruce said. "Anyway, I got off the track. As I was saying, I woke up from this dream and Marsha and Doran were there. Doran was shaking me. But I didn't seem to have gotten entirely awake; either that or some part of the dream was real, because I looked out the window—something was out there, looking at me. It was late, and at first I thought it might be a shadow. But it wasn't. It was misty, almost translucent, but I think it was something alive. I had a feeling it was intelligent, maybe very intelligent. I could feel something in my mind. A kind of beauty and softness and warmth. I kept looking—"
His throat was getting tight. He had difficulty talking. "Doran asked me what I was looking at, and I told him. He laughed. But he looked. Then I realized that maybe I wasn't still dreaming. Doran saw it, too, or thought he did. He kept looking and finally he jumped and grabbed up his rifle and ran outside. I yelled at him. I kept on yelling and ran after him. 'It's intelligent, whatever it is!' I kept saying. 'How do you know it means any harm?' But I heard Doran's rifle go off before I could get to him. And whatever it was we saw, I didn't see it any more. Neither did Doran. Maybe he killed it. I don't know. He had to kill it. That's the way you think."
"What? Explain that remark."
"That's the philosophy of conquest—don't take any chances with aliens. They might hinder our advance across the Universe. So we kill everything. Doran acted without thinking at all. Conditioned to kill everything that doesn't look like us. So I hit Doran and took the gun away from him and killed him. I felt sick, crazy with rage. Maybe that's part of it. All I know is that I thought he deserved to die and that I had to kill him, so I did."
"Is that all, Bruce?"
"That's about all. Except that I'd like to kill all of you. And I would if I had the chance."
"That's what I figured." Terrence turned to the psychologist, a small wiry man who sat there constantly fingering his ear. "Stromberg, what do you think of this gobbledegook? We know he's crazy. But what hit him? You said his record was good up until a year ago."
Stromberg's voice was monotonous, like a voice off of a tape.
"Schizophrenia with mingled delusions of persecution. The schizophrenia is caused by inner conflict—indecision between the older values and our present ones which he hasn't been able to accept. A complete case history would tell why he can't accept our present attitudes. I would say that he has an incipient fear of personal inadequacy, which is why he fears our desire for conquest. He's rationalized, built up a defense which he's structured with his idealism, foundationed with Old Era values. Retreat into the past, an escape from his own present feelings of inadequacy. Also, he escapes into these dream fantasies."
"Yes," Terrence said. "But how does that account for Doran's action? Doran must have seen something—"
"Doran's charts show high suggestibility under stress. Another weak personality eliminated. Let's regard it that way. He imagined he saw something." He glanced at Marsha. "Did you see anything?"
She hesitated, avoiding Bruce's eyes. "Nothing at all. There wasn't anything out there to see, except the dust and rocks. That's all there is to see here. We could stay a million years and never see anything else. A shadow maybe—"
"All right," Terrence interrupted. "Now, Bruce, you know the law regulating the treatment of serious psycho cases in space?"
"Yes. Execution."
"No facilities for handling such cases en route back to Earth."
"I understand. No apologies necessary, Captain."
Terrence shifted his position. "However, we've voted to grant you a kind of leniency. In exchange for a little further service from you, you can remain here on Mars after we leave. You'll be left food-concentrates to last a long time."
"What kind of service?"
"Stay by the radio and take down what we report as we go up the mountain."
"Why not?" Bruce said. "You aren't certain you're coming back, then?"
"We might not," Terrence admitted calmly. "Something's happened to the others. We're going to find out what and we want it recorded. None of us want to back down and stay here. You can take our reports as they come in."
"I'll do that," Bruce said. "It should be interesting."
Bruce watched them go, away and up and around the immediate face of the mountain in the bleak cold of the Martian morning. He watched them disappear behind a high ledge, tied together with plastic rope like convicts.
He stayed by the radio. He lost track of time and didn't care much if he did. Sometimes he took a heavy sedative and slept. The sedative prevented the dreams. He had an idea that the dreams might be so pleasant that he wouldn't wake up. He wanted to listen to Terrence as long as the captain had anything to say. It was nothing but curiosity.
At fifteen thousand feet, Terrence reported only that they were climbing.
At twenty thousand feet, Terrence said, "We're still climbing, and that's all I can report, Bruce. It's worth coming to Mars for—to accept a challenge like this!"
At twenty-five thousand feet, Terrence reported, "We've put on oxygen masks. Jacobs and Drexel have developed some kind of altitude sickness and we're taking a little time out. It's a magnificent sight up here. I can imagine plenty of tourists coming to Mars one of these days, just to climb this mountain! Mt. Everest is a pimple compared with this! What a feeling of power, Bruce!"
From forty thousand feet, Terrence said, "We gauged this mountain at forty-five thousand. But here we are at forty and there doesn't seem to be any top. We can see up and up and the mountain keeps on going. I don't understand how we could have made such an error in our computations. I talked with Burton. He doesn't see how a mountain this high could still be here when the rest of the planet has been worn so smooth."
And then from fifty-three thousand feet, Terrence said with a voice that seemed slightly strained: "No sign of any of the crew of the other four ships yet. Ten in each crew, that makes fifty. Not a sign of any of them so far, but then we seem to have a long way left to climb—"
Bruce listened and noted and took sedatives and opened cans of food concentrates. He smoked and ate and slept. He had plenty of time. He had only time and the dreams which he knew he could utilize later to take care of the time.
From sixty thousand feet, Terrence reported, "I had to shoot Anhauser a few minutes ago! He was dissenting. Hear that, Bruce? One of my most dependable men. We took a vote. A mere formality, of course, whether we should continue climbing or not. We knew we'd all vote to keep on climbing. And then Anhauser dissented. He was hysterical. He refused to accept the majority decision. 'I'm going back down!' he yelled. So I had to shoot him. Imagine a man of his apparent caliber turning anti-democratic like that! This mountain will be a great tester for us in the future. We'll test everybody, find out quickly who the weaklings are."
Bruce listened to the wind. It seemed to rise higher and higher. Terrence, who had climbed still higher, was calling. "Think of it! What a conquest! No man's ever done a thing like this. Like Stromberg says, it's symbolic! We can build spaceships and reach other planets, but that's not actual physical conquest. We feel like gods up here. We can see what we are now. We can see how it's going to be—"
Once in a while Terrence demanded that Bruce say something to prove he was still there taking down what Terrence said. Bruce obliged. A long time passed, the way time does when no one cares. Bruce stopped taking the sedatives finally. The dreams came back and became, somehow, more real each time. He needed the companionship of the dreams.
It was very lonely sitting there without the dreams, with nothing but Terrence's voice ranting excitedly on and on. Terrence didn't seem real any more; certainly not as real as the dreams.
The problem of where to put the line between dream and reality began to worry Bruce. He would wake up and listen and take down what Terrence was saying, and then go to sleep again with increasing expectancy. His dream took on continuity. He could return to the point where he had left it, and it was the same—allowing even for the time difference necessitated by his periods of sleep.
He met people in the dreams, two girls and a man. They had names: Pietro, Marlene, Helene.
Helene he had seen from the beginning, but she became more real to him all the time, until he could talk with her. After that, he could also talk with Marlene and Pietro, and the conversations made sense. Consistently, they made sense.
The Martian landscape was entirely different in the dreams. Green valleys and rivers, or actually wide canals, with odd trees trailing their branches on the slow, peacefully gliding currents. Here and there were pastel-colored cities and there were things drifting through them that were alive and intelligent and soft and warm and wonderful to know.
' ... dreams, in their vivid coloring of life, as in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife of semblance with reality which brings to the delirious eye more lovely things of paradise and love—and all our own!—than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known.... '
So sometimes he read poetry, but even that was hardly equal to the dreams.
And then he would wake up and listen to Terrence's voice. He would look out the window over the barren frigid land where there was nothing but seams of worn land, like scabs under the brazen sky.
"If I had a choice," he thought, "I wouldn't ever wake up at all again. The dreams may not be more real, but they're preferable."
Dreams were supposed to be wishful thinking, primarily, but he couldn't live in them very long. His body would dry up and he would die. He had to stay awake enough to put a little energy back into himself. Of course, if he died and lost the dreams, there would be one compensation—he would also be free of Terrence and the rest of them who had learned that the only value in life lay in killing one's way across the Cosmos.
But then he had a feeling Terrence's voice wouldn't be annoying him much more anyway. The voice was unreal, coming out of some void. He could switch off Terrence any time now, but he was still curious.
"Bruce—Bruce, you still there? Listen, we're up here at what we figure to be five hundred thousand feet! It is impossible. We keep climbing and now we look up and we can see up and up and there the mountain is going up and up—"
And some time later: "Bruce, Marsha's dying! We don't know what's the matter. We can't find any reason for it. She's lying here and she keeps laughing and calling your name. She's a woman, so that's probably it. Women don't have real guts."
Bruce bent toward the radio. Outside the shelter, the wind whistled softly at the door.
"Marsha," he said.
"Bruce—"
She hadn't said his name that way for a long time.
"Marsha, remember how we used to talk about human values? I remember how you seemed to have something maybe different from the others. I never thought you'd really buy this will to conquer, and now it doesn't matter...."
He listened to her voice, first the crazy laughter, and then a whisper.
"Bruce, hello down there." Her voice was all mixed up with fear and hysteria and mockery. "Bruce darling, are you lonely down there? I wish I were with you, safe ... free ... warm. I love you. Do you hear that? I really love you, after all. After all...."
Her voice drifted away, came back to him. "We're climbing the highest mountain. What are you doing there, relaxing where it's peaceful and warm and sane? You always were such a calm guy. I remember now. What are you doing—reading poetry while we climb the mountain? What was that, Bruce—that one about the mountain you tried to quote to me last night before you ... I can't remember it now. Darling, what...?"
He stared at the radio. He hesitated, reached out and switched on the mike. He got through to her.
"Hello, hello, darling," he whispered. "Marsha, can you hear me?"
"Yes, yes. You down there, all warm and cozy, reading poetry, darling. Where you can see both ways instead of just up and down, up and down."
He tried to imagine where she was now as he spoke to her, how she looked. He thought of Earth and how it had been there, years ago, with Marsha. Things had seemed so different then. There was something of that hope in his voice now as he spoke to her, yet not directly to her, as he looked out the window at the naked frigid sky and the barren rocks.
"'... and there is nowhere to go from the top of a mountain,
But down, my dear;
And the springs that flow on the floor of the valley
Will never seem fresh or clear
For thinking of the glitter of the mountain water
In the feathery green of the year....'"
The wind stormed over the shelter in a burst of power, buried the sound of his own voice.
"Marsha, are you still there?"
"What the devil's the idea, poetry at a time like this, or any time?" Terrence demanded. "Listen, you taking this down? We haven't run into any signs of the others. Six hundred thousand feet, Bruce! We feel our destiny. We conquer the Solar System. And we'll go out and out, and we'll climb the highest mountain, the highest mountain anywhere. We're going up and up. We've voted on it. Unanimous. We go on. On to the top, Bruce! Nothing can stop us. If it takes ten years, a hundred, a thousand years, we'll find it. We'll find the top! Not the top of this world—the top of everything . The top of the
UNIVERSE
!"
Later, Terrence's voice broke off in the middle of something or other—Bruce couldn't make any sense out of it at all—and turned into crazy yells that faded out and never came back.
Bruce figured the others might still be climbing somewhere, or maybe they were dead. Either way it wouldn't make any difference to him. He knew they would never come back down.
He was switching off the radio for good when he saw the coloration break over the window. It was the same as the dream, but for an instant, dream and reality seemed fused like two superimposed film negatives.
He went to the window and looked out. The comfortable little city was out there, and the canal flowing past through a pleasantly cool yet sunny afternoon. Purple mist blanketed the knees of low hills and there was a valley, green and rich with the trees high and full beside the softly flowing canal water.
The filmy shapes that seemed alive, that were partly translucent, drifted along the water's edge, and birds as delicate as colored glass wavered down the wind.
He opened the shelter door and went out. The shelter looked the same, but useless now. How did the shelter of that bleak world get into this one, where the air was warm and fragrant, where there was no cold, from that world into this one of his dreams?
The girl—Helene—was standing there leaning against a tree, smoking a cigarette.
He walked toward her, and stopped. In the dream it had been easy, but now he was embarrassed, in spite of the intimacy that had grown between them. She wore the same casual slacks and sandals. Her hair was brown. She was not particularly beautiful, but she was comfortable to look at because she seemed so peaceful. Content, happy with what was and only what was.
He turned quickly. The shelter was still there, and behind it the row of spaceships—not like chalk marks on a tallyboard now, but like odd relics that didn't belong there in the thick green grass. Five ships instead of four.
There was his own individual shelter beyond the headquarters building, and the other buildings. He looked up.
There was no mountain.
For one shivery moment he knew fear. And then the fear went away, and he was ashamed of what he had felt. What he had feared was gone now, and he knew it was gone for good and he would never have to fear it again.
"Look here, Bruce. I wondered how long it would take to get it through that thick poetic head of yours!"
"Get what?" He began to suspect what it was all about now, but he wasn't quite sure yet.
"Smoke?" she said.
He took one of the cigarettes and she lighted it for him and put the lighter back into her pocket.
"It's real nice here," she said. "Isn't it?"
"I guess it's about perfect."
"It'll be easy. Staying here, I mean. We won't be going to Earth ever again, you know."
"I didn't know that, but I didn't think we ever would again."
"We wouldn't want to anyway, would we, Bruce?"
"No."
He kept on looking at the place where the mountain had been. Or maybe it still was; he couldn't make up his mind yet. Which was and which was not? That barren icy world without life, or this?
"' Is all that we see or seem ,'" he whispered, half to himself, "' but a dream within a dream? '"
She laughed softly. "Poe was ahead of his time," she said. "You still don't get it, do you? You don't know what's been happening?"
"Maybe I don't."
She shrugged, and looked in the direction of the ships. "Poor guys. I can't feel much hatred toward them now. The Martians give you a lot of understanding of the human mind—after they've accepted you, and after you've lived with them awhile. But the mountain climbers—we can see now—it's just luck, chance, we weren't like them. A deviant is a child of chance."
"Yes," Bruce said. "There's a lot of people like us on Earth, but they'll never get the chance—the chance we seem to have here, to live decently...."
"You're beginning to see now which was the dream," she said and smiled. "But don't be pessimistic. Those people on Earth will get their chance, too, one of these fine days. The Conquerors aren't getting far. Venus, and then Mars, and Mars is where they stop. They'll keep coming here and climbing the mountain and finally there won't be any more. It won't take so long."
She rose to her toes and waved and yelled. Bruce saw Pietro and Marlene walking hand in hand up the other side of the canal. They waved back and called and then pushed off into the water in a small boat, and drifted away and out of sight around a gentle turn.
She took his arm and they walked along the canal toward where the mountain had been, or still was—he didn't know.
A quarter of a mile beyond the canal, he saw the high mound of red, naked hill, corroded and ugly, rising up like a scar of the surrounding green.
She wasn't smiling now. There were shadows on her face as the pressure on his arm stopped him.
"I was on the first ship and Marlene on the second. None like us on the third, and on the fourth ship was Pietro. All the others had to climb the mountain—" She stopped talking for a moment, and then he felt the pressure of her fingers on his arm. "I'm very glad you came on the fifth," she whispered. "Are you glad now?"
"I'm very glad," he said.
"The Martians tested us," she explained. "They're masters of the mind. I guess they've been grinding along through the evolutionary mill a darn long time, longer than we could estimate now. They learned the horror we're capable of from the first ship—the Conquerors, the climbers. The Martians knew more like them would come and go on into space, killing, destroying for no other reason than their own sickness. Being masters of the mind, the Martians are also capable of hypnosis—no, that's not really the word, only the closest our language comes to naming it. Suggestion so deep and strong that it seems real to one human or a million or a billion; there's no limit to the number that can be influenced. What the people who came off those ships saw wasn't real. It was partly what the Martians wanted them to see and feel—but most of it, like the desire to climb the mountain, was as much a part of the Conquerors' own psychic drive as it was the suggestion of the Martians."
She waved her arm slowly to describe a peak. "The Martians made the mountain real. So real that it could be seen from space, measured by instruments ... even photographed and chipped for rock samples. But you'll see how that was done, Bruce, and realize that this and not the mountain of the Conquerors is the reality of Mars. This is the Mars no Conqueror will ever see."
They walked toward the ugly red mound that jutted above the green. When they came close enough, he saw the bodies lying there ... the remains, actually, of what had once been bodies. He felt too sickened to go on walking.
"It may seem cruel now," she said, "but the Martians realized that there is no cure for the will to conquer. There is no safety from it, either, as the people of Earth and Venus discovered, unless it is given an impossible obstacle to overcome. So the Martians provided the Conquerors with a mountain. They themselves wanted to climb. They had to."
He was hardly listening as he walked away from Helene toward the eroded hills. The crew members of the first four ships were skeletons tied together with imperishably strong rope about their waists. Far beyond them were those from Mars V , too freshly dead to have decayed much ... Anhauser with his rope cut, a bullet in his head; Jacobs and Marsha and the others ... Terrence much past them all. He had managed to climb higher than anyone else and he lay with his arms stretched out, his fingers still clutching at rock outcroppings.
The trail they left wound over the ground, chipped in places for holds, red elsewhere with blood from torn hands. Terrence was more than twelve miles from the ship—horizontally.
Bruce lifted Marsha and carried her back over the rocky dust, into the fresh fragrance of the high grass, and across it to the shade and peace beside the canal.
He put her down. She looked peaceful enough, more peaceful than that other time, years ago, when the two of them seemed to have shared so much, when the future had not yet destroyed her. He saw the shadow of Helene bend across Marsha's face against the background of the silently flowing water of the cool, green canal.
"You loved her?"
"Once," Bruce said. "She might have been sane. They got her when she was young. Too young to fight. But she would have, I think, if she'd been older when they got her."
He sat looking down at Marsha's face, and then at the water with the leaves floating down it.
"'... And the springs that flow on the floor of the valley will never seem fresh or clear for thinking of the glitter of the mountain water in the feathery green of the year....'"
He stood up, walked back with Helene along the canal toward the calm city. He didn't look back.
"They've all been dead quite a while," Bruce said wonderingly. "Yet I seemed to be hearing from Terrence until only a short time ago. Are—are the climbers still climbing—somewhere, Helene?"
"Who knows?" Helene answered softly. "Maybe. I doubt if even the Martians have the answer to that."
They entered the city.
Question:
What is the plot of the story?
Answer:
|
[
"The story is set on Mars. A group of conquerors from Earth arrived here after the last four crews never returned after deciding to climb a very high Martian mountain. The fifth team with Bruce, Marsha - his past love interest, Anhauser, Jacobs, Doran, Max Drexel, Stromberg - the psychologist, and its captain Terrence arrived here on their ship Mars V eight months ago. A day before the ascent Bruce is reading Byron and thinking about his bizarre dreams. Then we see an inquest. With all the crew members listening, Terrence interrogates Bruce and asks why he shot Doran. Bruce reminds the crew about the genocide of the Venusian aborigines: five years ago, he and Doran were part of the crew of the first ship that landed on Venus; these explorers wiped out the entire Venusian community. Terrence claims that Bruce is mentally ill and doesn’t have the real conquering blood. The captain understands the young man doesn’t believe in the philosophy of conquering and remains faithful to the old ideas of democracy and freedom. Bruce then explains that Marsha and Doran woke him up after a bizarre dream, and he immediately saw something or someone in the window. When Doran saw the creature, he left the room, and Bruce heard his rifle go off. Infuriated, Bruce killed the man. \n\nStromberg deems Bruce a delusional schizophrenic and says that Doran probably imagined the creature, too. Instead of punishing the man by executing him, Terrence orders Bruce to write down everything they report via radio while they are climbing. He stays by the radio, eats what they left for him, and sometimes sleeps. Eventually, Terrence reports that the mountain is way higher than they anticipated - 45 00 feet. Later, he screams that he just killed Anhauser for dissent. The captain speaks of their great conquest, and Bruce sometimes replies to prove he's still writing down everything. His dreams become more realistic and he seems to see some crew members of the previous expeditions: Pietro, Marlene, and Helene. Terrence reports that they are at an altitude of five hundred thousand feet and later adds that Marsha is dying. She says she loves Bruce, and he recites a poem for her. Terrence later crazily speaks about toppling the Solar system but soon stops reporting. Bruce turns off the radio. The exterior of the ship changes - now he sees a small town and the grandiose mountain vanished. Not sure if it’s a dream or not, he approaches Helene, who eventually explains that the Martians wanted to stop the human conquerors. They decided to create an illusion of an infinitely high mountain, and the colonists felt an uncontrollable urge to climb it. They both walk to a red mound, where Bruce notices the bodies of the crew members of all five ships. Only people like him remained alive. Bruce looks at them and, together with Helene, leaves the mound, entering the city.",
"Bruce is reading some poetry he had sneaked upon the ship; he then dozes off but wakes himself to postpone one of his strangely realistic dreams. Jacob and Anhauser stand outside, surprised he did not run off somewhere. They have been on Mars for eight months, discovering other rockets that did not make it back. Everybody meets with Captain Terrence and Marsha Rennels, where they discuss Bruce killing Lieutenant Doran. Bruce tries to argue his way, but Terrence believes that he should never have been sent because of his bad mental state. Max Drexel considers him a crackpot idealist, but Bruce says that the first thing that the original travelers did to the Venusian village was destroy it completely. Bruce stops himself from arguing more because the New Era had only ushered final totalitarianism. Terrence asks him again why he shot Doran, and Bruce begins talking about the realistic dreams he has of the other crew members who never made it back to Earth. He continues to speak about the mountain, mentioning how everybody who has gone up has never come back down. Since their goal is not to conquer anything, Bruce feels no need to do it even if the destiny of Earth is absolute. When he is woken, he feels something looking at him; Doran also sees this too and grabs his rifle to go outside. Bruce is so overcome with rage about them killing aliens that he shoots him too. Stromberg, the psychologist, says that Bruce has schizophrenia, while Marsha also agrees that she did not see anything. Although the verdict should be execution for Bruce, they let him stay and take down radio reports when they go up the mountain. When the crew goes to climb, they begin documenting the experience for Bruce to list down. Bruce begins having more strange dreams, seeing a different martian landscape and meeting others. Terrence tells him that Marsha is dying, and he hears her call his name while telling him how much she loves him. Terrence continues his crazy yelling, and Bruce switches off the radio to see Helene smoking a cigarette. She explains how the Martians are masters of the mind and that the only people who survive are the ones who do not climb the mountain. The mountain is not real at all, as it is a product of the Martian’s psychic powers. They go to check on the corpses after, and Helene asks if he loved Marsha. He responds that he had once, but it is too late now. As they walk towards the calm city, he asks if the crew is still climbing somewhere. Helene responds that not even the Martians know about that. ",
"This story follows Bruce and his fellow cremates of the ship Mars V, as they explore Mars for potential life. Bruce is sat in front of his crew members, with Captain Terrence taking the lead, for an inquest. He has shot a fellow crew member, Lieutenant Doran, supposedly without provocation. He is set on trial for a mere formality - his fate of execution already decided - to determine his motivations behind the killing. Bruce proclaims that there are injustices aboard the crew. In particular, he disagrees with the crew and Earth's dogged desire to conquest, which Doran embodied wholeheartedly. \nBruce describes he saw a figure or a shadow out the window of their shelter that could've blurred between dream and reality. Doran had turned and saw it too, only to rush out and shoot at it, after which Bruce then killed him. It was then decided that because the rest of the crew were going to climb the mountain, instead of execution being Bruce's fate, he would remain back to record their notes over the radio. \n\nAs the crew went on their climb, Bruce sat back and drifted between sedative sleeping and dreams. The crew began to climb beyond the mountain's estimated peak of 45,000 feet. At 60,000 feet, Terrence reported that he killed Anhauser as he was dissenting, wanting to go back down the mountain. At 500,000 feet, Terrence comes back on the radio to report that Marsha is dying. Bruce and Marsha profess their love for each other as they reflect upon the past, before being interrupted by Terrence's proclamations of conquering the mountain and the universe. \n\nThroughout the story, Bruce has been having dreams of two girls and a man, set in a Mars landscape completely different to the one in reality. As Terrence's voice breaks off into undistinguishable yells, he looked out the shelter's window to find that the previously red and barren landscape had changed into the lush landscape of his dreams. He sees Helene - one of the girls - and she tells him what's been going on. It turns out that the Martians had purposefully imaged Mars to appear red and barren and set up the mountain as a test for the humans. They had found that humans had an undeterred desire for conquest that incorporated no values of morality or humane-ness. As a result, only those who didn't follow this blind conquest like Bruce, Helene, and the other girl and boy are rewarded by the true landscape of Mars which is plentiful, lush, and inhabitable. While listening to Helene, they reach the mountain. There lies the bodies of the previous crew members who climbed the mountain, including that of Marsha's. Respectfully carrying her body to place beside the canal, Helene asked if he loved her to which Bruce replied that he did once, and that she was young enough where her mind was influenced by the other's will to conquest.",
"The fifth rocket, Mars V, hits Mars, and its crewmembers see the four rockets lying under the shadow of the highest mountain they have ever seen. Bruce is reading poems while waiting for the trial. Jacob and Anhauser, Bruce’s crewmates, are surprised that Bruce did not run away from the execution, which is the night before all the crew members, except for Bruce, start to climb the mountain. In the trial, Bruce tries to explain the injustice done on Venus five years ago, when he and Doran went on the same mission, witnessing the brutality of Earthmen’s conquest of wiping out the Venusian village without communication. But he soon realizes that it is futile as Terrence, the captain, and other crewmembers insist on the importance of the conquered strength and the twisted democracy. Asked for the reason for killing Doram, Bruce explains his dream, which seems to indicate there are lives on Mars, to them. In the dream, Bruce describes how Doran runs out to shoot the shadowy things in the mist as the Earthmen always do based on the philosophy of conquest. Bruce killed Doran, wanting to kill all of his crew members, and they think he is a psycho. They finally decide to leave Bruce with food concentrates and the work of recording while they climb the mountain. They start to climb the mountain while Bruce reads poems, sleeps, and dreams of a magnificent place. Along with the climbing, Terrence keeps reporting his feeling of conquest and power. He also kills Anhauser because he refuses to keep climbing. Meanwhile, as Bruce stops using sedatives and continues dreaming, the boundary between dream and reality becomes blurred. Three people seem to come from the previous rockets in Bruce's dream. Scenes in a dream are warm and wonderful. Marsha dies along with the climbing after confessing to Bruce. Terrence dies. When Bruce switches off the radio, the scenery outside the window changes; it fuses with his dream. A woman comes to him, explaining that the dream is reality while the reality with the mountain is fake. Martians created the phenomenon of barren land and the mountain as they wanted to stop Earth’s conquest of the universe. With the mountain, Earthmen with the will to conquer will climb the mountain and die, and Earthmen who do not climb the mountain will live on Mars. The people in the dream he saw are all the crewmember of previous rockets who refuse to climb the mountain. Therefore, Earthmen will stop their conquest of Mars. After knowing the truth and seeing the corpses of other crew members, Bruce moves Marsha’s corpse along the canals and leaves with the woman."
] |
50868
|
THE HIGHEST MOUNTAIN
By BRYCE WALTON
Illustrated by BOB HAYES
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
First one up this tallest summit in the Solar System was a rotten egg ... a very rotten egg!
Bruce heard their feet on the gravel outside and got up reluctantly to open the door for them. He'd been reading some of Byron's poems he'd sneaked aboard the ship; after that he had been on the point of dozing off, and now one of those strangely realistic dreams would have to be postponed for a while. Funny, those dreams. There were faces in them of human beings, or of ghosts, and other forms that weren't human at all, but seemed real and alive—except that they were also just parts of a last unconscious desire to escape death. Maybe that was it.
"'Oh that my young life were a lasting dream, my spirit not awakening till the beam of an eternity should bring the 'morrow," Bruce said. He smiled without feeling much of anything and added, "Thanks, Mr. Poe."
Jacobs and Anhauser stood outside. The icy wind cut through and into Bruce, but he didn't seem to notice. Anhauser's bulk loomed even larger in the special cold-resisting suiting. Jacobs' thin face frowned slyly at Bruce.
"Come on in, boys, and get warm," Bruce invited.
"Hey, poet, you're still here!" Anhauser said, looking astonished.
"We thought you'd be running off somewhere," Jacobs said.
Bruce reached for the suit on its hook, started climbing into it.
"Where?" he asked. "Mars looks alike wherever you go. Where did you think I'd be running to?"
"Any place just so it was away from here and us," Anhauser said.
"I don't have to do that. You are going away from me. That takes care of that, doesn't it?"
"Ah, come on, get the hell out of there," Jacobs said. He pulled the revolver from its holster and pointed it at Bruce. "We got to get some sleep. We're starting up that mountain at five in the morning."
"I know," Bruce said. "I'll be glad to see you climb the mountain."
Outside, in the weird light of the double moons, Bruce looked up at the gigantic overhang of the mountain. It was unbelievable. The mountain didn't seem to belong here. He'd thought so when they'd first hit Mars eight months back and discovered the other four rockets that had never got back to Earth—all lying side by side under the mountain's shadow, like little white chalk marks on a tallyboard.
They'd estimated its height at over 45,000 feet, which was a lot higher than any mountain on Earth. Yet Mars was much older, geologically. The entire face of the planet was smoothed into soft, undulating red hills by erosion. And there in the middle of barren nothingness rose that one incredible mountain. On certain nights when the stars were right, it had seemed to Bruce as though it were pointing an accusing finger at Earth—or a warning one.
With Jacobs and Anhauser and the remainder of the crew of the ship, Mars V , seven judges sat in a semi-circle and Bruce stood there in front of them for the inquest.
In the middle of the half-moon of inquisition, with his long legs stretched out and his hands folded on his belly, sat Captain Terrence. His uniform was black. On his arm was the silver fist insignia of the Conqueror Corps. Marsha Rennels sat on the extreme right and now there was no emotion at all on her trim, neat face.
He remembered her as she had been years ago, but at the moment he wasn't looking very hard to see anything on her face. It was too late. They had gotten her young and it was too late.
Terrence's big, square face frowned a little. Bruce was aware suddenly of the sound of the bleak, never-ending wind against the plastilene shelter. He remembered the strange misty shapes that had come to him in his dreams, the voices that had called to him, and how disappointed he had been when he woke from them.
"This is a mere formality," Terrence finally said, "since we all know you killed Lieutenant Doran a few hours ago. Marsha saw you kill him. Whatever you say goes on the record, of course."
"For whom?" Bruce asked.
"What kind of question is that? For the authorities on Earth when we get back."
"When you get back? Like the crews of those other four ships out there?" Bruce laughed without much humor.
Terrence rubbed a palm across his lips, dropped the hand quickly again to his belly. "You want to make a statement or not? You shot Doran in the head with a rifle. No provocation for the attack. You've wasted enough of my time with your damn arguments and anti-social behavior. This is a democratic group. Everyone has his say. But you've said too much, and done too much. Freedom doesn't allow you to go around killing fellow crew-members!"
"Any idea that there was any democracy or freedom left died on Venus," Bruce said.
"Now we get another lecture!" Terrence exploded. He leaned forward.
"You're sick, Bruce. They did a bad psych job on you. They should never have sent you on this trip. We need strength, all the strength we can find. You don't belong here."
"I know," Bruce agreed indifferently. "I was drafted for this trip. I told them I shouldn't be brought along. I said I didn't want any part of it."
"Because you're afraid. You're not Conqueror material. That's why you backed down when we all voted to climb the mountain. And what the devil does Venus—?"
Max Drexel's freckles slipped into the creases across his high forehead. "Haven't you heard him expounding on the injustice done to the Venusian aborigines, Captain? If you haven't, you aren't thoroughly educated to the crackpot idealism still infecting certain people."
"I haven't heard it," Terrence admitted. "What injustice?"
Bruce said, "I guess it couldn't really be considered an injustice any longer. Values have changed too much. Doran and I were part of the crew of that first ship to hit Venus, five years ago. Remember? One of the New Era's more infamous dates. Drexel says the Venusians were aborigines. No one ever got a chance to find out. We ran into this village. No one knows how old it was. There were intelligent beings there. One community left on the whole planet, maybe a few thousand inhabitants. They made their last mistake when they came out to greet us. Without even an attempt at communication, they were wiped out. The village was burned and everything alive in it was destroyed."
Bruce felt the old weakness coming into his knees, the sweat beginning to run down his face. He took a deep breath and stood there before the cold nihilistic stares of fourteen eyes.
"No," Bruce said. "I apologize. None of you know what I'm talking about."
Terrence nodded. "You're psycho. It's as simple as that. They pick the most capable for these conquests. Even the flights are processes of elimination. Eventually we get the very best, the most resilient, the real conquering blood. You just don't pass, Bruce. Listen, what do you think gives you the right to stand here in judgment against the laws of the whole Solar System?"
"There are plenty on Earth who agree with me," Bruce said. "I can say what I think now because you can't do more than kill me and you'll do that regardless...."
He stopped. This was ridiculous, a waste of his time. And theirs. They had established a kind of final totalitarianism since the New Era. The psychologists, the Pavlovian Reflex boys, had done that. If you didn't want to be reconditioned to fit into the social machine like a human vacuum tube, you kept your mouth shut. And for many, when the mouth was kept shut long enough, the mind pretty well forgot what it had wanted to open the mouth for in the first place.
A minority in both segments of a world split into two factions. Both had been warring diplomatically and sometimes physically, for centuries, clung to old ideas of freedom, democracy, self-determinism, individualism. To most, the words had no meaning now. It was a question of which set of conquering heroes could conquer the most space first. So far, only Venus had fallen. They had done a good, thorough job there. Four ships had come to Mars and their crews had disappeared. This was the fifth attempt—
Terrence said, "why did you shoot Doran?"
"I didn't like him enough to take the nonsense he was handing me, and when he shot the—" Bruce hesitated.
"What? When he shot what?"
Bruce felt an odd tingling in his stomach. The wind's voice seemed to sharpen and rise to a kind of wail.
"All right, I'll tell you. I was sleeping, having a dream. Doran woke me up. Marsha was with him. I'd forgotten about that geological job we were supposed to be working on. I've had these dreams ever since we got here."
"What kind of dreams?"
Someone laughed.
"Just fantastic stuff. Ask your Pavlovian there," Bruce said. "People talk to me, and there are other things in the dreams. Voices and some kind of shapes that aren't what you would call human at all."
Someone coughed. There was obvious embarrassment in the room.
"It's peculiar, but many faces and voices are those of crew members of some of the ships out there, the ones that never got back to Earth."
Terrence grinned. "Ghosts, Bruce?"
"Maybe. This planet may not be a dead ball of clay. I've had a feeling there's something real in the dreams, but I can't figure it out. You're still interested?"
Terrence nodded and glanced to either side.
"We've seen no indication of any kind of life whatsoever," Bruce pointed out. "Not even an insect, or any kind of plant life except some fungi and lichen down in the crevices. That never seemed logical to me from the start. We've covered the planet everywhere except one place—"
"The mountain," Terrence said. "You've been afraid even to talk about scaling it."
"Not afraid," Bruce objected. "I don't see any need to climb it. Coming to Mars, conquering space, isn't that enough? It happens that the crew of the first ship here decided to climb the mountain, and that set a precedent. Every ship that has come here has had to climb it. Why? Because they had to accept the challenge. And what's happened to them? Like you, they all had the necessary equipment to make a successful climb, but no one's ever come back down. No contact with anything up there.
"Captain, I'm not accepting a ridiculous challenge like that. Why should I? I didn't come here to conquer anything, even a mountain. The challenge of coming to Mars, of going on to where ever you guys intend going before something bigger than you are stops you—it doesn't interest me."
"Nothing's bigger than the destiny of Earth!" Terrence said, sitting up straight and rigid.
"I know," Bruce said. "Anyway, I got off the track. As I was saying, I woke up from this dream and Marsha and Doran were there. Doran was shaking me. But I didn't seem to have gotten entirely awake; either that or some part of the dream was real, because I looked out the window—something was out there, looking at me. It was late, and at first I thought it might be a shadow. But it wasn't. It was misty, almost translucent, but I think it was something alive. I had a feeling it was intelligent, maybe very intelligent. I could feel something in my mind. A kind of beauty and softness and warmth. I kept looking—"
His throat was getting tight. He had difficulty talking. "Doran asked me what I was looking at, and I told him. He laughed. But he looked. Then I realized that maybe I wasn't still dreaming. Doran saw it, too, or thought he did. He kept looking and finally he jumped and grabbed up his rifle and ran outside. I yelled at him. I kept on yelling and ran after him. 'It's intelligent, whatever it is!' I kept saying. 'How do you know it means any harm?' But I heard Doran's rifle go off before I could get to him. And whatever it was we saw, I didn't see it any more. Neither did Doran. Maybe he killed it. I don't know. He had to kill it. That's the way you think."
"What? Explain that remark."
"That's the philosophy of conquest—don't take any chances with aliens. They might hinder our advance across the Universe. So we kill everything. Doran acted without thinking at all. Conditioned to kill everything that doesn't look like us. So I hit Doran and took the gun away from him and killed him. I felt sick, crazy with rage. Maybe that's part of it. All I know is that I thought he deserved to die and that I had to kill him, so I did."
"Is that all, Bruce?"
"That's about all. Except that I'd like to kill all of you. And I would if I had the chance."
"That's what I figured." Terrence turned to the psychologist, a small wiry man who sat there constantly fingering his ear. "Stromberg, what do you think of this gobbledegook? We know he's crazy. But what hit him? You said his record was good up until a year ago."
Stromberg's voice was monotonous, like a voice off of a tape.
"Schizophrenia with mingled delusions of persecution. The schizophrenia is caused by inner conflict—indecision between the older values and our present ones which he hasn't been able to accept. A complete case history would tell why he can't accept our present attitudes. I would say that he has an incipient fear of personal inadequacy, which is why he fears our desire for conquest. He's rationalized, built up a defense which he's structured with his idealism, foundationed with Old Era values. Retreat into the past, an escape from his own present feelings of inadequacy. Also, he escapes into these dream fantasies."
"Yes," Terrence said. "But how does that account for Doran's action? Doran must have seen something—"
"Doran's charts show high suggestibility under stress. Another weak personality eliminated. Let's regard it that way. He imagined he saw something." He glanced at Marsha. "Did you see anything?"
She hesitated, avoiding Bruce's eyes. "Nothing at all. There wasn't anything out there to see, except the dust and rocks. That's all there is to see here. We could stay a million years and never see anything else. A shadow maybe—"
"All right," Terrence interrupted. "Now, Bruce, you know the law regulating the treatment of serious psycho cases in space?"
"Yes. Execution."
"No facilities for handling such cases en route back to Earth."
"I understand. No apologies necessary, Captain."
Terrence shifted his position. "However, we've voted to grant you a kind of leniency. In exchange for a little further service from you, you can remain here on Mars after we leave. You'll be left food-concentrates to last a long time."
"What kind of service?"
"Stay by the radio and take down what we report as we go up the mountain."
"Why not?" Bruce said. "You aren't certain you're coming back, then?"
"We might not," Terrence admitted calmly. "Something's happened to the others. We're going to find out what and we want it recorded. None of us want to back down and stay here. You can take our reports as they come in."
"I'll do that," Bruce said. "It should be interesting."
Bruce watched them go, away and up and around the immediate face of the mountain in the bleak cold of the Martian morning. He watched them disappear behind a high ledge, tied together with plastic rope like convicts.
He stayed by the radio. He lost track of time and didn't care much if he did. Sometimes he took a heavy sedative and slept. The sedative prevented the dreams. He had an idea that the dreams might be so pleasant that he wouldn't wake up. He wanted to listen to Terrence as long as the captain had anything to say. It was nothing but curiosity.
At fifteen thousand feet, Terrence reported only that they were climbing.
At twenty thousand feet, Terrence said, "We're still climbing, and that's all I can report, Bruce. It's worth coming to Mars for—to accept a challenge like this!"
At twenty-five thousand feet, Terrence reported, "We've put on oxygen masks. Jacobs and Drexel have developed some kind of altitude sickness and we're taking a little time out. It's a magnificent sight up here. I can imagine plenty of tourists coming to Mars one of these days, just to climb this mountain! Mt. Everest is a pimple compared with this! What a feeling of power, Bruce!"
From forty thousand feet, Terrence said, "We gauged this mountain at forty-five thousand. But here we are at forty and there doesn't seem to be any top. We can see up and up and the mountain keeps on going. I don't understand how we could have made such an error in our computations. I talked with Burton. He doesn't see how a mountain this high could still be here when the rest of the planet has been worn so smooth."
And then from fifty-three thousand feet, Terrence said with a voice that seemed slightly strained: "No sign of any of the crew of the other four ships yet. Ten in each crew, that makes fifty. Not a sign of any of them so far, but then we seem to have a long way left to climb—"
Bruce listened and noted and took sedatives and opened cans of food concentrates. He smoked and ate and slept. He had plenty of time. He had only time and the dreams which he knew he could utilize later to take care of the time.
From sixty thousand feet, Terrence reported, "I had to shoot Anhauser a few minutes ago! He was dissenting. Hear that, Bruce? One of my most dependable men. We took a vote. A mere formality, of course, whether we should continue climbing or not. We knew we'd all vote to keep on climbing. And then Anhauser dissented. He was hysterical. He refused to accept the majority decision. 'I'm going back down!' he yelled. So I had to shoot him. Imagine a man of his apparent caliber turning anti-democratic like that! This mountain will be a great tester for us in the future. We'll test everybody, find out quickly who the weaklings are."
Bruce listened to the wind. It seemed to rise higher and higher. Terrence, who had climbed still higher, was calling. "Think of it! What a conquest! No man's ever done a thing like this. Like Stromberg says, it's symbolic! We can build spaceships and reach other planets, but that's not actual physical conquest. We feel like gods up here. We can see what we are now. We can see how it's going to be—"
Once in a while Terrence demanded that Bruce say something to prove he was still there taking down what Terrence said. Bruce obliged. A long time passed, the way time does when no one cares. Bruce stopped taking the sedatives finally. The dreams came back and became, somehow, more real each time. He needed the companionship of the dreams.
It was very lonely sitting there without the dreams, with nothing but Terrence's voice ranting excitedly on and on. Terrence didn't seem real any more; certainly not as real as the dreams.
The problem of where to put the line between dream and reality began to worry Bruce. He would wake up and listen and take down what Terrence was saying, and then go to sleep again with increasing expectancy. His dream took on continuity. He could return to the point where he had left it, and it was the same—allowing even for the time difference necessitated by his periods of sleep.
He met people in the dreams, two girls and a man. They had names: Pietro, Marlene, Helene.
Helene he had seen from the beginning, but she became more real to him all the time, until he could talk with her. After that, he could also talk with Marlene and Pietro, and the conversations made sense. Consistently, they made sense.
The Martian landscape was entirely different in the dreams. Green valleys and rivers, or actually wide canals, with odd trees trailing their branches on the slow, peacefully gliding currents. Here and there were pastel-colored cities and there were things drifting through them that were alive and intelligent and soft and warm and wonderful to know.
' ... dreams, in their vivid coloring of life, as in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife of semblance with reality which brings to the delirious eye more lovely things of paradise and love—and all our own!—than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known.... '
So sometimes he read poetry, but even that was hardly equal to the dreams.
And then he would wake up and listen to Terrence's voice. He would look out the window over the barren frigid land where there was nothing but seams of worn land, like scabs under the brazen sky.
"If I had a choice," he thought, "I wouldn't ever wake up at all again. The dreams may not be more real, but they're preferable."
Dreams were supposed to be wishful thinking, primarily, but he couldn't live in them very long. His body would dry up and he would die. He had to stay awake enough to put a little energy back into himself. Of course, if he died and lost the dreams, there would be one compensation—he would also be free of Terrence and the rest of them who had learned that the only value in life lay in killing one's way across the Cosmos.
But then he had a feeling Terrence's voice wouldn't be annoying him much more anyway. The voice was unreal, coming out of some void. He could switch off Terrence any time now, but he was still curious.
"Bruce—Bruce, you still there? Listen, we're up here at what we figure to be five hundred thousand feet! It is impossible. We keep climbing and now we look up and we can see up and up and there the mountain is going up and up—"
And some time later: "Bruce, Marsha's dying! We don't know what's the matter. We can't find any reason for it. She's lying here and she keeps laughing and calling your name. She's a woman, so that's probably it. Women don't have real guts."
Bruce bent toward the radio. Outside the shelter, the wind whistled softly at the door.
"Marsha," he said.
"Bruce—"
She hadn't said his name that way for a long time.
"Marsha, remember how we used to talk about human values? I remember how you seemed to have something maybe different from the others. I never thought you'd really buy this will to conquer, and now it doesn't matter...."
He listened to her voice, first the crazy laughter, and then a whisper.
"Bruce, hello down there." Her voice was all mixed up with fear and hysteria and mockery. "Bruce darling, are you lonely down there? I wish I were with you, safe ... free ... warm. I love you. Do you hear that? I really love you, after all. After all...."
Her voice drifted away, came back to him. "We're climbing the highest mountain. What are you doing there, relaxing where it's peaceful and warm and sane? You always were such a calm guy. I remember now. What are you doing—reading poetry while we climb the mountain? What was that, Bruce—that one about the mountain you tried to quote to me last night before you ... I can't remember it now. Darling, what...?"
He stared at the radio. He hesitated, reached out and switched on the mike. He got through to her.
"Hello, hello, darling," he whispered. "Marsha, can you hear me?"
"Yes, yes. You down there, all warm and cozy, reading poetry, darling. Where you can see both ways instead of just up and down, up and down."
He tried to imagine where she was now as he spoke to her, how she looked. He thought of Earth and how it had been there, years ago, with Marsha. Things had seemed so different then. There was something of that hope in his voice now as he spoke to her, yet not directly to her, as he looked out the window at the naked frigid sky and the barren rocks.
"'... and there is nowhere to go from the top of a mountain,
But down, my dear;
And the springs that flow on the floor of the valley
Will never seem fresh or clear
For thinking of the glitter of the mountain water
In the feathery green of the year....'"
The wind stormed over the shelter in a burst of power, buried the sound of his own voice.
"Marsha, are you still there?"
"What the devil's the idea, poetry at a time like this, or any time?" Terrence demanded. "Listen, you taking this down? We haven't run into any signs of the others. Six hundred thousand feet, Bruce! We feel our destiny. We conquer the Solar System. And we'll go out and out, and we'll climb the highest mountain, the highest mountain anywhere. We're going up and up. We've voted on it. Unanimous. We go on. On to the top, Bruce! Nothing can stop us. If it takes ten years, a hundred, a thousand years, we'll find it. We'll find the top! Not the top of this world—the top of everything . The top of the
UNIVERSE
!"
Later, Terrence's voice broke off in the middle of something or other—Bruce couldn't make any sense out of it at all—and turned into crazy yells that faded out and never came back.
Bruce figured the others might still be climbing somewhere, or maybe they were dead. Either way it wouldn't make any difference to him. He knew they would never come back down.
He was switching off the radio for good when he saw the coloration break over the window. It was the same as the dream, but for an instant, dream and reality seemed fused like two superimposed film negatives.
He went to the window and looked out. The comfortable little city was out there, and the canal flowing past through a pleasantly cool yet sunny afternoon. Purple mist blanketed the knees of low hills and there was a valley, green and rich with the trees high and full beside the softly flowing canal water.
The filmy shapes that seemed alive, that were partly translucent, drifted along the water's edge, and birds as delicate as colored glass wavered down the wind.
He opened the shelter door and went out. The shelter looked the same, but useless now. How did the shelter of that bleak world get into this one, where the air was warm and fragrant, where there was no cold, from that world into this one of his dreams?
The girl—Helene—was standing there leaning against a tree, smoking a cigarette.
He walked toward her, and stopped. In the dream it had been easy, but now he was embarrassed, in spite of the intimacy that had grown between them. She wore the same casual slacks and sandals. Her hair was brown. She was not particularly beautiful, but she was comfortable to look at because she seemed so peaceful. Content, happy with what was and only what was.
He turned quickly. The shelter was still there, and behind it the row of spaceships—not like chalk marks on a tallyboard now, but like odd relics that didn't belong there in the thick green grass. Five ships instead of four.
There was his own individual shelter beyond the headquarters building, and the other buildings. He looked up.
There was no mountain.
For one shivery moment he knew fear. And then the fear went away, and he was ashamed of what he had felt. What he had feared was gone now, and he knew it was gone for good and he would never have to fear it again.
"Look here, Bruce. I wondered how long it would take to get it through that thick poetic head of yours!"
"Get what?" He began to suspect what it was all about now, but he wasn't quite sure yet.
"Smoke?" she said.
He took one of the cigarettes and she lighted it for him and put the lighter back into her pocket.
"It's real nice here," she said. "Isn't it?"
"I guess it's about perfect."
"It'll be easy. Staying here, I mean. We won't be going to Earth ever again, you know."
"I didn't know that, but I didn't think we ever would again."
"We wouldn't want to anyway, would we, Bruce?"
"No."
He kept on looking at the place where the mountain had been. Or maybe it still was; he couldn't make up his mind yet. Which was and which was not? That barren icy world without life, or this?
"' Is all that we see or seem ,'" he whispered, half to himself, "' but a dream within a dream? '"
She laughed softly. "Poe was ahead of his time," she said. "You still don't get it, do you? You don't know what's been happening?"
"Maybe I don't."
She shrugged, and looked in the direction of the ships. "Poor guys. I can't feel much hatred toward them now. The Martians give you a lot of understanding of the human mind—after they've accepted you, and after you've lived with them awhile. But the mountain climbers—we can see now—it's just luck, chance, we weren't like them. A deviant is a child of chance."
"Yes," Bruce said. "There's a lot of people like us on Earth, but they'll never get the chance—the chance we seem to have here, to live decently...."
"You're beginning to see now which was the dream," she said and smiled. "But don't be pessimistic. Those people on Earth will get their chance, too, one of these fine days. The Conquerors aren't getting far. Venus, and then Mars, and Mars is where they stop. They'll keep coming here and climbing the mountain and finally there won't be any more. It won't take so long."
She rose to her toes and waved and yelled. Bruce saw Pietro and Marlene walking hand in hand up the other side of the canal. They waved back and called and then pushed off into the water in a small boat, and drifted away and out of sight around a gentle turn.
She took his arm and they walked along the canal toward where the mountain had been, or still was—he didn't know.
A quarter of a mile beyond the canal, he saw the high mound of red, naked hill, corroded and ugly, rising up like a scar of the surrounding green.
She wasn't smiling now. There were shadows on her face as the pressure on his arm stopped him.
"I was on the first ship and Marlene on the second. None like us on the third, and on the fourth ship was Pietro. All the others had to climb the mountain—" She stopped talking for a moment, and then he felt the pressure of her fingers on his arm. "I'm very glad you came on the fifth," she whispered. "Are you glad now?"
"I'm very glad," he said.
"The Martians tested us," she explained. "They're masters of the mind. I guess they've been grinding along through the evolutionary mill a darn long time, longer than we could estimate now. They learned the horror we're capable of from the first ship—the Conquerors, the climbers. The Martians knew more like them would come and go on into space, killing, destroying for no other reason than their own sickness. Being masters of the mind, the Martians are also capable of hypnosis—no, that's not really the word, only the closest our language comes to naming it. Suggestion so deep and strong that it seems real to one human or a million or a billion; there's no limit to the number that can be influenced. What the people who came off those ships saw wasn't real. It was partly what the Martians wanted them to see and feel—but most of it, like the desire to climb the mountain, was as much a part of the Conquerors' own psychic drive as it was the suggestion of the Martians."
She waved her arm slowly to describe a peak. "The Martians made the mountain real. So real that it could be seen from space, measured by instruments ... even photographed and chipped for rock samples. But you'll see how that was done, Bruce, and realize that this and not the mountain of the Conquerors is the reality of Mars. This is the Mars no Conqueror will ever see."
They walked toward the ugly red mound that jutted above the green. When they came close enough, he saw the bodies lying there ... the remains, actually, of what had once been bodies. He felt too sickened to go on walking.
"It may seem cruel now," she said, "but the Martians realized that there is no cure for the will to conquer. There is no safety from it, either, as the people of Earth and Venus discovered, unless it is given an impossible obstacle to overcome. So the Martians provided the Conquerors with a mountain. They themselves wanted to climb. They had to."
He was hardly listening as he walked away from Helene toward the eroded hills. The crew members of the first four ships were skeletons tied together with imperishably strong rope about their waists. Far beyond them were those from Mars V , too freshly dead to have decayed much ... Anhauser with his rope cut, a bullet in his head; Jacobs and Marsha and the others ... Terrence much past them all. He had managed to climb higher than anyone else and he lay with his arms stretched out, his fingers still clutching at rock outcroppings.
The trail they left wound over the ground, chipped in places for holds, red elsewhere with blood from torn hands. Terrence was more than twelve miles from the ship—horizontally.
Bruce lifted Marsha and carried her back over the rocky dust, into the fresh fragrance of the high grass, and across it to the shade and peace beside the canal.
He put her down. She looked peaceful enough, more peaceful than that other time, years ago, when the two of them seemed to have shared so much, when the future had not yet destroyed her. He saw the shadow of Helene bend across Marsha's face against the background of the silently flowing water of the cool, green canal.
"You loved her?"
"Once," Bruce said. "She might have been sane. They got her when she was young. Too young to fight. But she would have, I think, if she'd been older when they got her."
He sat looking down at Marsha's face, and then at the water with the leaves floating down it.
"'... And the springs that flow on the floor of the valley will never seem fresh or clear for thinking of the glitter of the mountain water in the feathery green of the year....'"
He stood up, walked back with Helene along the canal toward the calm city. He didn't look back.
"They've all been dead quite a while," Bruce said wonderingly. "Yet I seemed to be hearing from Terrence until only a short time ago. Are—are the climbers still climbing—somewhere, Helene?"
"Who knows?" Helene answered softly. "Maybe. I doubt if even the Martians have the answer to that."
They entered the city.
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What is the plot of the story?
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After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about Raiders of the Second Moon by Basil Wells.
Relevant chunks:
Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
Raiders of the Second Moon
By GENE ELLERMAN
A strange destiny had erased Noork's memory,
and had brought him to this tiny world—to
write an end to his first existence.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Summer 1945.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Beyond earth swings that airless pocked mass of fused rock and gray
volcanic dust that we know as Luna. Of this our naked eyes assure us.
But of the smaller satellite, hidden forever from the mundane view by
Luna's bulk, we know little.
Small is Sekk, that second moon, less than five hundred miles in
diameter, but the period of its revolution is thirty two hours, and its
meaner mass retains a breathable atmosphere. There is life on Sekk,
life that centers around the sunken star-shaped cavity where an oval
lake gleams softly in the depths. And the eleven radiating tips of the
starry abyss are valleys green with jungle growth.
In one of those green valleys the white savage that the Vasads called
Noork squatted in the ample crotch of a jungle giant and watched the
trail forty feet below. For down there moved alertly a golden skinned
girl, her only weapons a puny polished bow of yellow wood and a
sheathed dagger.
Sight of the girl's flowing brown hair and the graceful feminine
contours of her smooth-limbed body beneath its skin-halter and the
insignificant breech-clout, made his brow wrinkle with concentration.
Not forever had he lived in this jungle world of valleys and ragged
cliffs. Since he had learned the tongue of the hairy Vasads of forest,
and the tongue of their gold-skinned leader, Gurn, the renegade, he had
confirmed that belief.
For a huge gleaming bird had carried him in its talons to the top of
the cliff above their valley and from the rock fire had risen to devour
the great bird. Somehow he had been flung clear and escaped the death
of the mysterious bird-thing. And in his delirium he had babbled the
words that caused the apish Vasads to name him Noork. Now he repeated
them aloud.
"New York," he said, "good ol' New York."
The girl heard. She looked upward fearfully, her rounded bare arm going
back to the bow slung across her shoulder. Swiftly she fitted an arrow
and stepped back against the friendly bole of a shaggy barked jungle
giant. Noork grinned.
"Tako, woman," he greeted her.
"Tako," she replied fearfully. "Who speaks to Tholon Sarna? Be you
hunter or escaped slave?"
"A friend," said Noork simply. "It was I who killed the spotted
narl
last night when it attacked you."
Doubtfully the girl put away her bow. Her fingers, however, were never
far from the hilt of her hunting dagger.
Noork swung outward from his perch, and then downward along the ladder
of limbs to her side. The girl exclaimed at his brown skin.
"Your hair is the color of the sun!" she said. "Your garb is Vasad, yet
you speak the language of the true men." Her violet oddly slanting eyes
opened yet wider. "Who are you?"
"I am Noork," the man told her. "For many days have I dwelt among the
wild Vasads of the jungle with their golden-skinned chief, Gurn, for
my friend."
The girl impulsively took a step nearer. "Gurn!" she cried. "Is he tall
and strong? Has he a bracelet of golden discs linked together with
human hair? Does he talk with his own shadow when he thinks?"
"That is Gurn," admitted Noork shortly. "He is also an exile from the
walled city of Grath. The city rulers call him a traitor. He has told
me the reason. Perhaps you know it as well?"
"Indeed I do," cried Sarna. "My brother said that we should no longer
make slaves of the captured Zurans from the other valleys."
Noork smiled. "I am glad he is your brother," he said simply.
The girl's eyes fell before his admiring gaze and warm blood flooded
into her rounded neck and lovely cheeks.
"Brown-skinned one!" she cried with a stamp of her shapely little
sandalled foot. "I am displeased with the noises of your tongue. I will
listen to it no more."
But her eyes gave the provocative lie to her words. This brown-skinned
giant with the sunlit hair was very attractive....
The girl was still talking much later, as they walked together along
the game-trail. "When my captors were but one day's march from their
foul city of Bis the warriors of the city of Konto, through whose
fertile valley we had journeyed by night, fell upon the slavers.
"And in the confusion of the attack five of us escaped. We returned
toward the valley of Grath, but to avoid the intervening valley where
our enemies, the men of Konto, lived, we swung close to the Lake of
Uzdon. And the Misty Ones from the Temple of the Skull trailed us. I
alone escaped."
Noork lifted the short, broad-bladed sword that swung in its sheath
at his belt and let it drop back into place with a satisfying whisper
of flexible leather on steel. He looked toward the east where lay the
mysterious long lake of the Misty Ones.
"Some day," he said reflectively, "I am going to visit the island of
the unseen evil beings who stole away your friends. Perhaps after I
have taken you to your brother's hidden village, and from there to
your city of Grath...." He smiled.
The girl did not answer. His keen ears, now that he was no longer
speaking, caught the scuffing of feet into the jungle behind him. He
turned quickly to find the girl had vanished, and with an instinctive
reflex of motion he flung himself to one side into the dense wall of
the jungle. As it was the unseen club thudded down along his right arm,
numbing it so he felt nothing for some time.
One armed as he was temporarily, and with an unseen foe to reckon with,
Noork awkwardly swung up into the comparative safety of the trees. Once
there, perched in the crotch of a mighty jungle monarch, he peered down
at the apparently empty stretch of sunken trail beneath.
Noork
At first he saw nothing out of the ordinary. Apparently there was no
stir of life along that leaf-shadowed way. And then he caught a glimpse
of blurring shadowy shapes, blotches of cottony mist that blended all
too well with the foliage. One of the things from the island in the
Lake of Uzdon moved, and he saw briefly the bottom of a foot dirtied
with the mud of the trail.
Noork squinted. So the Misty Ones were not entirely invisible. Pain
was growing in his numbed arm now, but as it came so came strength. He
climbed further out on the great branch to where sticky and overripe
fruit hung heavy. With a grin he locked his legs upon the forking of
the great limb and filled his arms with fruit.
A barrage of the juicy fruit blanketed the misty shapes. Stains spread
and grew. Patchy outlines took on a new color and sharpness. Noork
found that he was pelting a half-dozen hooded and robed creatures whose
arms and legs numbered the same as his own, and the last remnant of
superstitious fear instilled in his bruised brain by the shaggy Vasads
vanished.
These Misty Ones were living breathing creatures like himself! They
were not gods, or demons, or even the ghostly servants of demons. He
strung his bow quickly, the short powerful bow that Gurn had given him,
and rained arrows down upon the cowering robed creatures.
And the monsters fled. They fled down the trail or faded away into the
jungle. All but one of them. The arrow had pierced a vital portion of
this Misty One's body. He fell and moved no more.
A moment later Noork was ripping the stained cloak and hood from the
fallen creature, curious to learn what ghastly brute-thing hid beneath
them. His lip curled at what he saw.
The Misty One was almost like himself. His skin was not so golden as
that of the other men of Zuran, and his forehead was low and retreating
in a bestial fashion. Upon his body there was more hair, and his face
was made hideous with swollen colored scars that formed an irregular
design. He wore a sleeveless tunic of light green and his only weapons
were two long knives and a club.
"So," said Noork, "the men of the island prey upon their own kind. And
the Temple of Uzdon in the lake is guarded by cowardly warriors like
this."
Noork shrugged his shoulders and set off at a mile-devouring pace down
the game trail toward the lake where the Temple of the Skull and its
unseen guardians lay. Once he stopped at a leaf-choked pool to wash the
stains from the dead man's foggy robe.
The jungle was thinning out. Noork's teeth flashed as he lifted the
drying fabric of the mantle and donned it.
Ud tasted the scent of a man and sluggishly rolled his bullet head from
shoulder to shoulder as he tried to catch sight of his ages-old enemy.
For between the hairy quarter-ton beast men of the jungles of Sekk and
the golden men of the valley cities who enslaved them there was eternal
war.
A growl rumbled deep in the hairy half-man's chest. He could see no
enemy and yet the scent grew stronger with every breath.
"You hunt too near the lake," called a voice. "The demons of the water
will trap you."
Ud's great nostrils quivered. He tasted the odor of a friend mingled
with that of a strange Zuran. He squatted.
"It's Noork," he grunted. "Why do I not see you?"
"I have stolen the skin of a demon," answered the invisible man. "Go to
Gurn. Tell him to fear the demons no longer. Tell him the Misty Ones
can be trapped and skinned."
"Why you want their skins?" Ud scratched his hairy gray skull.
"Go to save Gurn's ..." and here Noork was stumped for words. "To save
his father's woman woman," he managed at last. "Father's woman woman
called Sarna."
And the misty blob of nothingness was gone again, its goal now the
marshy lowlands that extended upward perhaps a thousand feet from the
jungle's ragged fringe to end at last in the muddy shallows of the Lake
of Uzdon.
To Noork it seemed that all the world must be like these savage jungle
fastnesses of the twelve valleys and their central lake. He knew that
the giant bird had carried him from some other place that his battered
brain could not remember, but to him it seemed incredible that men
could live elsewhere than in a jungle valley.
But Noork was wrong. The giant bird that he had ridden into the depths
of Sekk's fertile valleys had come from a far different world. And the
other bird, for which Noork had been searching when he came upon the
golden-skinned girl, was from another world also.
The other bird had come from space several days before that of Noork,
the Vasads had told him, and it had landed somewhere within the land
of sunken valleys. Perhaps, thought Noork, the bird had come from the
same valley that had once been his home. He would find the bird and
perhaps then he could remember better who he had been.
So it was, ironically enough, that Stephen Dietrich—whose memory was
gone completely—again took up the trail of Doctor Karl Von Mark, last
of the Axis criminals at large. The trail that had led the red-haired
young American flier from rebuilding Greece into Africa and the hidden
valley where Doctor Von Mark worked feverishly to restore the crumbled
structure of Nazidom, and then had sent him hurtling spaceward in the
second of the Doctor's crude space-ships was now drawing to an end.
The Doctor and the young American pilot were both trapped here on this
little blob of cosmic matter that hides beyond the Moon's cratered bulk.
The Doctor's ship had landed safely on Sekk, the wily scientist
preferring the lesser gravity of this fertile world to that of the
lifeless Moon in the event that he returned again to Earth, but
Dietrich's spacer had crashed.
Two words linked Noork with the past, the two words that the Vasads
had slurred into his name: New York. And the battered wrist watch, its
crystal and hands gone, were all that remained of his Earthly garb.
Noork paddled the long flat dugout strongly away from the twilight
shore toward the shadowy loom of the central island. Though he could
not remember ever having held a paddle before he handled the ungainly
blade well.
After a time the clumsy prow of the craft rammed into a yielding
cushion of mud, and Noork pulled the dugout out of the water into the
roofing shelter of a clump of drooping trees growing at the water's
edge.
Sword in hand he pushed inward from the shore and ended with a
smothered exclamation against an unseen wall. Trees grew close up to
the wall and a moment later he had climbed out along a horizontal
branch beyond the wall's top, and was lowering his body with the aid of
a braided leather rope to the ground beyond.
He was in a cultivated field his feet and hands told him. And perhaps
half a mile away, faintly illumined by torches and red clots of
bonfires, towered a huge weathered white skull!
Secure in the knowledge that he wore the invisible robes of a Misty
One he found a solitary tree growing within the wall and climbed to a
comfortable crotch. In less than a minute he was asleep.
"The new slave," a rough voice cut across his slumber abruptly, "is the
daughter of Tholon Dist the merchant."
Noork was fully awake now. They were speaking of Sarna. Her father's
name was Tholon Dist. It was early morning in the fields of the Misty
Ones and he could see the two golden-skinned slaves who talked together
beneath his tree.
"That matters not to the priests of Uzdon," the slighter of the
two slaves, his hair almost white, said. "If she be chosen for the
sacrifice to great Uzdon her blood will stain the altar no redder than
another's."
"But it is always the youngest and most beautiful," complained the
younger slave, "that the priests chose. I wish to mate with a beautiful
woman. Tholon Sarna is such a one."
The old man chuckled dryly. "If your wife be plain," he said, "neither
master nor fellow slave will steal her love. A slave should choose a
good woman—and ugly, my son."
"Some night," snarled the slave, "I'm going over the wall. Even the
Misty Ones will not catch me once I have crossed the lake."
"Silence," hissed the white-haired man. "Such talk is madness. We are
safe here from wild animals. There are no spotted narls on the island
of Manak. The priests of most holy Uzdon, and their invisible minions,
are not unkind.
"Get at your weeding of the field, Rold," he finished, "and I will
complete my checking of the gardens."
Noork waited until the old man was gone before he descended from the
tree. He walked along the row until he reached the slave's bent back,
and he knew by the sudden tightening of the man's shoulder muscles
that his presence was known. He looked down and saw that his feet made
clear-cut depressions in the soft rich soil of the field.
"Continue to work," he said to the young man. "Do not be too surprised
at what I am about to tell you, Rold." He paused and watched the golden
man's rather stupid face intently.
"I am not a Misty One," Noork said. "I killed the owner of this strange
garment I wear yesterday on the mainland. I have come to rescue the
girl, Tholon Sarna, of whom you spoke."
Rold's mouth hung open but his hard blunt fingers continued to work.
"The Misty Ones, then," he said slowly, "are not immortal demons!" He
nodded his long-haired head. "They are but men. They too can die."
"If you will help me, Rold," said Noork, "to rescue the girl and escape
from the island I will take you along."
Rold was slow in answering. He had been born on the island and yet his
people were from the valley city of Konto. He knew that they would
welcome the news that the Misty Ones were not demons. And the girl from
the enemy city of Grath was beautiful. Perhaps she would love him for
helping to rescue her and come willingly with him to Konto.
"I will help you, stranger," he agreed.
"Then tell me of the Skull, and of the priests, and of the prison where
Tholon Sarna is held."
The slave's fingers flew. "All the young female slaves are caged
together in the pit beneath the Skull. When the sun is directly
overhead the High Priest will choose one of them for sacrifice to
mighty Uzdon, most potent of all gods. And with the dawning of the
next day the chosen one will be bound across the altar before great
Uzdon's image and her heart torn from her living breast." The slave's
mismatched eyes, one blue and the other brown, lifted from his work.
"Tholon Sarna is in the pit beneath the Temple with the other female
slaves. And the Misty Ones stand guard over the entrance to the temple
pits."
"It is enough," said Noork. "I will go to rescue her now. Be prepared
to join us as we return. I will have a robe for you if all goes well."
"If you are captured," cried Rold nervously, "you will not tell them I
talked with you?"
Noork laughed. "You never saw me," he told the slave.
The skull was a gigantic dome of shaped white stone. Where the
eye-sockets and gaping nose-hole should have been, black squares of
rock gave the illusion of vacancy. Slitted apertures that served for
windows circled the grisly whiteness of the temple's curving walls at
three distinct levels.
Noork drifted slowly up the huge series of long bench-like steps
that led up to the gaping jaws of the Skull. He saw red and
purple-robed priests with nodding head-dresses of painted plumes and
feathers climbing and descending the stairs. Among them moved the
squatty gnarled shapes of burdened Vasads, their shaggy bowed legs
fettered together with heavy copper or bronze chains, and cringing
golden-skinned slaves slipped furtively through the press of the
brilliant-robed ones. The stale sweaty odor of the slaves and the beast
men mingled with the musky stench of the incense from the temple.
Other misty blobs, the invisible guards of the ghastly temple, were
stationed at regular intervals across the great entrance into the
Skull's interior, but they paid Noork no heed. To them he was another
of their number.
He moved swiftly to cross the wide stone-slabbed entry within the
jaws, and a moment later was looking down into a sunken bowl whose
rocky floor was a score of feet below where he stood. Now he saw the
central raised altar where the gleam of precious stones and cunningly
worked metal—gold, silver and brass—vied with the faded garish
colors of the draperies beneath it. And on the same dais there loomed
two beast-headed stone images, the lion-headed god a male and the
wolf-headed shape a female.
These then were the two blood hungry deities that the men of Zura
worshipped—mighty Uzdon and his mate, Lornu!
Noork joined the descending throng that walked slowly down the central
ramp toward the altar. As he searched for the entrance to the lower
pits his eyes took in the stone steps that led upward into the two
upper levels. Only priests and the vague shapelessness of the Misty
Ones climbed those steps. The upper levels, then, were forbidden to
the slaves and common citizens of the island.
As he circled the curving inner wall a foul dank odor reached his
sensitive nostrils, and his eyes searched for its origin. He found it
there just before him, the opening that gave way to a descending flight
of clammy stone steps. He darted toward the door and from nowhere two
short swords rose to bar his way.
"None are to pass save the priests," spoke a voice from nowhere
gruffly. "The High Priest knows that we of the temple guards covet the
most beautiful of the slave women, but we are not to see them until the
sacrifice is chosen."
Noork moved backward a pace. He grumbled something inaudible and drew
his sword. Before him the two swords slowly drew aside.
In that instant Noork attacked. His keen sword, whetted to razor
sharpness on abrasive bits of rock, bit through the hidden neck and
shoulder of the guard on his right hand, and with the same forward
impetus of attack he smashed into the body of the startled guard on his
left.
His sword had wrenched from his hand as it jammed into the bony
structure of the decapitated Misty One's shoulder, and now both his
hands sought the throat of the guard. The unseen man's cry of warning
gurgled and died in his throat as Noork clamped his fingers shut upon
it, and his shortened sword stabbed at Noork's back.
The struggle overbalanced them. They rolled over and over down the
shadowy stair, the stone smashing at their softer flesh unmercifully.
For a moment the battling men brought up with a jolt as the obstruction
of the first guard's corpse arrested their downward course, and then
they jolted and jarred onward again from blood-slippery step to
blood-slippery step.
The sword clattered from the guardian Misty One's clutch and in the
same instant Noork's steel fingers snapped the neck of the other man
with a pistol-like report. The limp body beneath him struggled no more.
He sprang to his feet and became aware of a torch-lighted doorway but a
half-dozen paces further down along the descending shaft of steps.
In a moment, he thought, the fellows of this guard would come charging
out, swords in hand. They could not have failed to hear the struggle
on the stairs of stone, he reasoned, for here the noise and confusion
of the upper temple was muted to a murmur.
So it was that he ran quickly to the door, in his hand the sword that
had dropped from the dead man's fingers, and sprang inside, prepared to
battle there the Misty Ones, lest one escape to give the alarm.
He looked about the narrow stone-walled room with puzzled eyes. Two
warriors lay on a pallet of straw, one of them emitting hideous
gurgling sounds that filled the little room with unpleasing echoes.
Noork grinned.
From the floor beside the fatter of the two men, the guard who did not
snore, he took a club. Twice he struck and the gurgling sound changed
to a steady deep breathing. Noork knew that now the two guards would
not give the alarm for several hours. Thoughtfully he looked about the
room. There were several of the hooded cloaks hanging from pegs wedged
into the crevices of the chamber's wall, their outlines much plainer
here in the artificial light of the flickering torch.
Noork shed his own blood-stained robe quickly and donned one of the
others. The cloaks were rather bulky and so he could carry but two
others, rolled up, beneath his own protective covering.
The matter of his disguise thus taken care of he dragged the two bodies
from the stairway and hid them beneath their own fouled robes in the
chamber of the sleeping guards. Not until then did he hurry on down the
stone steps toward the prison pit where Tholon Sarna, the golden girl,
was held prisoner.
The steps opened into a dimly lit cavern. Pools of foul black water
dotted the uneven floor and reflected back faintly the light of the two
sputtering torches beside the entrance. One corner of the cavern was
walled off, save for a narrow door of interlocking brass strips, and
toward this Noork made his way.
He stood beside the door. "Sarna," he called softly, "Tholon Sarna."
There were a score of young women, lately captured from the mainland
by the Misty Ones, sitting dejectedly upon the foul dampness of the
rotting grass that was their bed. Most of them were clad in the simple
skirt and brief jacket, reaching but to the lower ribs, that is the
mark of the golden people who dwell in the city-states of Zura's
valleys, but a few wore a simple band of cloth about their hips and
confined their breasts with a strip of well-cured leopard or antelope
hide.
One of the women now came to her feet and as she neared the
metal-barred entrance Noork saw that she was indeed Sarna. He examined
the outer lock of the door and found it to be barred with a massive
timber and the timber locked in place with a metal spike slipped into a
prepared cavity in the prison's rocky wall.
"It is Noork," he said softly as she came closer. He saw her eyes go
wide with fear and sudden hope, and then reached for the spike.
"The priest," hissed the girl.
Noork had already heard the sound of approaching feet. He dropped the
spike and whirled. His sword was in his hand as though by magic, as he
faced the burly priest of the Skull.
Across the forehead and upper half of the priest's face a curved shield
of transparent tinted material was fastened. Noork's eyes narrowed as
he saw the sword and shield of the gigantic holy man.
"So," he said, "to the priests of Uzdon we are not invisible. You do
not trust your guards, then."
The priest laughed. "We also have robes of invisibility," he said, "and
the sacred window of Uzdon before our eyes." He snarled suddenly at the
silent figure of the white man. "Down on your knees, guard, and show me
your face before I kill you!"
Noork raised his sword. "Take my hood off if you dare, priest," he
offered.
The burly priest's answer was a bellow of rage and a lunge forward of
his sword arm. Their swords clicked together and slid apart with the
velvety smoothness of bronze on bronze. Noork's blade bit a chunk from
the priest's conical shield, and in return received a slashing cut that
drew blood from left shoulder to elbow.
The fighting grew more furious as the priest pressed the attack. He
was a skilled swordsman and only the superior agility of the white
man's legs kept Noork away from that darting priestly blade. Even so
his robe was slashed in a dozen places and blood reddened his bronzed
body. Once he slipped in a puddle of foul cavern water and only by the
slightest of margins did he escape death by the priest's weapon.
The priest was tiring rapidly, however. The soft living of the temple,
and the rich wines and over-cooked meats that served to pad his paunch
so well with fat, now served to rob him of breath. He opened his
mouth to bawl for assistance from the guard, although it is doubtful
whether any sound could have penetrated up into the madhouse of the
main temple's floor, and in that instant Noork flipped his sword at his
enemy.
Between the shield and the transparent bit of curving material the
sword drove, and buried itself deep in the priest's thick neck. Noork
leaped forward; he snatched the tinted face shield and his sword, and a
moment later he had torn the great wooden timber from its sockets.
Tholon Sarna stumbled through the door and he caught her in his arms.
Hurriedly he loosed one of the two robes fastened about his waist and
slipped it around her slim shivering shoulders.
"Are there other priests hidden here in the pits?" Noork asked tensely.
"No," came the girl's low voice, "I do not think so. I did not know
that this priest was here until he appeared behind you." A slow smile
crossed Noork's hidden features. "His robe must be close by," he told
the girl. "He must have been stationed here because the priests feared
the guards might spirit away some of the prisoners."
Slowly he angled back and forth across the floor until his foot touched
the soft material of the priest's discarded robe near the stairway
entrance. He slipped the thongs of the transparent mask, called by the
priest "Uzdon's window" over his hood, and then proceeded to don the
new robe.
"My own robe is slit in a dozen places," he explained to the girl's
curious violet eyes—-all that was visible through the narrow vision
slot of her hood. He finished adjusting the outer robe and took the
girl's hand.
"Come," he said, "let us escape over the wall before the alarm is
given."
Without incident they reached the field where Rold toiled among the
rows of vegetables. Another slave was working in a nearby field,
his crude wooden plow pulled by two sweating Vasads, but he was not
watching when Rold abruptly faded from view.
Noork was sweating with the weight of two cloaks and the airlessness of
the vision shield as they crossed the field toward his rope, but he had
no wish to discard them yet. The tinted shield had revealed that dozens
of the Misty Ones were stationed about the wall to guard against the
escape of the slaves.
They came to the wall and to Noork's great joy found the rope hanging
as he had left it. He climbed the wall first and then with Rold helping
from below, drew Sarna to his side. A moment later saw the three of
them climbing along the limb to the bole of the tree and so to the
jungle matted ground outside the wall.
"Will we hide here in the trees until night?" asked the girl's full
voice.
Noork held aside a mossy creeper until the girl had passed. "I think
not," he said. "The Misty Ones are continually passing from the island
to the shore. We are Misty Ones to any that watch from the wall. So we
will paddle boldly across the water."
"That is good," agreed the slave, "unless they see us put out from the
shore. Their two landing stages are further along the beach, opposite
the Temple of Uzdon."
"Then we must hug to the shore until we pass the tip of the island,"
said Noork thoughtfully. "In that way even if they detect us we will
have put a safe distance between us."
Shortly after midday Noork felt the oozy slime of the marshy lowlands
of the mainland beneath his paddle and the dugout ran ashore in the
grassy inlet for which they had been heading. His palms were blistered
and the heavy robes he yet wore were soaked with sweat.
"Once we reach the jungle," he told the girl, "off come these robes. I
am broiled alive."
Suddenly Noork froze in his tracks. He thrust the girl behind him.
"Misty Ones!" he hissed to Rold. "They crouch among the reeds. They
carry nets and clubs to trap us."
Rold turned back toward the boat with Noork and Sarna close at his
heels. But the Misty Ones were upon them and by sheer numbers they bore
them to the ground. Noork's mightier muscles smashed more than one
hooded face but in the end he too lay smothered beneath the nets and
bodies of the enemy.
A misty shape came to stand beside these three new captives as they
were stripped of their robes. His foot nudged at Noork's head curiously
and a guttural voice commanded the shield be removed. Then his voice
changed—thickened—as he saw the features of Noork.
"So," he barked in a tongue that should have been strange to Noork but
was not, "it is the trapper's turn to be trapped, eh Captain Dietrich?"
A fat, square-jawed face, harsh lines paralleling the ugly blob of a
nose, showed through the opened robe of the leader. The face was that
of Doctor Von Mark the treacherous Nazi scientist that Stephen Dietrich
had trailed across space to Sekk! But Noork knew nothing of that chase.
The man's face seemed familiar, and hateful, but that was all he
remembered.
"I see you have come from the island," said the Doctor. "Perhaps you
can tell me the secret of this invisible material I wear. With the
secret of invisibility I, Karl Von Mark, can again conquer Earth and
make the Fatherland invincible."
"I do not understand too well," said Noork hesitantly. "Are we enemies?
There is so much I have forgotten." He regarded the brutal face
thoughtfully.
"Perhaps you know from what valley the great bird brought me," he said.
"Or perhaps the other bird brought you here."
Von Mark's blue eyes widened and then he roared with a great noise
that was intended to be mirth. His foot slammed harder into Noork's
defenseless ribs.
"Perhaps you have forgotten, swine of an American," he roared suddenly,
and in his hand was an ugly looking automatic. He flung back his robe
and Noork saw the dress uniform of a general. "Perhaps," the scientist
repeated, "but I will take no chances. The amnesia is often but a
pretense."
His lip curled. "This is something for you to remember, Captain
Dietrich," he said as the ugly black muzzle of the gun centered on
Noork's bronzed chest.
And then Doctor Von Mark cursed as the gun dropped from his nerveless
fingers and his hands clawed weakly at the arrow buried in his wide
belly. He stumbled backward.
Arrows rained from the mistiness that had closed in about Von Mark and
his men. The men from Wari, their faces unshielded, fell like flies.
In a moment those yet alive had taken to their heels, and Noork felt
invisible fingers tearing at the nets that bound him.
As he rose to his feet the robed figure let its misty covering drop
aside. A handsome golden-skinned warrior stood revealed.
"Gurn!" cried Noork.
A glad cry came from the throat of Tholon Sarna as she saw her brother.
And then she crept closer to Noork's side as the invisible mantles
of Gurn's loyal Vasads opened to reveal the hairy beast men they
concealed. Rold whimpered fearfully.
"The message that Ud carried to me was good," laughed Gurn. "The Misty
Ones skin easily. We were trapping the Misty Ones as they came across
the lake," he looked at the dying Von Mark, "as were these others. Soon
we would have come to your rescue, Noork, my friend."
"Lucky I escaped first," Noork told him. "The priests of Uzdon would
have trapped you. To them the Misty Ones are visible."
He picked up the fallen vision shield that lay beside their feet. His
chest expanded proudly.
"No longer," he told Gurn, "am I a man without a name. I am Captain
Dietrich from a distant valley called America. I was hunting this evil
man when my bird died."
He smiled and his brown arm tightened around Sarna's golden body. "The
evil man is dead. My native valley is safe. Now I can live in peace
with you, Gurn, and with your sister, here in the jungle."
"It is good, Noork," smiled Tholon Sarna.
End of Project Gutenberg's Raiders of the Second Moon, by Gene Ellerman
Question:
What is the plot of the story?
Answer:
|
[
"Noork is in a tree on a moon named Sekk, watching a woman walk through the jungle. When they speak, they learn that Noork has been living with her brother, Gurn. With this introduction, they begin to travel together.\n\nThe woman explains that she had been captured by slavers in the past but had escaped. The escapees were then followed by the Misty Ones, and the woman was the only one who made a complete escape. Noork states that he will visit the island where the Misty Ones live one day, but the woman does not answer. When Noork turns back to her, she has disappeared, and Noork is attacked. He hides in the trees and spies the Misty Ones below. He throws fruit down on them until he can easily see them by the stains the fruit makes on their clothing, then attacks with arrows. The Misty Ones flee except for one who has been killed with an arrow. Noork takes the robe of this one and sets off toward the Temple of the Skull, the home of the Misty Ones, to free the woman.\n\nNoork encounters Ud, his friend, near the lake, and tells him to tell Gurn that the MIsty Ones can be trapped and skinned. He asks Ud to tell Gurn that Noork is going to save Gurn's \"father's woman woman\" called Sarna.\n\nNoork paddles across the lake and sneaks close to the Temple of the Skull. He falls asleep in a tree and is awakened by the conversation of two slaves talking about Sarna. After one slave leaves, he speaks with the other slave, Rold, and tells him that he is there to rescue Sarna. Rold, realizing that the Misty Ones are only mortal men, tells Noork that Sarna is held in a pit beneath the temple with the other young women slaves.\n\nNoork finds the entrance to the pit but is blocked by two guards, whom he kills.He then proceeds to the cage where the young women are held, where he is confronted by a priest. He fights the priest, kills him, and frees Sarna. They go back to the field, get Rold, and the three of them flee into the jungle. They plan to go for a boat and leave, but are caught by Misty Ones waiting to trap them. At this time, Dr. Von Mark, a Nazi from Earth, confronts Noork, who is also Stephen Dietrich, an American pilot who has been hunting him and had tracked him through space to Sekk. Due to Dietrich/Noork's amnesia, he remembers none of this. Just as Von Mark is about to kill him, Gurn and other men from Wari kill the Misty Ones with arrows and Noork and the others are freed. Noork states that he can now live in peace with Gurn and Sarna in the jungle.",
"Noork, a man from Earth who doesn’t remember who he is, lives in the jungle on a second moon. He knows he was brought there by what he remembers as a huge bird and that he was taken in by a man named Gurn and the Vasad people of the jungle. He meets a woman named Sarna with whom he shares a mutual attraction, and it turns out that she is Gurn’s sister. Shortly after they discover this, they are attacked. Sarna vanishes and Noork hides, eventually discovering that the “Misty Ones” who attacked them, thought to be demons, look similar to him and can be “skinned”; this is important because their skins or coverings allow the wearer to be nearly invisible like them. \n\nNoork passes a message along via another Vasad to tell Gurn what he has learned about the Misty Ones, and to say that Noork has gone to rescue Sarna. He sneaks into the walled temple where the slaves are being kept, and enlists the help of another slave, Rold, to help them get out if he can get Sarna. Noork goes down to the cavern and, after fighting a priest to the death, rescues Sarna. They escape with Rold, only to be captured by more Misty Ones, one of whom turns out to be a Nazi from Noork’s previous life. \n\nThough Noork can’t remember him (but knows he dislikes him), Doctor Von Mark remembers him. Noork’s name was Stephen Dietrich, and he was an American flier who had chased down one of the last nazi criminals: Doctor Von Mark. Von Mark had then flown one of his shuttles to Sekk and landed successfully, while Stephen had pursued him in another of his shuttles and crashed on Sekk, resulting in his amnesia. “Noork” was the name given to him by the Vasad based on the only sounds he could make: “New York”. \n\nDoctor Von Mark asks if Noork knows the secret to the invisibility of the Misty One’s skins, since this would allow him to return to Earth and take it over for the Fatherland. When he realizes that Noork knows nothing, he moves to kill him but is shot by an arrow just in time. Gurn has rallied warriors based on Noork’s message. Noork now knows his real name and that he got where he is by hunting down an evil man. He is now happy to live safely in the jungle with Gurn and Sarna, and she says she is happy, too. \n",
"Noork is a man from Earth whose real name is Stephen Dietrich; he was pursuing the Nazi Dr. Karl Von Mark, the last of the Axis criminals at large. Dietrich followed Von Mark to Africa where Von Mark took off in a spaceship, and Dietrich followed. Both landed on Sekk, a second moon past Luna, but Dietrich’s landing was so rough that he lost his memory. When the locals found him, he said, “New York,” which they didn’t understand and named him Noork. Noork lives among the Vasads and learns their language. \n\nNoork and Tholon Sarna meet in the jungle and become friends. One day as they are talking, Noork hears feet scuffing, and Tholon disappears. Noork climbs a tree to find out where the Misty Ones are (They are invisible.). He detects movement and throws overripe fruit, which stains the cloaks of the Misty Ones. Noork shoots arrows toward the creatures and kills one. He takes that one’s robe, which is what makes the Misty Ones invisible. \n\nNoork tells one of his colleagues to take the message to Gurn, their leader and Tholon’s brother, that the Misty Ones are flesh and blood, not demons as they believe. He tells Ud that he is going to the island of the Misty Ones to save Tholon. He reaches the wall surrounding the Misty Ones’ village and overhears two slaves talking before they separate. Noork approaches the slave in the field, Rold, and asks for his help in exchange for helping Rold escape. Rold explains that the large skull is the god Uzdon, and the priests make sacrifices by taking the heart out of a living slave girl. He also tells Noork that the slave girls are held in a pit beneath the skull guarded by Misty Ones.\n\nNoork moves among the Misty Ones in anonymity since he is wearing one of their robes. He enters the skull and kills the guards who are in charge of the slave girls. Just as he is about to release Tholon, a priest catches him, and they fight until Noork kills him, too. Noork takes more robes and the priest’s face shield and leaves with Tholon and Rold. The face shield enables him to see the Misty Ones who are invisible to everyone else, so he can see when they are waiting to trap them. They capture the escape party, and one of the Misty Ones reveals that he is Dr. Von Mark after recognizing Dietrich. Von Mark reveals his plans to use the cloaks of invisibility to conquer Earth and make Germany invincible. Von Mark prepares to shoot Dietrich but is shot by an arrow first. Misty Ones close in on the group and lower their hoods, revealing Tholon’s brother Gurn and his men. Noork now remembers who he is and says he will live in peace with Gurn and his sister.\n",
"Noork searches for the bird that dropped him on a cliff (as well as another bird) when he is discovered by the Vasads. He repeated the word \"New York\", and so the Vasads call him Noork. From his perch, he now watches a girl—Tholon Sarna--moving along a trail below. She is the sister of Gurn, the Vasad leader. Gurn has been exiled from their home city of Grath because he doesn't believe in the enslavement of the Zuran, and Tholon Sarna has recently evaded capture by her enemies, the men of Konto. The Misty Ones--slavers dwellling at the Temple of the Skull and feared deeply by the Vasads--follow her. As Tholon Sarna and Noork walk, she is captured by a Misty One made invisible by a special robe. A Misty One clubs Noork, injuring his arm. Thanks to their blurry outlines, Noork realizes the Misty Ones are not entirely invisible, and he uses his legs to pelt them with fruit. Upon seeing their true form--closer to his own human shape--Noork loses his fear of them and begins attacking them with arrows. He takes the invisibility robe of a fallen Misty One and uses it to disguise himself as he makes his way to the Temple of the Skull. Along the way, he reunites with his friend Ud, a jungle-dwelling beast-man. He sends Ud to inform Gurn of the Misty Ones' newfound weakness. We then learn that Noork's real name is Stephen Dietrich, and he had been hunting Dr. Karl Von Mark, a criminal scientist attempting to revivify the Nazi power structure. Von Mark manages to evade Dietrich by landing on Sekk, and Dietrich crashes and succumbs to amnesia. The bird that had carried him to the cliff was his own plane, and the bird he had been seeking was Von Mark's. Now, Noork descends upon a slave named Rold near the Temple of the Skull. He enlists Rold to help him free Tholon Sarna. Rold informs Noork of the High Priest's plan to choose a sacrifice to their god, Uzdon, from the female slaves caged in a pit beneath the Skull. Noork promises a robe to Rold if his plan to rescue Tholon Sarna succeeds. In disguise, Noork approaches the Skull, heavily guarded by Misty Ones, and makes his way toward the pit. Along the way, he defeats guards and pockets two robes. Before freeing Tholon Sarna, Noork battles the High Priest, kills him, and they make their escape. Soon after, they are again trapped by a group of Misty Ones--this time led by none other than Dr. Karl Von Mark himself. Von Mark tells Noork of his desire to use the secret of invisibility to make Germany all-powerful, and he pulls out a gun to kill him. Suddenly, Gurn emerges with the Vasads, and they kill Von Mark with arrows. Noork recalls his true identify as Captain Dietrich and looks forward to a life of peace amongst the Vasads with Tholon Sarna."
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Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
Raiders of the Second Moon
By GENE ELLERMAN
A strange destiny had erased Noork's memory,
and had brought him to this tiny world—to
write an end to his first existence.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Planet Stories Summer 1945.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Beyond earth swings that airless pocked mass of fused rock and gray
volcanic dust that we know as Luna. Of this our naked eyes assure us.
But of the smaller satellite, hidden forever from the mundane view by
Luna's bulk, we know little.
Small is Sekk, that second moon, less than five hundred miles in
diameter, but the period of its revolution is thirty two hours, and its
meaner mass retains a breathable atmosphere. There is life on Sekk,
life that centers around the sunken star-shaped cavity where an oval
lake gleams softly in the depths. And the eleven radiating tips of the
starry abyss are valleys green with jungle growth.
In one of those green valleys the white savage that the Vasads called
Noork squatted in the ample crotch of a jungle giant and watched the
trail forty feet below. For down there moved alertly a golden skinned
girl, her only weapons a puny polished bow of yellow wood and a
sheathed dagger.
Sight of the girl's flowing brown hair and the graceful feminine
contours of her smooth-limbed body beneath its skin-halter and the
insignificant breech-clout, made his brow wrinkle with concentration.
Not forever had he lived in this jungle world of valleys and ragged
cliffs. Since he had learned the tongue of the hairy Vasads of forest,
and the tongue of their gold-skinned leader, Gurn, the renegade, he had
confirmed that belief.
For a huge gleaming bird had carried him in its talons to the top of
the cliff above their valley and from the rock fire had risen to devour
the great bird. Somehow he had been flung clear and escaped the death
of the mysterious bird-thing. And in his delirium he had babbled the
words that caused the apish Vasads to name him Noork. Now he repeated
them aloud.
"New York," he said, "good ol' New York."
The girl heard. She looked upward fearfully, her rounded bare arm going
back to the bow slung across her shoulder. Swiftly she fitted an arrow
and stepped back against the friendly bole of a shaggy barked jungle
giant. Noork grinned.
"Tako, woman," he greeted her.
"Tako," she replied fearfully. "Who speaks to Tholon Sarna? Be you
hunter or escaped slave?"
"A friend," said Noork simply. "It was I who killed the spotted
narl
last night when it attacked you."
Doubtfully the girl put away her bow. Her fingers, however, were never
far from the hilt of her hunting dagger.
Noork swung outward from his perch, and then downward along the ladder
of limbs to her side. The girl exclaimed at his brown skin.
"Your hair is the color of the sun!" she said. "Your garb is Vasad, yet
you speak the language of the true men." Her violet oddly slanting eyes
opened yet wider. "Who are you?"
"I am Noork," the man told her. "For many days have I dwelt among the
wild Vasads of the jungle with their golden-skinned chief, Gurn, for
my friend."
The girl impulsively took a step nearer. "Gurn!" she cried. "Is he tall
and strong? Has he a bracelet of golden discs linked together with
human hair? Does he talk with his own shadow when he thinks?"
"That is Gurn," admitted Noork shortly. "He is also an exile from the
walled city of Grath. The city rulers call him a traitor. He has told
me the reason. Perhaps you know it as well?"
"Indeed I do," cried Sarna. "My brother said that we should no longer
make slaves of the captured Zurans from the other valleys."
Noork smiled. "I am glad he is your brother," he said simply.
The girl's eyes fell before his admiring gaze and warm blood flooded
into her rounded neck and lovely cheeks.
"Brown-skinned one!" she cried with a stamp of her shapely little
sandalled foot. "I am displeased with the noises of your tongue. I will
listen to it no more."
But her eyes gave the provocative lie to her words. This brown-skinned
giant with the sunlit hair was very attractive....
The girl was still talking much later, as they walked together along
the game-trail. "When my captors were but one day's march from their
foul city of Bis the warriors of the city of Konto, through whose
fertile valley we had journeyed by night, fell upon the slavers.
"And in the confusion of the attack five of us escaped. We returned
toward the valley of Grath, but to avoid the intervening valley where
our enemies, the men of Konto, lived, we swung close to the Lake of
Uzdon. And the Misty Ones from the Temple of the Skull trailed us. I
alone escaped."
Noork lifted the short, broad-bladed sword that swung in its sheath
at his belt and let it drop back into place with a satisfying whisper
of flexible leather on steel. He looked toward the east where lay the
mysterious long lake of the Misty Ones.
"Some day," he said reflectively, "I am going to visit the island of
the unseen evil beings who stole away your friends. Perhaps after I
have taken you to your brother's hidden village, and from there to
your city of Grath...." He smiled.
The girl did not answer. His keen ears, now that he was no longer
speaking, caught the scuffing of feet into the jungle behind him. He
turned quickly to find the girl had vanished, and with an instinctive
reflex of motion he flung himself to one side into the dense wall of
the jungle. As it was the unseen club thudded down along his right arm,
numbing it so he felt nothing for some time.
One armed as he was temporarily, and with an unseen foe to reckon with,
Noork awkwardly swung up into the comparative safety of the trees. Once
there, perched in the crotch of a mighty jungle monarch, he peered down
at the apparently empty stretch of sunken trail beneath.
Noork
At first he saw nothing out of the ordinary. Apparently there was no
stir of life along that leaf-shadowed way. And then he caught a glimpse
of blurring shadowy shapes, blotches of cottony mist that blended all
too well with the foliage. One of the things from the island in the
Lake of Uzdon moved, and he saw briefly the bottom of a foot dirtied
with the mud of the trail.
Noork squinted. So the Misty Ones were not entirely invisible. Pain
was growing in his numbed arm now, but as it came so came strength. He
climbed further out on the great branch to where sticky and overripe
fruit hung heavy. With a grin he locked his legs upon the forking of
the great limb and filled his arms with fruit.
A barrage of the juicy fruit blanketed the misty shapes. Stains spread
and grew. Patchy outlines took on a new color and sharpness. Noork
found that he was pelting a half-dozen hooded and robed creatures whose
arms and legs numbered the same as his own, and the last remnant of
superstitious fear instilled in his bruised brain by the shaggy Vasads
vanished.
These Misty Ones were living breathing creatures like himself! They
were not gods, or demons, or even the ghostly servants of demons. He
strung his bow quickly, the short powerful bow that Gurn had given him,
and rained arrows down upon the cowering robed creatures.
And the monsters fled. They fled down the trail or faded away into the
jungle. All but one of them. The arrow had pierced a vital portion of
this Misty One's body. He fell and moved no more.
A moment later Noork was ripping the stained cloak and hood from the
fallen creature, curious to learn what ghastly brute-thing hid beneath
them. His lip curled at what he saw.
The Misty One was almost like himself. His skin was not so golden as
that of the other men of Zuran, and his forehead was low and retreating
in a bestial fashion. Upon his body there was more hair, and his face
was made hideous with swollen colored scars that formed an irregular
design. He wore a sleeveless tunic of light green and his only weapons
were two long knives and a club.
"So," said Noork, "the men of the island prey upon their own kind. And
the Temple of Uzdon in the lake is guarded by cowardly warriors like
this."
Noork shrugged his shoulders and set off at a mile-devouring pace down
the game trail toward the lake where the Temple of the Skull and its
unseen guardians lay. Once he stopped at a leaf-choked pool to wash the
stains from the dead man's foggy robe.
The jungle was thinning out. Noork's teeth flashed as he lifted the
drying fabric of the mantle and donned it.
Ud tasted the scent of a man and sluggishly rolled his bullet head from
shoulder to shoulder as he tried to catch sight of his ages-old enemy.
For between the hairy quarter-ton beast men of the jungles of Sekk and
the golden men of the valley cities who enslaved them there was eternal
war.
A growl rumbled deep in the hairy half-man's chest. He could see no
enemy and yet the scent grew stronger with every breath.
"You hunt too near the lake," called a voice. "The demons of the water
will trap you."
Ud's great nostrils quivered. He tasted the odor of a friend mingled
with that of a strange Zuran. He squatted.
"It's Noork," he grunted. "Why do I not see you?"
"I have stolen the skin of a demon," answered the invisible man. "Go to
Gurn. Tell him to fear the demons no longer. Tell him the Misty Ones
can be trapped and skinned."
"Why you want their skins?" Ud scratched his hairy gray skull.
"Go to save Gurn's ..." and here Noork was stumped for words. "To save
his father's woman woman," he managed at last. "Father's woman woman
called Sarna."
And the misty blob of nothingness was gone again, its goal now the
marshy lowlands that extended upward perhaps a thousand feet from the
jungle's ragged fringe to end at last in the muddy shallows of the Lake
of Uzdon.
To Noork it seemed that all the world must be like these savage jungle
fastnesses of the twelve valleys and their central lake. He knew that
the giant bird had carried him from some other place that his battered
brain could not remember, but to him it seemed incredible that men
could live elsewhere than in a jungle valley.
But Noork was wrong. The giant bird that he had ridden into the depths
of Sekk's fertile valleys had come from a far different world. And the
other bird, for which Noork had been searching when he came upon the
golden-skinned girl, was from another world also.
The other bird had come from space several days before that of Noork,
the Vasads had told him, and it had landed somewhere within the land
of sunken valleys. Perhaps, thought Noork, the bird had come from the
same valley that had once been his home. He would find the bird and
perhaps then he could remember better who he had been.
So it was, ironically enough, that Stephen Dietrich—whose memory was
gone completely—again took up the trail of Doctor Karl Von Mark, last
of the Axis criminals at large. The trail that had led the red-haired
young American flier from rebuilding Greece into Africa and the hidden
valley where Doctor Von Mark worked feverishly to restore the crumbled
structure of Nazidom, and then had sent him hurtling spaceward in the
second of the Doctor's crude space-ships was now drawing to an end.
The Doctor and the young American pilot were both trapped here on this
little blob of cosmic matter that hides beyond the Moon's cratered bulk.
The Doctor's ship had landed safely on Sekk, the wily scientist
preferring the lesser gravity of this fertile world to that of the
lifeless Moon in the event that he returned again to Earth, but
Dietrich's spacer had crashed.
Two words linked Noork with the past, the two words that the Vasads
had slurred into his name: New York. And the battered wrist watch, its
crystal and hands gone, were all that remained of his Earthly garb.
Noork paddled the long flat dugout strongly away from the twilight
shore toward the shadowy loom of the central island. Though he could
not remember ever having held a paddle before he handled the ungainly
blade well.
After a time the clumsy prow of the craft rammed into a yielding
cushion of mud, and Noork pulled the dugout out of the water into the
roofing shelter of a clump of drooping trees growing at the water's
edge.
Sword in hand he pushed inward from the shore and ended with a
smothered exclamation against an unseen wall. Trees grew close up to
the wall and a moment later he had climbed out along a horizontal
branch beyond the wall's top, and was lowering his body with the aid of
a braided leather rope to the ground beyond.
He was in a cultivated field his feet and hands told him. And perhaps
half a mile away, faintly illumined by torches and red clots of
bonfires, towered a huge weathered white skull!
Secure in the knowledge that he wore the invisible robes of a Misty
One he found a solitary tree growing within the wall and climbed to a
comfortable crotch. In less than a minute he was asleep.
"The new slave," a rough voice cut across his slumber abruptly, "is the
daughter of Tholon Dist the merchant."
Noork was fully awake now. They were speaking of Sarna. Her father's
name was Tholon Dist. It was early morning in the fields of the Misty
Ones and he could see the two golden-skinned slaves who talked together
beneath his tree.
"That matters not to the priests of Uzdon," the slighter of the
two slaves, his hair almost white, said. "If she be chosen for the
sacrifice to great Uzdon her blood will stain the altar no redder than
another's."
"But it is always the youngest and most beautiful," complained the
younger slave, "that the priests chose. I wish to mate with a beautiful
woman. Tholon Sarna is such a one."
The old man chuckled dryly. "If your wife be plain," he said, "neither
master nor fellow slave will steal her love. A slave should choose a
good woman—and ugly, my son."
"Some night," snarled the slave, "I'm going over the wall. Even the
Misty Ones will not catch me once I have crossed the lake."
"Silence," hissed the white-haired man. "Such talk is madness. We are
safe here from wild animals. There are no spotted narls on the island
of Manak. The priests of most holy Uzdon, and their invisible minions,
are not unkind.
"Get at your weeding of the field, Rold," he finished, "and I will
complete my checking of the gardens."
Noork waited until the old man was gone before he descended from the
tree. He walked along the row until he reached the slave's bent back,
and he knew by the sudden tightening of the man's shoulder muscles
that his presence was known. He looked down and saw that his feet made
clear-cut depressions in the soft rich soil of the field.
"Continue to work," he said to the young man. "Do not be too surprised
at what I am about to tell you, Rold." He paused and watched the golden
man's rather stupid face intently.
"I am not a Misty One," Noork said. "I killed the owner of this strange
garment I wear yesterday on the mainland. I have come to rescue the
girl, Tholon Sarna, of whom you spoke."
Rold's mouth hung open but his hard blunt fingers continued to work.
"The Misty Ones, then," he said slowly, "are not immortal demons!" He
nodded his long-haired head. "They are but men. They too can die."
"If you will help me, Rold," said Noork, "to rescue the girl and escape
from the island I will take you along."
Rold was slow in answering. He had been born on the island and yet his
people were from the valley city of Konto. He knew that they would
welcome the news that the Misty Ones were not demons. And the girl from
the enemy city of Grath was beautiful. Perhaps she would love him for
helping to rescue her and come willingly with him to Konto.
"I will help you, stranger," he agreed.
"Then tell me of the Skull, and of the priests, and of the prison where
Tholon Sarna is held."
The slave's fingers flew. "All the young female slaves are caged
together in the pit beneath the Skull. When the sun is directly
overhead the High Priest will choose one of them for sacrifice to
mighty Uzdon, most potent of all gods. And with the dawning of the
next day the chosen one will be bound across the altar before great
Uzdon's image and her heart torn from her living breast." The slave's
mismatched eyes, one blue and the other brown, lifted from his work.
"Tholon Sarna is in the pit beneath the Temple with the other female
slaves. And the Misty Ones stand guard over the entrance to the temple
pits."
"It is enough," said Noork. "I will go to rescue her now. Be prepared
to join us as we return. I will have a robe for you if all goes well."
"If you are captured," cried Rold nervously, "you will not tell them I
talked with you?"
Noork laughed. "You never saw me," he told the slave.
The skull was a gigantic dome of shaped white stone. Where the
eye-sockets and gaping nose-hole should have been, black squares of
rock gave the illusion of vacancy. Slitted apertures that served for
windows circled the grisly whiteness of the temple's curving walls at
three distinct levels.
Noork drifted slowly up the huge series of long bench-like steps
that led up to the gaping jaws of the Skull. He saw red and
purple-robed priests with nodding head-dresses of painted plumes and
feathers climbing and descending the stairs. Among them moved the
squatty gnarled shapes of burdened Vasads, their shaggy bowed legs
fettered together with heavy copper or bronze chains, and cringing
golden-skinned slaves slipped furtively through the press of the
brilliant-robed ones. The stale sweaty odor of the slaves and the beast
men mingled with the musky stench of the incense from the temple.
Other misty blobs, the invisible guards of the ghastly temple, were
stationed at regular intervals across the great entrance into the
Skull's interior, but they paid Noork no heed. To them he was another
of their number.
He moved swiftly to cross the wide stone-slabbed entry within the
jaws, and a moment later was looking down into a sunken bowl whose
rocky floor was a score of feet below where he stood. Now he saw the
central raised altar where the gleam of precious stones and cunningly
worked metal—gold, silver and brass—vied with the faded garish
colors of the draperies beneath it. And on the same dais there loomed
two beast-headed stone images, the lion-headed god a male and the
wolf-headed shape a female.
These then were the two blood hungry deities that the men of Zura
worshipped—mighty Uzdon and his mate, Lornu!
Noork joined the descending throng that walked slowly down the central
ramp toward the altar. As he searched for the entrance to the lower
pits his eyes took in the stone steps that led upward into the two
upper levels. Only priests and the vague shapelessness of the Misty
Ones climbed those steps. The upper levels, then, were forbidden to
the slaves and common citizens of the island.
As he circled the curving inner wall a foul dank odor reached his
sensitive nostrils, and his eyes searched for its origin. He found it
there just before him, the opening that gave way to a descending flight
of clammy stone steps. He darted toward the door and from nowhere two
short swords rose to bar his way.
"None are to pass save the priests," spoke a voice from nowhere
gruffly. "The High Priest knows that we of the temple guards covet the
most beautiful of the slave women, but we are not to see them until the
sacrifice is chosen."
Noork moved backward a pace. He grumbled something inaudible and drew
his sword. Before him the two swords slowly drew aside.
In that instant Noork attacked. His keen sword, whetted to razor
sharpness on abrasive bits of rock, bit through the hidden neck and
shoulder of the guard on his right hand, and with the same forward
impetus of attack he smashed into the body of the startled guard on his
left.
His sword had wrenched from his hand as it jammed into the bony
structure of the decapitated Misty One's shoulder, and now both his
hands sought the throat of the guard. The unseen man's cry of warning
gurgled and died in his throat as Noork clamped his fingers shut upon
it, and his shortened sword stabbed at Noork's back.
The struggle overbalanced them. They rolled over and over down the
shadowy stair, the stone smashing at their softer flesh unmercifully.
For a moment the battling men brought up with a jolt as the obstruction
of the first guard's corpse arrested their downward course, and then
they jolted and jarred onward again from blood-slippery step to
blood-slippery step.
The sword clattered from the guardian Misty One's clutch and in the
same instant Noork's steel fingers snapped the neck of the other man
with a pistol-like report. The limp body beneath him struggled no more.
He sprang to his feet and became aware of a torch-lighted doorway but a
half-dozen paces further down along the descending shaft of steps.
In a moment, he thought, the fellows of this guard would come charging
out, swords in hand. They could not have failed to hear the struggle
on the stairs of stone, he reasoned, for here the noise and confusion
of the upper temple was muted to a murmur.
So it was that he ran quickly to the door, in his hand the sword that
had dropped from the dead man's fingers, and sprang inside, prepared to
battle there the Misty Ones, lest one escape to give the alarm.
He looked about the narrow stone-walled room with puzzled eyes. Two
warriors lay on a pallet of straw, one of them emitting hideous
gurgling sounds that filled the little room with unpleasing echoes.
Noork grinned.
From the floor beside the fatter of the two men, the guard who did not
snore, he took a club. Twice he struck and the gurgling sound changed
to a steady deep breathing. Noork knew that now the two guards would
not give the alarm for several hours. Thoughtfully he looked about the
room. There were several of the hooded cloaks hanging from pegs wedged
into the crevices of the chamber's wall, their outlines much plainer
here in the artificial light of the flickering torch.
Noork shed his own blood-stained robe quickly and donned one of the
others. The cloaks were rather bulky and so he could carry but two
others, rolled up, beneath his own protective covering.
The matter of his disguise thus taken care of he dragged the two bodies
from the stairway and hid them beneath their own fouled robes in the
chamber of the sleeping guards. Not until then did he hurry on down the
stone steps toward the prison pit where Tholon Sarna, the golden girl,
was held prisoner.
The steps opened into a dimly lit cavern. Pools of foul black water
dotted the uneven floor and reflected back faintly the light of the two
sputtering torches beside the entrance. One corner of the cavern was
walled off, save for a narrow door of interlocking brass strips, and
toward this Noork made his way.
He stood beside the door. "Sarna," he called softly, "Tholon Sarna."
There were a score of young women, lately captured from the mainland
by the Misty Ones, sitting dejectedly upon the foul dampness of the
rotting grass that was their bed. Most of them were clad in the simple
skirt and brief jacket, reaching but to the lower ribs, that is the
mark of the golden people who dwell in the city-states of Zura's
valleys, but a few wore a simple band of cloth about their hips and
confined their breasts with a strip of well-cured leopard or antelope
hide.
One of the women now came to her feet and as she neared the
metal-barred entrance Noork saw that she was indeed Sarna. He examined
the outer lock of the door and found it to be barred with a massive
timber and the timber locked in place with a metal spike slipped into a
prepared cavity in the prison's rocky wall.
"It is Noork," he said softly as she came closer. He saw her eyes go
wide with fear and sudden hope, and then reached for the spike.
"The priest," hissed the girl.
Noork had already heard the sound of approaching feet. He dropped the
spike and whirled. His sword was in his hand as though by magic, as he
faced the burly priest of the Skull.
Across the forehead and upper half of the priest's face a curved shield
of transparent tinted material was fastened. Noork's eyes narrowed as
he saw the sword and shield of the gigantic holy man.
"So," he said, "to the priests of Uzdon we are not invisible. You do
not trust your guards, then."
The priest laughed. "We also have robes of invisibility," he said, "and
the sacred window of Uzdon before our eyes." He snarled suddenly at the
silent figure of the white man. "Down on your knees, guard, and show me
your face before I kill you!"
Noork raised his sword. "Take my hood off if you dare, priest," he
offered.
The burly priest's answer was a bellow of rage and a lunge forward of
his sword arm. Their swords clicked together and slid apart with the
velvety smoothness of bronze on bronze. Noork's blade bit a chunk from
the priest's conical shield, and in return received a slashing cut that
drew blood from left shoulder to elbow.
The fighting grew more furious as the priest pressed the attack. He
was a skilled swordsman and only the superior agility of the white
man's legs kept Noork away from that darting priestly blade. Even so
his robe was slashed in a dozen places and blood reddened his bronzed
body. Once he slipped in a puddle of foul cavern water and only by the
slightest of margins did he escape death by the priest's weapon.
The priest was tiring rapidly, however. The soft living of the temple,
and the rich wines and over-cooked meats that served to pad his paunch
so well with fat, now served to rob him of breath. He opened his
mouth to bawl for assistance from the guard, although it is doubtful
whether any sound could have penetrated up into the madhouse of the
main temple's floor, and in that instant Noork flipped his sword at his
enemy.
Between the shield and the transparent bit of curving material the
sword drove, and buried itself deep in the priest's thick neck. Noork
leaped forward; he snatched the tinted face shield and his sword, and a
moment later he had torn the great wooden timber from its sockets.
Tholon Sarna stumbled through the door and he caught her in his arms.
Hurriedly he loosed one of the two robes fastened about his waist and
slipped it around her slim shivering shoulders.
"Are there other priests hidden here in the pits?" Noork asked tensely.
"No," came the girl's low voice, "I do not think so. I did not know
that this priest was here until he appeared behind you." A slow smile
crossed Noork's hidden features. "His robe must be close by," he told
the girl. "He must have been stationed here because the priests feared
the guards might spirit away some of the prisoners."
Slowly he angled back and forth across the floor until his foot touched
the soft material of the priest's discarded robe near the stairway
entrance. He slipped the thongs of the transparent mask, called by the
priest "Uzdon's window" over his hood, and then proceeded to don the
new robe.
"My own robe is slit in a dozen places," he explained to the girl's
curious violet eyes—-all that was visible through the narrow vision
slot of her hood. He finished adjusting the outer robe and took the
girl's hand.
"Come," he said, "let us escape over the wall before the alarm is
given."
Without incident they reached the field where Rold toiled among the
rows of vegetables. Another slave was working in a nearby field,
his crude wooden plow pulled by two sweating Vasads, but he was not
watching when Rold abruptly faded from view.
Noork was sweating with the weight of two cloaks and the airlessness of
the vision shield as they crossed the field toward his rope, but he had
no wish to discard them yet. The tinted shield had revealed that dozens
of the Misty Ones were stationed about the wall to guard against the
escape of the slaves.
They came to the wall and to Noork's great joy found the rope hanging
as he had left it. He climbed the wall first and then with Rold helping
from below, drew Sarna to his side. A moment later saw the three of
them climbing along the limb to the bole of the tree and so to the
jungle matted ground outside the wall.
"Will we hide here in the trees until night?" asked the girl's full
voice.
Noork held aside a mossy creeper until the girl had passed. "I think
not," he said. "The Misty Ones are continually passing from the island
to the shore. We are Misty Ones to any that watch from the wall. So we
will paddle boldly across the water."
"That is good," agreed the slave, "unless they see us put out from the
shore. Their two landing stages are further along the beach, opposite
the Temple of Uzdon."
"Then we must hug to the shore until we pass the tip of the island,"
said Noork thoughtfully. "In that way even if they detect us we will
have put a safe distance between us."
Shortly after midday Noork felt the oozy slime of the marshy lowlands
of the mainland beneath his paddle and the dugout ran ashore in the
grassy inlet for which they had been heading. His palms were blistered
and the heavy robes he yet wore were soaked with sweat.
"Once we reach the jungle," he told the girl, "off come these robes. I
am broiled alive."
Suddenly Noork froze in his tracks. He thrust the girl behind him.
"Misty Ones!" he hissed to Rold. "They crouch among the reeds. They
carry nets and clubs to trap us."
Rold turned back toward the boat with Noork and Sarna close at his
heels. But the Misty Ones were upon them and by sheer numbers they bore
them to the ground. Noork's mightier muscles smashed more than one
hooded face but in the end he too lay smothered beneath the nets and
bodies of the enemy.
A misty shape came to stand beside these three new captives as they
were stripped of their robes. His foot nudged at Noork's head curiously
and a guttural voice commanded the shield be removed. Then his voice
changed—thickened—as he saw the features of Noork.
"So," he barked in a tongue that should have been strange to Noork but
was not, "it is the trapper's turn to be trapped, eh Captain Dietrich?"
A fat, square-jawed face, harsh lines paralleling the ugly blob of a
nose, showed through the opened robe of the leader. The face was that
of Doctor Von Mark the treacherous Nazi scientist that Stephen Dietrich
had trailed across space to Sekk! But Noork knew nothing of that chase.
The man's face seemed familiar, and hateful, but that was all he
remembered.
"I see you have come from the island," said the Doctor. "Perhaps you
can tell me the secret of this invisible material I wear. With the
secret of invisibility I, Karl Von Mark, can again conquer Earth and
make the Fatherland invincible."
"I do not understand too well," said Noork hesitantly. "Are we enemies?
There is so much I have forgotten." He regarded the brutal face
thoughtfully.
"Perhaps you know from what valley the great bird brought me," he said.
"Or perhaps the other bird brought you here."
Von Mark's blue eyes widened and then he roared with a great noise
that was intended to be mirth. His foot slammed harder into Noork's
defenseless ribs.
"Perhaps you have forgotten, swine of an American," he roared suddenly,
and in his hand was an ugly looking automatic. He flung back his robe
and Noork saw the dress uniform of a general. "Perhaps," the scientist
repeated, "but I will take no chances. The amnesia is often but a
pretense."
His lip curled. "This is something for you to remember, Captain
Dietrich," he said as the ugly black muzzle of the gun centered on
Noork's bronzed chest.
And then Doctor Von Mark cursed as the gun dropped from his nerveless
fingers and his hands clawed weakly at the arrow buried in his wide
belly. He stumbled backward.
Arrows rained from the mistiness that had closed in about Von Mark and
his men. The men from Wari, their faces unshielded, fell like flies.
In a moment those yet alive had taken to their heels, and Noork felt
invisible fingers tearing at the nets that bound him.
As he rose to his feet the robed figure let its misty covering drop
aside. A handsome golden-skinned warrior stood revealed.
"Gurn!" cried Noork.
A glad cry came from the throat of Tholon Sarna as she saw her brother.
And then she crept closer to Noork's side as the invisible mantles
of Gurn's loyal Vasads opened to reveal the hairy beast men they
concealed. Rold whimpered fearfully.
"The message that Ud carried to me was good," laughed Gurn. "The Misty
Ones skin easily. We were trapping the Misty Ones as they came across
the lake," he looked at the dying Von Mark, "as were these others. Soon
we would have come to your rescue, Noork, my friend."
"Lucky I escaped first," Noork told him. "The priests of Uzdon would
have trapped you. To them the Misty Ones are visible."
He picked up the fallen vision shield that lay beside their feet. His
chest expanded proudly.
"No longer," he told Gurn, "am I a man without a name. I am Captain
Dietrich from a distant valley called America. I was hunting this evil
man when my bird died."
He smiled and his brown arm tightened around Sarna's golden body. "The
evil man is dead. My native valley is safe. Now I can live in peace
with you, Gurn, and with your sister, here in the jungle."
"It is good, Noork," smiled Tholon Sarna.
End of Project Gutenberg's Raiders of the Second Moon, by Gene Ellerman
|
What is the plot of the story?
|
After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about Desire No More by Algis Budrys.
Relevant chunks:
He had but one ambition, one desire: to pilot the first manned rocket to the moon. And he was prepared as no man had ever prepared himself before....
DESIRE NO MORE
by Algis Budrys
( illustrated by Milton Luros )
" Desire no more than to thy lot may fall.... "
—Chaucer
THE SMALL young man looked at his father, and shook his head.
"But you've got to learn a trade," his father said, exasperated. "I can't afford to send you to college; you know that."
"I've got a trade," he answered.
His father smiled thinly. "What?" he asked patronizingly.
"I'm a rocket pilot," the boy said, his thin jaw stretching the skin of his cheeks.
His father laughed in the way the boy had learned to anticipate and hate. "Yeah," he said. He leaned back in his chair and laughed so hard that the Sunday paper slipped off his wide lap and fell to the floor with an unnoticed stiff rustle.
"A rocket pilot!" His father's derision hooted through the quiet parlor. "A ro— oh, no! —a rocket pilot !"
The boy stared silently at the convulsed figure in the chair. His lips fell into a set white bar, and the corners of his jaws bulged with the tension in their muscles. Suddenly, he turned on his heel and stalked out of the parlor, through the hall, out the front door, to the porch. He stopped there, hesitating a little.
" Marty! " His father's shout followed him out of the parlor. It seemed to act like a hand between the shoulder-blades, because the boy almost ran as he got down the porch stairs.
"What is it, Howard?" Marty's mother asked in a worried voice as she came in from the kitchen, her damp hands rubbing themselves dry against the sides of her housedress.
"Crazy kid," Howard Isherwood muttered. He stared at the figure of his son as the boy reached the end of the walk and turned off into the street. " Come back here! " he shouted. "A rocket pilot," he cursed under his breath. "What's the kid been reading? Claiming he's a rocket pilot!"
Margaret Isherwood's brow furrowed into a faint, bewildered frown.
"But—isn't he a little young? I know they're teaching some very odd things in high schools these days, but it seems to me...."
"Oh, for Pete's sake, Marge, there aren't even any rockets yet! Come back here, you idiot! " Howard Isherwood was standing on his porch, his clenched fists trembling at the ends of his stiffly-held arms.
"Are you sure, Howard?" his wife asked faintly.
"Yes, I'm sure !"
"But, where's he going?"
" Stop that! Get off that bus! YOU hear me? Marty?"
" Howard! Stop acting like a child and talk to me! Where is that boy going?"
Howard Isherwood, stocky, red-faced, forty-seven, and defeated, turned away from the retreating bus and looked at his wife. "I don't know," he told her bitterly, between rushes of air into his jerkily heaving lungs.
"Maybe, the moon," he told her sarcastically.
Martin Isherwood, rocket pilot, weight 102, height 4', 11", had come of age at seventeen.
THE SMALL man looked at his faculty advisor. "No," he said. "I am not interested in working for a degree."
"But—" The faculty advisor unconsciously tapped the point of a yellow pencil against the fresh green of his desk blotter, leaving a rough arc of black flecks. "Look, Ish, you've got to either deliver or get off the basket. This program is just like the others you've followed for nine semesters; nothing but math and engineering. You've taken just about every undergrad course there is in those fields. How long are you going to keep this up?"
"I'm signed up for Astronomy 101," Isherwood pointed out.
The faculty advisor snorted. "A snap course. A breather, after you've studied the same stuff in Celestial Navigation. What's the matter, Ish? Scared of liberal arts?"
Isherwood shook his head. "Uh-unh. Not interested. No time. And that Astronomy course isn't a breather. Different slant from Cee Nav—they won't be talking about stars as check points, but as things in themselves." Something seemed to flicker across his face as he said it.
The advisor missed it; he was too engrossed in his argument. "Still a snap. What's the difference, how you look at a star?"
Isherwood almost winced. "Call it a hobby," he said. He looked down at his watch. "Come on, Dave. You're not going to convince me. You haven't convinced me any of the other times, either, so you might as well give up, don't you think? I've got a half hour before I go on the job. Let's go get some beer."
The advisor, not much older than Isherwood, shrugged, defeated. "Crazy," he muttered. But it was a hot day, and he was as thirsty as the next man.
The bar was air conditioned. The advisor shivered, half grinned, and softly quoted:
"Though I go bare, take ye no care, I am nothing a-cold; I stuff my skin so full within Of jolly good ale and old."
"Huh?" Ish was wearing the look with which he always reacted to the unfamiliar.
The advisor lifted two fingers to the bartender and shrugged. "It's a poem; about four hundred years old, as a matter of fact."
"Oh."
"Don't you give a damn?" the advisor asked, with some peevishness.
Ish laughed shortly, without embarrassment. "Sorry, Dave, but no. It's not my racket."
The advisor cramped his hand a little too tightly around his glass.
"Strictly a specialist, huh?"
Ish nodded. "Call it that."
"But what , for Pete's sake? What is this crazy specialty that blinds you to all the fine things that man has done?"
Ish took a swallow of his beer. "Well, now, if I was a poet, I'd say it was the finest thing that man has ever done."
The advisor's lips twisted in derision. "That's pretty fanatical, isn't it?"
"Uh-huh." Ish waved to the bartender for refills.
THE NAVION took a boiling thermal under its right wing and bucked upward suddenly, tilting at the same time, so that the pretty brunette girl in the other half of the side-by-side was thrown against him. Ish laughed, a sound that came out of his throat as turbulently as that sudden gust of heated air had shot up out of the Everglades, and corrected with a tilt of the wheel.
"Relax, Nan," he said, his words colored by the lingering laughter.
"It's only air; nasty old air."
The girl patted her short hair back into place. "I wish you wouldn't fly this low," she said, half-frightened.
" Low? Call this low?" Ish teased. "Here. Let's drop it a little, and you'll really get an idea of how fast we're going." He nudged the wheel forward, and the Navion dipped its nose in a shallow dive, flattening out thirty feet above the mangrove. The swamp howled with the chug of the dancing pistons and the claw of the propeller at the protesting air, and, from the cockpit, the Everglades resolved into a dirty-green blur that rocketed backward into the slipstream.
"Marty!"
Ish chuckled again. He couldn't have held the ship down much longer, anyway. He tugged back on the wheel suddenly, targeting a cumulous bank with his spinner. His lips peeled back from his teeth, and his jaw set. The Navion went up at the clouds, her engine turning over as fast as it could, her wings cushioned on the rising thrust of another thermal.
And, suddenly, it was as if there were no girl beside him, to be teased, and no air to rock the wings—there were no wings. His face lost all expression. Faint beads of sweat broke out above his eyes and under his nose. "Up," he grunted through his clenched teeth. His fists locked on the wheel. "Up!"
The Navion broke through the cloud, kept going. "Up." If he listened closely, in just the right way, he could almost hear ...
"Marty!"
... the rumble of a louder, prouder engine than the Earth had ever known. He sighed, the breath whispering through his parting teeth, and the aircraft leveled off as he pushed at the wheel with suddenly lax hands. Still half-lost, he turned and looked at the white-faced girl. "Scare you—?" he asked gently.
She nodded. Her fingertips were trembling on his forearm.
"Me too," he said. "Lost my head. Sorry."
"LOOK," HE told the girl, "You got any idea of what it costs to maintain a racing-plane? Everything I own is tied up in the Foo, my ground crew, my trailer, and that scrummy old Ryan that should have been salvaged ten years ago. I can't get married. Suppose I crack the Foo next week? You're dead broke, a widow, and with a funeral to pay for. The only smart thing to do is wait a while."
Nan's eyes clouded, and her lips trembled. "That's what I've been trying to say. Why do you have to win the Vandenberg Cup next week? Why can't you sell the Foo and go into some kind of business? You're a trained pilot."
He had been standing in front of her with his body unconsciously tense from the strain of trying to make her understand. Now he relaxed—more—he slumped—and something began to die in his face, and the first faint lines crept in to show that after it had died, it would not return to life, but would fossilize, leaving his features in the almost unreadable mask that the newspapers would come to know.
"I'm a good bit more than a trained pilot," he said quietly. "The Foo Is a means to an end. After I win the Vandenberg Cup, I can walk into any plant in the States—Douglas, North American, Boeing— any of them—and pick up the Chief Test Pilot's job for the asking. A few of them have as good as said so. After that—" His voice had regained some of its former animation from this new source. Now he broke off, and shrugged. "I've told you all this before."
The girl reached up, as if the physical touch could bring him back to her, and put her fingers around his wrist. "Darling!" she said. "If it's that rocket pilot business again...."
Somehow, his wrist was out of her encircling fingers. "It's always 'that rocket pilot business,'" he said, mimicking her voice. "Damn it, I'm the only trained rocket pilot in the world! I weigh a hundred and fifteen pounds, I'm five feet tall, and I know more navigation and math than anybody the Air Force or Navy have! I can use words like brennschluss and mass-ratio without running over to a copy of Colliers , and I—" He stopped himself, half-smiled, and shrugged again.
"I guess I was kidding myself. After the Cup, there'll be the test job, and after that, there'll be the rockets. You would have had to wait a long time."
All she could think of to say was, "But, Darling, there aren't any man-carrying rockets."
"That's not my fault," he said, and walked away from her.
A week later, he took his stripped-down F-110 across the last line with a scream like that of a hawk that brings its prey safely to its nest.
HE BROUGHT the Mark VII out of her orbit after two days of running rings around the spinning Earth, and the world loved him. He climbed out of the crackling, pinging ship, bearded and dirty, with oil on his face and in his hair, with food stains all over his whipcord, red-eyed, and huskily quiet as he said his few words into the network microphones. And he was not satisfied. There was no peace in his eyes, and his hands moved even more sharply in their expressive gestures as he gave an impromptu report to the technicians who were walking back to the personnel bunker with him.
Nan could see that. Four years ago, he had been different. Four years ago, if she had only known the right words, he wouldn't be so intent now on throwing himself away to the sky.
She was a woman scorned. She had to lie to herself. She broke out of the press section and ran over to him. "Marty!" She brushed past a technician.
He looked at her with faint surprise on his face. "Well, Nan!" he mumbled. But he did not put his hand over her own where it touched his shoulder.
"I'm sorry, Marty," she said in a rush. "I didn't understand. I couldn't see how much it all meant." Her face was flushed, and she spoke as rapidly as she could, not noticing that Ish had already gestured away the guards she was afraid would interrupt her.
"But it's all right, now. You got your rockets. You've done it. You trained yourself for it, and now it's over. You've flown your rocket!"
He looked up at her face and shook his head in quiet pity. One of the shocked technicians was trying to pull her away, and Ish made no move to stop him.
Suddenly, he was tired, there was something in him that was trying to break out against his will, and his reaction was that of a child whose candy is being taken away from him after only one bite.
"Rocket!" he shouted into her terrified face. " Rocket! Call that pile of tin a rocket?" He pointed at the weary Mark VII with a trembling arm.
"Who cares about the bloody machines ! If I thought roller-skating would get me there, I would have gone to work in a rink when I was seventeen! It's getting there that counts! Who gives a good goddam how it's done, or what with!"
And he stood there, shaking like a leaf, outraged, while the guards came and got her.
"SIT DOWN, Ish," the Flight Surgeon said.
They always begin that way , Isherwood thought. The standard medical opening. Sit down. What for? Did somebody really believe that anything he might hear would make him faint? He smiled with as much expression as he ever did, and chose a comfortable chair, rolling the white cylinder of a cigarette between his fingers. He glanced at his watch. Fourteen hours, thirty-six minutes, and four days to go.
"How's it?" the FS asked.
Ish grinned and shrugged. "All right." But he didn't usually grin. The realization disquieted him a little.
"Think you'll make it?"
Deliberately, rather than automatically, he fell back into his usual response-pattern. "Don't know. That's what I'm being paid to find out."
"Uh- huh ." The FS tapped the eraser of his pencil against his teeth.
"Look—you want to talk to a man for a while?"
"What man?" It didn't really matter. He had a feeling that anything he said or did now would have a bearing, somehow, on the trip. If they wanted him to do something for them, he was bloody well going to do it.
"Fellow named MacKenzie. Big gun in the head-thumping racket." The Flight Surgeon was trying to be as casual as he could. "Air Force insisted on it, as a matter of fact," he said. "Can't really blame them. After all, it's their beast."
"Don't want any hole-heads denting it up on them, huh?" Ish lit the cigarette and flipped his lighter shut with a snap of the lid. "Sure. Bring him on."
The FS smiled. "Good. He's—uh—he's in the next room. Okay to ask him in right now?"
"Sure." Something flickered in Isherwood's eyes. Amusement at the Flight Surgeon's discomfort was part of it. Worry was some of the rest.
MacKENZIE didn't seem to be taking any notes, or paying any special attention to the answers Ish was giving to his casual questions. But the questions fell into a pattern that was far from casual, and Ish could see the small button-mike of a portable tape-recorder nestling under the man's lapel.
"Been working your own way for the last seventeen years, haven't you?" MacKenzie seemed to mumble in a perfectly clear voice.
Ish nodded.
"How's that?"
The corners of Isherwood's mouth twitched, and he said "Yes" for the recorder's benefit.
"Odd jobs, first of all?"
"Something like that. Anything I could get, the first few months. After I was halfway set up, I stuck to garages and repair shops."
"Out at the airports around Miami, mostly, wasn't it?"
"Ahuh."
"Took some of your pay in flying lessons."
"Right."
MacKenzie's face passed no judgements—he simply hunched in his chair, seemingly dwarfed by the shoulders of his perfectly tailored suit, his stubby fingers twiddling a Phi Beta Kappa key. He was a spare man—only a step or two away from emaciation. Occasionally, he pushed a tired strand of washed-out hair away from his forehead.
Ish answered him truthfully, without more than ordinary reservations. This was the man who could ground him He was dangerous—red-letter dangerous—because of it.
"No family."
Ish shrugged. "Not that I know of. Cut out at seventeen. My father was making good money. He had a pension plan, insurance policies. No need to worry about them."
Ish knew the normal reaction a statement like that should have brought. MacKenzie's face did not go into a blank of repression—but it still passed no judgements.
"How's things between you and the opposite sex?"
"About normal."
"No wife—no steady girl."
"Not a very good idea, in my racket."
MacKenzie grunted. Suddenly, he sat bolt upright in his chair, and swung toward Ish. His lean arm shot out, and his index finger was aimed between Isherwood's eyes. "You can't go!"
Ish was on his feet, his fists clenched, the blood throbbing in his temple veins. "What!" he roared.
MacKenzie seemed to collapse in his chair. The brief commanding burst was over, and his face was apologetic, "Sorry," he said. He seemed genuinely abashed. "Shotgun therapy. Works best, sometimes. You can go, all right; I just wanted to get a fast check on your reactions and drives."
Ish could feel the anger that still ran through him—anger, and more fear than he wanted to admit. "I'm due at a briefing," he said tautly.
"You through with me?"
MacKenzie nodded, still embarrassed. "Sorry."
Ish ignored the man's obvious feelings. He stopped at the door to send a parting stroke at the thing that had frightened him. "Big gun in the psychiatry racket, huh? Well, your professional lingo's slipping, Doc. They did put some learning in my head at college, you know. Therapy, hell! Testing maybe, but you sure didn't do anything to help me!"
"I don't know," MacKenzie said softly. "I wish I did."
Ish slammed the door behind him. He stood in the corridor, jamming a fresh cigarette in his mouth. He threw a glance at his watch. Twelve hours, twenty-two minutes, and four days to go.
Damn! He was late for the briefing. Odd—that fool psychiatrist hadn't seemed to take up that much of his time.
He shrugged. What difference did it make? As he strode down the hall, he lost his momentary puzzlement under the flood of realization that nothing could stop him now, that the last hurdle was beaten. He was going. He was going, and if there were faint echoes of "Marty!" ringing in the dark background of his mind, they only served to push him faster, as they always had. Nothing but death could stop him now.
ISH LOOKED up bitterly at the Receptionist. "No," he said.
"But everybody fills out an application," she protested.
"No. I've got a job," he said as he had been saying for the last half hour.
The Receptionist sighed. "If you'll only read the literature I've given you, you'll understand that all your previous commitments have been cancelled."
"Look, Honey, I've seen company poop sheets before. Now, let's cut this nonsense. I've got to get back."
"But nobody goes back."
"Goddam it, I don't know what kind of place this is, but—" He stopped at the Receptionist's wince, and looked around, his mouth open. The reception desk was solid enough. There were IN and OUT and HOLD baskets on the desk, and the Receptionist seemed to see nothing extraordinary about it. But the room—a big room, he realized—seemed to fade out at the edges, rather than stop at walls. The lighting, too....
"Let's see your back!" he rapped out, his voice high.
She sighed in exasperation. "If you'd read the literature ..." She swiveled her chair slowly.
"No wings," he said.
"Of course not!" she snapped. She brushed her hair away from her forehead without his telling her to. "No horns, either."
"Streamlined, huh?" he said bitterly.
"It's a little different for everybody," she said with unexpected gentleness. "It would have to be, wouldn't it?"
"Yeah, I guess so," he admitted slowly. Then he lost his momentary awe, and his posture grew tense again. He glanced down at his wrist. Six hours, forty-seven minutes, and no days to go.
"Who do I see?"
She stared at him, bewildered at the sudden change in his voice. "See?"
"About getting out of here! Come on, come on," he barked, snapping his fingers impatiently. "I haven't got much time."
She smiled sweetly. "Oh, but you do."
"Can it! Who's your Section boss? Get him down here. On the double. Come on!" His face was streaming with perspiration but his voice was firm with the purpose that drove him.
Her lips closed into an angry line, and she jabbed a finger at a desk button. "I'll call the Personnel Manager."
"Thanks," he said sarcastically, and waited impatiently. Odd, the way the Receptionist looked a little like Nan.
THE PERSONNEL Manager wore a perfectly-tailored suit. He strode across the lobby floor toward Ish, his hand outstretched.
"Martin Isherwood!" he exclaimed enthusiastically. "I'm very glad to meet you!"
"I'll bet," Ish said dryly, giving the Personnel Manager's hand a short shake. "I've got other ideas. I want out."
"That's all he's been saying for the past forty-five minutes, Sir," the Receptionist said from behind her desk.
The Personnel Manager frowned. "Um. Yes. Well, that's not unprecedented."
"But hardly usual," he added.
Ish found himself liking the man. He had a job to do, and after the preliminary formality of the greeting had been passed, he was ready to buckle down to it. Oh, he—shucks?—the Receptionist wasn't such a bad girl, either. He smiled at her. "Sorry I lost my head," he said.
She smiled back. "It happens."
He took time to give her one more smile and a half-wink, and swung back to the Personnel Manager.
"Now. Let's get this thing straightened out. I've got—" He stopped to look at his watch. "Six hours and a few minutes. They're fueling the beast right now."
"Do you know how much red tape you'd have to cut?"
Ish shook his head. "I don't want to sound nasty, but that's your problem."
The Personnel Manager hesitated. "Look—you feel you've got a job unfinished. Or, anyway, that's the way you'd put it. But, let's face it—that's not really what's galling you. It's not really the job, is it? It's just that you think you've been cheated out of what you devoted your life to."
Ish could feel his jaw muscles bunching. "Don't put words in my mouth!" he snapped. "Just get me back, and we'll split hairs about it when I get around this way again." Suddenly, he found himself pleading. "All I need is a week," he said. "It'll be a rough week—no picnic, no pleasures of the flesh. No smoking, no liquor. I certainly won't be breaking any laws. One week. Get there, putter around for two days, and back again. Then, you can do anything you want to—as long as it doesn't look like the trip's responsible, of course."
The Personnel Manager hesitated. "Suppose—" he began, but Ish interrupted him.
"Look, they need it, down there. They've got to have a target, someplace to go. We're built for it. People have to have—but what am I telling you for. If you don't know, who does?"
The Personnel Manager smiled. "I was about to say something."
Ish stopped, abashed. "Sorry."
He waved the apology away with a short movement of his hand. "You've got to understand that what you've been saying isn't a valid claim. If it were, human history would be very different, wouldn't it?"
"Suppose I showed you something, first? Then, you could decide whether you want to stay, after all."
"How long's it going to take?" Ish flushed under the memory of having actually begged for something.
"Not long," the Personnel Manager said. He half-turned and pointed up at the Earth, hanging just beyond the wall of the crater in which they were suddenly standing.
"Earth," the Personnel Manager said.
Somehow, Ish was not astonished. He looked up at the Earth, touched by cloud and sunlight, marked with ocean and continent, crowned with ice. The unblinking stars filled the night.
He looked around him. The Moon was silent—quiet, patient, waiting. Somewhere, a metal glint against the planet above, if it were only large enough to be seen, was the Station, and the ship for which the Moon had waited.
Ish walked a short distance. He was leaving no tracks in the pumice the ages had sown. But it was the way he had thought of it, nevertheless. It was the way the image had slowly built up in his mind, through the years, through the training, through the work. It was what he had aimed the Navion at, that day over the Everglades.
"It's not the same," he said.
The Personnel Manager sighed.
"Don't you see," Ish said, "It can't be the same. I didn't push the beast up here. There wasn't any feel to it. There wasn't any sound of rockets."
The Personnel Manager sighed again. "There wouldn't be, you know. Taking off from the Station, landing here—vacuum."
Ish shook his head. "There'd still be a sound. Maybe not for anybody else to hear—and, maybe, maybe there would be. There'd be people, back on Earth, who'd hear it."
"All right," the Personnel Manager said. His face was grave, but his eyes were shining a little.
"ISH! HEY, Ish, wake up, will you!" There was a hand on his shoulder.
"Will you get a load of this guy!" the voice said to someone else. "An hour to go, and he's sleeping like the dead."
Ish willed his eyes to open. He felt his heart begin to move again, felt the blood sluggishly beginning to surge into his veins. His hands and feet were very cold.
"Come on, Ish," the Crew Chief said.
"All right," he mumbled. "Okay. I'm up." He sat on the edge of his bunk looking down at his hands. They were blue under the fingernails. He sighed, feeling the air moving down into his lungs.
Stiffly, he got to his feet and began to climb into his G suit.
The Moon opened its face to him. From where he lay, strapped into the control seat in the forward bubble, he looked at it emotionlessly, and began to brake for a landing.
He looked for footprints in the crater, though he knew he hadn't left any. Earth was a familiar sight over his right shoulder.
He brought the twin-bubble beast back to the station. They threw spotlights on it, for the TV pickups, and thrust microphones at him. He could see broad grins behind the faceplates of the suits the docking crew wore, and they were pounding his back. The interior of the Station was a babbling of voices, a tumult of congratulations. He looked at it all, dead-faced, his eyes empty.
"It was easy," he said over a world-wide network, and pushed the press representatives out of his way.
MacKENZIE was waiting for him in the crew section. Ish flicked his stolid eyes at him, shrugged, and stripped out of his clothes. He pulled a coverall out of a locker and climbed into it, then went over to his bunk and lay down on his side, facing the bulkhead.
"Ish."
It was MacKenzie, bending over him.
Ish grunted.
"It wasn't any good was it? You'd done it all before; you'd been there."
He was past emotions. "Yeah?"
"We couldn't take the chance." MacKenzie was trying desperately to explain. "You were the best there was—but you'd done something to yourself by becoming the best. You shut yourself off from your family. You had no close friends, no women. You had no other interests. You were a rocket pilot—nothing else. You've never read an adult book that wasn't a text; you've never listened to a symphony except by accident. You don't know Rembrandt from Norman Rockwell. Nothing. No ties, no props, nothing to sustain you if something went wrong. We couldn't take the chance, Ish! "
"So?"
"There was too much at stake. If we let you go, you might have forgotten to come back. You might have just kept going."
He remembered the time with the Navion , and nodded. "I might have."
"I hypnotized you," MacKenzie said. "You were never dead. I don't know what the details of your hallucination were, but the important part came through, all right. You thought you'd been to the Moon before. It took all the adventure out of the actual flight; it was just a workaday trip."
"I said it was easy," Ish said.
"There was no other way to do it! I had to cancel out the thrill that comes from challenging the unknown. You knew what death was like, and you knew what the Moon was like. Can you understand why I had to do it?"
"Yeah. Now get out before I kill you. "
He didn't live too long after that. He never entered a rocket again—he died on the Station, and was buried in space, while a grateful world mourned him. I wonder what it was like, in his mind, when he really died. But he spent the days he had, after the trip, just sitting at an observatory port, cursing the traitor stars with his dead and purposeless eyes.
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES:
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected without note.
This etext was produced from Dynamic Science Fiction, January, 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
Question:
What is the plot of the story?
Answer:
|
[
"The story follows the journey of Martin Isherwood, a man whose dream is to become a rocket pilot. Everything he does is to reach that dream. When he turns 17, he cuts away from his family and starts to follow his dream. He participates in different plane races in order to become a pilot. He continuously shows his determination to become a pilot to everyone he meets, and doesn’t care what they say. Mostly everyone tells Ish that he should quit on this path, that he has nothing to prove and that there is no reason to continue pursuing his dream. He doesn’t heed this advice and continues convincing people as to why he should be a rocket pilot. At the end, he manages to do the trip, but does it while thinking that he had already done it before, therefore taking out all the excitement that the first trip would have had. He ends up never driving a rocket again, and dies in the rocket station. ",
"Martin Isherwood, as a small young man, tells his father that he is a rocket pilot when his father tells him that he cannot afford to send him to college. His father begins to laugh, and Martin decides to run away. His mother comes in and asks what is wrong, and his father tells her about what their son has claimed as his trade. Margaret is confused, and Howard tries to chase him as Ish hops on a bus and goes away. When the man tells his faculty advisor that he is not interested in a degree, the advisor is exasperated because he has been doing math and engineering for the past nine semesters. Ish says that he is signed up for Astronomy 101, and he tries to argue why this course is different. Ish offers for them to get a beer together instead, since it will be impossible to convince him. He does not understand the advisor’s poetry, and the advisor comments that he is a specialist. The scene then cuts to The Navion taking a boiling thermal under its right wing, buckling suddenly and tilting. Ish tells Nan to relax, but she is afraid of how low he is flying. As Ish does a few more tricks, he suddenly feels fear because the aircraft begins to act strangely. Nan is curious why he is so desperate to win the Vandenberg Cup next week. He reveals that this is all part of his plan of being a rocket pilot, and Nan does not understand. The scene then cuts to four years later, as Ish brings the Mark VII out of her orbit and gives the technicians a report. Nan tells him that he has accomplished his dream, but Ish suddenly feels tired and outraged that the pile of tin can be considered a rocket. The Flight Surgeon then talks to him in another scene, asking if he would like to talk to a man named MacKenzie. Ish agrees, and MacKenzie asks him questions about his personal life. The therapist offers shock therapy, but Martin insists that it did not work. The receptionist at the front desk tries to get him to fill out paperwork too, but he vehemently refuses and complains that he has no time. The scene then cuts to the Personnel Manager meeting him, and they discuss the plans moving forward. The Personnel Manager discusses the rocket some more with him, before the scene cuts to a crew chief waking him up to go to the station. After his trip, MacKenzie is waiting for him at the crew station. MacKenzie tells him that he was hypnotized because his lack of interests and emotions prevented him from being the best. Ish refuses to believe it, and MacKenzie says that he had to cancel the thrill of it by making him experience the Moon and death. Ish dies in space after MacKenzie leaves, having lost his passion while staring at the stars. ",
"At the beginning, as a small boy, Marty Isherwood tells his father that he will be a rocket pilot. The man starts laughing at this, and Marty, infuriated, walks out of their house. His mother, Marge, tries to understand what happened while her son gets on some bus. Later, Martin is older and talking to his faculty advisor about the classes he plans on taking. We learn that the young man has taken almost every math and engineering class and has signed up for astronomy. His advisor doesn’t understand why Martin is avoiding liberal arts classes. They go to a bar where the adviser again wonders what specialty made Martin abandon all the other existing disciplines. Martin assures him there’s a purpose behind it. \nNow Martin is a certified pilot. He’s on the board of the Navion plane with a girl named Nan. He makes the plane dive and tilt, which scares her. At some point, he becomes delusional and brings the plane higher and higher before he finally hears the girl’s screams. Martin tells her he cannot marry her because he is not rich, and it will take years before he becomes a real rocket pilot. Nan doesn’t understand his passion. Years later, Martin manages to spin around the Earth on the ship Mark VII for two days. He’s not satisfied. While walking from the ship, he meets Nan, who tells him that she understands his passion now and is happy he’s done. He becomes angry and says that he’s not finished anything. He talks to a psychiatrist named Mackenzie assigned to him by the Air Force. The man asks questions about his first jobs at the airports near Miami. He makes sure Martin has no family. Then he suddenly shocks him by saying that Martin can’t go - this maddens the pilot. Seconds later, the doctor apologizes, claiming that it was shotgun therapy to check his reactions. Next, Martin argues with some receptionist, trying to convince her to help him get back - apparently, he died. He says he has a job. He forces her to call the Personnel Manager. Martin tells the man that he only has six hours before the flight to the Moon and asks for a postponement so that he could finish the journey. The manager then shows Martin the Earth, and the man realizes he’s standing in one of the lunar craters. Martin finally wakes up just an hour before the launch. He completes the flight but is dissatisfied. Mackenzie meets him in the crew section and explains that he had to hypnotize Martin before the flight, make him believe he had died and had been to the Moon. The Air Force was not sure Martin, who had no ties to the planet and no interests, would’ve come back. The hallucination made the pilot believe he had already been to the Moon, thus taking the adventure out of the actual flight.\n",
"Martin Isherwood, a young man, desiring to be a rocket pilot, cuts his tie to his family around the age of seventeen because his father does not support or believe in his dream. His school advisor also does not understand his choice of taking a similar class because it will teach him how to look at the star differently. The advisor tries to convince him to change his career, but he fails. They go to a bar and chat about Ish's crazy dream.\n\nThe scene then changes to a racing plane where Ish, as a trained pilot, teases the girl Nan sitting beside him. He constantly flies a dangerous route to tease her. After a dangerous flight, he talks about the difficulty of marrying her due to his career, and she questions his career. He gives up on making her understand his ambition and breaks up with her. A week later, he wins the championship of the Vandenberg Cup, which will give him a lot of job opportunities in the pilot market. After several successes in the field, he meets his ex-girlfriend, Nan. She tries to apologize for her inability to understand him, but he does not want to listen. He does not think that she still understands him. He is raged.\n\nThe flight surgeon tells him to sit and calm down. He asks Ish to meet a therapist called MacKenzie. MacKenzie asks Ish some questions casually, and Ish responds appropriately because of the recorder he sees under Mackenzie's lapel. After the conversation, he refuses to fill out the application and yells for the personnel manager to come. The personnel manager tells him that what he thinks is not real. He does not believe it. Then he wakes up from the hallucination of going to the moon. MacKenzie tells him that he never goes to the moon. He dies shortly after that."
] |
40968
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He had but one ambition, one desire: to pilot the first manned rocket to the moon. And he was prepared as no man had ever prepared himself before....
DESIRE NO MORE
by Algis Budrys
( illustrated by Milton Luros )
" Desire no more than to thy lot may fall.... "
—Chaucer
THE SMALL young man looked at his father, and shook his head.
"But you've got to learn a trade," his father said, exasperated. "I can't afford to send you to college; you know that."
"I've got a trade," he answered.
His father smiled thinly. "What?" he asked patronizingly.
"I'm a rocket pilot," the boy said, his thin jaw stretching the skin of his cheeks.
His father laughed in the way the boy had learned to anticipate and hate. "Yeah," he said. He leaned back in his chair and laughed so hard that the Sunday paper slipped off his wide lap and fell to the floor with an unnoticed stiff rustle.
"A rocket pilot!" His father's derision hooted through the quiet parlor. "A ro— oh, no! —a rocket pilot !"
The boy stared silently at the convulsed figure in the chair. His lips fell into a set white bar, and the corners of his jaws bulged with the tension in their muscles. Suddenly, he turned on his heel and stalked out of the parlor, through the hall, out the front door, to the porch. He stopped there, hesitating a little.
" Marty! " His father's shout followed him out of the parlor. It seemed to act like a hand between the shoulder-blades, because the boy almost ran as he got down the porch stairs.
"What is it, Howard?" Marty's mother asked in a worried voice as she came in from the kitchen, her damp hands rubbing themselves dry against the sides of her housedress.
"Crazy kid," Howard Isherwood muttered. He stared at the figure of his son as the boy reached the end of the walk and turned off into the street. " Come back here! " he shouted. "A rocket pilot," he cursed under his breath. "What's the kid been reading? Claiming he's a rocket pilot!"
Margaret Isherwood's brow furrowed into a faint, bewildered frown.
"But—isn't he a little young? I know they're teaching some very odd things in high schools these days, but it seems to me...."
"Oh, for Pete's sake, Marge, there aren't even any rockets yet! Come back here, you idiot! " Howard Isherwood was standing on his porch, his clenched fists trembling at the ends of his stiffly-held arms.
"Are you sure, Howard?" his wife asked faintly.
"Yes, I'm sure !"
"But, where's he going?"
" Stop that! Get off that bus! YOU hear me? Marty?"
" Howard! Stop acting like a child and talk to me! Where is that boy going?"
Howard Isherwood, stocky, red-faced, forty-seven, and defeated, turned away from the retreating bus and looked at his wife. "I don't know," he told her bitterly, between rushes of air into his jerkily heaving lungs.
"Maybe, the moon," he told her sarcastically.
Martin Isherwood, rocket pilot, weight 102, height 4', 11", had come of age at seventeen.
THE SMALL man looked at his faculty advisor. "No," he said. "I am not interested in working for a degree."
"But—" The faculty advisor unconsciously tapped the point of a yellow pencil against the fresh green of his desk blotter, leaving a rough arc of black flecks. "Look, Ish, you've got to either deliver or get off the basket. This program is just like the others you've followed for nine semesters; nothing but math and engineering. You've taken just about every undergrad course there is in those fields. How long are you going to keep this up?"
"I'm signed up for Astronomy 101," Isherwood pointed out.
The faculty advisor snorted. "A snap course. A breather, after you've studied the same stuff in Celestial Navigation. What's the matter, Ish? Scared of liberal arts?"
Isherwood shook his head. "Uh-unh. Not interested. No time. And that Astronomy course isn't a breather. Different slant from Cee Nav—they won't be talking about stars as check points, but as things in themselves." Something seemed to flicker across his face as he said it.
The advisor missed it; he was too engrossed in his argument. "Still a snap. What's the difference, how you look at a star?"
Isherwood almost winced. "Call it a hobby," he said. He looked down at his watch. "Come on, Dave. You're not going to convince me. You haven't convinced me any of the other times, either, so you might as well give up, don't you think? I've got a half hour before I go on the job. Let's go get some beer."
The advisor, not much older than Isherwood, shrugged, defeated. "Crazy," he muttered. But it was a hot day, and he was as thirsty as the next man.
The bar was air conditioned. The advisor shivered, half grinned, and softly quoted:
"Though I go bare, take ye no care, I am nothing a-cold; I stuff my skin so full within Of jolly good ale and old."
"Huh?" Ish was wearing the look with which he always reacted to the unfamiliar.
The advisor lifted two fingers to the bartender and shrugged. "It's a poem; about four hundred years old, as a matter of fact."
"Oh."
"Don't you give a damn?" the advisor asked, with some peevishness.
Ish laughed shortly, without embarrassment. "Sorry, Dave, but no. It's not my racket."
The advisor cramped his hand a little too tightly around his glass.
"Strictly a specialist, huh?"
Ish nodded. "Call it that."
"But what , for Pete's sake? What is this crazy specialty that blinds you to all the fine things that man has done?"
Ish took a swallow of his beer. "Well, now, if I was a poet, I'd say it was the finest thing that man has ever done."
The advisor's lips twisted in derision. "That's pretty fanatical, isn't it?"
"Uh-huh." Ish waved to the bartender for refills.
THE NAVION took a boiling thermal under its right wing and bucked upward suddenly, tilting at the same time, so that the pretty brunette girl in the other half of the side-by-side was thrown against him. Ish laughed, a sound that came out of his throat as turbulently as that sudden gust of heated air had shot up out of the Everglades, and corrected with a tilt of the wheel.
"Relax, Nan," he said, his words colored by the lingering laughter.
"It's only air; nasty old air."
The girl patted her short hair back into place. "I wish you wouldn't fly this low," she said, half-frightened.
" Low? Call this low?" Ish teased. "Here. Let's drop it a little, and you'll really get an idea of how fast we're going." He nudged the wheel forward, and the Navion dipped its nose in a shallow dive, flattening out thirty feet above the mangrove. The swamp howled with the chug of the dancing pistons and the claw of the propeller at the protesting air, and, from the cockpit, the Everglades resolved into a dirty-green blur that rocketed backward into the slipstream.
"Marty!"
Ish chuckled again. He couldn't have held the ship down much longer, anyway. He tugged back on the wheel suddenly, targeting a cumulous bank with his spinner. His lips peeled back from his teeth, and his jaw set. The Navion went up at the clouds, her engine turning over as fast as it could, her wings cushioned on the rising thrust of another thermal.
And, suddenly, it was as if there were no girl beside him, to be teased, and no air to rock the wings—there were no wings. His face lost all expression. Faint beads of sweat broke out above his eyes and under his nose. "Up," he grunted through his clenched teeth. His fists locked on the wheel. "Up!"
The Navion broke through the cloud, kept going. "Up." If he listened closely, in just the right way, he could almost hear ...
"Marty!"
... the rumble of a louder, prouder engine than the Earth had ever known. He sighed, the breath whispering through his parting teeth, and the aircraft leveled off as he pushed at the wheel with suddenly lax hands. Still half-lost, he turned and looked at the white-faced girl. "Scare you—?" he asked gently.
She nodded. Her fingertips were trembling on his forearm.
"Me too," he said. "Lost my head. Sorry."
"LOOK," HE told the girl, "You got any idea of what it costs to maintain a racing-plane? Everything I own is tied up in the Foo, my ground crew, my trailer, and that scrummy old Ryan that should have been salvaged ten years ago. I can't get married. Suppose I crack the Foo next week? You're dead broke, a widow, and with a funeral to pay for. The only smart thing to do is wait a while."
Nan's eyes clouded, and her lips trembled. "That's what I've been trying to say. Why do you have to win the Vandenberg Cup next week? Why can't you sell the Foo and go into some kind of business? You're a trained pilot."
He had been standing in front of her with his body unconsciously tense from the strain of trying to make her understand. Now he relaxed—more—he slumped—and something began to die in his face, and the first faint lines crept in to show that after it had died, it would not return to life, but would fossilize, leaving his features in the almost unreadable mask that the newspapers would come to know.
"I'm a good bit more than a trained pilot," he said quietly. "The Foo Is a means to an end. After I win the Vandenberg Cup, I can walk into any plant in the States—Douglas, North American, Boeing— any of them—and pick up the Chief Test Pilot's job for the asking. A few of them have as good as said so. After that—" His voice had regained some of its former animation from this new source. Now he broke off, and shrugged. "I've told you all this before."
The girl reached up, as if the physical touch could bring him back to her, and put her fingers around his wrist. "Darling!" she said. "If it's that rocket pilot business again...."
Somehow, his wrist was out of her encircling fingers. "It's always 'that rocket pilot business,'" he said, mimicking her voice. "Damn it, I'm the only trained rocket pilot in the world! I weigh a hundred and fifteen pounds, I'm five feet tall, and I know more navigation and math than anybody the Air Force or Navy have! I can use words like brennschluss and mass-ratio without running over to a copy of Colliers , and I—" He stopped himself, half-smiled, and shrugged again.
"I guess I was kidding myself. After the Cup, there'll be the test job, and after that, there'll be the rockets. You would have had to wait a long time."
All she could think of to say was, "But, Darling, there aren't any man-carrying rockets."
"That's not my fault," he said, and walked away from her.
A week later, he took his stripped-down F-110 across the last line with a scream like that of a hawk that brings its prey safely to its nest.
HE BROUGHT the Mark VII out of her orbit after two days of running rings around the spinning Earth, and the world loved him. He climbed out of the crackling, pinging ship, bearded and dirty, with oil on his face and in his hair, with food stains all over his whipcord, red-eyed, and huskily quiet as he said his few words into the network microphones. And he was not satisfied. There was no peace in his eyes, and his hands moved even more sharply in their expressive gestures as he gave an impromptu report to the technicians who were walking back to the personnel bunker with him.
Nan could see that. Four years ago, he had been different. Four years ago, if she had only known the right words, he wouldn't be so intent now on throwing himself away to the sky.
She was a woman scorned. She had to lie to herself. She broke out of the press section and ran over to him. "Marty!" She brushed past a technician.
He looked at her with faint surprise on his face. "Well, Nan!" he mumbled. But he did not put his hand over her own where it touched his shoulder.
"I'm sorry, Marty," she said in a rush. "I didn't understand. I couldn't see how much it all meant." Her face was flushed, and she spoke as rapidly as she could, not noticing that Ish had already gestured away the guards she was afraid would interrupt her.
"But it's all right, now. You got your rockets. You've done it. You trained yourself for it, and now it's over. You've flown your rocket!"
He looked up at her face and shook his head in quiet pity. One of the shocked technicians was trying to pull her away, and Ish made no move to stop him.
Suddenly, he was tired, there was something in him that was trying to break out against his will, and his reaction was that of a child whose candy is being taken away from him after only one bite.
"Rocket!" he shouted into her terrified face. " Rocket! Call that pile of tin a rocket?" He pointed at the weary Mark VII with a trembling arm.
"Who cares about the bloody machines ! If I thought roller-skating would get me there, I would have gone to work in a rink when I was seventeen! It's getting there that counts! Who gives a good goddam how it's done, or what with!"
And he stood there, shaking like a leaf, outraged, while the guards came and got her.
"SIT DOWN, Ish," the Flight Surgeon said.
They always begin that way , Isherwood thought. The standard medical opening. Sit down. What for? Did somebody really believe that anything he might hear would make him faint? He smiled with as much expression as he ever did, and chose a comfortable chair, rolling the white cylinder of a cigarette between his fingers. He glanced at his watch. Fourteen hours, thirty-six minutes, and four days to go.
"How's it?" the FS asked.
Ish grinned and shrugged. "All right." But he didn't usually grin. The realization disquieted him a little.
"Think you'll make it?"
Deliberately, rather than automatically, he fell back into his usual response-pattern. "Don't know. That's what I'm being paid to find out."
"Uh- huh ." The FS tapped the eraser of his pencil against his teeth.
"Look—you want to talk to a man for a while?"
"What man?" It didn't really matter. He had a feeling that anything he said or did now would have a bearing, somehow, on the trip. If they wanted him to do something for them, he was bloody well going to do it.
"Fellow named MacKenzie. Big gun in the head-thumping racket." The Flight Surgeon was trying to be as casual as he could. "Air Force insisted on it, as a matter of fact," he said. "Can't really blame them. After all, it's their beast."
"Don't want any hole-heads denting it up on them, huh?" Ish lit the cigarette and flipped his lighter shut with a snap of the lid. "Sure. Bring him on."
The FS smiled. "Good. He's—uh—he's in the next room. Okay to ask him in right now?"
"Sure." Something flickered in Isherwood's eyes. Amusement at the Flight Surgeon's discomfort was part of it. Worry was some of the rest.
MacKENZIE didn't seem to be taking any notes, or paying any special attention to the answers Ish was giving to his casual questions. But the questions fell into a pattern that was far from casual, and Ish could see the small button-mike of a portable tape-recorder nestling under the man's lapel.
"Been working your own way for the last seventeen years, haven't you?" MacKenzie seemed to mumble in a perfectly clear voice.
Ish nodded.
"How's that?"
The corners of Isherwood's mouth twitched, and he said "Yes" for the recorder's benefit.
"Odd jobs, first of all?"
"Something like that. Anything I could get, the first few months. After I was halfway set up, I stuck to garages and repair shops."
"Out at the airports around Miami, mostly, wasn't it?"
"Ahuh."
"Took some of your pay in flying lessons."
"Right."
MacKenzie's face passed no judgements—he simply hunched in his chair, seemingly dwarfed by the shoulders of his perfectly tailored suit, his stubby fingers twiddling a Phi Beta Kappa key. He was a spare man—only a step or two away from emaciation. Occasionally, he pushed a tired strand of washed-out hair away from his forehead.
Ish answered him truthfully, without more than ordinary reservations. This was the man who could ground him He was dangerous—red-letter dangerous—because of it.
"No family."
Ish shrugged. "Not that I know of. Cut out at seventeen. My father was making good money. He had a pension plan, insurance policies. No need to worry about them."
Ish knew the normal reaction a statement like that should have brought. MacKenzie's face did not go into a blank of repression—but it still passed no judgements.
"How's things between you and the opposite sex?"
"About normal."
"No wife—no steady girl."
"Not a very good idea, in my racket."
MacKenzie grunted. Suddenly, he sat bolt upright in his chair, and swung toward Ish. His lean arm shot out, and his index finger was aimed between Isherwood's eyes. "You can't go!"
Ish was on his feet, his fists clenched, the blood throbbing in his temple veins. "What!" he roared.
MacKenzie seemed to collapse in his chair. The brief commanding burst was over, and his face was apologetic, "Sorry," he said. He seemed genuinely abashed. "Shotgun therapy. Works best, sometimes. You can go, all right; I just wanted to get a fast check on your reactions and drives."
Ish could feel the anger that still ran through him—anger, and more fear than he wanted to admit. "I'm due at a briefing," he said tautly.
"You through with me?"
MacKenzie nodded, still embarrassed. "Sorry."
Ish ignored the man's obvious feelings. He stopped at the door to send a parting stroke at the thing that had frightened him. "Big gun in the psychiatry racket, huh? Well, your professional lingo's slipping, Doc. They did put some learning in my head at college, you know. Therapy, hell! Testing maybe, but you sure didn't do anything to help me!"
"I don't know," MacKenzie said softly. "I wish I did."
Ish slammed the door behind him. He stood in the corridor, jamming a fresh cigarette in his mouth. He threw a glance at his watch. Twelve hours, twenty-two minutes, and four days to go.
Damn! He was late for the briefing. Odd—that fool psychiatrist hadn't seemed to take up that much of his time.
He shrugged. What difference did it make? As he strode down the hall, he lost his momentary puzzlement under the flood of realization that nothing could stop him now, that the last hurdle was beaten. He was going. He was going, and if there were faint echoes of "Marty!" ringing in the dark background of his mind, they only served to push him faster, as they always had. Nothing but death could stop him now.
ISH LOOKED up bitterly at the Receptionist. "No," he said.
"But everybody fills out an application," she protested.
"No. I've got a job," he said as he had been saying for the last half hour.
The Receptionist sighed. "If you'll only read the literature I've given you, you'll understand that all your previous commitments have been cancelled."
"Look, Honey, I've seen company poop sheets before. Now, let's cut this nonsense. I've got to get back."
"But nobody goes back."
"Goddam it, I don't know what kind of place this is, but—" He stopped at the Receptionist's wince, and looked around, his mouth open. The reception desk was solid enough. There were IN and OUT and HOLD baskets on the desk, and the Receptionist seemed to see nothing extraordinary about it. But the room—a big room, he realized—seemed to fade out at the edges, rather than stop at walls. The lighting, too....
"Let's see your back!" he rapped out, his voice high.
She sighed in exasperation. "If you'd read the literature ..." She swiveled her chair slowly.
"No wings," he said.
"Of course not!" she snapped. She brushed her hair away from her forehead without his telling her to. "No horns, either."
"Streamlined, huh?" he said bitterly.
"It's a little different for everybody," she said with unexpected gentleness. "It would have to be, wouldn't it?"
"Yeah, I guess so," he admitted slowly. Then he lost his momentary awe, and his posture grew tense again. He glanced down at his wrist. Six hours, forty-seven minutes, and no days to go.
"Who do I see?"
She stared at him, bewildered at the sudden change in his voice. "See?"
"About getting out of here! Come on, come on," he barked, snapping his fingers impatiently. "I haven't got much time."
She smiled sweetly. "Oh, but you do."
"Can it! Who's your Section boss? Get him down here. On the double. Come on!" His face was streaming with perspiration but his voice was firm with the purpose that drove him.
Her lips closed into an angry line, and she jabbed a finger at a desk button. "I'll call the Personnel Manager."
"Thanks," he said sarcastically, and waited impatiently. Odd, the way the Receptionist looked a little like Nan.
THE PERSONNEL Manager wore a perfectly-tailored suit. He strode across the lobby floor toward Ish, his hand outstretched.
"Martin Isherwood!" he exclaimed enthusiastically. "I'm very glad to meet you!"
"I'll bet," Ish said dryly, giving the Personnel Manager's hand a short shake. "I've got other ideas. I want out."
"That's all he's been saying for the past forty-five minutes, Sir," the Receptionist said from behind her desk.
The Personnel Manager frowned. "Um. Yes. Well, that's not unprecedented."
"But hardly usual," he added.
Ish found himself liking the man. He had a job to do, and after the preliminary formality of the greeting had been passed, he was ready to buckle down to it. Oh, he—shucks?—the Receptionist wasn't such a bad girl, either. He smiled at her. "Sorry I lost my head," he said.
She smiled back. "It happens."
He took time to give her one more smile and a half-wink, and swung back to the Personnel Manager.
"Now. Let's get this thing straightened out. I've got—" He stopped to look at his watch. "Six hours and a few minutes. They're fueling the beast right now."
"Do you know how much red tape you'd have to cut?"
Ish shook his head. "I don't want to sound nasty, but that's your problem."
The Personnel Manager hesitated. "Look—you feel you've got a job unfinished. Or, anyway, that's the way you'd put it. But, let's face it—that's not really what's galling you. It's not really the job, is it? It's just that you think you've been cheated out of what you devoted your life to."
Ish could feel his jaw muscles bunching. "Don't put words in my mouth!" he snapped. "Just get me back, and we'll split hairs about it when I get around this way again." Suddenly, he found himself pleading. "All I need is a week," he said. "It'll be a rough week—no picnic, no pleasures of the flesh. No smoking, no liquor. I certainly won't be breaking any laws. One week. Get there, putter around for two days, and back again. Then, you can do anything you want to—as long as it doesn't look like the trip's responsible, of course."
The Personnel Manager hesitated. "Suppose—" he began, but Ish interrupted him.
"Look, they need it, down there. They've got to have a target, someplace to go. We're built for it. People have to have—but what am I telling you for. If you don't know, who does?"
The Personnel Manager smiled. "I was about to say something."
Ish stopped, abashed. "Sorry."
He waved the apology away with a short movement of his hand. "You've got to understand that what you've been saying isn't a valid claim. If it were, human history would be very different, wouldn't it?"
"Suppose I showed you something, first? Then, you could decide whether you want to stay, after all."
"How long's it going to take?" Ish flushed under the memory of having actually begged for something.
"Not long," the Personnel Manager said. He half-turned and pointed up at the Earth, hanging just beyond the wall of the crater in which they were suddenly standing.
"Earth," the Personnel Manager said.
Somehow, Ish was not astonished. He looked up at the Earth, touched by cloud and sunlight, marked with ocean and continent, crowned with ice. The unblinking stars filled the night.
He looked around him. The Moon was silent—quiet, patient, waiting. Somewhere, a metal glint against the planet above, if it were only large enough to be seen, was the Station, and the ship for which the Moon had waited.
Ish walked a short distance. He was leaving no tracks in the pumice the ages had sown. But it was the way he had thought of it, nevertheless. It was the way the image had slowly built up in his mind, through the years, through the training, through the work. It was what he had aimed the Navion at, that day over the Everglades.
"It's not the same," he said.
The Personnel Manager sighed.
"Don't you see," Ish said, "It can't be the same. I didn't push the beast up here. There wasn't any feel to it. There wasn't any sound of rockets."
The Personnel Manager sighed again. "There wouldn't be, you know. Taking off from the Station, landing here—vacuum."
Ish shook his head. "There'd still be a sound. Maybe not for anybody else to hear—and, maybe, maybe there would be. There'd be people, back on Earth, who'd hear it."
"All right," the Personnel Manager said. His face was grave, but his eyes were shining a little.
"ISH! HEY, Ish, wake up, will you!" There was a hand on his shoulder.
"Will you get a load of this guy!" the voice said to someone else. "An hour to go, and he's sleeping like the dead."
Ish willed his eyes to open. He felt his heart begin to move again, felt the blood sluggishly beginning to surge into his veins. His hands and feet were very cold.
"Come on, Ish," the Crew Chief said.
"All right," he mumbled. "Okay. I'm up." He sat on the edge of his bunk looking down at his hands. They were blue under the fingernails. He sighed, feeling the air moving down into his lungs.
Stiffly, he got to his feet and began to climb into his G suit.
The Moon opened its face to him. From where he lay, strapped into the control seat in the forward bubble, he looked at it emotionlessly, and began to brake for a landing.
He looked for footprints in the crater, though he knew he hadn't left any. Earth was a familiar sight over his right shoulder.
He brought the twin-bubble beast back to the station. They threw spotlights on it, for the TV pickups, and thrust microphones at him. He could see broad grins behind the faceplates of the suits the docking crew wore, and they were pounding his back. The interior of the Station was a babbling of voices, a tumult of congratulations. He looked at it all, dead-faced, his eyes empty.
"It was easy," he said over a world-wide network, and pushed the press representatives out of his way.
MacKENZIE was waiting for him in the crew section. Ish flicked his stolid eyes at him, shrugged, and stripped out of his clothes. He pulled a coverall out of a locker and climbed into it, then went over to his bunk and lay down on his side, facing the bulkhead.
"Ish."
It was MacKenzie, bending over him.
Ish grunted.
"It wasn't any good was it? You'd done it all before; you'd been there."
He was past emotions. "Yeah?"
"We couldn't take the chance." MacKenzie was trying desperately to explain. "You were the best there was—but you'd done something to yourself by becoming the best. You shut yourself off from your family. You had no close friends, no women. You had no other interests. You were a rocket pilot—nothing else. You've never read an adult book that wasn't a text; you've never listened to a symphony except by accident. You don't know Rembrandt from Norman Rockwell. Nothing. No ties, no props, nothing to sustain you if something went wrong. We couldn't take the chance, Ish! "
"So?"
"There was too much at stake. If we let you go, you might have forgotten to come back. You might have just kept going."
He remembered the time with the Navion , and nodded. "I might have."
"I hypnotized you," MacKenzie said. "You were never dead. I don't know what the details of your hallucination were, but the important part came through, all right. You thought you'd been to the Moon before. It took all the adventure out of the actual flight; it was just a workaday trip."
"I said it was easy," Ish said.
"There was no other way to do it! I had to cancel out the thrill that comes from challenging the unknown. You knew what death was like, and you knew what the Moon was like. Can you understand why I had to do it?"
"Yeah. Now get out before I kill you. "
He didn't live too long after that. He never entered a rocket again—he died on the Station, and was buried in space, while a grateful world mourned him. I wonder what it was like, in his mind, when he really died. But he spent the days he had, after the trip, just sitting at an observatory port, cursing the traitor stars with his dead and purposeless eyes.
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES:
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected without note.
This etext was produced from Dynamic Science Fiction, January, 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.
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What is the significance of time in the story?
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After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about Butterfly 9 by Donald Keith.
Relevant chunks:
Butterfly 9
By DONALD KEITH
Illustrated by GAUGHAN
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction January 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Jeff needed a job and this man had a job to offer—one where giant economy-size trouble had labels like fakemake, bumsy and peekage!
I
At first, Jeff scarcely noticed the bold-looking man at the next table. Nor did Ann. Their minds were busy with Jeff's troubles.
"You're still the smartest color engineer in television," Ann told Jeff as they dallied with their food. "You'll bounce back. Now eat your supper."
"This beanery is too noisy and hot," he grumbled. "I can't eat. Can't talk. Can't think." He took a silver pillbox from his pocket and fumbled for a black one. Those were vitamin pills; the big red and yellow ones were sleeping capsules. He gulped the pill.
Ann looked disapproving in a wifely way. "Lately you chew pills like popcorn," she said. "Do you really need so many?"
"I need something. I'm sure losing my grip."
Ann stared at him. "Baby! How silly! Nothing happened, except you lost your lease. You'll build up a better company in a new spot. We're young yet."
Jeff sighed and glanced around the crowded little restaurant. He wished he could fly away somewhere. At that moment, he met the gaze of the mustachioed man at the next table.
The fellow seemed to be watching him and Ann. Something in his confident gaze made Jeff uneasy. Had they met before?
Ann whispered, "So you noticed him, too. Maybe he's following us. I think I saw him on the parking lot where we left the car."
Jeff shrugged his big shoulders. "If he's following us, he's nuts. We've got no secrets and no money."
"It must be my maddening beauty," said Ann.
"I'll kick him cross-eyed if he starts anything," Jeff said. "I'm just in the mood."
Ann giggled. "Honey, what big veins you have! Forget him. Let's talk about the engineering lab you're going to start. And let's eat."
He groaned. "I lose my appetite every time I think about the building being sold. It isn't worth the twelve grand. I wouldn't buy it for that if I could. What burns me is that, five years ago, I could have bought it for two thousand."
"If only we could go back five years." She shrugged fatalistically.
"But since we can't—"
The character at the next table leaned over and spoke to them, grinning. "You like to get away? You wish to go back?"
Jeff glanced across in annoyance. The man was evidently a salesman, with extra gall.
"Not now, thanks," Jeff said. "Haven't time."
The man waved his thick hand at the clock, as if to abolish time.
"Time? That is nothing. Your little lady. She spoke of go back five years. Maybe I help you."
He spoke in an odd clipped way, obviously a foreigner. His shirt was yellow. His suit had a silky sheen. Its peculiar tailoring emphasized the bulges in his stubby, muscular torso.
Ann smiled back at him. "You talk as if you could take us back to 1952. Is that what you really mean?"
"Why not? You think this silly. But I can show you."
Jeff rose to go. "Mister, you better get to a doctor. Ann, it's time we started home."
Ann laid a hand on his sleeve. "I haven't finished eating. Let's chat with the gent." She added in an undertone to Jeff, "Must be a psycho—but sort of an inspired one."
The man said to Ann, "You are kind lady, I think. Good to crazy people. I join you."
He did not wait for consent, but slid into a seat at their table with an easy grace that was almost arrogant.
"You are unhappy in 1957," he went on. "Discouraged. Restless. Why not take trip to another time?"
"Why not?" Ann said gaily. "How much does it cost?"
"Free trial trip. Cost nothing. See whether you like. Then maybe we talk money." He handed Jeff a card made of a stiff plastic substance.
Jeff glanced at it, then handed it to Ann with a half-smile. It read:
4-D TRAVEL BEURO Greet Snader, Traffic Ajent
"Mr. Snader's bureau is different," Jeff said to his wife. "He even spells it different."
Snader chuckled. "I come from other time. We spell otherwise."
"You mean you come from the future?"
"Just different time. I show you. You come with me?"
"Come where?" Jeff asked, studying Snader's mocking eyes. The man didn't seem a mere eccentric. He had a peculiar suggestion of humor and force.
"Come on little trip to different time," invited Snader. He added persuasively, "Could be back here in hour."
"It would be painless, I suppose?" Jeff gave it a touch of derision.
"Maybe not. That is risk you take. But look at me. I make trips every day. I look damaged?"
As a matter of fact, he did. His thick-fleshed face bore a scar and his nose was broad and flat, as if it had been broken. But Jeff politely agreed that he did not look damaged.
Ann was enjoying this. "Tell me more, Mr. Snader. How does your time travel work?"
"Cannot explain. Same if you are asked how subway train works. Too complicated." He flashed his white teeth. "You think time travel not possible. Just like television not possible to your grandfather."
Ann said, "Why invite us? We're not rich enough for expensive trips."
"Invite many people," Snader said quickly. "Not expensive. You know Missing Persons lists, from police? Dozens people disappear. They go with me to other time. Many stay."
"Oh, sure," Jeff said. "But how do you select the ones to invite?"
"Find ones like you, Mr. Elliott. Ones who want change, escape."
Jeff was slightly startled. How did this fellow know his name was Elliott?
Before he could ask, Ann popped another question. "Mr. Snader, you heard us talking. You know we're in trouble because Jeff missed a good chance five years ago. Do you claim people can really go back into the past and correct mistakes they've made?"
"They can go back. What they do when arrive? Depends on them."
"Don't you wish it were true?" she sighed to Jeff.
"You afraid to believe," said Snader, a glimmer of amusement in his restless eyes. "Why not try? What you lose? Come on, look at station. Very near here."
Ann jumped up. "It might be fun, Jeff. Let's see what he means, if anything."
Jeff's pulse quickened. He too felt a sort of midsummer night's madness—a yearning to forget his troubles. "Okay, just for kicks. But we go in my car."
Snader moved ahead to the cashier's stand. Jeff watched the weasel-like grace of his short, broad body.
"This is no ordinary oddball," Jeff told Ann. "He's tricky. He's got some gimmick."
"First I just played him along, to see how loony he was," Ann said.
"Now I wonder who's kidding whom." She concluded thoughtfully, "He's kind of handsome, in a tough way."
II
Snader's "station" proved to be a middle-sized, middle-cost home in a good neighborhood. Lights glowed in the windows. Jeff could hear the whisper of traffic on a boulevard a few blocks away. Through the warm dusk, he could dimly see the mountains on the horizon. All was peaceful.
Snader unlocked the front door with a key which he drew from a fine metal chain around his neck. He swept open the front door with a flourish and beamed at them, but Ann drew back.
"'Walk into my parlor, said the spider to the fly,'" she murmured to Jeff. "This could be a gambling hell. Or a dope den."
"No matter what kind of clip joint, it can't clip us much," he said.
"There's only four bucks in my wallet. My guess is it's a 'temple' for some daffy religious sect."
They went in. A fat man smiled at them from a desk in the hall. Snader said, "Meet Peter Powers. Local agent of our bureau."
The man didn't get up, but nodded comfortably and waved them toward the next room, after a glance at Snader's key.
The key opened this room's door, too. Its spring lock snapped shut after them.
The room was like a doctor's waiting room, with easy chairs along the walls. Its only peculiar aspects were a sign hanging from the middle of the ceiling and two movie screens—or were they giant television screens?—occupying a whole wall at either end of the room.
The sign bore the number 701 in bright yellow on black. Beneath it, an arrow pointed to the screen on the left with the word Ante , and to the right with the word Post .
Jeff studied the big screens. On each, a picture was in motion. One appeared to be moving through a long corridor, lined with seats like a railroad club car. The picture seemed to rush at them from the left wall. When he turned to the right, a similar endless chair-lined corridor moved toward him from that direction.
"Somebody worked hard on this layout," he said to Snader. "What's it for?"
"Time travel," said Snader. "You like?"
"Almost as good as Disneyland. These movies represent the stream of time, I suppose?"
Instead of answering, Snader pointed to the screen. The picture showed a group of people chatting in a fast-moving corridor. As it hurtled toward them, Snader flipped his hand in a genial salute. Two people in the picture waved back.
Ann gasped. "It was just as if they saw us."
"They did," Snader said. "No movie. Time travelers. In fourth dimension. To you, they look like flat picture. To them, we look flat."
"What's he supposed to be?" Jeff asked as the onrushing picture showed them briefly a figure bound hand and foot, huddled in one of the chairs. He stared at them piteously for an instant before the picture surged past.
Snader showed his teeth. "That was convict from my time. We have criminals, like in your time. But we do not kill. We make them work. Where he going? To end of line. To earliest year this time groove reach. About 600 A.D., your calendar. Authorities pick up when he get there. Put him to work."
"What kind of work?" Jeff asked.
"Building the groove further back."
"Sounds like interesting work."
Snader chortled and slapped him on the back. "Maybe you see it some day, but forget that now. You come with me. Little trip."
Jeff was perspiring. This was odder than he expected. Whatever the fakery, it was clever. His curiosity as a technician made him want to know about it. He asked Snader, "Where do you propose to go? And how?"
Snader said, "Watch me. Then look at other wall."
He moved gracefully to the screen on the left wall, stepped into it and disappeared. It was as if he had slid into opaque water.
Jeff and Ann blinked in mystification. Then they remembered his instruction to watch the other screen. They turned. After a moment, in the far distance down the long moving corridor, they could see a stocky figure. The motion of the picture brought him nearer. In a few seconds, he was recognizable as Snader—and as the picture brought him forward, he stepped down out of it and was with them again.
"Simple," Snader said. "I rode to next station. Then crossed over. Took other carrier back here."
"Brother, that's the best trick I've seen in years," Jeff said. "How did you do it? Can I do it, too?"
"I show you." Grinning like a wildcat, Snader linked his arms with Ann and Jeff, and walked them toward the screen. "Now," he said. "Step in."
Jeff submitted to Snader's pressure and stepped cautiously into the screen. Amazingly, he felt no resistance at all, no sense of change or motion. It was like stepping through a fog-bank into another room.
In fact, that was what they seemed to have done. They were in the chair-lined corridor. As Snader turned them around and seated them, they faced another moving picture screen. It seemed to rush through a dark tunnel toward a lighted square in the far distance.
The square grew on the screen. Soon they saw it was another room like the waiting room they had left, except that the number hanging from the ceiling was 702. They seemed to glide through it. Then they were in the dark tunnel again.
Ann was clutching Jeff's arm. He patted her hand. "Fun, hey? Like Alice through the looking-glass."
"You really think we're going back in time?" she whispered.
"Hardly! But we're seeing a million-dollar trick. I can't even begin to figure it out yet."
Another lighted room grew out of the tunnel on the screen, and when they had flickered through it, another and then another.
"Mr. Snader," Ann said unsteadily, "how long—how many years back are you taking us?"
Snader was humming to himself. "Six years. Station 725 fine place to stop."
For a little while, Jeff let himself think it might be true. "Six years ago, your dad was alive," he mused to Ann. "If this should somehow be real, we could see him again."
"We could if we went to our house. He lived with us then, remember? Would we see ourselves, six years younger? Or would—"
Snader took Jeff's arm and pulled him to his feet. The screen was moving through a room numbered 724.
"Soon now," Snader grunted happily. "Then no more questions."
He took an arm of each as he had before. When the screen was filled by a room with the number 725, he propelled them forward into it.
Again there was no sense of motion. They had simply stepped through a bright wall they could not feel. They found themselves in a replica of the room they had left at 701. On the wall, a picture of the continuous club-car corridor rolled toward them in a silent, endless stream.
"The same room," Ann said in disappointment. "They just changed the number. We haven't been anywhere."
Snader was fishing under his shirt for the key. He gave Ann a glance that was almost a leer. Then he carefully unlocked the door.
In the hall, a motherly old lady bustled up, but Snader brushed past her. "Official," he said, showing her the key. "No lodging."
He unlocked the front door without another word and carefully shut it behind them as Jeff and Ann followed him out of the house.
"Hey, where's my car?" Jeff demanded, looking up and down the street.
The whole street looked different. Where he had parked his roadster, there was now a long black limousine.
"Your car is in future," Snader said briskly. "Where it belong. Get in." He opened the door of the limousine.
Jeff felt a little flame of excitement licking inside him. Something was happening, he felt. Something exciting and dangerous.
"Snader," he said, "if you're kidnaping us, you made a mistake. Nobody on Earth will pay ransom for us."
Snader seemed amused. "You are foolish fellow. Silly talk about ransom. You in different time now."
"When does this gag stop?" Jeff demanded irritably. "You haven't fooled us. We're still in 1957."
"You are? Look around."
Jeff looked at the street again. He secretly admitted to himself that these were different trees and houses than he remembered. Even the telephone poles and street lights seemed peculiar, vaguely foreign-looking. It must be an elaborate practical joke. Snader had probably ushered them into one house, then through a tunnel and out another house.
"Get in," Snader said curtly.
Jeff decided to go along with the hoax or whatever it was. He could see no serious risk. He helped Ann into the back seat and sat beside her. Snader slammed the door and slid into the driver's seat. He started the engine with a roar and they rocketed away from the curb, narrowly missing another car.
Jeff yelled, "Easy, man! Look where you're going!"
Snader guffawed. "Tonight, you look where you are going."
Ann clung to Jeff. "Did you notice the house we came out of?"
"What about it?"
"It looked as though they were afraid people might try to break in. There were bars at the windows."
"Lots of houses are built that way, honey. Let's see, where are we?" He glanced at house numbers. "This is the 800 block. Remember that. And the street—" He peered up at a sign as they whirled around a corner.
"The street is Green Thru-Way. I never heard of a street like that."
III
They were headed back toward what should have been the boulevard. The car zoomed through a cloverleaf turn and up onto a broad freeway. Jeff knew for certain there was no freeway there in 1957—nor in any earlier year. But on the horizon, he could see the familiar dark bulk of the mountains. The whole line of moonlit ridges was the same as always.
"Ann," he said slowly, "I think this is for real. Somehow I guess we escaped from 1957. We've been transported in time."
She squeezed his arm. "If I'm dreaming, don't wake me! I was scared a minute ago. But now, oh, boy!"
"Likewise. But I still wonder what Snader's angle is." He leaned forward and tapped the driver on his meaty shoulder. "You brought us into the future instead of the past, didn't you?"
It was hard to know whether Snader was sleepy or just bored, but he shrugged briefly to show there was no reply coming. Then he yawned.
Jeff smiled tightly. "I guess we'll find out in good time. Let's sit back and enjoy the strangest ride of our lives."
As the limousine swept along through the traffic, there were plenty of big signs for turn-offs, but none gave any hint where they were. The names were unfamiliar. Even the language seemed grotesque. "Rite Channel for Creepers," he read. "Yaw for Torrey Rushway" flared at him from a fork in the freeway.
"This can't be the future," Ann said. "This limousine is almost new, but it doesn't even have an automatic gear shift—"
She broke off as the car shot down a ramp off the freeway and pulled up in front of an apartment house. Just beyond was a big shopping center, ablaze with lights and swarming with shoppers. Jeff did not recognize it, in spite of his familiarity with the city.
Snader bounded out, pulled open the rear door and jerked his head in a commanding gesture. But Jeff did not get out. He told Snader, "Let's have some answers before we go any further."
Snader gave him a hard grin. "You hear everything upstairs."
The building appeared harmless enough. Jeff looked thoughtfully at Ann.
She said, "It's just an apartment house. We've come this far. Might as well go in and see what's there."
Snader led them in, up to the sixth floor in an elevator and along a corridor with heavy carpets and soft gold lights. He knocked on a door.
A tall, silver-haired, important-looking man opened it and greeted them heartily.
"Solid man, Greet!" he exclaimed. "You're a real scratcher! And is this our sharp?" He gave Jeff a friendly but appraising look.
"Just what you order," Snader said proudly. "His name—Jeff Elliott. Fine sharp. Best in his circuit. He brings his lifemate, too. Ann Elliott."
The old man rubbed his smooth hands together. "Prime! I wish joy," he said to Ann and Jeff. "I'm Septo Kersey. Come in. Bullen's waiting."
He led them into a spacious drawing room with great windows looking out on the lights of the city. There was a leather chair in a corner, and in it sat a heavy man with a grim mouth. He made no move, but grunted a perfunctory "Wish joy" when Kersey introduced them. His cold eyes studied Jeff while Kersey seated them in big chairs.
Snader did not sit down, however. "No need for me now," he said, and moved toward the door with a mocking wave at Ann.
Bullen nodded. "You get the rest of your pay when Elliott proves out."
"Here, wait a minute!" Jeff called. But Snader was gone.
"Sit still," Bullen growled to Jeff. "You understand radioptics?"
The blood went to Jeff's head. "My business is television, if that's what you mean. What's this about?"
"Tell him, Kersey," the big man said, and stared out the window.
Kersey began, "You understand, I think, that you have come back in time. About six years back."
"That's a matter of opinion, but go on."
"I am general manager of Continental Radioptic Combine, owned by Mr. Dumont Bullen." He nodded toward the big man. "Chromatics have not yet been developed here in connection with radioptics. They are well understood in your time, are they not?"
"What's chromatics? Color television?"
"Exactly. You are an expert in—ah—colored television, I think."
Jeff nodded. "So what?"
The old man beamed at him. "You are here to work for our company. You will enable us to be first with chromatics in this time wave."
Jeff stood up. "Don't tell me who I'll work for."
Bullen slapped a big fist on the arm of his chair. "No fog about this! You're bought and paid for, Elliott! You'll get a fair labor contract, but you do what I say!"
"Why, the man thinks he owns you." Ann laughed shakily.
"You'll find my barmen know their law," Bullen said. "This isn't the way I like to recruit. But it was only way to get a man with your knowledge."
Kersey said politely, "You are here illegally, with no immigrate permit or citizen file. Therefore you cannot get work. But Mr. Bullen has taken an interest in your trouble. Through his influence, you can make a living. We even set aside an apartment in this building for you to live in. You are really very luxe, do you see?"
Jeff's legs felt weak. These highbinders seemed brutally confident. He wondered how he and Ann would find their way home through the strange streets. But he put on a bold front.
"I don't believe your line about time travel and I don't plan to work for you," he said. "My wife and I are walking out right now. Try and stop us, legally or any other way."
Kersey's smooth old face turned hard. But, unexpectedly, Bullen chuckled deep in his throat. "Good pop and bang. Like to see it. Go on, walk out. You hang in trouble, call up here—Butterfly 9, ask for Bullen. Whole exchange us. I'll meet you here about eleven tomorrow pre-noon."
"Don't hold your breath. Let's go, Ann."
When they were on the sidewalk, Ann took a deep breath. "We made it. For a minute, I thought there'd be a brawl. Why did they let us go?"
"No telling. Maybe they're harmless lunatics—or practical jokers." He looked over his shoulder as they walked down the street, but there was no sign of pursuit. "It's a long time since supper."
Her hand was cold in his and her face was white. To take her mind off their problem, he ambled toward the lighted shop windows.
"Look at that sign," he said, pointing to a poster over a display of neckties. "'Sleek neck-sashes, only a Dick and a dollop!' How do they expect to sell stuff with that crazy lingo?"
"It's jive talk. They must cater to the high-school crowd." Ann glanced nervously at the strolling people around them. "Jeff, where are we? This isn't any part of the city I've ever seen. It doesn't even look much like America." Her voice rose. "The way the women are dressed—it's not old-fashioned, just different."
"Baby, don't be scared. This is an adventure. Let's have fun." He pressed her hand soothingly and pulled her toward a lunch counter.
If the haberdasher's sign was jive, the restaurant spoke the same jargon. The signs on the wall and the bill of fare were baffling. Jeff pondered the list of beef shingles, scorchers, smack sticks and fruit chills, until he noticed that a couple at the counter were eating what clearly were hamburgers—though the "buns" looked more like tortillas.
Jeff jerked his thumb at them and told the waitress, "Two, please."
When the sandwiches arrived, they were ordinary enough. He and Ann ate in silence. A feeling of foreboding hung over them.
When they finished, the clerk gave him a check marked 1/20. Jeff looked at it thoughtfully, shrugged and handed it to the cashier with two dollar bills.
The man at the desk glanced at them and laughed. "Stage money, eh?"
"No, that's good money," Jeff assured him with a rather hollow smile.
"They're just new bills, that's all."
The cashier picked one up and looked at it curiously. "I'm afraid it's no good here," he said, and pushed it back.
The bottom dropped out of Jeff's stomach. "What kind of money do you want? This is all I have."
The cashier's smile faded. He caught the eye of a man in uniform on one of the stools. The uniform was dark green, but the man acted like a policeman. He loomed up beside Jeff.
"What's the rasper?" he demanded. Other customers, waiting to pay their checks, eyed Jeff curiously.
"I guess I'm in trouble," Jeff told him. "I'm a stranger here and I got something to eat under the impression that my money was legal tender. Do you know where I can exchange it?"
The officer picked up the dollar bill and fingered it with evident interest. He turned it over and studied the printing. "United States of America," he read aloud. "What are those?"
"It's the name of the country I come from," Jeff said carefully.
"I—uh—got on the wrong train, apparently, and must have come further than I thought. What's the name of this place?"
"This is Costa, West Goodland, in the Continental Federation. Say, you must come from an umpty remote part of the world if you don't know about this country." His eyes narrowed. "Where'd you learn to speak Federal, if you come from so far?"
Jeff said helplessly, "I can't explain, if you don't know about the United States. Listen, can you take me to a bank, or some place where they know about foreign exchange?"
The policeman scowled. "How'd you get into this country, anyway? You got immigrate clearance?"
An angry muttering started among the bystanders.
The policeman made up his mind. "You come with me."
At the police station, Jeff put his elbows dejectedly on the high counter while the policeman talked to an officer in charge. Some men whom Jeff took for reporters got up from a table and eased over to listen.
"I don't know whether to charge them with fakemake, bumsy, peekage or lunate," the policeman said as he finished.
His superior gave Jeff a long puzzled stare.
Jeff sighed. "I know it sounds impossible, but a man brought me in something he claimed was a time traveler. You speak the same language I do—more or less—but everything else is kind of unfamiliar. I belong in the United States, a country in North America. I can't believe I'm so far in the future that the United States has been forgotten."
There ensued a long, confused, inconclusive interrogation.
The man behind the desk asked questions which seemed stupid to Jeff and got answers which probably seemed stupid to him.
The reporters quizzed Jeff gleefully. "Come out, what are you advertising?" they kept asking. "Who got you up to this?"
The police puzzled over his driver's license and the other cards in his wallet. They asked repeatedly about the lack of a "Work License," which Jeff took to be some sort of union card. Evidently there was grave doubt that he had any legal right to be in the country.
In the end, Jeff and Ann were locked in separate cells for the night. Jeff groaned and pounded the bars as he thought of his wife, imprisoned and alone in a smelly jail. After hours of pacing the cell, he lay down in the cot and reached automatically for his silver pillbox. Then he hesitated.
In past weeks, his insomnia had grown worse and worse, so that lately he had begun taking stronger pills. After a longing glance at the big red and yellow capsules, he put the box away. Whatever tomorrow brought, it wouldn't find him slow and drowsy.
IV
He passed a wakeful night. In the early morning, he looked up to see a little man with a briefcase at his cell door.
"Wish joy, Mr. Elliott," the man said coolly. "I am one of Mr. Bullen's barmen. You know, represent at law? He sent me to arrange your release, if you are ready to be reasonable."
Jeff lay there and put his hands behind his head. "I doubt if I'm ready. I'm comfortable here. By the way, how did you know where I was?"
"No problem. When we read in this morning's newspapers about a man claiming to be a time traveler, we knew."
"All right. Now start explaining. Until I understand where I am, Bullen isn't getting me out of here."
The lawyer smiled and sat down. "Mr. Kersey told you yesterday—you've gone back six years. But you'll need some mental gymnastics to understand. Time is a dimension, not a stream of events like a movie film. A film never changes. Space does—and time does. For example, if a movie showed a burning house at Sixth and Main, would you expect to find a house burning whenever you returned to that corner?"
"You mean to say that if I went back to 1865, I wouldn't find the Civil War was over and Lincoln had been assassinated?"
"If you go back to the time you call 1865—which is most easily done—you will find that the people there know nothing of a Lincoln or that war."
Jeff looked blank. "What are they doing then?"
The little man spread his hands. "What are the people doing now at Sixth and Main? Certainly not the same things they were doing the day of the fire. We're talking about a dimension, not an event. Don't you grasp the difference between the two?"
"Nope. To me, 1865 means the end of the Civil War. How else can you speak of a point in time except by the events that happened then?"
"Well, if you go to a place in three-dimensional space—say, a lake in the mountains—how do you identify that place? By looking for landmarks. It doesn't matter that an eagle is soaring over a mountain peak. That's only an event. The peak is the landmark. You follow me?"
"So far. Keep talking."
Question:
What is the significance of time in the story?
Answer:
|
[
"Time travel is suggested as a way to solve troubles. To fix regrets. Ironically, it is not this at all, because the way time travel works is not linear. Thus, it’s not possible to go back to an exact moment in your past and make a different decision.\n\nJeff is very impatient about the time they are spending with Mr. Snader, but continues to be roped into one thing and the next by convincing himself that they are in no real danger. There is a kind of tension between Jeff feeling like he is wasting time, but then allowing time to run on as their involvement with Mr. Snader deepens further and further until they lose 6 years of time completely.\n",
"At the beginning of the story, Jeff is worried that he has lost so much time on his failed business. Ann tries to convince him that he’s still plenty young, and he has many years to make back whatever he lost. Snader hears their conversation and butts in. Ann and Jeff don’t realize that he has already had his sights on them specifically because Jeff has been ordered by Mr. Bullen to improve his business. Bullen wants to make colored television before anyone else can, and in order to do that he needs someone from the future to give him the secrets. \n\nSnader makes Jeff and Ann believe they are going on an adventure to visit the past that they knew only six years ago, but he lies to them. They do not understand that the past does not work like a movie. When you travel to the past, the events change. This is because time is a dimension, and it is not linear. One of Bullen’s henchmen explains to Jeff that if he went back to 1865, there would no longer be a Civil War, and no one would know who Abraham Lincoln is. Landmarks, like the mountains outside of the station, will not change, but events will. ",
"Time is significant in the story because it is the basis for Jeff’s unhappiness and the couple’s reception of Snader’s travel offer. The reality of time as a dimension is why Jeff doesn’t recognize the past when he and Ann travel back. Jeff wishes he could go back in time five years and buy the building where he has been working for $2,000. It has just sold for $12,000, and now he has to leave and start his business over again. Snader’s offer of time travel appeals to Jeff and Ann because Jeff believes he’ll be able to buy the building. Snader’s assurance that they can be back in an hour helps persuade the couple to go with him to the nearby station. When they go into the screen to travel through time and Snader drives them along a freeway that didn’t exist in the present 1957 or five years earlier, Jeff is convinced that Snader has actually taken them to the future. Kersey tells them that they have traveled six years back in time before the development of chromatics (color television). Bullen wants Jeff to develop color television for his company, Continental Radioptic Combine, so that he will be first on the market with color TVs. When Jeff and Ann eat at the restaurant, and Jeff tries to pay with two one-dollar bills, the clerk calls the bills “stage money” and motions for a policeman to come to them. The officer looks at the bills and wonders aloud what the United States of America is and tells Jeff he is in Costa, West Goodland, in the Continental Federation. None of this makes sense to Jeff and Ann, and when Jeff is interrogated at the police station, the questions seems stupid to him. When Bullen’s lawyer arrives to get Jeff and Ann out of jail, he explains to Jeff that he did travel six years in the past but that time is a dimension rather than a stream of events. He indicates that if Jeff went back to 1865, the people there would know nothing of Lincoln or the Civil War. Therefore, Jeff’s idea that he could buy the building is incorrect because different events will be happening in 1952. \n",
"Time plays a few roles in this story. One is the motivation for Jeff and Ann to be interested in the time-travel technology in the first place: if Jeff could travel back in time a few years, he could sign a lease for a building for a much cheaper price that the going rate in his own time. Snader takes advantage of this fact to slip himself into the conversation the couple is having and offer his services in time travel, the particular mechanics of which are another major role of time in this story. Snader offers a time travel service that works with a technology too complicated for him to be able to explain, but for which we see two screens in one room that have moving images on them. These screens show people passing through the timestream and work as stations along a moving path of time, kind of like a train line. Once the group travels on this \"time groove\", they notice a number of differences in the \"new\" time, the past that Snader comes from. In fact, because of the differences, even though Ann and Jeff are in the past, they think that they must be far in the future because of how different things are. One of these is the construction of a highway that was not there during their time, and the other is that nobody has heard of the United States of America. Jeff figures that nobody has heard of where he comes from because they have moved so far forward in time, when it is really because in this version of the past, the United States did not develop in the way it did in Jeff's time. Because time affects the way language develops, it is interesting that one of the major differences between the time Jeff and Ann live in compared to the time Snader is from is the way people talk. In the past (that is, Snader's time), there are a lot of phrases and nouns that do not match the same words that Jeff and Ann have for those same concepts. The word for lawyer, for instance, differs. However, the languages have enough in common for the people from the different times to communicate with one another. The story ends with a discussion of how this time travel works, to show how differently the various people think about time. "
] |
51167
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Butterfly 9
By DONALD KEITH
Illustrated by GAUGHAN
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction January 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Jeff needed a job and this man had a job to offer—one where giant economy-size trouble had labels like fakemake, bumsy and peekage!
I
At first, Jeff scarcely noticed the bold-looking man at the next table. Nor did Ann. Their minds were busy with Jeff's troubles.
"You're still the smartest color engineer in television," Ann told Jeff as they dallied with their food. "You'll bounce back. Now eat your supper."
"This beanery is too noisy and hot," he grumbled. "I can't eat. Can't talk. Can't think." He took a silver pillbox from his pocket and fumbled for a black one. Those were vitamin pills; the big red and yellow ones were sleeping capsules. He gulped the pill.
Ann looked disapproving in a wifely way. "Lately you chew pills like popcorn," she said. "Do you really need so many?"
"I need something. I'm sure losing my grip."
Ann stared at him. "Baby! How silly! Nothing happened, except you lost your lease. You'll build up a better company in a new spot. We're young yet."
Jeff sighed and glanced around the crowded little restaurant. He wished he could fly away somewhere. At that moment, he met the gaze of the mustachioed man at the next table.
The fellow seemed to be watching him and Ann. Something in his confident gaze made Jeff uneasy. Had they met before?
Ann whispered, "So you noticed him, too. Maybe he's following us. I think I saw him on the parking lot where we left the car."
Jeff shrugged his big shoulders. "If he's following us, he's nuts. We've got no secrets and no money."
"It must be my maddening beauty," said Ann.
"I'll kick him cross-eyed if he starts anything," Jeff said. "I'm just in the mood."
Ann giggled. "Honey, what big veins you have! Forget him. Let's talk about the engineering lab you're going to start. And let's eat."
He groaned. "I lose my appetite every time I think about the building being sold. It isn't worth the twelve grand. I wouldn't buy it for that if I could. What burns me is that, five years ago, I could have bought it for two thousand."
"If only we could go back five years." She shrugged fatalistically.
"But since we can't—"
The character at the next table leaned over and spoke to them, grinning. "You like to get away? You wish to go back?"
Jeff glanced across in annoyance. The man was evidently a salesman, with extra gall.
"Not now, thanks," Jeff said. "Haven't time."
The man waved his thick hand at the clock, as if to abolish time.
"Time? That is nothing. Your little lady. She spoke of go back five years. Maybe I help you."
He spoke in an odd clipped way, obviously a foreigner. His shirt was yellow. His suit had a silky sheen. Its peculiar tailoring emphasized the bulges in his stubby, muscular torso.
Ann smiled back at him. "You talk as if you could take us back to 1952. Is that what you really mean?"
"Why not? You think this silly. But I can show you."
Jeff rose to go. "Mister, you better get to a doctor. Ann, it's time we started home."
Ann laid a hand on his sleeve. "I haven't finished eating. Let's chat with the gent." She added in an undertone to Jeff, "Must be a psycho—but sort of an inspired one."
The man said to Ann, "You are kind lady, I think. Good to crazy people. I join you."
He did not wait for consent, but slid into a seat at their table with an easy grace that was almost arrogant.
"You are unhappy in 1957," he went on. "Discouraged. Restless. Why not take trip to another time?"
"Why not?" Ann said gaily. "How much does it cost?"
"Free trial trip. Cost nothing. See whether you like. Then maybe we talk money." He handed Jeff a card made of a stiff plastic substance.
Jeff glanced at it, then handed it to Ann with a half-smile. It read:
4-D TRAVEL BEURO Greet Snader, Traffic Ajent
"Mr. Snader's bureau is different," Jeff said to his wife. "He even spells it different."
Snader chuckled. "I come from other time. We spell otherwise."
"You mean you come from the future?"
"Just different time. I show you. You come with me?"
"Come where?" Jeff asked, studying Snader's mocking eyes. The man didn't seem a mere eccentric. He had a peculiar suggestion of humor and force.
"Come on little trip to different time," invited Snader. He added persuasively, "Could be back here in hour."
"It would be painless, I suppose?" Jeff gave it a touch of derision.
"Maybe not. That is risk you take. But look at me. I make trips every day. I look damaged?"
As a matter of fact, he did. His thick-fleshed face bore a scar and his nose was broad and flat, as if it had been broken. But Jeff politely agreed that he did not look damaged.
Ann was enjoying this. "Tell me more, Mr. Snader. How does your time travel work?"
"Cannot explain. Same if you are asked how subway train works. Too complicated." He flashed his white teeth. "You think time travel not possible. Just like television not possible to your grandfather."
Ann said, "Why invite us? We're not rich enough for expensive trips."
"Invite many people," Snader said quickly. "Not expensive. You know Missing Persons lists, from police? Dozens people disappear. They go with me to other time. Many stay."
"Oh, sure," Jeff said. "But how do you select the ones to invite?"
"Find ones like you, Mr. Elliott. Ones who want change, escape."
Jeff was slightly startled. How did this fellow know his name was Elliott?
Before he could ask, Ann popped another question. "Mr. Snader, you heard us talking. You know we're in trouble because Jeff missed a good chance five years ago. Do you claim people can really go back into the past and correct mistakes they've made?"
"They can go back. What they do when arrive? Depends on them."
"Don't you wish it were true?" she sighed to Jeff.
"You afraid to believe," said Snader, a glimmer of amusement in his restless eyes. "Why not try? What you lose? Come on, look at station. Very near here."
Ann jumped up. "It might be fun, Jeff. Let's see what he means, if anything."
Jeff's pulse quickened. He too felt a sort of midsummer night's madness—a yearning to forget his troubles. "Okay, just for kicks. But we go in my car."
Snader moved ahead to the cashier's stand. Jeff watched the weasel-like grace of his short, broad body.
"This is no ordinary oddball," Jeff told Ann. "He's tricky. He's got some gimmick."
"First I just played him along, to see how loony he was," Ann said.
"Now I wonder who's kidding whom." She concluded thoughtfully, "He's kind of handsome, in a tough way."
II
Snader's "station" proved to be a middle-sized, middle-cost home in a good neighborhood. Lights glowed in the windows. Jeff could hear the whisper of traffic on a boulevard a few blocks away. Through the warm dusk, he could dimly see the mountains on the horizon. All was peaceful.
Snader unlocked the front door with a key which he drew from a fine metal chain around his neck. He swept open the front door with a flourish and beamed at them, but Ann drew back.
"'Walk into my parlor, said the spider to the fly,'" she murmured to Jeff. "This could be a gambling hell. Or a dope den."
"No matter what kind of clip joint, it can't clip us much," he said.
"There's only four bucks in my wallet. My guess is it's a 'temple' for some daffy religious sect."
They went in. A fat man smiled at them from a desk in the hall. Snader said, "Meet Peter Powers. Local agent of our bureau."
The man didn't get up, but nodded comfortably and waved them toward the next room, after a glance at Snader's key.
The key opened this room's door, too. Its spring lock snapped shut after them.
The room was like a doctor's waiting room, with easy chairs along the walls. Its only peculiar aspects were a sign hanging from the middle of the ceiling and two movie screens—or were they giant television screens?—occupying a whole wall at either end of the room.
The sign bore the number 701 in bright yellow on black. Beneath it, an arrow pointed to the screen on the left with the word Ante , and to the right with the word Post .
Jeff studied the big screens. On each, a picture was in motion. One appeared to be moving through a long corridor, lined with seats like a railroad club car. The picture seemed to rush at them from the left wall. When he turned to the right, a similar endless chair-lined corridor moved toward him from that direction.
"Somebody worked hard on this layout," he said to Snader. "What's it for?"
"Time travel," said Snader. "You like?"
"Almost as good as Disneyland. These movies represent the stream of time, I suppose?"
Instead of answering, Snader pointed to the screen. The picture showed a group of people chatting in a fast-moving corridor. As it hurtled toward them, Snader flipped his hand in a genial salute. Two people in the picture waved back.
Ann gasped. "It was just as if they saw us."
"They did," Snader said. "No movie. Time travelers. In fourth dimension. To you, they look like flat picture. To them, we look flat."
"What's he supposed to be?" Jeff asked as the onrushing picture showed them briefly a figure bound hand and foot, huddled in one of the chairs. He stared at them piteously for an instant before the picture surged past.
Snader showed his teeth. "That was convict from my time. We have criminals, like in your time. But we do not kill. We make them work. Where he going? To end of line. To earliest year this time groove reach. About 600 A.D., your calendar. Authorities pick up when he get there. Put him to work."
"What kind of work?" Jeff asked.
"Building the groove further back."
"Sounds like interesting work."
Snader chortled and slapped him on the back. "Maybe you see it some day, but forget that now. You come with me. Little trip."
Jeff was perspiring. This was odder than he expected. Whatever the fakery, it was clever. His curiosity as a technician made him want to know about it. He asked Snader, "Where do you propose to go? And how?"
Snader said, "Watch me. Then look at other wall."
He moved gracefully to the screen on the left wall, stepped into it and disappeared. It was as if he had slid into opaque water.
Jeff and Ann blinked in mystification. Then they remembered his instruction to watch the other screen. They turned. After a moment, in the far distance down the long moving corridor, they could see a stocky figure. The motion of the picture brought him nearer. In a few seconds, he was recognizable as Snader—and as the picture brought him forward, he stepped down out of it and was with them again.
"Simple," Snader said. "I rode to next station. Then crossed over. Took other carrier back here."
"Brother, that's the best trick I've seen in years," Jeff said. "How did you do it? Can I do it, too?"
"I show you." Grinning like a wildcat, Snader linked his arms with Ann and Jeff, and walked them toward the screen. "Now," he said. "Step in."
Jeff submitted to Snader's pressure and stepped cautiously into the screen. Amazingly, he felt no resistance at all, no sense of change or motion. It was like stepping through a fog-bank into another room.
In fact, that was what they seemed to have done. They were in the chair-lined corridor. As Snader turned them around and seated them, they faced another moving picture screen. It seemed to rush through a dark tunnel toward a lighted square in the far distance.
The square grew on the screen. Soon they saw it was another room like the waiting room they had left, except that the number hanging from the ceiling was 702. They seemed to glide through it. Then they were in the dark tunnel again.
Ann was clutching Jeff's arm. He patted her hand. "Fun, hey? Like Alice through the looking-glass."
"You really think we're going back in time?" she whispered.
"Hardly! But we're seeing a million-dollar trick. I can't even begin to figure it out yet."
Another lighted room grew out of the tunnel on the screen, and when they had flickered through it, another and then another.
"Mr. Snader," Ann said unsteadily, "how long—how many years back are you taking us?"
Snader was humming to himself. "Six years. Station 725 fine place to stop."
For a little while, Jeff let himself think it might be true. "Six years ago, your dad was alive," he mused to Ann. "If this should somehow be real, we could see him again."
"We could if we went to our house. He lived with us then, remember? Would we see ourselves, six years younger? Or would—"
Snader took Jeff's arm and pulled him to his feet. The screen was moving through a room numbered 724.
"Soon now," Snader grunted happily. "Then no more questions."
He took an arm of each as he had before. When the screen was filled by a room with the number 725, he propelled them forward into it.
Again there was no sense of motion. They had simply stepped through a bright wall they could not feel. They found themselves in a replica of the room they had left at 701. On the wall, a picture of the continuous club-car corridor rolled toward them in a silent, endless stream.
"The same room," Ann said in disappointment. "They just changed the number. We haven't been anywhere."
Snader was fishing under his shirt for the key. He gave Ann a glance that was almost a leer. Then he carefully unlocked the door.
In the hall, a motherly old lady bustled up, but Snader brushed past her. "Official," he said, showing her the key. "No lodging."
He unlocked the front door without another word and carefully shut it behind them as Jeff and Ann followed him out of the house.
"Hey, where's my car?" Jeff demanded, looking up and down the street.
The whole street looked different. Where he had parked his roadster, there was now a long black limousine.
"Your car is in future," Snader said briskly. "Where it belong. Get in." He opened the door of the limousine.
Jeff felt a little flame of excitement licking inside him. Something was happening, he felt. Something exciting and dangerous.
"Snader," he said, "if you're kidnaping us, you made a mistake. Nobody on Earth will pay ransom for us."
Snader seemed amused. "You are foolish fellow. Silly talk about ransom. You in different time now."
"When does this gag stop?" Jeff demanded irritably. "You haven't fooled us. We're still in 1957."
"You are? Look around."
Jeff looked at the street again. He secretly admitted to himself that these were different trees and houses than he remembered. Even the telephone poles and street lights seemed peculiar, vaguely foreign-looking. It must be an elaborate practical joke. Snader had probably ushered them into one house, then through a tunnel and out another house.
"Get in," Snader said curtly.
Jeff decided to go along with the hoax or whatever it was. He could see no serious risk. He helped Ann into the back seat and sat beside her. Snader slammed the door and slid into the driver's seat. He started the engine with a roar and they rocketed away from the curb, narrowly missing another car.
Jeff yelled, "Easy, man! Look where you're going!"
Snader guffawed. "Tonight, you look where you are going."
Ann clung to Jeff. "Did you notice the house we came out of?"
"What about it?"
"It looked as though they were afraid people might try to break in. There were bars at the windows."
"Lots of houses are built that way, honey. Let's see, where are we?" He glanced at house numbers. "This is the 800 block. Remember that. And the street—" He peered up at a sign as they whirled around a corner.
"The street is Green Thru-Way. I never heard of a street like that."
III
They were headed back toward what should have been the boulevard. The car zoomed through a cloverleaf turn and up onto a broad freeway. Jeff knew for certain there was no freeway there in 1957—nor in any earlier year. But on the horizon, he could see the familiar dark bulk of the mountains. The whole line of moonlit ridges was the same as always.
"Ann," he said slowly, "I think this is for real. Somehow I guess we escaped from 1957. We've been transported in time."
She squeezed his arm. "If I'm dreaming, don't wake me! I was scared a minute ago. But now, oh, boy!"
"Likewise. But I still wonder what Snader's angle is." He leaned forward and tapped the driver on his meaty shoulder. "You brought us into the future instead of the past, didn't you?"
It was hard to know whether Snader was sleepy or just bored, but he shrugged briefly to show there was no reply coming. Then he yawned.
Jeff smiled tightly. "I guess we'll find out in good time. Let's sit back and enjoy the strangest ride of our lives."
As the limousine swept along through the traffic, there were plenty of big signs for turn-offs, but none gave any hint where they were. The names were unfamiliar. Even the language seemed grotesque. "Rite Channel for Creepers," he read. "Yaw for Torrey Rushway" flared at him from a fork in the freeway.
"This can't be the future," Ann said. "This limousine is almost new, but it doesn't even have an automatic gear shift—"
She broke off as the car shot down a ramp off the freeway and pulled up in front of an apartment house. Just beyond was a big shopping center, ablaze with lights and swarming with shoppers. Jeff did not recognize it, in spite of his familiarity with the city.
Snader bounded out, pulled open the rear door and jerked his head in a commanding gesture. But Jeff did not get out. He told Snader, "Let's have some answers before we go any further."
Snader gave him a hard grin. "You hear everything upstairs."
The building appeared harmless enough. Jeff looked thoughtfully at Ann.
She said, "It's just an apartment house. We've come this far. Might as well go in and see what's there."
Snader led them in, up to the sixth floor in an elevator and along a corridor with heavy carpets and soft gold lights. He knocked on a door.
A tall, silver-haired, important-looking man opened it and greeted them heartily.
"Solid man, Greet!" he exclaimed. "You're a real scratcher! And is this our sharp?" He gave Jeff a friendly but appraising look.
"Just what you order," Snader said proudly. "His name—Jeff Elliott. Fine sharp. Best in his circuit. He brings his lifemate, too. Ann Elliott."
The old man rubbed his smooth hands together. "Prime! I wish joy," he said to Ann and Jeff. "I'm Septo Kersey. Come in. Bullen's waiting."
He led them into a spacious drawing room with great windows looking out on the lights of the city. There was a leather chair in a corner, and in it sat a heavy man with a grim mouth. He made no move, but grunted a perfunctory "Wish joy" when Kersey introduced them. His cold eyes studied Jeff while Kersey seated them in big chairs.
Snader did not sit down, however. "No need for me now," he said, and moved toward the door with a mocking wave at Ann.
Bullen nodded. "You get the rest of your pay when Elliott proves out."
"Here, wait a minute!" Jeff called. But Snader was gone.
"Sit still," Bullen growled to Jeff. "You understand radioptics?"
The blood went to Jeff's head. "My business is television, if that's what you mean. What's this about?"
"Tell him, Kersey," the big man said, and stared out the window.
Kersey began, "You understand, I think, that you have come back in time. About six years back."
"That's a matter of opinion, but go on."
"I am general manager of Continental Radioptic Combine, owned by Mr. Dumont Bullen." He nodded toward the big man. "Chromatics have not yet been developed here in connection with radioptics. They are well understood in your time, are they not?"
"What's chromatics? Color television?"
"Exactly. You are an expert in—ah—colored television, I think."
Jeff nodded. "So what?"
The old man beamed at him. "You are here to work for our company. You will enable us to be first with chromatics in this time wave."
Jeff stood up. "Don't tell me who I'll work for."
Bullen slapped a big fist on the arm of his chair. "No fog about this! You're bought and paid for, Elliott! You'll get a fair labor contract, but you do what I say!"
"Why, the man thinks he owns you." Ann laughed shakily.
"You'll find my barmen know their law," Bullen said. "This isn't the way I like to recruit. But it was only way to get a man with your knowledge."
Kersey said politely, "You are here illegally, with no immigrate permit or citizen file. Therefore you cannot get work. But Mr. Bullen has taken an interest in your trouble. Through his influence, you can make a living. We even set aside an apartment in this building for you to live in. You are really very luxe, do you see?"
Jeff's legs felt weak. These highbinders seemed brutally confident. He wondered how he and Ann would find their way home through the strange streets. But he put on a bold front.
"I don't believe your line about time travel and I don't plan to work for you," he said. "My wife and I are walking out right now. Try and stop us, legally or any other way."
Kersey's smooth old face turned hard. But, unexpectedly, Bullen chuckled deep in his throat. "Good pop and bang. Like to see it. Go on, walk out. You hang in trouble, call up here—Butterfly 9, ask for Bullen. Whole exchange us. I'll meet you here about eleven tomorrow pre-noon."
"Don't hold your breath. Let's go, Ann."
When they were on the sidewalk, Ann took a deep breath. "We made it. For a minute, I thought there'd be a brawl. Why did they let us go?"
"No telling. Maybe they're harmless lunatics—or practical jokers." He looked over his shoulder as they walked down the street, but there was no sign of pursuit. "It's a long time since supper."
Her hand was cold in his and her face was white. To take her mind off their problem, he ambled toward the lighted shop windows.
"Look at that sign," he said, pointing to a poster over a display of neckties. "'Sleek neck-sashes, only a Dick and a dollop!' How do they expect to sell stuff with that crazy lingo?"
"It's jive talk. They must cater to the high-school crowd." Ann glanced nervously at the strolling people around them. "Jeff, where are we? This isn't any part of the city I've ever seen. It doesn't even look much like America." Her voice rose. "The way the women are dressed—it's not old-fashioned, just different."
"Baby, don't be scared. This is an adventure. Let's have fun." He pressed her hand soothingly and pulled her toward a lunch counter.
If the haberdasher's sign was jive, the restaurant spoke the same jargon. The signs on the wall and the bill of fare were baffling. Jeff pondered the list of beef shingles, scorchers, smack sticks and fruit chills, until he noticed that a couple at the counter were eating what clearly were hamburgers—though the "buns" looked more like tortillas.
Jeff jerked his thumb at them and told the waitress, "Two, please."
When the sandwiches arrived, they were ordinary enough. He and Ann ate in silence. A feeling of foreboding hung over them.
When they finished, the clerk gave him a check marked 1/20. Jeff looked at it thoughtfully, shrugged and handed it to the cashier with two dollar bills.
The man at the desk glanced at them and laughed. "Stage money, eh?"
"No, that's good money," Jeff assured him with a rather hollow smile.
"They're just new bills, that's all."
The cashier picked one up and looked at it curiously. "I'm afraid it's no good here," he said, and pushed it back.
The bottom dropped out of Jeff's stomach. "What kind of money do you want? This is all I have."
The cashier's smile faded. He caught the eye of a man in uniform on one of the stools. The uniform was dark green, but the man acted like a policeman. He loomed up beside Jeff.
"What's the rasper?" he demanded. Other customers, waiting to pay their checks, eyed Jeff curiously.
"I guess I'm in trouble," Jeff told him. "I'm a stranger here and I got something to eat under the impression that my money was legal tender. Do you know where I can exchange it?"
The officer picked up the dollar bill and fingered it with evident interest. He turned it over and studied the printing. "United States of America," he read aloud. "What are those?"
"It's the name of the country I come from," Jeff said carefully.
"I—uh—got on the wrong train, apparently, and must have come further than I thought. What's the name of this place?"
"This is Costa, West Goodland, in the Continental Federation. Say, you must come from an umpty remote part of the world if you don't know about this country." His eyes narrowed. "Where'd you learn to speak Federal, if you come from so far?"
Jeff said helplessly, "I can't explain, if you don't know about the United States. Listen, can you take me to a bank, or some place where they know about foreign exchange?"
The policeman scowled. "How'd you get into this country, anyway? You got immigrate clearance?"
An angry muttering started among the bystanders.
The policeman made up his mind. "You come with me."
At the police station, Jeff put his elbows dejectedly on the high counter while the policeman talked to an officer in charge. Some men whom Jeff took for reporters got up from a table and eased over to listen.
"I don't know whether to charge them with fakemake, bumsy, peekage or lunate," the policeman said as he finished.
His superior gave Jeff a long puzzled stare.
Jeff sighed. "I know it sounds impossible, but a man brought me in something he claimed was a time traveler. You speak the same language I do—more or less—but everything else is kind of unfamiliar. I belong in the United States, a country in North America. I can't believe I'm so far in the future that the United States has been forgotten."
There ensued a long, confused, inconclusive interrogation.
The man behind the desk asked questions which seemed stupid to Jeff and got answers which probably seemed stupid to him.
The reporters quizzed Jeff gleefully. "Come out, what are you advertising?" they kept asking. "Who got you up to this?"
The police puzzled over his driver's license and the other cards in his wallet. They asked repeatedly about the lack of a "Work License," which Jeff took to be some sort of union card. Evidently there was grave doubt that he had any legal right to be in the country.
In the end, Jeff and Ann were locked in separate cells for the night. Jeff groaned and pounded the bars as he thought of his wife, imprisoned and alone in a smelly jail. After hours of pacing the cell, he lay down in the cot and reached automatically for his silver pillbox. Then he hesitated.
In past weeks, his insomnia had grown worse and worse, so that lately he had begun taking stronger pills. After a longing glance at the big red and yellow capsules, he put the box away. Whatever tomorrow brought, it wouldn't find him slow and drowsy.
IV
He passed a wakeful night. In the early morning, he looked up to see a little man with a briefcase at his cell door.
"Wish joy, Mr. Elliott," the man said coolly. "I am one of Mr. Bullen's barmen. You know, represent at law? He sent me to arrange your release, if you are ready to be reasonable."
Jeff lay there and put his hands behind his head. "I doubt if I'm ready. I'm comfortable here. By the way, how did you know where I was?"
"No problem. When we read in this morning's newspapers about a man claiming to be a time traveler, we knew."
"All right. Now start explaining. Until I understand where I am, Bullen isn't getting me out of here."
The lawyer smiled and sat down. "Mr. Kersey told you yesterday—you've gone back six years. But you'll need some mental gymnastics to understand. Time is a dimension, not a stream of events like a movie film. A film never changes. Space does—and time does. For example, if a movie showed a burning house at Sixth and Main, would you expect to find a house burning whenever you returned to that corner?"
"You mean to say that if I went back to 1865, I wouldn't find the Civil War was over and Lincoln had been assassinated?"
"If you go back to the time you call 1865—which is most easily done—you will find that the people there know nothing of a Lincoln or that war."
Jeff looked blank. "What are they doing then?"
The little man spread his hands. "What are the people doing now at Sixth and Main? Certainly not the same things they were doing the day of the fire. We're talking about a dimension, not an event. Don't you grasp the difference between the two?"
"Nope. To me, 1865 means the end of the Civil War. How else can you speak of a point in time except by the events that happened then?"
"Well, if you go to a place in three-dimensional space—say, a lake in the mountains—how do you identify that place? By looking for landmarks. It doesn't matter that an eagle is soaring over a mountain peak. That's only an event. The peak is the landmark. You follow me?"
"So far. Keep talking."
|
What is the significance of the Ringwave technology?
|
After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about Control Group by Roger D. Aycock.
Relevant chunks:
"Any problem posed by one group of
human beings can be resolved by any
other group." That's what the Handbook
said. But did that include primitive
humans? Or the Bees? Or a ...
CONTROL GROUP
By ROGER DEE
The
cool green disk of Alphard
Six on the screen was
infinitely welcome after the arid
desolation and stinking swamplands
of the inner planets, an
airy jewel of a world that might
have been designed specifically
for the hard-earned month of
rest ahead. Navigator Farrell,
youngest and certainly most impulsive
of the three-man Terran
Reclamations crew, would have
set the Marco Four down at
once but for the greater caution
of Stryker, nominally captain of
the group, and of Gibson, engineer,
and linguist. Xavier, the
ship's little mechanical, had—as
was usual and proper—no voice
in the matter.
"Reconnaissance spiral first,
Arthur," Stryker said firmly. He
chuckled at Farrell's instant
scowl, his little eyes twinkling
and his naked paunch quaking
over the belt of his shipboard
shorts. "Chapter One, Subsection
Five, Paragraph Twenty-seven: No planetfall on an unreclaimed
world shall be deemed
safe without proper— "
Farrell, as Stryker had expected,
interrupted with characteristic
impatience. "Do you sleep with that damned Reclamations
Handbook, Lee? Alphard Six
isn't an unreclaimed world—it
was never colonized before the
Hymenop invasion back in 3025,
so why should it be inhabited
now?"
Gibson, who for four hours
had not looked up from his interminable
chess game with
Xavier, paused with a beleaguered
knight in one blunt brown
hand.
"No point in taking chances,"
Gibson said in his neutral baritone.
He shrugged thick bare
shoulders, his humorless black-browed
face unmoved, when
Farrell included him in his
scowl. "We're two hundred twenty-six
light-years from Sol, at
the old limits of Terran expansion,
and there's no knowing
what we may turn up here. Alphard's
was one of the first systems
the Bees took over. It must
have been one of the last to be
abandoned when they pulled back
to 70 Ophiuchi."
"And I think you live for the
day," Farrell said acidly, "when
we'll stumble across a functioning
dome of live, buzzing Hymenops.
Damn it, Gib, the Bees
pulled out a hundred years ago,
before you and I were born—neither
of us ever saw a Hymenop,
and never will!"
"But I saw them," Stryker
said. "I fought them for the better
part of the century they were
here, and I learned there's no
predicting nor understanding
them. We never knew why they
came nor why they gave up and
left. How can we know whether
they'd leave a rear-guard or
booby trap here?"
He put a paternal hand on
Farrell's shoulder, understanding
the younger man's eagerness
and knowing that their close-knit
team would have been the
more poorly balanced without it.
"Gib's right," he said. He
nearly added as usual . "We're on
rest leave at the moment, yes,
but our mission is still to find
Terran colonies enslaved and
abandoned by the Bees, not to
risk our necks and a valuable
Reorientations ship by landing
blind on an unobserved planet.
We're too close already. Cut in
your shields and find a reconnaissance
spiral, will you?"
Grumbling, Farrell punched
coordinates on the Ringwave
board that lifted the Marco Four out of her descent and restored
the bluish enveloping haze of
her repellors.
Stryker's caution was justified
on the instant. The speeding
streamlined shape that had flashed
up unobserved from below
swerved sharply and exploded in
a cataclysmic blaze of atomic
fire that rocked the ship wildly
and flung the three men to the
floor in a jangling roar of
alarms.
"So the Handbook tacticians
knew what they were about,"
Stryker said minutes later. Deliberately
he adopted the smug
tone best calculated to sting Farrell
out of his first self-reproach,
and grinned when the navigator
bristled defensively. "Some of
their enjoinders seem a little
stuffy and obvious at times, but
they're eminently sensible."
When Farrell refused to be
baited Stryker turned to Gibson,
who was busily assessing the
damage done to the ship's more
fragile equipment, and to Xavier,
who searched the planet's
surface with the ship's magnoscanner.
The Marco Four , Ringwave
generators humming gently,
hung at the moment just
inside the orbit of Alphard Six's
single dun-colored moon.
Gibson put down a test meter
with an air of finality.
"Nothing damaged but the
Zero Interval Transfer computer.
I can realign that in a couple
of hours, but it'll have to be
done before we hit Transfer
again."
Stryker looked dubious.
"What if the issue is forced before
the ZIT unit is repaired?
Suppose they come up after us?"
"I doubt that they can. Any
installation crudely enough
equipped to trust in guided missiles
is hardly likely to have developed
efficient space craft."
Stryker was not reassured.
"That torpedo of theirs was
deadly enough," he said. "And
its nature reflects the nature of
the people who made it. Any race
vicious enough to use atomic
charges is too dangerous to
trifle with." Worry made comical
creases in his fat, good-humored
face. "We'll have to find
out who they are and why
they're here, you know."
"They can't be Hymenops,"
Gibson said promptly. "First,
because the Bees pinned their
faith on Ringwave energy fields,
as we did, rather than on missiles.
Second, because there's no
dome on Six."
"There were three empty
domes on Five, which is a desert
planet," Farrell pointed out.
"Why didn't they settle Six? It's
a more habitable world."
Gibson shrugged. "I know the
Bees always erected domes on
every planet they colonized, Arthur,
but precedent is a fallible
tool. And it's even more firmly
established that there's no possibility
of our rationalizing the
motivations of a culture as alien
as the Hymenops'—we've been
over that argument a hundred
times on other reclaimed
worlds."
"But this was never an unreclaimed
world," Farrell said
with the faint malice of one too
recently caught in the wrong.
"Alphard Six was surveyed and
seeded with Terran bacteria
around the year 3000, but the
Bees invaded before we could
colonize. And that means we'll
have to rule out any resurgent
colonial group down there, because
Six never had a colony in
the beginning."
"The Bees have been gone for
over a hundred years," Stryker
said. "Colonists might have migrated
from another Terran-occupied
planet."
Gibson disagreed.
"We've touched at every inhabited
world in this sector, Lee,
and not one surviving colony has
developed space travel on its
own. The Hymenops had a hundred
years to condition their human
slaves to ignorance of
everything beyond their immediate
environment—the motives
behind that conditioning usually
escape us, but that's beside the
point—and they did a thorough
job of it. The colonists have had
no more than a century of freedom
since the Bees pulled out,
and four generations simply
isn't enough time for any subjugated
culture to climb from
slavery to interstellar flight."
Stryker made a padding turn
about the control room, tugging
unhappily at the scanty fringe
of hair the years had left him.
"If they're neither Hymenops
nor resurgent colonists," he said,
"then there's only one choice remaining—they're
aliens from a
system we haven't reached yet,
beyond the old sphere of Terran
exploration. We always assumed
that we'd find other races out
here someday, and that they'd
be as different from us in form
and motivation as the Hymenops.
Why not now?"
Gibson said seriously, "Not
probable, Lee. The same objection
that rules out the Bees applies
to any trans-Alphardian
culture—they'd have to be beyond
the atomic fission stage,
else they'd never have attempted
interstellar flight. The Ringwave
with its Zero Interval Transfer
principle and instantaneous communications
applications is the
only answer to long-range travel,
and if they'd had that they
wouldn't have bothered with
atomics."
Stryker turned on him almost
angrily. "If they're not Hymenops
or humans or aliens, then
what in God's name are they?"
"Aye, there's the rub," Farrell
said, quoting a passage
whose aptness had somehow seen
it through a dozen reorganizations
of insular tongue and a
final translation to universal
Terran. "If they're none of those
three, we've only one conclusion
left. There's no one down there
at all—we're victims of the first
joint hallucination in psychiatric
history."
Stryker threw up his hands in
surrender. "We can't identify
them by theorizing, and that
brings us down to the business
of first-hand investigation.
Who's going to bell the cat this
time?"
"I'd like to go," Gibson said
at once. "The ZIT computer can
wait."
Stryker vetoed his offer as
promptly. "No, the ZIT comes
first. We may have to run for it,
and we can't set up a Transfer
jump without the computer. It's
got to be me or Arthur."
Farrell felt the familiar chill
of uneasiness that inevitably
preceded this moment of decision.
He was not lacking in courage,
else the circumstances under
which he had worked for the
past ten years—the sometimes
perilous, sometimes downright
charnel conditions left by the
fleeing Hymenop conquerors—would
have broken him long
ago. But that same hard experience
had honed rather than
blunted the edge of his imagination,
and the prospect of a close-quarters
stalking of an unknown
and patently hostile force was
anything but attractive.
"You two did the field work
on the last location," he said.
"It's high time I took my turn—and
God knows I'd go mad if
I had to stay inship and listen
to Lee memorizing his Handbook
subsections or to Gib practicing
dead languages with Xavier."
Stryker laughed for the first
time since the explosion that
had so nearly wrecked the Marco
Four .
"Good enough. Though it
wouldn't be more diverting to
listen for hours to you improvising
enharmonic variations on
the Lament for Old Terra with
your accordion."
Gibson, characteristically, had
a refinement to offer.
"They'll be alerted down there
for a reconnaissance sally," he
said. "Why not let Xavier take
the scouter down for overt diversion,
and drop Arthur off in
the helihopper for a low-level
check?"
Stryker looked at Farrell. "All
right, Arthur?"
"Good enough," Farrell said.
And to Xavier, who had not
moved from his post at the magnoscanner:
"How does it look,
Xav? Have you pinned down
their base yet?"
The mechanical answered him
in a voice as smooth and clear—and
as inflectionless—as a 'cello
note. "The planet seems uninhabited
except for a large island
some three hundred miles in
diameter. There are twenty-seven
small agrarian hamlets surrounded
by cultivated fields.
There is one city of perhaps a
thousand buildings with a central
square. In the square rests
a grounded spaceship of approximately
ten times the bulk
of the Marco Four ."
They crowded about the vision
screen, jostling Xavier's jointed
gray shape in their interest. The
central city lay in minutest detail
before them, the battered
hulk of the grounded ship glinting
rustily in the late afternoon
sunlight. Streets radiated away
from the square in orderly succession,
the whole so clearly
depicted that they could see the
throngs of people surging up
and down, tiny foreshortened
faces turned toward the sky.
"At least they're human,"
Farrell said. Relief replaced in
some measure his earlier uneasiness.
"Which means that they're
Terran, and can be dealt with
according to Reclamations routine.
Is that hulk spaceworthy,
Xav?"
Xavier's mellow drone assumed
the convention vibrato that
indicated stark puzzlement. "Its
breached hull makes the ship incapable
of flight. Apparently it
is used only to supply power to
the outlying hamlets."
The mechanical put a flexible
gray finger upon an indicator
graph derived from a composite
section of detector meters. "The
power transmitted seems to be
gross electric current conveyed
by metallic cables. It is generated
through a crudely governed
process of continuous atomic
fission."
Farrell, himself appalled by
the information, still found himself
able to chuckle at Stryker's
bellow of consternation.
" Continuous fission? Good
God, only madmen would deliberately
run a risk like that!"
Farrell prodded him with
cheerful malice. "Why say mad men ? Maybe they're humanoid
aliens who thrive on hard radiation
and look on the danger of
being blown to hell in the middle
of the night as a satisfactory
risk."
"They're not alien," Gibson
said positively. "Their architecture
is Terran, and so is their
ship. The ship is incredibly
primitive, though; those batteries
of tubes at either end—"
"Are thrust reaction jets,"
Stryker finished in an awed
voice. "Primitive isn't the word,
Gib—the thing is prehistoric!
Rocket propulsion hasn't been
used in spacecraft since—how
long, Xav?"
Xavier supplied the information
with mechanical infallibility.
"Since the year 2100 when
the Ringwave propulsion-communication
principle was discovered.
That principle has served
men since."
Farrell stared in blank disbelief
at the anomalous craft on
the screen. Primitive, as Stryker
had said, was not the word
for it: clumsily ovoid, studded
with torpedo domes and turrets
and bristling at either end with
propulsion tubes, it lay at the
center of its square like a rusted
relic of a past largely destroyed
and all but forgotten. What a
magnificent disregard its builders
must have had, he thought,
for their lives and the genetic
purity of their posterity! The
sullen atomic fires banked in
that oxidizing hulk—
Stryker said plaintively, "If
you're right, Gib, then we're
more in the dark than ever. How
could a Terran-built ship eleven
hundred years old get here ?"
Gibson, absorbed in his chess-player's
contemplation of alternatives,
seemed hardly to hear
him.
"Logic or not-logic," Gibson
said. "If it's a Terran artifact,
we can discover the reason for
its presence. If not—"
" Any problem posed by one
group of human beings ," Stryker
quoted his Handbook, " can be
resolved by any other group, regardless
of ideology or conditioning,
because the basic
perceptive abilities of both must
be the same through identical
heredity ."
"If it's an imitation, and this
is another Hymenop experiment
in condition ecology, then we're
stumped to begin with," Gibson
finished. "Because we're not
equipped to evaluate the psychology
of alien motivation. We've
got to determine first which case
applies here."
He waited for Farrell's expected
irony, and when the
navigator forestalled him by remaining
grimly quiet, continued.
"The obvious premise is that
a Terran ship must have been
built by Terrans. Question: Was
it flown here, or built here?"
"It couldn't have been built
here," Stryker said. "Alphard
Six was surveyed just before the
Bees took over in 3025, and there
was nothing of the sort here
then. It couldn't have been built
during the two and a quarter
centuries since; it's obviously
much older than that. It was
flown here."
"We progress," Farrell said
dryly. "Now if you'll tell us how ,
we're ready to move."
"I think the ship was built on
Terra during the Twenty-second
Century," Gibson said calmly.
"The atomic wars during that
period destroyed practically all
historical records along with the
technology of the time, but I've
read well-authenticated reports
of atomic-driven ships leaving
Terra before then for the nearer
stars. The human race climbed
out of its pit again during the
Twenty-third Century and developed
the technology that gave
us the Ringwave. Certainly no
atomic-powered ships were built
after the wars—our records are
complete from that time."
Farrell shook his head at the
inference. "I've read any number
of fanciful romances on the
theme, Gib, but it won't stand
up in practice. No shipboard society
could last through a thousand-year
space voyage. It's a
physical and psychological impossibility.
There's got to be
some other explanation."
Gibson shrugged. "We can
only eliminate the least likely
alternatives and accept the simplest
one remaining."
"Then we can eliminate this
one now," Farrell said flatly. "It
entails a thousand-year voyage,
which is an impossibility for any
gross reaction drive; the application
of suspended animation
or longevity or a successive-generation
program, and a final
penetration of Hymenop-occupied
space to set up a colony under
the very antennae of the
Bees. Longevity wasn't developed
until around the year 3000—Lee
here was one of the first to
profit by it, if you remember—and
suspended animation is still
to come. So there's one theory
you can forget."
"Arthur's right," Stryker said
reluctantly. "An atomic-powered
ship couldn't have made such a
trip, Gib. And such a lineal-descendant
project couldn't have
lasted through forty generations,
speculative fiction to the
contrary—the later generations
would have been too far removed
in ideology and intent from
their ancestors. They'd have
adapted to shipboard life as the
norm. They'd have atrophied
physically, perhaps even have
mutated—"
"And they'd never have
fought past the Bees during the
Hymenop invasion and occupation,"
Farrell finished triumphantly.
"The Bees had better
detection equipment than we
had. They'd have picked this
ship up long before it reached
Alphard Six."
"But the ship wasn't here in
3000," Gibson said, "and it is
now. Therefore it must have arrived
at some time during the
two hundred years of Hymenop
occupation and evacuation."
Farrell, tangled in contradictions,
swore bitterly. "But
why should the Bees let them
through? The three domes on
Five are over two hundred years
old, which means that the Bees
were here before the ship came.
Why didn't they blast it or enslave
its crew?"
"We haven't touched on all the
possibilities," Gibson reminded
him. "We haven't even established
yet that these people were
never under Hymenop control.
Precedent won't hold always, and
there's no predicting nor evaluating
the motives of an alien
race. We never understood the
Hymenops because there's no
common ground of logic between
us. Why try to interpret their
intentions now?"
Farrell threw up his hands in
disgust. "Next you'll say this is
an ancient Terran expedition
that actually succeeded! There's
only one way to answer the
questions we've raised, and
that's to go down and see for
ourselves. Ready, Xav?"
But uncertainty nagged uneasily
at him when Farrell found
himself alone in the helihopper
with the forest flowing beneath
like a leafy river and Xavier's
scouter disappearing bulletlike
into the dusk ahead.
We never found a colony so
advanced, Farrell thought. Suppose
this is a Hymenop experiment
that really paid off? The
Bees did some weird and wonderful
things with human
guinea pigs—what if they've
created the ultimate booby trap
here, and primed it with conditioned
myrmidons in our own
form?
Suppose, he thought—and derided
himself for thinking it—one
of those suicidal old interstellar
ventures did succeed?
Xavier's voice, a mellow
drone from the helihopper's
Ringwave-powered visicom, cut
sharply into his musing. "The
ship has discovered the scouter
and is training an electronic
beam upon it. My instruments
record an electromagnetic vibration
pattern of low power but
rapidly varying frequency. The
operation seems pointless."
Stryker's voice followed, querulous
with worry: "I'd better
pull Xav back. It may be something
lethal."
"Don't," Gibson's baritone advised.
Surprisingly, there was
excitement in the engineer's
voice. "I think they're trying to
communicate with us."
Farrell was on the point of
demanding acidly to know how
one went about communicating
by means of a fluctuating electric
field when the unexpected
cessation of forest diverted his
attention. The helihopper scudded
over a cultivated area
of considerable extent, fields
stretching below in a vague random
checkerboard of lighter and
darker earth, an undefined cluster
of buildings at their center.
There was a central bonfire that
burned like a wild red eye
against the lower gloom, and in
its plunging ruddy glow he made
out an urgent scurrying of shadowy
figures.
"I'm passing over a hamlet,"
Farrell reported. "The one nearest
the city, I think. There's
something odd going on
down—"
Catastrophe struck so suddenly
that he was caught completely
unprepared. The helihopper's
flimsy carriage bucked and
crumpled. There was a blinding
flare of electric discharge, a
pungent stink of ozone and a
stunning shock that flung him
headlong into darkness.
He awoke slowly with a brutal
headache and a conviction of
nightmare heightened by the
outlandish tone of his surroundings.
He lay on a narrow bed in
a whitely antiseptic infirmary,
an oblong metal cell cluttered
with a grimly utilitarian array
of tables and lockers and chests.
The lighting was harsh and
overbright and the air hung
thick with pungent unfamiliar
chemical odors. From somewhere,
far off yet at the same
time as near as the bulkhead
above him, came the unceasing
drone of machinery.
Farrell sat up, groaning,
when full consciousness made his
position clear. He had been shot
down by God knew what sort of
devastating unorthodox weapon
and was a prisoner in the
grounded ship.
At his rising, a white-smocked
fat man with anachronistic spectacles
and close-cropped gray
hair came into the room, moving
with the professional assurance
of a medic. The man stopped
short at Farrell's stare and
spoke; his words were utterly
unintelligible, but his gesture
was unmistakable.
Farrell followed him dumbly
out of the infirmary and down
a bare corridor whose metal
floor rang coldly underfoot. An
open port near the corridor's end
relieved the blankness of wall
and let in a flood of reddish Alphardian
sunlight; Farrell slowed
to look out, wondering how
long he had lain unconscious,
and felt panic knife at him
when he saw Xavier's scouter lying,
port open and undefended,
on the square outside.
The mechanical had been as
easily taken as himself, then.
Stryker and Gibson, for all their
professional caution, would fare
no better—they could not have
overlooked the capture of Farrell
and Xavier, and when they
tried as a matter of course to
rescue them the Marco would be
struck down in turn by the same
weapon.
The fat medic turned and
said something urgent in his
unintelligible tongue. Farrell,
dazed by the enormity of what
had happened, followed without
protest into an intersecting way
that led through a bewildering
succession of storage rooms and
hydroponics gardens, through a
small gymnasium fitted with
physical training equipment in
graduated sizes and finally into
a soundproofed place that could
have been nothing but a nursery.
The implication behind its
presence stopped Farrell short.
"A creche ," he said, stunned.
He had a wild vision of endless
generations of children growing
up in this dim and stuffy room,
to be taught from their first
toddling steps the functions they
must fulfill before the venture
of which they were a part could
be consummated.
One of those old ventures had succeeded, he thought, and was
awed by the daring of that thousand-year
odyssey. The realization
left him more alarmed than
before—for what technical marvels
might not an isolated group
of such dogged specialists have
developed during a millennium
of application?
Such a weapon as had brought
down the helihopper and scouter
was patently beyond reach of his
own latter-day technology. Perhaps,
he thought, its possession
explained the presence of these
people here in the first stronghold
of the Hymenops; perhaps
they had even fought and defeated
the Bees on their own invaded
ground.
He followed his white-smocked
guide through a power room
where great crude generators
whirred ponderously, pouring
out gross electric current into
arm-thick cables. They were
nearing the bow of the ship
when they passed by another
open port and Farrell, glancing
out over the lowered rampway,
saw that his fears for Stryker
and Gibson had been well
grounded.
The Marco Four , ports open,
lay grounded outside.
Farrell could not have said,
later, whether his next move
was planned or reflexive. The
whole desperate issue seemed to
hang suspended for a breathless
moment upon a hair-fine edge of
decision, and in that instant he
made his bid.
Without pausing in his stride
he sprang out and through the
port and down the steep plane
of the ramp. The rough stone
pavement of the square drummed
underfoot; sore muscles
tore at him, and weakness was
like a weight about his neck. He
expected momentarily to be
blasted out of existence.
He reached the Marco Four with the startled shouts of his
guide ringing unintelligibly in
his ears. The port yawned; he
plunged inside and stabbed at
controls without waiting to seat
himself. The ports swung shut.
The ship darted up under his
manipulation and arrowed into
space with an acceleration that
sprung his knees and made his
vision swim blackly.
He was so weak with strain
and with the success of his coup
that he all but fainted when
Stryker, his scanty hair tousled
and his fat face comical with bewilderment,
stumbled out of his
sleeping cubicle and bellowed at
him.
"What the hell are you doing,
Arthur? Take us down!"
Farrell gaped at him, speechless.
Stryker lumbered past him
and took the controls, spiraling
the Marco Four down. Men
swarmed outside the ports when
the Reclamations craft settled
gently to the square again. Gibson
and Xavier reached the ship
first; Gibson came inside quickly,
leaving the mechanical outside
making patient explanations
to an excited group of Alphardians.
Gibson put a reassuring hand
on Farrell's arm. "It's all right,
Arthur. There's no trouble."
Farrell said dumbly, "I don't
understand. They didn't shoot
you and Xav down too?"
It was Gibson's turn to stare.
"No one shot you down! These
people are primitive enough to
use metallic power lines to
carry electricity to their hamlets,
an anachronism you forgot
last night. You piloted the helihopper
into one of those lines,
and the crash put you out for
the rest of the night and most
of today. These Alphardians are
friendly, so desperately happy to
be found again that it's really
pathetic."
" Friendly? That torpedo—"
"It wasn't a torpedo at all,"
Stryker put in. Understanding
of the error under which Farrell
had labored erased his
earlier irritation, and he chuckled
commiseratingly. "They had
one small boat left for emergency
missions, and sent it up to
contact us in the fear that we
might overlook their settlement
and move on. The boat was
atomic powered, and our shield
screens set off its engines."
Farrell dropped into a chair at
the chart table, limp with reaction.
He was suddenly exhausted,
and his head ached dully.
"We cracked the communications
problem early last night,"
Gibson said. "These people use
an ancient system of electromagnetic
wave propagation called
frequency modulation, and once
Lee and I rigged up a suitable
transceiver the rest was simple.
Both Xav and I recognized the
old language; the natives reported
your accident, and we came
down at once."
"They really came from Terra?
They lived through a thousand
years of flight?"
"The ship left Terra for
Sirius in 2171," Gibson said.
"But not with these people
aboard, or their ancestors. That
expedition perished after less
than a light-year when its
hydroponics system failed. The
Hymenops found the ship derelict
when they invaded us, and
brought it to Alphard Six in
what was probably their first experiment
with human subjects.
The ship's log shows clearly
what happened to the original
complement. The rest is deducible
from the situation here."
Farrell put his hands to his
temples and groaned. "The crash
must have scrambled my wits.
Gib, where did they come from?"
"From one of the first peripheral
colonies conquered by the
Bees," Gibson said patiently.
"The Hymenops were long-range
planners, remember, and masters
of hypnotic conditioning. They
stocked the ship with a captive
crew of Terrans conditioned to
believe themselves descendants
of the original crew, and
grounded it here in disabled
condition. They left for Alphard
Five then, to watch developments.
"Succeeding generations of
colonists grew up accepting the
fact that their ship had missed
Sirius and made planetfall here—they
still don't know where
they really are—by luck. They
never knew about the Hymenops,
and they've struggled along
with an inadequate technology in
the hope that a later expedition
would find them. They found the
truth hard to take, but they're
eager to enjoy the fruits of Terran
assimilation."
Stryker, grinning, brought
Farrell a frosted drink that tinkled
invitingly. "An unusually
fortunate ending to a Hymenop
experiment," he said. "These
people progressed normally because
they've been let alone. Reorienting
them will be a simple
matter; they'll be properly spoiled
colonists within another generation."
Farrell sipped his drink appreciatively.
"But I don't see why the Bees
should go to such trouble to deceive
these people. Why did they
sit back and let them grow as
they pleased, Gib? It doesn't
make sense!"
"But it does, for once," Gibson
said. "The Bees set up this
colony as a control unit to study
the species they were invading,
and they had to give their
specimens a normal—if obsolete—background
in order to determine
their capabilities. The fact
that their experiment didn't tell
them what they wanted to know
may have had a direct bearing
on their decision to pull out."
Farrell shook his head. "It's
a reverse application, isn't it of
the old saw about Terrans being
incapable of understanding an
alien culture?"
"Of course," said Gibson, surprised.
"It's obvious enough,
surely—hard as they tried, the
Bees never understood us
either."
THE END
Question:
What is the significance of the Ringwave technology?
Answer:
|
[
"The Ringwave technology allowed humans to explore the neighboring systems of planets, find new habitable territories, and colonize them. It also partially leads to the invasion of the Bees and allows humans to fight with them. The knowledge about the history of the Ringwave propulsion-communication principle, especially the fact that it was discovered in 2100, also helps the crew realize that the spaceship on planet Alphard Six is atomic-powered and thus prehistoric. It’s eleven hundred years old, also Terran, and was brought here from somewhere else. \n",
"The Ringwave technology is what both the Bees and humans put their faith in. Ringwave energy is said to be very reliable, capable of long-range travel. Compared to any primitive technology before, the Ringwave and its Zero Interval Transfer principle was the only way for any instantaneous communication. It has been around since 2100, completely replacing rocket propulsion because the principles were so much more advanced. Even on the Marco Four, there is a Ringwave board and Ringwave generators used for travel through space. It is significant both for the humans and the Bees because both species rely on it for exploration. When the Bees colonized and conquered the humans, they relied on this technology. During the reclamation crew’s travels, they also used this technology to go to the different planets. ",
"The Ringwave technology is significant because it is what propelled Terrans forward in their technological pursuits and is what helps advance their generation. It is what allows them to pursue long-range travel and interstellar flight as the crew go about their reclamation journey. Additionally, this is the point of similarity between the Terrans and the Bees as they both rely on Ringwave energy fields over missiles as the choice weapon. \n\nIt is also significant because it highlights the difference between the Terrans and the Bees described and the Alphardians later discovered in the story. The Terrans and the Bees have access to such advanced technology that not only empowers their knowledge but their way of living, transportation, etc. In contrast, the Alphardians remain in the past with their comparatively archaic technologies and methods.",
"Ringwave technology is an energy field used for the energy source of Macro Four, the Terran Reclamation spaceship. Both humans and the alien species, Hymenops or the Bees, possess the Ringwave technology. Before the invention of Ringwave’s propulsion-communication principle in 2100, humans used atomic fission and rocket propulsion. However, only the Zero Interval Transfer principle and the instantaneous communication of Ringwave technology can make long-range interstellar travel possible. Since it was invented, the atomic fission stage in technology has long been abandoned for its destructive power and incapability to sustain long-range space travel. Therefore, when the spaceship is attacked by a seemingly guided missile, which can only be equipped with atomic technology, the crew members deny all the hypotheses of the possible situation of the unobserved planet based on the technological development and the necessary time taken. Ringwave technology is significant in that the crew members theorize or assume the situation on the unobserved planet based on its existence and technological development."
] |
24949
|
"Any problem posed by one group of
human beings can be resolved by any
other group." That's what the Handbook
said. But did that include primitive
humans? Or the Bees? Or a ...
CONTROL GROUP
By ROGER DEE
The
cool green disk of Alphard
Six on the screen was
infinitely welcome after the arid
desolation and stinking swamplands
of the inner planets, an
airy jewel of a world that might
have been designed specifically
for the hard-earned month of
rest ahead. Navigator Farrell,
youngest and certainly most impulsive
of the three-man Terran
Reclamations crew, would have
set the Marco Four down at
once but for the greater caution
of Stryker, nominally captain of
the group, and of Gibson, engineer,
and linguist. Xavier, the
ship's little mechanical, had—as
was usual and proper—no voice
in the matter.
"Reconnaissance spiral first,
Arthur," Stryker said firmly. He
chuckled at Farrell's instant
scowl, his little eyes twinkling
and his naked paunch quaking
over the belt of his shipboard
shorts. "Chapter One, Subsection
Five, Paragraph Twenty-seven: No planetfall on an unreclaimed
world shall be deemed
safe without proper— "
Farrell, as Stryker had expected,
interrupted with characteristic
impatience. "Do you sleep with that damned Reclamations
Handbook, Lee? Alphard Six
isn't an unreclaimed world—it
was never colonized before the
Hymenop invasion back in 3025,
so why should it be inhabited
now?"
Gibson, who for four hours
had not looked up from his interminable
chess game with
Xavier, paused with a beleaguered
knight in one blunt brown
hand.
"No point in taking chances,"
Gibson said in his neutral baritone.
He shrugged thick bare
shoulders, his humorless black-browed
face unmoved, when
Farrell included him in his
scowl. "We're two hundred twenty-six
light-years from Sol, at
the old limits of Terran expansion,
and there's no knowing
what we may turn up here. Alphard's
was one of the first systems
the Bees took over. It must
have been one of the last to be
abandoned when they pulled back
to 70 Ophiuchi."
"And I think you live for the
day," Farrell said acidly, "when
we'll stumble across a functioning
dome of live, buzzing Hymenops.
Damn it, Gib, the Bees
pulled out a hundred years ago,
before you and I were born—neither
of us ever saw a Hymenop,
and never will!"
"But I saw them," Stryker
said. "I fought them for the better
part of the century they were
here, and I learned there's no
predicting nor understanding
them. We never knew why they
came nor why they gave up and
left. How can we know whether
they'd leave a rear-guard or
booby trap here?"
He put a paternal hand on
Farrell's shoulder, understanding
the younger man's eagerness
and knowing that their close-knit
team would have been the
more poorly balanced without it.
"Gib's right," he said. He
nearly added as usual . "We're on
rest leave at the moment, yes,
but our mission is still to find
Terran colonies enslaved and
abandoned by the Bees, not to
risk our necks and a valuable
Reorientations ship by landing
blind on an unobserved planet.
We're too close already. Cut in
your shields and find a reconnaissance
spiral, will you?"
Grumbling, Farrell punched
coordinates on the Ringwave
board that lifted the Marco Four out of her descent and restored
the bluish enveloping haze of
her repellors.
Stryker's caution was justified
on the instant. The speeding
streamlined shape that had flashed
up unobserved from below
swerved sharply and exploded in
a cataclysmic blaze of atomic
fire that rocked the ship wildly
and flung the three men to the
floor in a jangling roar of
alarms.
"So the Handbook tacticians
knew what they were about,"
Stryker said minutes later. Deliberately
he adopted the smug
tone best calculated to sting Farrell
out of his first self-reproach,
and grinned when the navigator
bristled defensively. "Some of
their enjoinders seem a little
stuffy and obvious at times, but
they're eminently sensible."
When Farrell refused to be
baited Stryker turned to Gibson,
who was busily assessing the
damage done to the ship's more
fragile equipment, and to Xavier,
who searched the planet's
surface with the ship's magnoscanner.
The Marco Four , Ringwave
generators humming gently,
hung at the moment just
inside the orbit of Alphard Six's
single dun-colored moon.
Gibson put down a test meter
with an air of finality.
"Nothing damaged but the
Zero Interval Transfer computer.
I can realign that in a couple
of hours, but it'll have to be
done before we hit Transfer
again."
Stryker looked dubious.
"What if the issue is forced before
the ZIT unit is repaired?
Suppose they come up after us?"
"I doubt that they can. Any
installation crudely enough
equipped to trust in guided missiles
is hardly likely to have developed
efficient space craft."
Stryker was not reassured.
"That torpedo of theirs was
deadly enough," he said. "And
its nature reflects the nature of
the people who made it. Any race
vicious enough to use atomic
charges is too dangerous to
trifle with." Worry made comical
creases in his fat, good-humored
face. "We'll have to find
out who they are and why
they're here, you know."
"They can't be Hymenops,"
Gibson said promptly. "First,
because the Bees pinned their
faith on Ringwave energy fields,
as we did, rather than on missiles.
Second, because there's no
dome on Six."
"There were three empty
domes on Five, which is a desert
planet," Farrell pointed out.
"Why didn't they settle Six? It's
a more habitable world."
Gibson shrugged. "I know the
Bees always erected domes on
every planet they colonized, Arthur,
but precedent is a fallible
tool. And it's even more firmly
established that there's no possibility
of our rationalizing the
motivations of a culture as alien
as the Hymenops'—we've been
over that argument a hundred
times on other reclaimed
worlds."
"But this was never an unreclaimed
world," Farrell said
with the faint malice of one too
recently caught in the wrong.
"Alphard Six was surveyed and
seeded with Terran bacteria
around the year 3000, but the
Bees invaded before we could
colonize. And that means we'll
have to rule out any resurgent
colonial group down there, because
Six never had a colony in
the beginning."
"The Bees have been gone for
over a hundred years," Stryker
said. "Colonists might have migrated
from another Terran-occupied
planet."
Gibson disagreed.
"We've touched at every inhabited
world in this sector, Lee,
and not one surviving colony has
developed space travel on its
own. The Hymenops had a hundred
years to condition their human
slaves to ignorance of
everything beyond their immediate
environment—the motives
behind that conditioning usually
escape us, but that's beside the
point—and they did a thorough
job of it. The colonists have had
no more than a century of freedom
since the Bees pulled out,
and four generations simply
isn't enough time for any subjugated
culture to climb from
slavery to interstellar flight."
Stryker made a padding turn
about the control room, tugging
unhappily at the scanty fringe
of hair the years had left him.
"If they're neither Hymenops
nor resurgent colonists," he said,
"then there's only one choice remaining—they're
aliens from a
system we haven't reached yet,
beyond the old sphere of Terran
exploration. We always assumed
that we'd find other races out
here someday, and that they'd
be as different from us in form
and motivation as the Hymenops.
Why not now?"
Gibson said seriously, "Not
probable, Lee. The same objection
that rules out the Bees applies
to any trans-Alphardian
culture—they'd have to be beyond
the atomic fission stage,
else they'd never have attempted
interstellar flight. The Ringwave
with its Zero Interval Transfer
principle and instantaneous communications
applications is the
only answer to long-range travel,
and if they'd had that they
wouldn't have bothered with
atomics."
Stryker turned on him almost
angrily. "If they're not Hymenops
or humans or aliens, then
what in God's name are they?"
"Aye, there's the rub," Farrell
said, quoting a passage
whose aptness had somehow seen
it through a dozen reorganizations
of insular tongue and a
final translation to universal
Terran. "If they're none of those
three, we've only one conclusion
left. There's no one down there
at all—we're victims of the first
joint hallucination in psychiatric
history."
Stryker threw up his hands in
surrender. "We can't identify
them by theorizing, and that
brings us down to the business
of first-hand investigation.
Who's going to bell the cat this
time?"
"I'd like to go," Gibson said
at once. "The ZIT computer can
wait."
Stryker vetoed his offer as
promptly. "No, the ZIT comes
first. We may have to run for it,
and we can't set up a Transfer
jump without the computer. It's
got to be me or Arthur."
Farrell felt the familiar chill
of uneasiness that inevitably
preceded this moment of decision.
He was not lacking in courage,
else the circumstances under
which he had worked for the
past ten years—the sometimes
perilous, sometimes downright
charnel conditions left by the
fleeing Hymenop conquerors—would
have broken him long
ago. But that same hard experience
had honed rather than
blunted the edge of his imagination,
and the prospect of a close-quarters
stalking of an unknown
and patently hostile force was
anything but attractive.
"You two did the field work
on the last location," he said.
"It's high time I took my turn—and
God knows I'd go mad if
I had to stay inship and listen
to Lee memorizing his Handbook
subsections or to Gib practicing
dead languages with Xavier."
Stryker laughed for the first
time since the explosion that
had so nearly wrecked the Marco
Four .
"Good enough. Though it
wouldn't be more diverting to
listen for hours to you improvising
enharmonic variations on
the Lament for Old Terra with
your accordion."
Gibson, characteristically, had
a refinement to offer.
"They'll be alerted down there
for a reconnaissance sally," he
said. "Why not let Xavier take
the scouter down for overt diversion,
and drop Arthur off in
the helihopper for a low-level
check?"
Stryker looked at Farrell. "All
right, Arthur?"
"Good enough," Farrell said.
And to Xavier, who had not
moved from his post at the magnoscanner:
"How does it look,
Xav? Have you pinned down
their base yet?"
The mechanical answered him
in a voice as smooth and clear—and
as inflectionless—as a 'cello
note. "The planet seems uninhabited
except for a large island
some three hundred miles in
diameter. There are twenty-seven
small agrarian hamlets surrounded
by cultivated fields.
There is one city of perhaps a
thousand buildings with a central
square. In the square rests
a grounded spaceship of approximately
ten times the bulk
of the Marco Four ."
They crowded about the vision
screen, jostling Xavier's jointed
gray shape in their interest. The
central city lay in minutest detail
before them, the battered
hulk of the grounded ship glinting
rustily in the late afternoon
sunlight. Streets radiated away
from the square in orderly succession,
the whole so clearly
depicted that they could see the
throngs of people surging up
and down, tiny foreshortened
faces turned toward the sky.
"At least they're human,"
Farrell said. Relief replaced in
some measure his earlier uneasiness.
"Which means that they're
Terran, and can be dealt with
according to Reclamations routine.
Is that hulk spaceworthy,
Xav?"
Xavier's mellow drone assumed
the convention vibrato that
indicated stark puzzlement. "Its
breached hull makes the ship incapable
of flight. Apparently it
is used only to supply power to
the outlying hamlets."
The mechanical put a flexible
gray finger upon an indicator
graph derived from a composite
section of detector meters. "The
power transmitted seems to be
gross electric current conveyed
by metallic cables. It is generated
through a crudely governed
process of continuous atomic
fission."
Farrell, himself appalled by
the information, still found himself
able to chuckle at Stryker's
bellow of consternation.
" Continuous fission? Good
God, only madmen would deliberately
run a risk like that!"
Farrell prodded him with
cheerful malice. "Why say mad men ? Maybe they're humanoid
aliens who thrive on hard radiation
and look on the danger of
being blown to hell in the middle
of the night as a satisfactory
risk."
"They're not alien," Gibson
said positively. "Their architecture
is Terran, and so is their
ship. The ship is incredibly
primitive, though; those batteries
of tubes at either end—"
"Are thrust reaction jets,"
Stryker finished in an awed
voice. "Primitive isn't the word,
Gib—the thing is prehistoric!
Rocket propulsion hasn't been
used in spacecraft since—how
long, Xav?"
Xavier supplied the information
with mechanical infallibility.
"Since the year 2100 when
the Ringwave propulsion-communication
principle was discovered.
That principle has served
men since."
Farrell stared in blank disbelief
at the anomalous craft on
the screen. Primitive, as Stryker
had said, was not the word
for it: clumsily ovoid, studded
with torpedo domes and turrets
and bristling at either end with
propulsion tubes, it lay at the
center of its square like a rusted
relic of a past largely destroyed
and all but forgotten. What a
magnificent disregard its builders
must have had, he thought,
for their lives and the genetic
purity of their posterity! The
sullen atomic fires banked in
that oxidizing hulk—
Stryker said plaintively, "If
you're right, Gib, then we're
more in the dark than ever. How
could a Terran-built ship eleven
hundred years old get here ?"
Gibson, absorbed in his chess-player's
contemplation of alternatives,
seemed hardly to hear
him.
"Logic or not-logic," Gibson
said. "If it's a Terran artifact,
we can discover the reason for
its presence. If not—"
" Any problem posed by one
group of human beings ," Stryker
quoted his Handbook, " can be
resolved by any other group, regardless
of ideology or conditioning,
because the basic
perceptive abilities of both must
be the same through identical
heredity ."
"If it's an imitation, and this
is another Hymenop experiment
in condition ecology, then we're
stumped to begin with," Gibson
finished. "Because we're not
equipped to evaluate the psychology
of alien motivation. We've
got to determine first which case
applies here."
He waited for Farrell's expected
irony, and when the
navigator forestalled him by remaining
grimly quiet, continued.
"The obvious premise is that
a Terran ship must have been
built by Terrans. Question: Was
it flown here, or built here?"
"It couldn't have been built
here," Stryker said. "Alphard
Six was surveyed just before the
Bees took over in 3025, and there
was nothing of the sort here
then. It couldn't have been built
during the two and a quarter
centuries since; it's obviously
much older than that. It was
flown here."
"We progress," Farrell said
dryly. "Now if you'll tell us how ,
we're ready to move."
"I think the ship was built on
Terra during the Twenty-second
Century," Gibson said calmly.
"The atomic wars during that
period destroyed practically all
historical records along with the
technology of the time, but I've
read well-authenticated reports
of atomic-driven ships leaving
Terra before then for the nearer
stars. The human race climbed
out of its pit again during the
Twenty-third Century and developed
the technology that gave
us the Ringwave. Certainly no
atomic-powered ships were built
after the wars—our records are
complete from that time."
Farrell shook his head at the
inference. "I've read any number
of fanciful romances on the
theme, Gib, but it won't stand
up in practice. No shipboard society
could last through a thousand-year
space voyage. It's a
physical and psychological impossibility.
There's got to be
some other explanation."
Gibson shrugged. "We can
only eliminate the least likely
alternatives and accept the simplest
one remaining."
"Then we can eliminate this
one now," Farrell said flatly. "It
entails a thousand-year voyage,
which is an impossibility for any
gross reaction drive; the application
of suspended animation
or longevity or a successive-generation
program, and a final
penetration of Hymenop-occupied
space to set up a colony under
the very antennae of the
Bees. Longevity wasn't developed
until around the year 3000—Lee
here was one of the first to
profit by it, if you remember—and
suspended animation is still
to come. So there's one theory
you can forget."
"Arthur's right," Stryker said
reluctantly. "An atomic-powered
ship couldn't have made such a
trip, Gib. And such a lineal-descendant
project couldn't have
lasted through forty generations,
speculative fiction to the
contrary—the later generations
would have been too far removed
in ideology and intent from
their ancestors. They'd have
adapted to shipboard life as the
norm. They'd have atrophied
physically, perhaps even have
mutated—"
"And they'd never have
fought past the Bees during the
Hymenop invasion and occupation,"
Farrell finished triumphantly.
"The Bees had better
detection equipment than we
had. They'd have picked this
ship up long before it reached
Alphard Six."
"But the ship wasn't here in
3000," Gibson said, "and it is
now. Therefore it must have arrived
at some time during the
two hundred years of Hymenop
occupation and evacuation."
Farrell, tangled in contradictions,
swore bitterly. "But
why should the Bees let them
through? The three domes on
Five are over two hundred years
old, which means that the Bees
were here before the ship came.
Why didn't they blast it or enslave
its crew?"
"We haven't touched on all the
possibilities," Gibson reminded
him. "We haven't even established
yet that these people were
never under Hymenop control.
Precedent won't hold always, and
there's no predicting nor evaluating
the motives of an alien
race. We never understood the
Hymenops because there's no
common ground of logic between
us. Why try to interpret their
intentions now?"
Farrell threw up his hands in
disgust. "Next you'll say this is
an ancient Terran expedition
that actually succeeded! There's
only one way to answer the
questions we've raised, and
that's to go down and see for
ourselves. Ready, Xav?"
But uncertainty nagged uneasily
at him when Farrell found
himself alone in the helihopper
with the forest flowing beneath
like a leafy river and Xavier's
scouter disappearing bulletlike
into the dusk ahead.
We never found a colony so
advanced, Farrell thought. Suppose
this is a Hymenop experiment
that really paid off? The
Bees did some weird and wonderful
things with human
guinea pigs—what if they've
created the ultimate booby trap
here, and primed it with conditioned
myrmidons in our own
form?
Suppose, he thought—and derided
himself for thinking it—one
of those suicidal old interstellar
ventures did succeed?
Xavier's voice, a mellow
drone from the helihopper's
Ringwave-powered visicom, cut
sharply into his musing. "The
ship has discovered the scouter
and is training an electronic
beam upon it. My instruments
record an electromagnetic vibration
pattern of low power but
rapidly varying frequency. The
operation seems pointless."
Stryker's voice followed, querulous
with worry: "I'd better
pull Xav back. It may be something
lethal."
"Don't," Gibson's baritone advised.
Surprisingly, there was
excitement in the engineer's
voice. "I think they're trying to
communicate with us."
Farrell was on the point of
demanding acidly to know how
one went about communicating
by means of a fluctuating electric
field when the unexpected
cessation of forest diverted his
attention. The helihopper scudded
over a cultivated area
of considerable extent, fields
stretching below in a vague random
checkerboard of lighter and
darker earth, an undefined cluster
of buildings at their center.
There was a central bonfire that
burned like a wild red eye
against the lower gloom, and in
its plunging ruddy glow he made
out an urgent scurrying of shadowy
figures.
"I'm passing over a hamlet,"
Farrell reported. "The one nearest
the city, I think. There's
something odd going on
down—"
Catastrophe struck so suddenly
that he was caught completely
unprepared. The helihopper's
flimsy carriage bucked and
crumpled. There was a blinding
flare of electric discharge, a
pungent stink of ozone and a
stunning shock that flung him
headlong into darkness.
He awoke slowly with a brutal
headache and a conviction of
nightmare heightened by the
outlandish tone of his surroundings.
He lay on a narrow bed in
a whitely antiseptic infirmary,
an oblong metal cell cluttered
with a grimly utilitarian array
of tables and lockers and chests.
The lighting was harsh and
overbright and the air hung
thick with pungent unfamiliar
chemical odors. From somewhere,
far off yet at the same
time as near as the bulkhead
above him, came the unceasing
drone of machinery.
Farrell sat up, groaning,
when full consciousness made his
position clear. He had been shot
down by God knew what sort of
devastating unorthodox weapon
and was a prisoner in the
grounded ship.
At his rising, a white-smocked
fat man with anachronistic spectacles
and close-cropped gray
hair came into the room, moving
with the professional assurance
of a medic. The man stopped
short at Farrell's stare and
spoke; his words were utterly
unintelligible, but his gesture
was unmistakable.
Farrell followed him dumbly
out of the infirmary and down
a bare corridor whose metal
floor rang coldly underfoot. An
open port near the corridor's end
relieved the blankness of wall
and let in a flood of reddish Alphardian
sunlight; Farrell slowed
to look out, wondering how
long he had lain unconscious,
and felt panic knife at him
when he saw Xavier's scouter lying,
port open and undefended,
on the square outside.
The mechanical had been as
easily taken as himself, then.
Stryker and Gibson, for all their
professional caution, would fare
no better—they could not have
overlooked the capture of Farrell
and Xavier, and when they
tried as a matter of course to
rescue them the Marco would be
struck down in turn by the same
weapon.
The fat medic turned and
said something urgent in his
unintelligible tongue. Farrell,
dazed by the enormity of what
had happened, followed without
protest into an intersecting way
that led through a bewildering
succession of storage rooms and
hydroponics gardens, through a
small gymnasium fitted with
physical training equipment in
graduated sizes and finally into
a soundproofed place that could
have been nothing but a nursery.
The implication behind its
presence stopped Farrell short.
"A creche ," he said, stunned.
He had a wild vision of endless
generations of children growing
up in this dim and stuffy room,
to be taught from their first
toddling steps the functions they
must fulfill before the venture
of which they were a part could
be consummated.
One of those old ventures had succeeded, he thought, and was
awed by the daring of that thousand-year
odyssey. The realization
left him more alarmed than
before—for what technical marvels
might not an isolated group
of such dogged specialists have
developed during a millennium
of application?
Such a weapon as had brought
down the helihopper and scouter
was patently beyond reach of his
own latter-day technology. Perhaps,
he thought, its possession
explained the presence of these
people here in the first stronghold
of the Hymenops; perhaps
they had even fought and defeated
the Bees on their own invaded
ground.
He followed his white-smocked
guide through a power room
where great crude generators
whirred ponderously, pouring
out gross electric current into
arm-thick cables. They were
nearing the bow of the ship
when they passed by another
open port and Farrell, glancing
out over the lowered rampway,
saw that his fears for Stryker
and Gibson had been well
grounded.
The Marco Four , ports open,
lay grounded outside.
Farrell could not have said,
later, whether his next move
was planned or reflexive. The
whole desperate issue seemed to
hang suspended for a breathless
moment upon a hair-fine edge of
decision, and in that instant he
made his bid.
Without pausing in his stride
he sprang out and through the
port and down the steep plane
of the ramp. The rough stone
pavement of the square drummed
underfoot; sore muscles
tore at him, and weakness was
like a weight about his neck. He
expected momentarily to be
blasted out of existence.
He reached the Marco Four with the startled shouts of his
guide ringing unintelligibly in
his ears. The port yawned; he
plunged inside and stabbed at
controls without waiting to seat
himself. The ports swung shut.
The ship darted up under his
manipulation and arrowed into
space with an acceleration that
sprung his knees and made his
vision swim blackly.
He was so weak with strain
and with the success of his coup
that he all but fainted when
Stryker, his scanty hair tousled
and his fat face comical with bewilderment,
stumbled out of his
sleeping cubicle and bellowed at
him.
"What the hell are you doing,
Arthur? Take us down!"
Farrell gaped at him, speechless.
Stryker lumbered past him
and took the controls, spiraling
the Marco Four down. Men
swarmed outside the ports when
the Reclamations craft settled
gently to the square again. Gibson
and Xavier reached the ship
first; Gibson came inside quickly,
leaving the mechanical outside
making patient explanations
to an excited group of Alphardians.
Gibson put a reassuring hand
on Farrell's arm. "It's all right,
Arthur. There's no trouble."
Farrell said dumbly, "I don't
understand. They didn't shoot
you and Xav down too?"
It was Gibson's turn to stare.
"No one shot you down! These
people are primitive enough to
use metallic power lines to
carry electricity to their hamlets,
an anachronism you forgot
last night. You piloted the helihopper
into one of those lines,
and the crash put you out for
the rest of the night and most
of today. These Alphardians are
friendly, so desperately happy to
be found again that it's really
pathetic."
" Friendly? That torpedo—"
"It wasn't a torpedo at all,"
Stryker put in. Understanding
of the error under which Farrell
had labored erased his
earlier irritation, and he chuckled
commiseratingly. "They had
one small boat left for emergency
missions, and sent it up to
contact us in the fear that we
might overlook their settlement
and move on. The boat was
atomic powered, and our shield
screens set off its engines."
Farrell dropped into a chair at
the chart table, limp with reaction.
He was suddenly exhausted,
and his head ached dully.
"We cracked the communications
problem early last night,"
Gibson said. "These people use
an ancient system of electromagnetic
wave propagation called
frequency modulation, and once
Lee and I rigged up a suitable
transceiver the rest was simple.
Both Xav and I recognized the
old language; the natives reported
your accident, and we came
down at once."
"They really came from Terra?
They lived through a thousand
years of flight?"
"The ship left Terra for
Sirius in 2171," Gibson said.
"But not with these people
aboard, or their ancestors. That
expedition perished after less
than a light-year when its
hydroponics system failed. The
Hymenops found the ship derelict
when they invaded us, and
brought it to Alphard Six in
what was probably their first experiment
with human subjects.
The ship's log shows clearly
what happened to the original
complement. The rest is deducible
from the situation here."
Farrell put his hands to his
temples and groaned. "The crash
must have scrambled my wits.
Gib, where did they come from?"
"From one of the first peripheral
colonies conquered by the
Bees," Gibson said patiently.
"The Hymenops were long-range
planners, remember, and masters
of hypnotic conditioning. They
stocked the ship with a captive
crew of Terrans conditioned to
believe themselves descendants
of the original crew, and
grounded it here in disabled
condition. They left for Alphard
Five then, to watch developments.
"Succeeding generations of
colonists grew up accepting the
fact that their ship had missed
Sirius and made planetfall here—they
still don't know where
they really are—by luck. They
never knew about the Hymenops,
and they've struggled along
with an inadequate technology in
the hope that a later expedition
would find them. They found the
truth hard to take, but they're
eager to enjoy the fruits of Terran
assimilation."
Stryker, grinning, brought
Farrell a frosted drink that tinkled
invitingly. "An unusually
fortunate ending to a Hymenop
experiment," he said. "These
people progressed normally because
they've been let alone. Reorienting
them will be a simple
matter; they'll be properly spoiled
colonists within another generation."
Farrell sipped his drink appreciatively.
"But I don't see why the Bees
should go to such trouble to deceive
these people. Why did they
sit back and let them grow as
they pleased, Gib? It doesn't
make sense!"
"But it does, for once," Gibson
said. "The Bees set up this
colony as a control unit to study
the species they were invading,
and they had to give their
specimens a normal—if obsolete—background
in order to determine
their capabilities. The fact
that their experiment didn't tell
them what they wanted to know
may have had a direct bearing
on their decision to pull out."
Farrell shook his head. "It's
a reverse application, isn't it of
the old saw about Terrans being
incapable of understanding an
alien culture?"
"Of course," said Gibson, surprised.
"It's obvious enough,
surely—hard as they tried, the
Bees never understood us
either."
THE END
|
What is the significance of the siren?
|
After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about The Serpent River by Don Wilcox.
Relevant chunks:
THE SERPENT RIVER
By Don Wilcox
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Other Worlds May 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The Code was rigid—no fraternization with the peoples of other planets! Earth wanted no "shotgun weddings" of the worlds of space!
"Split" Campbell and I brought our ship down to a quiet landing on the summit of a mile-wide naked rock, and I turned to the telescope for a closer view of the strange thing we had come to see.
It shone, eighteen or twenty miles away, in the light of the late afternoon sun. It was a long silvery serpent-like
something
that crawled slowly over the planet's surface.
There was no way of guessing how large it was, at this distance. It might have been a rope rolled into shape out of a mountain—or a chain of mountains. It might have been a river of bluish-gray dough that had shaped itself into a great cable. Its diameter? If it had been a hollow tube, cities could have flowed through it upright without bending their skyscrapers. It was, to the eye, an endless rope of cloud oozing along the surface of the land. No, not cloud, for it had the compactness of solid substance.
We could see it at several points among the low foothills. Even from this distance we could guess that it had been moving along its course for centuries. Moving like a sluggish snake. It followed a deep-worn path between the nearer hills and the high jagged mountains on the horizon.
What was it?
"Split" Campbell and I had been sent here to learn the answers. Our sponsor was the well known "EGGWE" (the Earth-Galaxy Good Will Expeditions.) We were under the EGGWE Code. We were the first expedition to this planet, but we had come equipped with two important pieces of advance information. The Keynes-Roy roving cameras (unmanned) had brought back to the Earth choice items of fact about various parts of the universe. From these photos we knew (1) that man lived on this planet, a humanoid closely resembling the humans of the Earth; and
(2) that a vast cylindrical "rope" crawled the surface of this land, continuously, endlessly.
We had intentionally landed at what we guessed would be a safe distance from the rope. If it were a living thing, like a serpent, we preferred not to disturb it. If it gave off heat or poisonous gases or deadly vibrations, we meant to keep our distance. If, on the other hand, it proved to be some sort of vegetable—a vine of glacier proportions—or a river of some silvery, creamy substance—we would move in upon it gradually, gathering facts as we progressed. I could depend upon
"Split" to record all observable phenomena with the accuracy of split-hairs.
Split was working at the reports like a drudge at this very moment.
I looked up from the telescope, expecting him to be waiting his turn eagerly. I misguessed. He didn't even glance up from his books. Rare young Campbell! Always a man of duty, never a man of impulse!
"Here Campbell, take a look at the 'rope'."
"Before I finish the reports, sir? If I recall our Code, Section Two, Order of Duties upon Landing: A—"
"Forget the Code. Take a look at the rope while the sun's on it.... See it?"
"Yes sir."
"Can you see it's moving? See the little clouds of dust coming up from under its belly?"
"Yes sir. An excellent view, Captain Linden."
"What do you think of it, Split? Ever see a sight like that before?"
"No sir."
"Well, what about it? Any comments?"
Split answered me with an enthusiastic, "By gollies, sir!" Then, with restraint, "It's precisely what I expected from the photographs, sir. Any orders, sir?"
"Relax, Split! That's the order. Relax!"
"Thanks—thanks, Cap!" That was his effort to sound informal, though coming from him it was strained. His training had given him an exaggerated notion of the importance of dignity and discipline.
He was naturally so conscientious it was painful. And to top it all, his scientific habit of thought made him want to stop and weigh his words even when speaking of casual things such as how much sugar he required in his coffee.
Needless to say, I had kidded him unmercifully over these traits. Across the millions of miles of space that we had recently traveled
(our first voyage together) I had amused myself at his expense. I had sworn that he would find, in time, that he couldn't even trim his fingernails without calipers, or comb his hair without actually physically splitting the hairs that cropped up in the middle of the part. That was when I had nicknamed him "Split"—and the wide ears that stuck out from his stubble-cut blond hair had glowed with the pink of selfconsciousness. Plainly, he liked the kidding. But if I thought I could rescue him from the weight of dignity and duty, I was mistaken.
Now he had turned the telescope for a view far to the right. He paused.
"What do you see?" I asked.
"I cannot say definitely. The exact scientific classification of the object I am observing would call for more detailed scrutiny—"
"You're seeing some sort of object?"
"Yes sir."
"What sort of object?"
"A living creature, sir—upright, wearing clothes—"
"A
man
?"
"To all appearances, sir—"
"You bounder, give me that telescope!"
2.
If you have explored the weird life of many a planet, as I have, you can appreciate the deep sense of excitement that comes over me when, looking out at a new world for the first time, I see a man-like animal.
Walking upright!
Wearing adornments in the nature of clothing!
I gazed, and my lungs filled with the breath of wonderment. A man! Across millions of miles of space—a man, like the men of the Earth.
Six times before in my life of exploration I had gazed at new realms within the approachable parts of our universe, but never before had the living creatures borne such wonderful resemblance to the human life of our Earth.
A man!
He might have been creeping on all fours.
He might have been skulking like a lesser animal.
He might have been entirely naked.
He was none of these—and at the very first moment of viewing him I felt a kinship toward him. Oh, he was primitive in appearance—but had my ancestors not been the same? Was this not a mirror of my own race a million years or so ago? I sensed that my own stream of life had somehow crossed with his in ages gone by. How? Who can ever know? By what faded charts of the movements through the sky will man ever be able to retrace relationships of forms of life among planets?
"Get ready to go out and meet him, Campbell," I said. "He's a friend."
Split Campbell gave me a look as if to say, Sir, you don't even know what sort of animal he is, actually, much less whether he's friendly or murderous.
"There are some things I can sense on first sight, Campbell. Take my word for it, he's a friend."
"I didn't say anything, sir."
"Good. Don't. Just get ready."
"We're going to go
out
—?"
"Yes," I said. "Orders."
"And meet both of them?" Split was at the telescope.
"Both?" I took the instrument from him. Both! "Well!"
"They seem to be coming out of the ground," Split said. "I see no signs of habitation, but apparently we've landed on top of an underground city—though I hasten to add that this is only an hypothesis."
"One's a male and the other's a female," I said.
"Another hypothesis," said Split.
The late evening sunshine gave us a clear view of our two "friends". They were fully a mile away. Split was certain they had not seen our ship, and to this conclusion I was in agreement. They had apparently come up out of the barren rock hillside to view the sunset. I studied them through the telescope while Split checked over equipment for a hike.
The man's walk was unhurried. He moved thoughtfully, one might guess. His bare chest and legs showed him to be statuesque in mold, cleanly muscled, fine of bone. His skin was almost the color of the cream-colored robe which flowed from his back, whipping lightly in the breeze. He wore a brilliant red sash about his middle, and this was matched by a red headdress that came down over his shoulders as a circular mantle.
The girl stood several yards distant, watching him. This was some sort of ritual, no doubt. He was not concerned with her, but with the setting sun. Its rays were almost horizontal, knifing through a break in the distant mountain skyline. He went through some routine motions, his moving arms highlighted by the lemon-colored light of evening.
The girl approached him. Two other persons appeared from somewhere back of her.... Three.... Four.... Five....
"Where do they come from?" Split had paused in the act of checking equipment to take his turn at the telescope. If he had not done so, I might not have made a discovery. The landscape was
moving
.
The long shadows that I had not noticed through the telescope were a prominent part of the picture I saw through the ship's window when I looked out across the scene with the naked eye. The shadows were moving.
They were tree shadows. They were moving toward the clearing where the crowd gathered. And the reason for their movement was that the trees themselves were moving.
"Notice anything?" I asked Split.
"The crowd is growing. We've certainly landed on top of a city." He gazed. "They're coming from underground."
Looking through the telescope, obviously he didn't catch the view of the moving trees.
"Notice anything else unusual?" I persisted.
"Yes. The females—I'm speaking hypothetically—but they
must
be females—are all wearing puffy white fur ornaments around their elbows. I wonder why?"
"You haven't noticed the trees?"
"The females are quite attractive," said Split.
I forgot about the moving trees, then, and took over the telescope. Mobile trees were not new to me. I had seen similar vegetation on other planets—"sponge-trees"—which possessed a sort of muscular quality. If these were similar, they were no doubt feeding along the surface of the slope below the rocky plateau. The people in the clearing beyond paid no attention to them.
I studied the crowd of people. Only the leader wore the brilliant garb. The others were more scantily clothed. All were handsome of build. The lemon-tinted sunlight glanced off the muscular shoulders of the males and the soft curves of the females.
"Those furry elbow ornaments on the females," I said to Split,
"they're for protection. The caves they live in must be narrow, so they pad their elbows."
"Why don't they pad their shoulders? They don't have anything on their shoulders."
"Are you complaining?"
We became fascinated in watching, from the seclusion of our ship. If we were to walk out, or make any sounds, we might have interrupted their meeting. Here they were in their native ritual of sunset, not knowing that people from another world watched. The tall leader must be making a speech. They sat around him in little huddles. He moved his arms in calm, graceful gestures.
"They'd better break it up!" Split said suddenly. "The jungles are moving in on them."
"They're spellbound," I said. "They're used to sponge-trees. Didn't you ever see moving trees?"
Split said sharply, "Those trees are marching! They're an army under cover. Look!"
I saw, then. The whole line of advancing vegetation was camouflage for a sneak attack. And all those natives sitting around in meeting were as innocent as a flock of sitting ducks. Split Campbell's voice was edged with alarm. "Captain! Those worshippers—how can we warn them? Oh-oh! Too late. Look!"
All at once the advancing sponge-trees were tossed back over the heads of the savage band concealed within. They were warriors—fifty or more of them—with painted naked bodies. They dashed forward in a wide semicircle, swinging crude weapons, bent on slaughter.
3.
They were waving short clubs or whips with stones tied to the ends. They charged up the slope, about sixty yards, swinging their weird clubs with a threat of death.
Wild disorder suddenly struck the audience. Campbell and I believed we were about to witness a massacre.
"Captain—
Jim
! You're not going to let this happen!"
Our sympathies had gone to the first groups, the peaceable ones. I had the same impulse as Campbell—to do something—anything! Yet here we sat in our ship, more than half a mile from our thirty-five or forty
"friends" in danger.
Our friends were panicked. But they didn't take flight. They didn't duck for the holes in the rocky hilltop. Instead, they rallied and packed themselves around their tall leader. They stood, a defiant wall.
"Can we shoot a ray, Jim?"
I didn't answer. Later I would recall that Split
could
drop his dignity under excitement—his "Captain Linden" and "sir." Just now he wanted any sort of split-second order.
We saw the naked warriors run out in a wide circle. They spun and weaved, they twirled their deadly clubs, they danced grotesquely. They were closing in. Closer and closer. It was all their party.
"Jim, can we shoot?"
"Hit number sixteen, Campbell."
Split touched the number sixteen signal.
The ship's siren wailed out over the land.
You could tell when the sound struck them. The circle of savage ones suddenly fell apart. The dancing broke into the wildest contortions you ever saw. As if they'd been spanked by a wave of electricity. The siren scream must have sounded like an animal cry from an unknown world. The attackers ran for the sponge-trees. The rootless jungle came to life. It jerked and jumped spasmodically down the slope. And our siren kept right on singing.
"Ready for that hike, Campbell? Give me my equipment coat." I got into it. I looked back to the telescope. The tall man of the party had behaved with exceptional calmness. He had turned to stare in our direction from the instant the siren sounded. He could no doubt make out the lines of our silvery ship in the shadows. Slowly, deliberately, he marched over the hilltop toward us.
Most of his party now scampered back to the safety of their hiding places in the ground. But a few—the brave ones, perhaps, or the officials of his group—came with him.
"He needs a stronger guard than that," Campbell grumbled.
Sixteen was still wailing. "Set it for ten minutes and come on," I said. Together we descended from the ship.
We took into our nostrils the tangy air, breathing fiercely, at first. We slogged along over the rock surface feeling our weight to be one-and-a-third times normal. We glanced down the slope apprehensively. We didn't want any footraces. The trees, however, were still retreating. Our siren would sing on for another eight minutes. And in case of further danger, we were equipped with the standard pocket arsenal of special purpose capsule bombs.
Soon we came face to face with the tall, stately old leader in the cream-and-red cloak.
Split and I stood together, close enough to exchange comments against the siren's wail. Fine looking people, we observed. Smooth faces. Like the features of Earth men. These creatures could walk down any main street back home. With a bit of makeup they would pass.
"Notice, Captain, they have strange looking eyes." "Very smooth."
"It's because they have no eyebrows ... no eye lashes." "Very smooth—handsome—attractive."
Then the siren went off.
The leader stood before me, apparently unafraid. He seemed to be waiting for me to explain my presence. His group of twelve gathered in close.
I had met such situations with ease before. "EGGWE" explorers come equipped. I held out a gift toward the leader. It was a singing medallion attached to a chain. It was disc-shaped, patterned after a large silver coin. It made music at the touch of a button. In clear, dainty bell tones it rang out its one tune, "Trail of Stars."
As it played I held it up for inspection. I placed it around my own neck, then offered it to the leader. I thought he was smiling. He was not overwhelmed by the "magic" of this gadget. He saw it for what it was, a token of friendship. There was a keenness about him that I liked. Yes, he was smiling. He bent his head forward and allowed me to place the gift around his neck.
"Tomboldo," he said, pointing to himself.
Split and I tried to imitate his breathy accents as we repeated aloud,
"Tomboldo."
We pointed to ourselves, in turn, and spoke our own names. And then, as the names of the others were pronounced, we tried to memorize each breathy sound that was uttered. I was able to remember four or five of them. One was Gravgak.
Gravgak's piercing eyes caused me to notice him. Suspicious eyes? I did not know these people's expressions well enough to be sure.
Gravgak was a guard, tall and muscular, whose arms and legs were painted with green and black diamond designs.
By motions and words we didn't understand, we inferred that we were invited to accompany the party back home, inside the hill, where we would be safe. I nodded to Campbell. "It's our chance to be guests of Tomboldo." Nothing could have pleased us more. For our big purpose—to understand the Serpent River—would be forwarded greatly if we could learn, through the people, what its meanings were. To analyze the river's substance, estimate its rate, its weight, its temperature, and to map its course—these facts were only a part of the information we sought. The fuller story would be to learn how the inhabitants of this planet regarded it: whether they loved or shunned it, and what legends they may have woven around it. All this knowledge would be useful when future expeditions of men from the Earth followed us (through EGGWE) for an extension of peaceful trade relationships.
Tomboldo depended upon the guard Gravgak to make sure that the way was safe. Gravgak was supposed to keep an eye on the line of floating trees that had taken flight down the hillside. Danger still lurked there, we knew. And now the siren that had frightened off the attack was silent. Our ship, locked against invaders, could be forgotten. We were guests of Tomboldo.
Gravgak was our guard, but he didn't work at it. He was too anxious to hear all the talk. In the excitement of our meeting, everyone ignored the growing darkness, the lurking dangers. Gravgak confronted us with agitated jabbering:
"Wollo—yeeta—vo—vandartch—vandartch! Grr—see—o—see—o—see—o!"
"See—o—see—o—see—o," one of the others echoed.
It began to make sense. They wanted us to repeat the siren noises. The enemy had threatened their lives. There could very well have been a wholesale slaughter. But as long as we could make the "see—o—see—o" we were all safe.
Split and I exchanged glances. He touched his hand to the equipment jacket, to remind me we were armed with something more miraculous than a yowling siren.
"See—o—see—o—see—o!" Others of Tomboldo's party echoed the demand. They must have seen the sponge-trees again moving toward our path.
"
See—o—see—o!
"
Our peaceful march turned into a spasm of terror. The sponge-trees came rushing up the slope, as if borne by a sudden gust of wind. They bounced over our path, and the war party spilled out of them.
Shouting. A wild swinging of clubs. And no cat-and-mouse tricks. No deliberate circling and closing in. An outright attack. Naked bodies gleaming in the semi-darkness. Arms swinging weapons, choosing the nearest victims. The luminous rocks on the ends of the clubs flashed. Shouting, screeching, hurling their clubs. The whizzing fury filled the air.
I hurled a capsule bomb. It struck at the base of a bouncing sponge-tree, and blew the thing to bits.
The attackers ran back into a huddle, screaming. Then they came forward, rushing defiantly.
Our muscular guard, Gravgak was too bold. He had picked up one of their clubs and he ran toward their advance, and to all of Tomboldo's party it must have appeared that he was bravely rushing to his death. Yet the gesture of the club he swung so wildly could have been intended as a
warning
! It could have meant, Run back, you fools, or these strange devils will throw fire at you.
I threw fire. And so did my lieutenant. He didn't wait for orders, thank goodness. He knew it was their lives or ours. Zip, zip, zip—BLANG-BLANG-BLANG! The bursts of fire at their feet ripped the rocks. The spray caught them and knocked them back. Three or four warriors in the fore ranks were torn up in the blasts. Others were flattened—and those who were able, ran.
They ran, not waiting for the cover of sponge-trees. Not bothering to pick up their clubs.
But the operation was not a complete success. We had suffered a serious casualty. The guard Gravgak. He had rushed out too far, and the first blast of fire and rock had knocked him down. Now Tomboldo and others of the party hovered over him.
His eyes opened a little. I thought he was staring at me, drilling me with suspicion. I worked over him with medicines. The crowd around us stood back in an attitude of awe as Split and I applied ready bandages, and held a stimulant to his nostrils that made him breath back to consciousness.
Suddenly he came to life. Lying there on his back, with the club still at his fingertips, he swung up on one elbow. The swift motion caused a cry of joy from the crowd. I heard a little of it—and then blacked out. For as the muscular Gravgak moved, his fingers closed over the handle of the club. It whizzed upward with him—apparently all by accident. The stone that dangled from the end of the club crashed into my head.
I went into instant darkness. Darkness, and a long, long silence.
4.
Vauna, the beautiful daughter of Tomboldo, came into my life during the weeks that I lay unconscious.
I must have talked aloud much during those feverish hours of darkness.
"Campbell!" I would call out of a nightmare. "Campbell, we're about to land. Is everything set? Check the instruments again, Campbell."
"S-s-sh!" The low hush of Split Campbell's voice would somehow penetrate my dream.
The voices about me were soft. My dreams echoed the soft female voices of this new, strange language.
"Campbell, are you there?... Have you forgotten the Code, Campbell?"
"Quiet, Captain."
"Who is it that's swabbing my face? I can't see."
"It's Vauna. She's smiling at you, Captain. Can't you see her?"
"Is this the pretty one we saw through the telescope?"
"One of them."
"And what of the other? There were two together. I remember—"
"Omosla is here too. She's Vauna's attendant. We're all looking after you, Captain Linden. Did you know I performed an operation to relieve the pressure on your brain? You must get well, Captain." The words of Campbell came through insistently.
After a silence that may have lasted for hours or days, I said,
"Campbell, you haven't forgot the EGGWE Code?"
"Of course not, Captain."
"Section Four?"
"Section Four," he repeated in a low voice, as if to pacify me and put me to sleep. "Conduct of EGGWE agents toward native inhabitants: A, No agent shall enter into any diplomatic agreement that shall be construed as binding—"
I interrupted. "Clause D?"
He picked it up. "D, no agent shall enter into a marriage contract with any native.... H-m-m. You're not trying to warn me, are you, Captain Linden? Or are you warning
yourself
?"
At that moment my eyes opened a little. Swimming before my blurred vision was the face of Vauna. I did remember her—yes, she must have haunted my dreams, for now my eyes burned in an effort to define her features more clearly. This was indeed Vauna, who had been one of the party of twelve, and had walked beside her father in the face of the attack. Deep within my subconscious the image of her beautiful face and figure had lingered. I murmured a single word of answer to Campbell's question. "Myself."
In the hours that followed, I came to know the soft footsteps of Vauna. The caverns in which she and her father and all these Benzendella people lived were pleasantly warm and fragrant. My misty impressions of their life about me were like the first impressions of a child learning about the world into which he has been born.
Sometimes I would hear Vauna and her attendant Omosla talking together. Often when Campbell would stop in this part of the cavern to inquire about me, Omosla would drop in also. She and Campbell were learning to converse in simple words. And Vauna and I—yes. If I could only avoid blacking out.
I wanted to see her.
So often my eyes would refuse to open. A thousand nightmares. Space ships shooting through meteor swarms. Stars like eyes. Eyes like stars. The eyes of Vauna, the daughter of Tomboldo. The sensitive stroke of Vauna's fingers, brushing my forehead, pressing my hand.
I regained my health gradually.
"Are you quite awake?" Vauna would ask me in her musical Benzendella words. "You speak better today. Your friend Campbell has brought you more recordings of our language, so you can learn to speak more. My father is eager to talk with you. But you must sleep more. You are still weak."
It gave me a weird sensation to awaken in the night, trying to adjust myself to my surroundings. The Benzendellas were sleep-singers. By night they murmured mysterious little songs through their sleep. Strange harmonies whispered through the caves.
And if I stirred restlessly, the footsteps of Vauna might come to me through the darkness. In her sleeping garments she would come to me, faintly visible in the pink light that filtered through from some corridor. She would whisper melodious Benzendella words and tell me to go back to sleep, and I would drift into the darkness of my endless dreams.
The day came when I awakened to see both Vauna and her father standing before me. Stern old Tomboldo, with his chalk-smooth face and not a hint of an eyebrow or eyelash, rapped his hand against my ribs, shook the fiber bed lightly, and smiled. From a pocket concealed in his flowing cape, he drew forth the musical watch, touched the button, and played, "Trail of Stars."
"I have learned to talk," I said.
"You have had a long sleep."
"I am well again. See, I can almost walk." But as I started to rise, the wave of blackness warned me, and I restrained my ambition. "I will walk soon."
"We will have much to talk about. Your friend has pointed to the stars and told me a strange story of your coming. We have walked around the ship. He has told me how it rides through the sky. I can hardly make myself believe." Tomboldo's eyes cast upward under the strong ridge of forehead where the eyebrows should have been. He was evidently trying to visualize the flight of a space ship. "We will have much to tell each other."
"I hope so," I said. "Campbell and I came to learn about the
serpent river
." I resorted to my own language for the last two words, not knowing the Benzendella equivalent.
I
made an eel-like motion with my arm. But they didn't understand. And before I could explain, the footsteps of other Benzendellas approached, and presently I looked around to see that quite an audience had gathered. The most prominent figure of the new group was the big muscular guard of the black and green diamond markings—Gravgak.
"You get well?" Gravgak said to me. His eyes drilled me closely.
"I get well," I said.
"The blow on the head," he said, "was not meant."
I looked at him. Everyone was looking at him, and I knew this was meant to be an occasion of apology. But the light of fire in Vauna's eyes told me that she did not believe. He saw her look, and his own eyes flashed darts of defiance. With an abrupt word to me, he wheeled and started off. "Get well!"
The crowd of men and women made way for him. But in the arched doorway he turned. "Vauna. I am ready to speak to you alone."
She started. I reached and barely touched her hand. She stopped. "I will talk with you later, Gravgak."
"Now!" he shouted. "Alone."
He stalked off. A moment later Vauna, after exchanging a word with her father, excused herself from the crowd and followed Gravgak.
From the way those in the room looked, I knew this must be a dramatic moment. It was as if she had acknowledged Gravgak as her master—or her lover. He had called for her. She had followed.
But her old father was still the master. He stepped toward the door.
"Vauna!... Gravgak!... Come back."
(I will always wonder what might have happened if he hadn't called them! Was my distrust of Gravgak justified? Had I become merely a jealous lover—or was I right in my hunch that the tall muscular guard was a potential traitor?)
Vauna reappeared at once. I believe she was glad that she had been called back.
Gravgak came sullenly. At the edge of the crowd in the arched doorway he stood scowling.
"While we are together," old Tomboldo said quietly, looking around at the assemblage, "I must tell you the decision of the council. Soon we will move back to the other part of the world."
There were low murmurs of approval through the chamber.
"We will wait a few days," Tomboldo went on, "until our new friend—" he pointed to me—"is well enough to travel. We would never leave him here to the mercy of the savage ones. He and his helper came through the sky in time to save us from being destroyed. We must never forget this kindness. When we ascend the
Kao-Wagwattl
, the ever moving
rope of life
, these friends shall come with us. On the back of the Kao-Wagwattl
they shall ride with us across the land
."
Question:
What is the significance of the siren?
Answer:
|
[
"When Linden and Campbell arrive at the planet, they are primarily interested in the snaking silver rope that travels around the continent like a river, but they notice some people seemingly coming from underground. As these people were performing a ritual, the humans noticed an impending attack from a different group, but didn't want to use weapons so they started a siren on their ship to distract the attackers. This siren did scare these attackers off for a while, and when Linden and Campbell started trying to communicate with the Benzendella people the only thing the Benzendellas could say was an imitation of the siren noise. It was this siren that saved the people from the initial attack, and thus made these people trust the humans, but was also the beginning of their attempts at communication. In an indirect way, using this siren is how the humans ended up with a chance to ask the Benzendella people about the Serpent River that they came to learn more about. ",
"Captain Linden and Split Campbell use the sirens to scare away the attackers in the sponge trees to protect the Benzendella people. Because the people on the planet don’t have advanced technology, they don’t know what causes the sound of the siren, and it startles them so much that they pull back their attack. Linden and Campbell likely avert a massacre because the attackers in the trees are armed with clubs and whips with stones tied to the ends; taking their quarry by surprise with these weapons would put them at a distinct advantage. The Benzendella were engaged in some type of ritual and were unarmed when the attackers surprised them. Once the Benzendella realize the two men were responsible for the siren that saved them from the attack, they are willing to meet them close up. When the Benzendella speak to them, they make the siren sounds and seem to want the men to cause them to sound again. When the warriors launch another attack, Linden and Campbell throw a capsule bomb at them, making them drop back again, but once again, they push forward. Linden and Campbell throw fire at the warriors, making the rock break and fly up and hit them. Some of the warriors are killed or disabled, and the rest flee. So the siren is the start of a friendship between the two men on the expedition and the native people of the planet.\n",
"When the tree-disguised attackers descend upon the Benzendellas, Jim orders Split to trigger the \"number sixteen siren\", which emits a loud wail and causes the attackers to retreat. Jim and Split set the siren to ten minutes as they begin their half-mile hike to meet Tomboldo and his party. This offers them some security as they walk in addition to their stash of capsule bombs. Fearing another attack, Tomboldo and his crew of guards and officials mimic the siren sound as they make their way back to their city in order to ward off their enemies. While the legitimate siren sound keeps the attackers away, the copycat sound made by Tomboldo's people does not fool them, and they attack once more. This gives Jim the opportunity to deploy his capsule bombs, and Gravgak's actions in response lead him to further question the loyalty of Tomboldo's guard. Jim also winds up in a state of unconsciousness as a result of the attack, and this is how he meets and falls in love with Tomboldo's daughter Vauna.",
"The siren saves the lives of the Benzendella people. As the sponge-tree warriors attacked them, Captain Linden ordered Split to hit #16, the siren. The sound pierced the sunset and caused the warriors to retreat. After saving the Benzendella, Tomboldo is indebted to Linden and Split. He invites them to their home underground and eventually on a trip across the Serpent River. \nThe siren is the beginning of the relationship between the humans and the Benzendella. Their gratitude allows Linden and Split to become their friends and acquaintances. The siren also showed how vulnerable the Benzendella are to attack when on the surface of the planet. Later, the Benzedella attempt to mimic the siren in an attempt to keep the warriors at bay. \n"
] |
50923
|
THE SERPENT RIVER
By Don Wilcox
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Other Worlds May 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The Code was rigid—no fraternization with the peoples of other planets! Earth wanted no "shotgun weddings" of the worlds of space!
"Split" Campbell and I brought our ship down to a quiet landing on the summit of a mile-wide naked rock, and I turned to the telescope for a closer view of the strange thing we had come to see.
It shone, eighteen or twenty miles away, in the light of the late afternoon sun. It was a long silvery serpent-like
something
that crawled slowly over the planet's surface.
There was no way of guessing how large it was, at this distance. It might have been a rope rolled into shape out of a mountain—or a chain of mountains. It might have been a river of bluish-gray dough that had shaped itself into a great cable. Its diameter? If it had been a hollow tube, cities could have flowed through it upright without bending their skyscrapers. It was, to the eye, an endless rope of cloud oozing along the surface of the land. No, not cloud, for it had the compactness of solid substance.
We could see it at several points among the low foothills. Even from this distance we could guess that it had been moving along its course for centuries. Moving like a sluggish snake. It followed a deep-worn path between the nearer hills and the high jagged mountains on the horizon.
What was it?
"Split" Campbell and I had been sent here to learn the answers. Our sponsor was the well known "EGGWE" (the Earth-Galaxy Good Will Expeditions.) We were under the EGGWE Code. We were the first expedition to this planet, but we had come equipped with two important pieces of advance information. The Keynes-Roy roving cameras (unmanned) had brought back to the Earth choice items of fact about various parts of the universe. From these photos we knew (1) that man lived on this planet, a humanoid closely resembling the humans of the Earth; and
(2) that a vast cylindrical "rope" crawled the surface of this land, continuously, endlessly.
We had intentionally landed at what we guessed would be a safe distance from the rope. If it were a living thing, like a serpent, we preferred not to disturb it. If it gave off heat or poisonous gases or deadly vibrations, we meant to keep our distance. If, on the other hand, it proved to be some sort of vegetable—a vine of glacier proportions—or a river of some silvery, creamy substance—we would move in upon it gradually, gathering facts as we progressed. I could depend upon
"Split" to record all observable phenomena with the accuracy of split-hairs.
Split was working at the reports like a drudge at this very moment.
I looked up from the telescope, expecting him to be waiting his turn eagerly. I misguessed. He didn't even glance up from his books. Rare young Campbell! Always a man of duty, never a man of impulse!
"Here Campbell, take a look at the 'rope'."
"Before I finish the reports, sir? If I recall our Code, Section Two, Order of Duties upon Landing: A—"
"Forget the Code. Take a look at the rope while the sun's on it.... See it?"
"Yes sir."
"Can you see it's moving? See the little clouds of dust coming up from under its belly?"
"Yes sir. An excellent view, Captain Linden."
"What do you think of it, Split? Ever see a sight like that before?"
"No sir."
"Well, what about it? Any comments?"
Split answered me with an enthusiastic, "By gollies, sir!" Then, with restraint, "It's precisely what I expected from the photographs, sir. Any orders, sir?"
"Relax, Split! That's the order. Relax!"
"Thanks—thanks, Cap!" That was his effort to sound informal, though coming from him it was strained. His training had given him an exaggerated notion of the importance of dignity and discipline.
He was naturally so conscientious it was painful. And to top it all, his scientific habit of thought made him want to stop and weigh his words even when speaking of casual things such as how much sugar he required in his coffee.
Needless to say, I had kidded him unmercifully over these traits. Across the millions of miles of space that we had recently traveled
(our first voyage together) I had amused myself at his expense. I had sworn that he would find, in time, that he couldn't even trim his fingernails without calipers, or comb his hair without actually physically splitting the hairs that cropped up in the middle of the part. That was when I had nicknamed him "Split"—and the wide ears that stuck out from his stubble-cut blond hair had glowed with the pink of selfconsciousness. Plainly, he liked the kidding. But if I thought I could rescue him from the weight of dignity and duty, I was mistaken.
Now he had turned the telescope for a view far to the right. He paused.
"What do you see?" I asked.
"I cannot say definitely. The exact scientific classification of the object I am observing would call for more detailed scrutiny—"
"You're seeing some sort of object?"
"Yes sir."
"What sort of object?"
"A living creature, sir—upright, wearing clothes—"
"A
man
?"
"To all appearances, sir—"
"You bounder, give me that telescope!"
2.
If you have explored the weird life of many a planet, as I have, you can appreciate the deep sense of excitement that comes over me when, looking out at a new world for the first time, I see a man-like animal.
Walking upright!
Wearing adornments in the nature of clothing!
I gazed, and my lungs filled with the breath of wonderment. A man! Across millions of miles of space—a man, like the men of the Earth.
Six times before in my life of exploration I had gazed at new realms within the approachable parts of our universe, but never before had the living creatures borne such wonderful resemblance to the human life of our Earth.
A man!
He might have been creeping on all fours.
He might have been skulking like a lesser animal.
He might have been entirely naked.
He was none of these—and at the very first moment of viewing him I felt a kinship toward him. Oh, he was primitive in appearance—but had my ancestors not been the same? Was this not a mirror of my own race a million years or so ago? I sensed that my own stream of life had somehow crossed with his in ages gone by. How? Who can ever know? By what faded charts of the movements through the sky will man ever be able to retrace relationships of forms of life among planets?
"Get ready to go out and meet him, Campbell," I said. "He's a friend."
Split Campbell gave me a look as if to say, Sir, you don't even know what sort of animal he is, actually, much less whether he's friendly or murderous.
"There are some things I can sense on first sight, Campbell. Take my word for it, he's a friend."
"I didn't say anything, sir."
"Good. Don't. Just get ready."
"We're going to go
out
—?"
"Yes," I said. "Orders."
"And meet both of them?" Split was at the telescope.
"Both?" I took the instrument from him. Both! "Well!"
"They seem to be coming out of the ground," Split said. "I see no signs of habitation, but apparently we've landed on top of an underground city—though I hasten to add that this is only an hypothesis."
"One's a male and the other's a female," I said.
"Another hypothesis," said Split.
The late evening sunshine gave us a clear view of our two "friends". They were fully a mile away. Split was certain they had not seen our ship, and to this conclusion I was in agreement. They had apparently come up out of the barren rock hillside to view the sunset. I studied them through the telescope while Split checked over equipment for a hike.
The man's walk was unhurried. He moved thoughtfully, one might guess. His bare chest and legs showed him to be statuesque in mold, cleanly muscled, fine of bone. His skin was almost the color of the cream-colored robe which flowed from his back, whipping lightly in the breeze. He wore a brilliant red sash about his middle, and this was matched by a red headdress that came down over his shoulders as a circular mantle.
The girl stood several yards distant, watching him. This was some sort of ritual, no doubt. He was not concerned with her, but with the setting sun. Its rays were almost horizontal, knifing through a break in the distant mountain skyline. He went through some routine motions, his moving arms highlighted by the lemon-colored light of evening.
The girl approached him. Two other persons appeared from somewhere back of her.... Three.... Four.... Five....
"Where do they come from?" Split had paused in the act of checking equipment to take his turn at the telescope. If he had not done so, I might not have made a discovery. The landscape was
moving
.
The long shadows that I had not noticed through the telescope were a prominent part of the picture I saw through the ship's window when I looked out across the scene with the naked eye. The shadows were moving.
They were tree shadows. They were moving toward the clearing where the crowd gathered. And the reason for their movement was that the trees themselves were moving.
"Notice anything?" I asked Split.
"The crowd is growing. We've certainly landed on top of a city." He gazed. "They're coming from underground."
Looking through the telescope, obviously he didn't catch the view of the moving trees.
"Notice anything else unusual?" I persisted.
"Yes. The females—I'm speaking hypothetically—but they
must
be females—are all wearing puffy white fur ornaments around their elbows. I wonder why?"
"You haven't noticed the trees?"
"The females are quite attractive," said Split.
I forgot about the moving trees, then, and took over the telescope. Mobile trees were not new to me. I had seen similar vegetation on other planets—"sponge-trees"—which possessed a sort of muscular quality. If these were similar, they were no doubt feeding along the surface of the slope below the rocky plateau. The people in the clearing beyond paid no attention to them.
I studied the crowd of people. Only the leader wore the brilliant garb. The others were more scantily clothed. All were handsome of build. The lemon-tinted sunlight glanced off the muscular shoulders of the males and the soft curves of the females.
"Those furry elbow ornaments on the females," I said to Split,
"they're for protection. The caves they live in must be narrow, so they pad their elbows."
"Why don't they pad their shoulders? They don't have anything on their shoulders."
"Are you complaining?"
We became fascinated in watching, from the seclusion of our ship. If we were to walk out, or make any sounds, we might have interrupted their meeting. Here they were in their native ritual of sunset, not knowing that people from another world watched. The tall leader must be making a speech. They sat around him in little huddles. He moved his arms in calm, graceful gestures.
"They'd better break it up!" Split said suddenly. "The jungles are moving in on them."
"They're spellbound," I said. "They're used to sponge-trees. Didn't you ever see moving trees?"
Split said sharply, "Those trees are marching! They're an army under cover. Look!"
I saw, then. The whole line of advancing vegetation was camouflage for a sneak attack. And all those natives sitting around in meeting were as innocent as a flock of sitting ducks. Split Campbell's voice was edged with alarm. "Captain! Those worshippers—how can we warn them? Oh-oh! Too late. Look!"
All at once the advancing sponge-trees were tossed back over the heads of the savage band concealed within. They were warriors—fifty or more of them—with painted naked bodies. They dashed forward in a wide semicircle, swinging crude weapons, bent on slaughter.
3.
They were waving short clubs or whips with stones tied to the ends. They charged up the slope, about sixty yards, swinging their weird clubs with a threat of death.
Wild disorder suddenly struck the audience. Campbell and I believed we were about to witness a massacre.
"Captain—
Jim
! You're not going to let this happen!"
Our sympathies had gone to the first groups, the peaceable ones. I had the same impulse as Campbell—to do something—anything! Yet here we sat in our ship, more than half a mile from our thirty-five or forty
"friends" in danger.
Our friends were panicked. But they didn't take flight. They didn't duck for the holes in the rocky hilltop. Instead, they rallied and packed themselves around their tall leader. They stood, a defiant wall.
"Can we shoot a ray, Jim?"
I didn't answer. Later I would recall that Split
could
drop his dignity under excitement—his "Captain Linden" and "sir." Just now he wanted any sort of split-second order.
We saw the naked warriors run out in a wide circle. They spun and weaved, they twirled their deadly clubs, they danced grotesquely. They were closing in. Closer and closer. It was all their party.
"Jim, can we shoot?"
"Hit number sixteen, Campbell."
Split touched the number sixteen signal.
The ship's siren wailed out over the land.
You could tell when the sound struck them. The circle of savage ones suddenly fell apart. The dancing broke into the wildest contortions you ever saw. As if they'd been spanked by a wave of electricity. The siren scream must have sounded like an animal cry from an unknown world. The attackers ran for the sponge-trees. The rootless jungle came to life. It jerked and jumped spasmodically down the slope. And our siren kept right on singing.
"Ready for that hike, Campbell? Give me my equipment coat." I got into it. I looked back to the telescope. The tall man of the party had behaved with exceptional calmness. He had turned to stare in our direction from the instant the siren sounded. He could no doubt make out the lines of our silvery ship in the shadows. Slowly, deliberately, he marched over the hilltop toward us.
Most of his party now scampered back to the safety of their hiding places in the ground. But a few—the brave ones, perhaps, or the officials of his group—came with him.
"He needs a stronger guard than that," Campbell grumbled.
Sixteen was still wailing. "Set it for ten minutes and come on," I said. Together we descended from the ship.
We took into our nostrils the tangy air, breathing fiercely, at first. We slogged along over the rock surface feeling our weight to be one-and-a-third times normal. We glanced down the slope apprehensively. We didn't want any footraces. The trees, however, were still retreating. Our siren would sing on for another eight minutes. And in case of further danger, we were equipped with the standard pocket arsenal of special purpose capsule bombs.
Soon we came face to face with the tall, stately old leader in the cream-and-red cloak.
Split and I stood together, close enough to exchange comments against the siren's wail. Fine looking people, we observed. Smooth faces. Like the features of Earth men. These creatures could walk down any main street back home. With a bit of makeup they would pass.
"Notice, Captain, they have strange looking eyes." "Very smooth."
"It's because they have no eyebrows ... no eye lashes." "Very smooth—handsome—attractive."
Then the siren went off.
The leader stood before me, apparently unafraid. He seemed to be waiting for me to explain my presence. His group of twelve gathered in close.
I had met such situations with ease before. "EGGWE" explorers come equipped. I held out a gift toward the leader. It was a singing medallion attached to a chain. It was disc-shaped, patterned after a large silver coin. It made music at the touch of a button. In clear, dainty bell tones it rang out its one tune, "Trail of Stars."
As it played I held it up for inspection. I placed it around my own neck, then offered it to the leader. I thought he was smiling. He was not overwhelmed by the "magic" of this gadget. He saw it for what it was, a token of friendship. There was a keenness about him that I liked. Yes, he was smiling. He bent his head forward and allowed me to place the gift around his neck.
"Tomboldo," he said, pointing to himself.
Split and I tried to imitate his breathy accents as we repeated aloud,
"Tomboldo."
We pointed to ourselves, in turn, and spoke our own names. And then, as the names of the others were pronounced, we tried to memorize each breathy sound that was uttered. I was able to remember four or five of them. One was Gravgak.
Gravgak's piercing eyes caused me to notice him. Suspicious eyes? I did not know these people's expressions well enough to be sure.
Gravgak was a guard, tall and muscular, whose arms and legs were painted with green and black diamond designs.
By motions and words we didn't understand, we inferred that we were invited to accompany the party back home, inside the hill, where we would be safe. I nodded to Campbell. "It's our chance to be guests of Tomboldo." Nothing could have pleased us more. For our big purpose—to understand the Serpent River—would be forwarded greatly if we could learn, through the people, what its meanings were. To analyze the river's substance, estimate its rate, its weight, its temperature, and to map its course—these facts were only a part of the information we sought. The fuller story would be to learn how the inhabitants of this planet regarded it: whether they loved or shunned it, and what legends they may have woven around it. All this knowledge would be useful when future expeditions of men from the Earth followed us (through EGGWE) for an extension of peaceful trade relationships.
Tomboldo depended upon the guard Gravgak to make sure that the way was safe. Gravgak was supposed to keep an eye on the line of floating trees that had taken flight down the hillside. Danger still lurked there, we knew. And now the siren that had frightened off the attack was silent. Our ship, locked against invaders, could be forgotten. We were guests of Tomboldo.
Gravgak was our guard, but he didn't work at it. He was too anxious to hear all the talk. In the excitement of our meeting, everyone ignored the growing darkness, the lurking dangers. Gravgak confronted us with agitated jabbering:
"Wollo—yeeta—vo—vandartch—vandartch! Grr—see—o—see—o—see—o!"
"See—o—see—o—see—o," one of the others echoed.
It began to make sense. They wanted us to repeat the siren noises. The enemy had threatened their lives. There could very well have been a wholesale slaughter. But as long as we could make the "see—o—see—o" we were all safe.
Split and I exchanged glances. He touched his hand to the equipment jacket, to remind me we were armed with something more miraculous than a yowling siren.
"See—o—see—o—see—o!" Others of Tomboldo's party echoed the demand. They must have seen the sponge-trees again moving toward our path.
"
See—o—see—o!
"
Our peaceful march turned into a spasm of terror. The sponge-trees came rushing up the slope, as if borne by a sudden gust of wind. They bounced over our path, and the war party spilled out of them.
Shouting. A wild swinging of clubs. And no cat-and-mouse tricks. No deliberate circling and closing in. An outright attack. Naked bodies gleaming in the semi-darkness. Arms swinging weapons, choosing the nearest victims. The luminous rocks on the ends of the clubs flashed. Shouting, screeching, hurling their clubs. The whizzing fury filled the air.
I hurled a capsule bomb. It struck at the base of a bouncing sponge-tree, and blew the thing to bits.
The attackers ran back into a huddle, screaming. Then they came forward, rushing defiantly.
Our muscular guard, Gravgak was too bold. He had picked up one of their clubs and he ran toward their advance, and to all of Tomboldo's party it must have appeared that he was bravely rushing to his death. Yet the gesture of the club he swung so wildly could have been intended as a
warning
! It could have meant, Run back, you fools, or these strange devils will throw fire at you.
I threw fire. And so did my lieutenant. He didn't wait for orders, thank goodness. He knew it was their lives or ours. Zip, zip, zip—BLANG-BLANG-BLANG! The bursts of fire at their feet ripped the rocks. The spray caught them and knocked them back. Three or four warriors in the fore ranks were torn up in the blasts. Others were flattened—and those who were able, ran.
They ran, not waiting for the cover of sponge-trees. Not bothering to pick up their clubs.
But the operation was not a complete success. We had suffered a serious casualty. The guard Gravgak. He had rushed out too far, and the first blast of fire and rock had knocked him down. Now Tomboldo and others of the party hovered over him.
His eyes opened a little. I thought he was staring at me, drilling me with suspicion. I worked over him with medicines. The crowd around us stood back in an attitude of awe as Split and I applied ready bandages, and held a stimulant to his nostrils that made him breath back to consciousness.
Suddenly he came to life. Lying there on his back, with the club still at his fingertips, he swung up on one elbow. The swift motion caused a cry of joy from the crowd. I heard a little of it—and then blacked out. For as the muscular Gravgak moved, his fingers closed over the handle of the club. It whizzed upward with him—apparently all by accident. The stone that dangled from the end of the club crashed into my head.
I went into instant darkness. Darkness, and a long, long silence.
4.
Vauna, the beautiful daughter of Tomboldo, came into my life during the weeks that I lay unconscious.
I must have talked aloud much during those feverish hours of darkness.
"Campbell!" I would call out of a nightmare. "Campbell, we're about to land. Is everything set? Check the instruments again, Campbell."
"S-s-sh!" The low hush of Split Campbell's voice would somehow penetrate my dream.
The voices about me were soft. My dreams echoed the soft female voices of this new, strange language.
"Campbell, are you there?... Have you forgotten the Code, Campbell?"
"Quiet, Captain."
"Who is it that's swabbing my face? I can't see."
"It's Vauna. She's smiling at you, Captain. Can't you see her?"
"Is this the pretty one we saw through the telescope?"
"One of them."
"And what of the other? There were two together. I remember—"
"Omosla is here too. She's Vauna's attendant. We're all looking after you, Captain Linden. Did you know I performed an operation to relieve the pressure on your brain? You must get well, Captain." The words of Campbell came through insistently.
After a silence that may have lasted for hours or days, I said,
"Campbell, you haven't forgot the EGGWE Code?"
"Of course not, Captain."
"Section Four?"
"Section Four," he repeated in a low voice, as if to pacify me and put me to sleep. "Conduct of EGGWE agents toward native inhabitants: A, No agent shall enter into any diplomatic agreement that shall be construed as binding—"
I interrupted. "Clause D?"
He picked it up. "D, no agent shall enter into a marriage contract with any native.... H-m-m. You're not trying to warn me, are you, Captain Linden? Or are you warning
yourself
?"
At that moment my eyes opened a little. Swimming before my blurred vision was the face of Vauna. I did remember her—yes, she must have haunted my dreams, for now my eyes burned in an effort to define her features more clearly. This was indeed Vauna, who had been one of the party of twelve, and had walked beside her father in the face of the attack. Deep within my subconscious the image of her beautiful face and figure had lingered. I murmured a single word of answer to Campbell's question. "Myself."
In the hours that followed, I came to know the soft footsteps of Vauna. The caverns in which she and her father and all these Benzendella people lived were pleasantly warm and fragrant. My misty impressions of their life about me were like the first impressions of a child learning about the world into which he has been born.
Sometimes I would hear Vauna and her attendant Omosla talking together. Often when Campbell would stop in this part of the cavern to inquire about me, Omosla would drop in also. She and Campbell were learning to converse in simple words. And Vauna and I—yes. If I could only avoid blacking out.
I wanted to see her.
So often my eyes would refuse to open. A thousand nightmares. Space ships shooting through meteor swarms. Stars like eyes. Eyes like stars. The eyes of Vauna, the daughter of Tomboldo. The sensitive stroke of Vauna's fingers, brushing my forehead, pressing my hand.
I regained my health gradually.
"Are you quite awake?" Vauna would ask me in her musical Benzendella words. "You speak better today. Your friend Campbell has brought you more recordings of our language, so you can learn to speak more. My father is eager to talk with you. But you must sleep more. You are still weak."
It gave me a weird sensation to awaken in the night, trying to adjust myself to my surroundings. The Benzendellas were sleep-singers. By night they murmured mysterious little songs through their sleep. Strange harmonies whispered through the caves.
And if I stirred restlessly, the footsteps of Vauna might come to me through the darkness. In her sleeping garments she would come to me, faintly visible in the pink light that filtered through from some corridor. She would whisper melodious Benzendella words and tell me to go back to sleep, and I would drift into the darkness of my endless dreams.
The day came when I awakened to see both Vauna and her father standing before me. Stern old Tomboldo, with his chalk-smooth face and not a hint of an eyebrow or eyelash, rapped his hand against my ribs, shook the fiber bed lightly, and smiled. From a pocket concealed in his flowing cape, he drew forth the musical watch, touched the button, and played, "Trail of Stars."
"I have learned to talk," I said.
"You have had a long sleep."
"I am well again. See, I can almost walk." But as I started to rise, the wave of blackness warned me, and I restrained my ambition. "I will walk soon."
"We will have much to talk about. Your friend has pointed to the stars and told me a strange story of your coming. We have walked around the ship. He has told me how it rides through the sky. I can hardly make myself believe." Tomboldo's eyes cast upward under the strong ridge of forehead where the eyebrows should have been. He was evidently trying to visualize the flight of a space ship. "We will have much to tell each other."
"I hope so," I said. "Campbell and I came to learn about the
serpent river
." I resorted to my own language for the last two words, not knowing the Benzendella equivalent.
I
made an eel-like motion with my arm. But they didn't understand. And before I could explain, the footsteps of other Benzendellas approached, and presently I looked around to see that quite an audience had gathered. The most prominent figure of the new group was the big muscular guard of the black and green diamond markings—Gravgak.
"You get well?" Gravgak said to me. His eyes drilled me closely.
"I get well," I said.
"The blow on the head," he said, "was not meant."
I looked at him. Everyone was looking at him, and I knew this was meant to be an occasion of apology. But the light of fire in Vauna's eyes told me that she did not believe. He saw her look, and his own eyes flashed darts of defiance. With an abrupt word to me, he wheeled and started off. "Get well!"
The crowd of men and women made way for him. But in the arched doorway he turned. "Vauna. I am ready to speak to you alone."
She started. I reached and barely touched her hand. She stopped. "I will talk with you later, Gravgak."
"Now!" he shouted. "Alone."
He stalked off. A moment later Vauna, after exchanging a word with her father, excused herself from the crowd and followed Gravgak.
From the way those in the room looked, I knew this must be a dramatic moment. It was as if she had acknowledged Gravgak as her master—or her lover. He had called for her. She had followed.
But her old father was still the master. He stepped toward the door.
"Vauna!... Gravgak!... Come back."
(I will always wonder what might have happened if he hadn't called them! Was my distrust of Gravgak justified? Had I become merely a jealous lover—or was I right in my hunch that the tall muscular guard was a potential traitor?)
Vauna reappeared at once. I believe she was glad that she had been called back.
Gravgak came sullenly. At the edge of the crowd in the arched doorway he stood scowling.
"While we are together," old Tomboldo said quietly, looking around at the assemblage, "I must tell you the decision of the council. Soon we will move back to the other part of the world."
There were low murmurs of approval through the chamber.
"We will wait a few days," Tomboldo went on, "until our new friend—" he pointed to me—"is well enough to travel. We would never leave him here to the mercy of the savage ones. He and his helper came through the sky in time to save us from being destroyed. We must never forget this kindness. When we ascend the
Kao-Wagwattl
, the ever moving
rope of life
, these friends shall come with us. On the back of the Kao-Wagwattl
they shall ride with us across the land
."
|
What is the relationship between Judith and Patti Gray?
|
After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about Prison Planet by Wilson Tucker.
Relevant chunks:
PRISON PLANET
By BOB TUCKER
To remain on Mars meant death from agonizing space-sickness, but Earth-surgery lay days of flight away. And there was only a surface rocket in which to escape—with a traitorous Ganymedean for its pilot.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1942. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
"Listen, Rat!" Roberds said, "what I say goes around here. It doesn't happen to be any of your business. I'm still in possession of my wits, and I know Peterson can't handle that ship. Furthermore Gladney will be in it too, right along side of that sick girl in there! And Rat, get this: I'm going to pilot that ship. Understand? Consulate or no Consulate, job or no job, I'm wheeling that crate to Earth because this is an emergency. And the emergency happens to be bigger than my position, to me at any rate." His tone dropped to a deadly softness.
"Now will you kindly remove your stinking carcass from this office?"
Unheeding, Rat swung his eyes around in the gloom and discovered the woman, a nurse in uniform. He blinked at her and she returned the look, wavering. She bit her lip and determination flowed back. She met the stare of his boring, off-colored eyes. Rat grinned suddenly. Nurse Gray almost smiled back, stopped before the others could see it.
"Won't go!" The Centaurian resumed his fight. "You not go, lose job, black-listed. Never get another. Look at me. I know." He retreated a precious step to escape a rolled up fist. "Little ship carry four nice. Rip out lockers and bunks. Swing hammocks. Put fuel in water tanks. Live on concentrates. Earth hospital fix bellyache afterwards, allright. I pilot ship. Yes?"
"No!" Roberds screamed.
Almost in answer, a moan issued from a small side room. The men in the office froze as Nurse Gray ran across the room. She disappeared through the narrow door.
"Peterson," the field manager ordered, "come over here and help me throw this rat out...." He went for Rat. Peterson swung up out of his chair with balled fist. The outlander backed rapidly.
"No need, no need, no need!" he said quickly. "I go." Still backing, he blindly kicked at the door and stepped into the night.
When the door slammed shut Roberds locked it. Peterson slumped in the chair.
"Do you mean that, Chief? About taking the ship yourself?"
"True enough." Roberds cast an anxious glance at the partly closed door, lowered his voice. "It'll cost me my job, but that girl in there has to be taken to a hospital quickly! And it's her luck to be landed on a planet that doesn't boast even one! So it's Earth ... or she dies. I'd feel a lot better too if we could get Gladney to a hospital, I'm not too confident of that patching job." He pulled a pipe from a jacket pocket. "So, might as well kill two birds with one stone ... and that wasn't meant to be funny!"
Peterson said nothing, sat watching the door.
"Rat has the right idea," Roberds continued, "but I had already thought of it. About the bunks and lockers. Greaseball has been out there all night tearing them out. We just might be able to hop by dawn ... and hell of a long, grinding hop it will be!"
The nurse came out of the door.
"How is she?" Roberds asked.
"Sleeping," Gray whispered. "But sinking...."
"We can take off at dawn, I think." He filled the pipe and didn't look at her. "You'll have to spend most of the trip in a hammock."
"I can take it." Suddenly she smiled, wanly. "I was with the Fleet. How long will it take?"
"Eight days, in that ship."
Roberds lit his pipe, and carefully hid his emotions. He knew Peterson was harboring the same thoughts. Eight days in space, in a small ship meant for two, and built for planetary surface flights. Eight days in that untrustworthy crate, hurtling to save the lives of that girl and Gladney.
"Who was that ... man? The one you put out?" Gray asked.
"We call him Rat," Roberds said.
She didn't ask why. She said: "Why couldn't he pilot the ship, I mean? What is his record?"
Peterson opened his mouth.
"Shut up, Peterson!" the Chief snapped. "We don't talk about his record around here, Miss Gray. It's not a pretty thing to tell."
"Stow it, Chief," said Peterson. "Miss Gray is no pantywaist." He turned to the nurse. "Ever hear of the Sansan massacre?"
Patti Gray paled. "Yes," she whispered. "Was Rat in that?"
Roberds shook his head. "He didn't take part in it. But Rat was attached to a very important office at the time, the outpost watch. And when Mad Barry Sansan and his gang of thugs swooped down on the Ganymedean colony, there was no warning. Our friend Rat was AWOL.
"As to who he is ... well, just one of those freaks from up around Centauria somewhere. He's been hanging around all the fields and dumps on Mars a long time, finally landed up here."
"But," protested Miss Gray, "I don't understand? I always thought that leaving one's post under such circumstances meant execution."
The Chief Consul nodded. "It does, usually. But this was a freak case. It would take hours to explain. However, I'll just sum it up in one word: politics. Politics, with which Rat had no connection saved him."
The girl shook her head, more in sympathy than condemnation.
"Are you expecting the others in soon?" she asked. "It wouldn't be right to leave Peterson."
"They will be in, in a day or two. Peterson will beat it over to Base station for repairs, and to notify Earth we're coming. He'll be all right."
Abruptly she stood up. "Goodnight gentlemen. Call me if I'm needed."
Roberds nodded acknowledgement. The door to the side room closed behind her. Peterson hauled his chair over to the desk. He sniffed the air.
"Damned rat!" he whispered harshly. "They ought to make a law forcing him to wear dark glasses!"
Roberds smiled wearily. "His eyes do get a man, don't they?"
"I'd like to burn 'em out!" Peterson snarled.
Rat helped Greaseball fill the water tanks to capacity with fuel, checked the concentrated rations and grunted.
Greaseball looked over the interior and chuckled. "The boss said strip her, and strip her I did. All right, Rat, outside." He followed the Centaurian out, and pulled the ladder away from the lip of the lock. The two walked across the strip of sandy soil to the office building. On tiptoes, Greaseball poked his head through the door panel. "All set."
Roberds nodded at him. "Stick with it!" and jerked a thumb at Rat outside. Grease nodded understanding.
"Okay, Rat, you can go to bed now." He dropped the ladder against the wall and sat on it. "Good night." He watched Rat walk slowly away.
Swinging down the path towards his own rambling shack, Rat caught a sibilant whisper. Pausing, undecided, he heard it again.
"Here ... can you see me?" A white clad arm waved in the gloom. Rat regarded the arm in the window. Another impatient gesture, and he stepped to the sill.
"Yes?"—in the softest of whispers. The voices of the men in droning conversation drifted in. "What you want?"
Nothing but silence for a few hanging seconds, and then: "Can you pilot that ship?" Her voice was shaky.
He didn't answer, stared at her confused. He felt her fear as clearly as he detected it in her words.
"Well, can you?" she demanded.
"Damn yes!" he stated simply. "It now necessary?"
"Very! She is becoming worse. I'm afraid to wait until daylight. And ... well, we want you to pilot it! She refuses to risk Mr. Roberds' job. She favors you."
Rat stepped back, astonished. "She?"
Nurse Gray moved from the window and Rat saw the second form in the room, a slight, quiet figure on a small cot. "My patient," Nurse Gray explained. "She overheard our conversation awhile ago. Quick, please, can you?"
Rat looked at her and then at the girl on the cot. He vanished from the window. Almost immediately, he was back again.
"When?" he whispered.
"As soon as possible. Yes. Do you know...?" but he had gone again. Nurse Gray found herself addressing blackness. On the point of turning, she saw him back again.
"Blankets," he instructed. "Wrap in blankets. Cold—hot too. Wrap good!" And he was gone again. Gray blinked away the illusion he disappeared upwards.
She ran over to the girl. "Judith, if you want to back down, now is the time. He'll be back in a moment."
"No!" Judith moaned. "No!" Gray smiled in the darkness and began wrapping the blankets around her. A light tapping at the window announced the return of Rat. The nurse pushed open the window wide, saw him out there with arms upstretched.
"Grit your teeth and hold on! Here we go." She picked up the blanketed girl in both arms and walked to the window. Rat took the girl easily as she was swung out, the blackness hid them both. But he appeared again instantly.
"Better lock window," he cautioned. "Stall, if Boss call. Back soon...." and he was gone.
To Nurse Gray the fifteen minute wait seemed like hours, impatient agonizing hours of tight-lipped anxiety.
Feet first, she swung through the window, clutching a small bag in her hands. She never touched ground. Rat whispered "Hold tight!" in her ear and the wind was abruptly yanked from her! The ground fell away in a dizzy rush, unseen but felt, in the night! Her feet scraped on some projection, and she felt herself being lifted still higher. Wind returned to her throat, and she breathed again.
"I'm sorry," she managed to get out, gaspingly. "I wasn't expecting that. I had forgotten you—"
"—had wings," he finished and chuckled. "So likewise Greaseball." The pale office lights dropped away as they sped over the field. On the far horizon, a tinge of dawn crept along the uneven terrain.
"Oh, the bag!" she gasped. "I've dropped it."
He chuckled again. "Have got. You scare, I catch."
She didn't see the ship because of the wind in her eyes, but without warning she plummeted down and her feet jarred on the lip of the lock.
"Inside. No noise, no light. Easy." But in spite of his warning she tripped in the darkness. He helped her from the floor and guided her to the hammocks.
"Judith?" she asked.
"Here. Beside you, trussed up so tight I can hardly breathe."
"No talk!" Rat insisted. "Much hush-hush needed. Other girl shipshape. You make likewise." Forcibly he shoved her into a hammock. "Wrap up tight. Straps tight. When we go, we go fast. Bang!" And he left her.
"Hey! Where are you going now?"
"To get Gladney. He sick too. Hush hush!" His voice floated back.
"Where has he gone?" Judith called.
"Back for another man. Remember the two miners who found us when we crashed? The burly one fell off a rock-bank as they were bringing us in. Stove in his ribs pretty badly. The other has a broken arm ... happened once while you were out. They wouldn't let me say anything for fear of worrying you."
The girl did not answer then and a hushed expectancy fell over the ship. Somewhere aft a small motor was running. Wind whistled past the open lock.
"I've caused plenty of trouble haven't I?" she asked aloud, finally.
"This was certainly a fool stunt, and I'm guilty of a lot of fool stunts! I just didn't realize until now the why of that law."
"Don't talk so much," the nurse admonished. "A lot of people have found out the why of that law the hard way, just as you are doing, and lived to remember it. Until hospitals are built on this forlorn world, humans like you who haven't been properly conditioned will have to stay right at home."
"How about these men that live and work here?"
"They never get here until they've been through the mill first. Adenoids, appendix', all the extra parts they can get along without."
"Well," Judith said. "I've certainly learned my lesson!"
Gray didn't answer, but from out of the darkness surrounding her came a sound remarkably resembling a snort.
"Gray?" Judith asked fearfully.
"Yes?"
"Hasn't the pilot been gone an awfully long time?"
Rat himself provided the answer by alighting at the lip with a jar that shook the ship. He was breathing heavily and lugging something in his arms. The burden groaned.
"Gladney!" Nurse Gray exclaimed.
"I got." Rat confirmed. "Yes, Gladney. Damn heavy, Gladney."
"But how?" she demanded. "What of Roberds and Peterson?"
"Trick," he sniggered. "I burn down my shack. Boss run out. I run in. Very simple." He packed Gladney into the remaining hammock and snapped buckles.
"And Peterson?" she prompted.
"Oh yes. Peterson. So sorry about Peterson. Had to fan him."
" Fan him? I don't understand."
"Fan. With chair. Everything all right. I apologized." Rat finished up and was walking back to the lock. They heard a slight rustling of wings as he padded away.
He was back instantly, duplicating his feat of a short time ago. Cursing shouts were slung on the night air, and the deadly spang of bullets bounced on the hull! Some entered the lock. The Centaurian snapped it shut. Chunks of lead continued to pound the ship. Rat leaped for the pilot's chair, heavily, a wing drooping.
"You've been hurt!" Gray cried. A small panel light outlined his features. She tried to struggle up.
"Lie still! We go. Boss get wise." With lightning fingers he flicked several switches on the panel, turned to her. "Hold belly. Zoom!"
Gray folded her hands across her stomach and closed her eyes.
Rat unlocked the master level and shoved!
"Whew!" Nurse Gray came back to throbbing awareness, the all too familiar feeling of a misplaced stomach attempting to force its crowded way into her boots plaguing her. Rockets roared in the rear. She loosened a few straps and twisted over. Judith was still out, her face tensed in pain. Gray bit her lip and twisted the other way. The Centaurian was grinning at her.
"Do you always leave in a hurry?" she demanded, and instantly wished she hadn't said it. He gave no outward sign.
"Long-time sleep," he announced. "Four, five hours maybe." The chest strap was lying loose at his side.
"That long!" she was incredulous. "I'm never out more than three hours!" Unloosening more straps, she sat up, glanced at the control panel.
"Not taking time," he stated simply and pointed to a dial. Gray shook her head and looked at the others.
"That isn't doing either of them any good!"
Rat nodded unhappily. "What's her matter—?" pointing.
"Appendix. Something about this atmosphere sends it haywire. The thing itself isn't diseased, but it starts manufacturing poison. Patient dies in a week unless it is taken out."
"Don't know it," he said briefly.
"Do you mean to say you don't have an appendix?" she demanded.
Rat folded his arms and considered this. "Don't know. Maybe yes, maybe no. Where's it hurt?"
Gray pointed out the location. The Centaurian considered this further and drifted into long contemplation. Watching him, Gray remembered his eyes that night ... only last night ... in the office. Peterson had refused to meet them. After awhile Rat came out of it.
"No," he waved. "No appendix. Never nowhere appendix."
"Then Mother Nature has finally woke up!" she exclaimed. "But why do Centaurians rate it exclusively?"
Rat ignored this and asked one of her. "What you and her doing up there?" He pointed back and up, to where Mars obliterated the stars.
"You might call it a pleasure jaunt. She's only seventeen. We came over in a cruiser belonging to her father; it was rather large and easy to handle. But the cruise ended when she lost control of the ship because of an attack of space-appendicitis. The rest you know."
"So you?"
"So I'm a combination nurse, governess, guard and what have you. Or will be until we get back. After this, I'll probably be looking for work." She shivered.
"Cold?" he inquired concernedly.
"On the contrary, I'm too warm." She started to remove the blanket. Rat threw up a hand to stop her.
"Leave on! Hot out here."
"But I'm too hot now. I want to take it off!"
"No. Leave on. Wool blanket. Keep in body heat, yes. Keep out cold, yes. Keep in, keep out, likewise. See?"
Gray stared at him. "I never thought of it that way before. Why of course! If it protects from one temperature, it will protect from another. Isn't it silly of me not to know that?" Heat pressing on her face accented the fact.
"What is your name?" she asked. "Your real one I mean."
He grinned. "Big. You couldn't say it. Sound like Christmas and bottlenose together real fast. Just say Rat. Everybody does." His eyes swept the panel and flashed back to her. "Your name Gray. Have a front name?"
"Patti."
"Pretty, Patti."
"No, just Patti. Say, what's the matter with the cooling system?"
"Damn punk," he said. "This crate for surface work. No space. Cooling system groan, damn punk. Won't keep cool here."
"And ..." she followed up, "it will get warmer as we go out?"
Rat turned back to his board in a brown study and carefully ignored her. Gray grasped an inkling of what the coming week could bring.
"But how about water?" she demanded next. "Is there enough?"
He faced about. "For her—" nodding to Judith, "and him—" to Gladney,
"yes. Sparingly. Four hours every time, maybe." Back to Gray. "You, me ... twice a day. Too bad." His eyes drifted aft to the tank of water. She followed. "One tank water. All the rest fuel. Too bad, too bad. We get thirsty I think."
They did get thirsty, soon. A damnable hot thirst accented by the knowledge that water was precious, a thirst increased by a dried-up-in-the-mouth sensation. Their first drink was strangely bitter; tragically disappointing. Patti Gray suddenly swung upright in the hammock and kicked her legs. She massaged her throat with a nervous hand, wiped damp hair from about her face.
"I have to have a drink."
Rat stared at her without answer.
"I said, I have to have a drink!"
"Heard you."
"Well...?"
"Well, nothing. Stall. Keep water longer."
She swung a vicious boot and missed by inches. Rat grinned, and made his way aft, hand over hand. He treaded cautiously along the deck. "Do like this," he called over his shoulder. "Gravity punk too. Back and under, gravity." He waited until she joined him at the water tap.
They stood there glaring idiotically at each other.
She burst out laughing. "They even threw the drinking cups out!" Rat inched the handle grudgingly and she applied lips to the faucet.
"Faugh!" Gray sprang back, forgot herself and lost her balance, sat down on the deck and spat out the water. "It's hot! It tastes like hell and it's hot! It must be fuel!"
Rat applied his lips to the tap and sampled. Coming up with a mouthful he swished it around on his tongue like mouthwash. Abruptly he contrived a facial contortion between a grin and a grimace, and let some of the water trickle from the edges of his mouth. He swallowed and it cost him something.
"No. I mean yes, I think. Water, no doubt. Yes. Fuel out, water in. Swish-swush. Dammit, Greaseball forget to wash tank!"
"But what makes it so hot?" She worked her mouth to dry-rinse the taste of the fuel.
"Ship get hot. Water on sun side. H-m-m-m-m-m-m."
"H-m-m-m-m-m-m-m what?"
"Flip-flop." He could talk with his hands as well. "Hot side over like pancake." Rat hobbled over to the board and sat down. An experimental flick on a lever produced nothing. Another flick, this time followed by a quivering jar. He contemplated the panel board while fastening his belt.
"H-m-m-m-m-m-m," the lower lip protruded.
Gray protested. "Oh, stop humming and do something! That wa—" the word was queerly torn from her throat, and a scream magically filled the vacancy. Nurse Gray sat up and rubbed a painful spot that had suddenly appeared on her arm. She found her nose bleeding and another new, swelling bruise on the side of her head. Around her the place was empty. Bare.
No, not quite. A wispy something was hanging just out of sight in the corner of the eye; the water tap was now moulded upward , beads glistening on its handle. The wispy thing caught her attention again and she looked up.
Two people, tightly wrapped and bound in hammocks, were staring down at her, amazed, swinging on their stomachs. Craning further, she saw Rat. He was hanging upside down in the chair, grinning at her in reverse.
"Flip-flop," he laconically explained.
"For cripes sakes, Jehosaphat!" Gladney groaned. "Turn me over on my back! Do something!" Gray stood on tiptoes and just could pivot the hammocks on their rope-axis.
"And now, please, just how do I get into mine?" she bit at Rat.
Existence dragged. Paradoxically, time dropped away like a cloak as the sense of individual hours and minutes vanished, and into its place crept a slow-torturing substitute. As the ship revolved, monotonously, first the ceiling and then the floor took on dullish, maddening aspects, eyes ached continuously from staring at them time and again without surcease. The steady, drumming rockets crashed into the mind and the walls shrieked malevolently on the eyeballs. Dull, throbbing sameness of the poorly filtered air, a growing taint in the nostrils. Damp warm skin, reeking blankets. The taste of fuel in the mouth for refreshment. Slowly mounting mental duress. And above all the drumming of the rockets.
Once, a sudden, frightening change of pitch in the rockets and a wild, sickening lurch. Meteor rain. Maddening, plunging swings to the far right and left, made without warning. A torn lip as a sudden lurch tears the faucet from her mouth. A shattered tooth.
"Sorry!" Rat whispered.
"Shut up and drive!" she cried.
"Patti ..." Judith called out, in pain.
Peace of mind followed peace of body into a forgotten limbo of lost things, a slyly climbing madness directed at one another. Waspish words uttered in pain, fatigue and temper. Fractiousness. A hot, confined, stale hell. Sleep became a hollow mockery, as bad water and concentrated tablets brought on stomach pains to plague them. Consciousness punctured only by spasms of lethargy, shared to some extent by the invalids. Above all, crawling lassitude and incalescent tempers.
Rat watched the white, drawn face swing in the hammock beside him. And his hands never faltered on the controls.
Never a slackening of the terrific pace; abnormal speed, gruelling drive ... drive ... drive. Fear. Tantalizing fear made worse because Rat couldn't understand. Smothered moaning that ate at his nerves. Grim-faced, sleep-wracked, belted to the chair, driving!
"How many days? How many days!" Gray begged of him thousands of times until the very repetition grated on her eardrums. "How many days?" His only answer was an inhuman snarl, and the cruel blazing of those inhuman eyes.
She fell face first to the floor. "I can't keep it up!" she cried. The sound of her voice rolled along the hot steel deck. "I cant! I cant!"
A double handful of tepid water was thrown in her face. "Get up!" Rat stood over her, face twisted, his body hunched. "Get up!" She stared at him, dazed. He kicked her. "Get up!" The tepid water ran off her face and far away she heard Judith calling.... She forced herself up. Rat was back in the chair.
Gladney unexpectedly exploded. He had been awake for a long time, watching Rat at the board. Wrenching loose a chest strap he attempted to sit up.
"Rat! Damn you Rat, listen to me! When're you going to start braking , Rat?"
"I hear you." He turned on Gladney with dulled eyes. "Lie down. You sick."
"I'll be damned if I'm going to lie here and let you drive us to Orion! We must be near the half-way line! When are you going to start braking?"
"Not brake," Rat answered sullenly. "No, not brake."
" Not brake? " Gladney screamed and sat bolt upright. Nurse Gray jumped for him. "Are you crazy, you skinny rat?" Gray secured a hold on his shoulders and forced him down. "You gotta brake! Don't you understand that? You have to, you vacuum-skull!" Gray was pleading with him to shut-up like a good fellow. He appealed to her. "He's gotta brake! Make him!"
"He has a good point there, Rat," she spoke up. "What about this half-way line?"
He turned to her with a weary ghost of the old smile on his face. "We passed line. Three days ago, maybe." A shrug of shoulders.
"Passed!" Gray and Gladney exclaimed in unison.
"You catch on quick," Rat nodded. "This six day, don't you know?"
Gladney sank back, exhausted. The nurse crept over to the pilot.
"Getting your figures mixed, aren't you?"
Rat shook his head and said nothing.
"But Roberds said eight days, and he—"
"—he on Mars. I here. Boss nuts, too sad. He drive, it be eight days. Now only six." He cast a glance at Judith and found her eyes closed.
"Six days, no brake. No."
"I see your point, and appreciate it," Gray cut in. "But now what? This deceleration business ... there is a whole lot I don't know, but some things I do!"
Rat refused the expected answer. "Land tonight, I think. Never been to Earth before. Somebody meet us, I think."
"You can bet your leather boots somebody will meet us!" Gladney cried. Gray turned to him. "The Chief'll have the whole planet waiting for you !" He laughed with real satisfaction. "Oh yes, Rat, they'll be somebody waiting for us all right." And then he added: "If we land."
"Oh, we land." Rat confided, glad to share a secret.
"Yeah," Gladney grated. "But in how many little pieces?"
"I've never been to Earth before. Nice, I think." Patti Gray caught something new in the tone and stared at him. Gladney must have noticed it, too.
The Centaurian moved sideways and pointed. Gray placed her eyes in the vacated position.
"Earth!" she shouted.
"Quite. Nice. Do me a favor?"
"Just name it!"
"Not drink long time. Some water?"
Gray nodded and went to the faucet. The drumming seemed remote, the tension vanished. She was an uncommonly long time in returning, at last she appeared beside him, outstretched hands dry.
"There isn't any left, Rat."
Rat batted his tired eyes expressively. "Tasted punk," he grinned at her.
She sat down on the floor suddenly and buried her face.
"Rat," she said presently, "I want to ask you something, rather personal? Your ... name. 'Rat'? Roberds told me something about your record. But ... please tell me, Rat. You didn't know the attack was coming, did you?"
He grinned again and waggled his head at her. "No. Who tell Rat?" Suddenly he was deadly serious as he spoke to her. "Rat a.w.o.l., go out to help sick man alone in desert. Rat leave post. Not time send call through. Come back with man, find horrible thing happen."
"But why didn't you explain?"
He grinned again. "Who believe? Sick man die soon after."
Gladney sat up. He had heard the conversation between the two. "You're right, Rat. No one would have believed you then, and no one will now. You've been safe enough on Mars, but the police will nab you as soon as you get out of the ship."
"They can't!" cried Patti Gray. "They can't hurt him after what he's done now."
The Centaurian grinned in a cynical way.
"Police not get me, Gladney. Gladney's memory damn punk, I think. Earth pretty nice place, maybe. But not for Rat."
Gladney stared at him for minutes. Then: "Say, I get it ... you're—"
"Shut up!" Rat cut him off sharply. "You talk too much." He cast a glance at Nurse Gray and then threw a meaning look at Gladney.
Question:
What is the relationship between Judith and Patti Gray?
Answer:
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[
"Patti Gray is Judith's nurse, governess, guard and everything of that kind. Judith is only seventeen and they are pretty close with Patti. The least watches over the sick, reports her condition and fulfills the girl's request like asking Rat to pilot the ship. Judith relies on her nurse, she calls for her when in pain and tells her how sorry she is for causing trouble. Judith's call makes Patti get up even when she herself is in pain. She is anxious for the girl not making it to the hospital. The two stick together as they crashed together after an attack on their spaceship and have to return to Earth together. ",
"Patti is implied to have a caring role over Judith, such as a governess that can also be seen as a nurse or protector. Patti is helping take care of Judith as she is currently ill. She worries a great deal about Judith’s health and is doing everything possible to try to get her to help faster. They were previously on a ship together but it crashed. The trip was meant to be a vacation trip and the cruiser ship was owned by Judith’s father. Patti takes on a caring role for Judith as she tries to reassure her that the decision they made to leave early has been done. ",
"Judith and Patti Gray share a caring relationship. Patti Gray is a combination guard, nurse, and governess to the seventeen year old girl. Nurse Gray cares for Judith for most of the trip and constantly checks up on her to make sure her condition is not worse than it already is. The two of them are very close as well. When Judith feels guilty about the foolish stunt she causes and the consequences she faces, Gray tells her that it is not her fault because others have also experienced the same. Even though she could have chosen to stay until Roberds piloted the ship, she agreed to ask Rat to pilot the ship because of Judith’s choice of which pilot she wants to fly her. This action shows that she is very considerate of Judith’s opinions and wants.",
"Patti Gray is a maternal figure of sorts to Judith. She accompanies her on her trip to Mars, and when Judith becomes ill, Patti becomes her caretaker, aided by her nursing skills. Patti Gray looks after Judith, staying by her side throughout the night and then joining her on the ship when Rat comes to retrieve them. Judith is young, only seventeen, and because of this looks to Patti when she is ill, calling for her several times on the ship."
] |
62212
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PRISON PLANET
By BOB TUCKER
To remain on Mars meant death from agonizing space-sickness, but Earth-surgery lay days of flight away. And there was only a surface rocket in which to escape—with a traitorous Ganymedean for its pilot.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1942. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
"Listen, Rat!" Roberds said, "what I say goes around here. It doesn't happen to be any of your business. I'm still in possession of my wits, and I know Peterson can't handle that ship. Furthermore Gladney will be in it too, right along side of that sick girl in there! And Rat, get this: I'm going to pilot that ship. Understand? Consulate or no Consulate, job or no job, I'm wheeling that crate to Earth because this is an emergency. And the emergency happens to be bigger than my position, to me at any rate." His tone dropped to a deadly softness.
"Now will you kindly remove your stinking carcass from this office?"
Unheeding, Rat swung his eyes around in the gloom and discovered the woman, a nurse in uniform. He blinked at her and she returned the look, wavering. She bit her lip and determination flowed back. She met the stare of his boring, off-colored eyes. Rat grinned suddenly. Nurse Gray almost smiled back, stopped before the others could see it.
"Won't go!" The Centaurian resumed his fight. "You not go, lose job, black-listed. Never get another. Look at me. I know." He retreated a precious step to escape a rolled up fist. "Little ship carry four nice. Rip out lockers and bunks. Swing hammocks. Put fuel in water tanks. Live on concentrates. Earth hospital fix bellyache afterwards, allright. I pilot ship. Yes?"
"No!" Roberds screamed.
Almost in answer, a moan issued from a small side room. The men in the office froze as Nurse Gray ran across the room. She disappeared through the narrow door.
"Peterson," the field manager ordered, "come over here and help me throw this rat out...." He went for Rat. Peterson swung up out of his chair with balled fist. The outlander backed rapidly.
"No need, no need, no need!" he said quickly. "I go." Still backing, he blindly kicked at the door and stepped into the night.
When the door slammed shut Roberds locked it. Peterson slumped in the chair.
"Do you mean that, Chief? About taking the ship yourself?"
"True enough." Roberds cast an anxious glance at the partly closed door, lowered his voice. "It'll cost me my job, but that girl in there has to be taken to a hospital quickly! And it's her luck to be landed on a planet that doesn't boast even one! So it's Earth ... or she dies. I'd feel a lot better too if we could get Gladney to a hospital, I'm not too confident of that patching job." He pulled a pipe from a jacket pocket. "So, might as well kill two birds with one stone ... and that wasn't meant to be funny!"
Peterson said nothing, sat watching the door.
"Rat has the right idea," Roberds continued, "but I had already thought of it. About the bunks and lockers. Greaseball has been out there all night tearing them out. We just might be able to hop by dawn ... and hell of a long, grinding hop it will be!"
The nurse came out of the door.
"How is she?" Roberds asked.
"Sleeping," Gray whispered. "But sinking...."
"We can take off at dawn, I think." He filled the pipe and didn't look at her. "You'll have to spend most of the trip in a hammock."
"I can take it." Suddenly she smiled, wanly. "I was with the Fleet. How long will it take?"
"Eight days, in that ship."
Roberds lit his pipe, and carefully hid his emotions. He knew Peterson was harboring the same thoughts. Eight days in space, in a small ship meant for two, and built for planetary surface flights. Eight days in that untrustworthy crate, hurtling to save the lives of that girl and Gladney.
"Who was that ... man? The one you put out?" Gray asked.
"We call him Rat," Roberds said.
She didn't ask why. She said: "Why couldn't he pilot the ship, I mean? What is his record?"
Peterson opened his mouth.
"Shut up, Peterson!" the Chief snapped. "We don't talk about his record around here, Miss Gray. It's not a pretty thing to tell."
"Stow it, Chief," said Peterson. "Miss Gray is no pantywaist." He turned to the nurse. "Ever hear of the Sansan massacre?"
Patti Gray paled. "Yes," she whispered. "Was Rat in that?"
Roberds shook his head. "He didn't take part in it. But Rat was attached to a very important office at the time, the outpost watch. And when Mad Barry Sansan and his gang of thugs swooped down on the Ganymedean colony, there was no warning. Our friend Rat was AWOL.
"As to who he is ... well, just one of those freaks from up around Centauria somewhere. He's been hanging around all the fields and dumps on Mars a long time, finally landed up here."
"But," protested Miss Gray, "I don't understand? I always thought that leaving one's post under such circumstances meant execution."
The Chief Consul nodded. "It does, usually. But this was a freak case. It would take hours to explain. However, I'll just sum it up in one word: politics. Politics, with which Rat had no connection saved him."
The girl shook her head, more in sympathy than condemnation.
"Are you expecting the others in soon?" she asked. "It wouldn't be right to leave Peterson."
"They will be in, in a day or two. Peterson will beat it over to Base station for repairs, and to notify Earth we're coming. He'll be all right."
Abruptly she stood up. "Goodnight gentlemen. Call me if I'm needed."
Roberds nodded acknowledgement. The door to the side room closed behind her. Peterson hauled his chair over to the desk. He sniffed the air.
"Damned rat!" he whispered harshly. "They ought to make a law forcing him to wear dark glasses!"
Roberds smiled wearily. "His eyes do get a man, don't they?"
"I'd like to burn 'em out!" Peterson snarled.
Rat helped Greaseball fill the water tanks to capacity with fuel, checked the concentrated rations and grunted.
Greaseball looked over the interior and chuckled. "The boss said strip her, and strip her I did. All right, Rat, outside." He followed the Centaurian out, and pulled the ladder away from the lip of the lock. The two walked across the strip of sandy soil to the office building. On tiptoes, Greaseball poked his head through the door panel. "All set."
Roberds nodded at him. "Stick with it!" and jerked a thumb at Rat outside. Grease nodded understanding.
"Okay, Rat, you can go to bed now." He dropped the ladder against the wall and sat on it. "Good night." He watched Rat walk slowly away.
Swinging down the path towards his own rambling shack, Rat caught a sibilant whisper. Pausing, undecided, he heard it again.
"Here ... can you see me?" A white clad arm waved in the gloom. Rat regarded the arm in the window. Another impatient gesture, and he stepped to the sill.
"Yes?"—in the softest of whispers. The voices of the men in droning conversation drifted in. "What you want?"
Nothing but silence for a few hanging seconds, and then: "Can you pilot that ship?" Her voice was shaky.
He didn't answer, stared at her confused. He felt her fear as clearly as he detected it in her words.
"Well, can you?" she demanded.
"Damn yes!" he stated simply. "It now necessary?"
"Very! She is becoming worse. I'm afraid to wait until daylight. And ... well, we want you to pilot it! She refuses to risk Mr. Roberds' job. She favors you."
Rat stepped back, astonished. "She?"
Nurse Gray moved from the window and Rat saw the second form in the room, a slight, quiet figure on a small cot. "My patient," Nurse Gray explained. "She overheard our conversation awhile ago. Quick, please, can you?"
Rat looked at her and then at the girl on the cot. He vanished from the window. Almost immediately, he was back again.
"When?" he whispered.
"As soon as possible. Yes. Do you know...?" but he had gone again. Nurse Gray found herself addressing blackness. On the point of turning, she saw him back again.
"Blankets," he instructed. "Wrap in blankets. Cold—hot too. Wrap good!" And he was gone again. Gray blinked away the illusion he disappeared upwards.
She ran over to the girl. "Judith, if you want to back down, now is the time. He'll be back in a moment."
"No!" Judith moaned. "No!" Gray smiled in the darkness and began wrapping the blankets around her. A light tapping at the window announced the return of Rat. The nurse pushed open the window wide, saw him out there with arms upstretched.
"Grit your teeth and hold on! Here we go." She picked up the blanketed girl in both arms and walked to the window. Rat took the girl easily as she was swung out, the blackness hid them both. But he appeared again instantly.
"Better lock window," he cautioned. "Stall, if Boss call. Back soon...." and he was gone.
To Nurse Gray the fifteen minute wait seemed like hours, impatient agonizing hours of tight-lipped anxiety.
Feet first, she swung through the window, clutching a small bag in her hands. She never touched ground. Rat whispered "Hold tight!" in her ear and the wind was abruptly yanked from her! The ground fell away in a dizzy rush, unseen but felt, in the night! Her feet scraped on some projection, and she felt herself being lifted still higher. Wind returned to her throat, and she breathed again.
"I'm sorry," she managed to get out, gaspingly. "I wasn't expecting that. I had forgotten you—"
"—had wings," he finished and chuckled. "So likewise Greaseball." The pale office lights dropped away as they sped over the field. On the far horizon, a tinge of dawn crept along the uneven terrain.
"Oh, the bag!" she gasped. "I've dropped it."
He chuckled again. "Have got. You scare, I catch."
She didn't see the ship because of the wind in her eyes, but without warning she plummeted down and her feet jarred on the lip of the lock.
"Inside. No noise, no light. Easy." But in spite of his warning she tripped in the darkness. He helped her from the floor and guided her to the hammocks.
"Judith?" she asked.
"Here. Beside you, trussed up so tight I can hardly breathe."
"No talk!" Rat insisted. "Much hush-hush needed. Other girl shipshape. You make likewise." Forcibly he shoved her into a hammock. "Wrap up tight. Straps tight. When we go, we go fast. Bang!" And he left her.
"Hey! Where are you going now?"
"To get Gladney. He sick too. Hush hush!" His voice floated back.
"Where has he gone?" Judith called.
"Back for another man. Remember the two miners who found us when we crashed? The burly one fell off a rock-bank as they were bringing us in. Stove in his ribs pretty badly. The other has a broken arm ... happened once while you were out. They wouldn't let me say anything for fear of worrying you."
The girl did not answer then and a hushed expectancy fell over the ship. Somewhere aft a small motor was running. Wind whistled past the open lock.
"I've caused plenty of trouble haven't I?" she asked aloud, finally.
"This was certainly a fool stunt, and I'm guilty of a lot of fool stunts! I just didn't realize until now the why of that law."
"Don't talk so much," the nurse admonished. "A lot of people have found out the why of that law the hard way, just as you are doing, and lived to remember it. Until hospitals are built on this forlorn world, humans like you who haven't been properly conditioned will have to stay right at home."
"How about these men that live and work here?"
"They never get here until they've been through the mill first. Adenoids, appendix', all the extra parts they can get along without."
"Well," Judith said. "I've certainly learned my lesson!"
Gray didn't answer, but from out of the darkness surrounding her came a sound remarkably resembling a snort.
"Gray?" Judith asked fearfully.
"Yes?"
"Hasn't the pilot been gone an awfully long time?"
Rat himself provided the answer by alighting at the lip with a jar that shook the ship. He was breathing heavily and lugging something in his arms. The burden groaned.
"Gladney!" Nurse Gray exclaimed.
"I got." Rat confirmed. "Yes, Gladney. Damn heavy, Gladney."
"But how?" she demanded. "What of Roberds and Peterson?"
"Trick," he sniggered. "I burn down my shack. Boss run out. I run in. Very simple." He packed Gladney into the remaining hammock and snapped buckles.
"And Peterson?" she prompted.
"Oh yes. Peterson. So sorry about Peterson. Had to fan him."
" Fan him? I don't understand."
"Fan. With chair. Everything all right. I apologized." Rat finished up and was walking back to the lock. They heard a slight rustling of wings as he padded away.
He was back instantly, duplicating his feat of a short time ago. Cursing shouts were slung on the night air, and the deadly spang of bullets bounced on the hull! Some entered the lock. The Centaurian snapped it shut. Chunks of lead continued to pound the ship. Rat leaped for the pilot's chair, heavily, a wing drooping.
"You've been hurt!" Gray cried. A small panel light outlined his features. She tried to struggle up.
"Lie still! We go. Boss get wise." With lightning fingers he flicked several switches on the panel, turned to her. "Hold belly. Zoom!"
Gray folded her hands across her stomach and closed her eyes.
Rat unlocked the master level and shoved!
"Whew!" Nurse Gray came back to throbbing awareness, the all too familiar feeling of a misplaced stomach attempting to force its crowded way into her boots plaguing her. Rockets roared in the rear. She loosened a few straps and twisted over. Judith was still out, her face tensed in pain. Gray bit her lip and twisted the other way. The Centaurian was grinning at her.
"Do you always leave in a hurry?" she demanded, and instantly wished she hadn't said it. He gave no outward sign.
"Long-time sleep," he announced. "Four, five hours maybe." The chest strap was lying loose at his side.
"That long!" she was incredulous. "I'm never out more than three hours!" Unloosening more straps, she sat up, glanced at the control panel.
"Not taking time," he stated simply and pointed to a dial. Gray shook her head and looked at the others.
"That isn't doing either of them any good!"
Rat nodded unhappily. "What's her matter—?" pointing.
"Appendix. Something about this atmosphere sends it haywire. The thing itself isn't diseased, but it starts manufacturing poison. Patient dies in a week unless it is taken out."
"Don't know it," he said briefly.
"Do you mean to say you don't have an appendix?" she demanded.
Rat folded his arms and considered this. "Don't know. Maybe yes, maybe no. Where's it hurt?"
Gray pointed out the location. The Centaurian considered this further and drifted into long contemplation. Watching him, Gray remembered his eyes that night ... only last night ... in the office. Peterson had refused to meet them. After awhile Rat came out of it.
"No," he waved. "No appendix. Never nowhere appendix."
"Then Mother Nature has finally woke up!" she exclaimed. "But why do Centaurians rate it exclusively?"
Rat ignored this and asked one of her. "What you and her doing up there?" He pointed back and up, to where Mars obliterated the stars.
"You might call it a pleasure jaunt. She's only seventeen. We came over in a cruiser belonging to her father; it was rather large and easy to handle. But the cruise ended when she lost control of the ship because of an attack of space-appendicitis. The rest you know."
"So you?"
"So I'm a combination nurse, governess, guard and what have you. Or will be until we get back. After this, I'll probably be looking for work." She shivered.
"Cold?" he inquired concernedly.
"On the contrary, I'm too warm." She started to remove the blanket. Rat threw up a hand to stop her.
"Leave on! Hot out here."
"But I'm too hot now. I want to take it off!"
"No. Leave on. Wool blanket. Keep in body heat, yes. Keep out cold, yes. Keep in, keep out, likewise. See?"
Gray stared at him. "I never thought of it that way before. Why of course! If it protects from one temperature, it will protect from another. Isn't it silly of me not to know that?" Heat pressing on her face accented the fact.
"What is your name?" she asked. "Your real one I mean."
He grinned. "Big. You couldn't say it. Sound like Christmas and bottlenose together real fast. Just say Rat. Everybody does." His eyes swept the panel and flashed back to her. "Your name Gray. Have a front name?"
"Patti."
"Pretty, Patti."
"No, just Patti. Say, what's the matter with the cooling system?"
"Damn punk," he said. "This crate for surface work. No space. Cooling system groan, damn punk. Won't keep cool here."
"And ..." she followed up, "it will get warmer as we go out?"
Rat turned back to his board in a brown study and carefully ignored her. Gray grasped an inkling of what the coming week could bring.
"But how about water?" she demanded next. "Is there enough?"
He faced about. "For her—" nodding to Judith, "and him—" to Gladney,
"yes. Sparingly. Four hours every time, maybe." Back to Gray. "You, me ... twice a day. Too bad." His eyes drifted aft to the tank of water. She followed. "One tank water. All the rest fuel. Too bad, too bad. We get thirsty I think."
They did get thirsty, soon. A damnable hot thirst accented by the knowledge that water was precious, a thirst increased by a dried-up-in-the-mouth sensation. Their first drink was strangely bitter; tragically disappointing. Patti Gray suddenly swung upright in the hammock and kicked her legs. She massaged her throat with a nervous hand, wiped damp hair from about her face.
"I have to have a drink."
Rat stared at her without answer.
"I said, I have to have a drink!"
"Heard you."
"Well...?"
"Well, nothing. Stall. Keep water longer."
She swung a vicious boot and missed by inches. Rat grinned, and made his way aft, hand over hand. He treaded cautiously along the deck. "Do like this," he called over his shoulder. "Gravity punk too. Back and under, gravity." He waited until she joined him at the water tap.
They stood there glaring idiotically at each other.
She burst out laughing. "They even threw the drinking cups out!" Rat inched the handle grudgingly and she applied lips to the faucet.
"Faugh!" Gray sprang back, forgot herself and lost her balance, sat down on the deck and spat out the water. "It's hot! It tastes like hell and it's hot! It must be fuel!"
Rat applied his lips to the tap and sampled. Coming up with a mouthful he swished it around on his tongue like mouthwash. Abruptly he contrived a facial contortion between a grin and a grimace, and let some of the water trickle from the edges of his mouth. He swallowed and it cost him something.
"No. I mean yes, I think. Water, no doubt. Yes. Fuel out, water in. Swish-swush. Dammit, Greaseball forget to wash tank!"
"But what makes it so hot?" She worked her mouth to dry-rinse the taste of the fuel.
"Ship get hot. Water on sun side. H-m-m-m-m-m-m."
"H-m-m-m-m-m-m-m what?"
"Flip-flop." He could talk with his hands as well. "Hot side over like pancake." Rat hobbled over to the board and sat down. An experimental flick on a lever produced nothing. Another flick, this time followed by a quivering jar. He contemplated the panel board while fastening his belt.
"H-m-m-m-m-m-m," the lower lip protruded.
Gray protested. "Oh, stop humming and do something! That wa—" the word was queerly torn from her throat, and a scream magically filled the vacancy. Nurse Gray sat up and rubbed a painful spot that had suddenly appeared on her arm. She found her nose bleeding and another new, swelling bruise on the side of her head. Around her the place was empty. Bare.
No, not quite. A wispy something was hanging just out of sight in the corner of the eye; the water tap was now moulded upward , beads glistening on its handle. The wispy thing caught her attention again and she looked up.
Two people, tightly wrapped and bound in hammocks, were staring down at her, amazed, swinging on their stomachs. Craning further, she saw Rat. He was hanging upside down in the chair, grinning at her in reverse.
"Flip-flop," he laconically explained.
"For cripes sakes, Jehosaphat!" Gladney groaned. "Turn me over on my back! Do something!" Gray stood on tiptoes and just could pivot the hammocks on their rope-axis.
"And now, please, just how do I get into mine?" she bit at Rat.
Existence dragged. Paradoxically, time dropped away like a cloak as the sense of individual hours and minutes vanished, and into its place crept a slow-torturing substitute. As the ship revolved, monotonously, first the ceiling and then the floor took on dullish, maddening aspects, eyes ached continuously from staring at them time and again without surcease. The steady, drumming rockets crashed into the mind and the walls shrieked malevolently on the eyeballs. Dull, throbbing sameness of the poorly filtered air, a growing taint in the nostrils. Damp warm skin, reeking blankets. The taste of fuel in the mouth for refreshment. Slowly mounting mental duress. And above all the drumming of the rockets.
Once, a sudden, frightening change of pitch in the rockets and a wild, sickening lurch. Meteor rain. Maddening, plunging swings to the far right and left, made without warning. A torn lip as a sudden lurch tears the faucet from her mouth. A shattered tooth.
"Sorry!" Rat whispered.
"Shut up and drive!" she cried.
"Patti ..." Judith called out, in pain.
Peace of mind followed peace of body into a forgotten limbo of lost things, a slyly climbing madness directed at one another. Waspish words uttered in pain, fatigue and temper. Fractiousness. A hot, confined, stale hell. Sleep became a hollow mockery, as bad water and concentrated tablets brought on stomach pains to plague them. Consciousness punctured only by spasms of lethargy, shared to some extent by the invalids. Above all, crawling lassitude and incalescent tempers.
Rat watched the white, drawn face swing in the hammock beside him. And his hands never faltered on the controls.
Never a slackening of the terrific pace; abnormal speed, gruelling drive ... drive ... drive. Fear. Tantalizing fear made worse because Rat couldn't understand. Smothered moaning that ate at his nerves. Grim-faced, sleep-wracked, belted to the chair, driving!
"How many days? How many days!" Gray begged of him thousands of times until the very repetition grated on her eardrums. "How many days?" His only answer was an inhuman snarl, and the cruel blazing of those inhuman eyes.
She fell face first to the floor. "I can't keep it up!" she cried. The sound of her voice rolled along the hot steel deck. "I cant! I cant!"
A double handful of tepid water was thrown in her face. "Get up!" Rat stood over her, face twisted, his body hunched. "Get up!" She stared at him, dazed. He kicked her. "Get up!" The tepid water ran off her face and far away she heard Judith calling.... She forced herself up. Rat was back in the chair.
Gladney unexpectedly exploded. He had been awake for a long time, watching Rat at the board. Wrenching loose a chest strap he attempted to sit up.
"Rat! Damn you Rat, listen to me! When're you going to start braking , Rat?"
"I hear you." He turned on Gladney with dulled eyes. "Lie down. You sick."
"I'll be damned if I'm going to lie here and let you drive us to Orion! We must be near the half-way line! When are you going to start braking?"
"Not brake," Rat answered sullenly. "No, not brake."
" Not brake? " Gladney screamed and sat bolt upright. Nurse Gray jumped for him. "Are you crazy, you skinny rat?" Gray secured a hold on his shoulders and forced him down. "You gotta brake! Don't you understand that? You have to, you vacuum-skull!" Gray was pleading with him to shut-up like a good fellow. He appealed to her. "He's gotta brake! Make him!"
"He has a good point there, Rat," she spoke up. "What about this half-way line?"
He turned to her with a weary ghost of the old smile on his face. "We passed line. Three days ago, maybe." A shrug of shoulders.
"Passed!" Gray and Gladney exclaimed in unison.
"You catch on quick," Rat nodded. "This six day, don't you know?"
Gladney sank back, exhausted. The nurse crept over to the pilot.
"Getting your figures mixed, aren't you?"
Rat shook his head and said nothing.
"But Roberds said eight days, and he—"
"—he on Mars. I here. Boss nuts, too sad. He drive, it be eight days. Now only six." He cast a glance at Judith and found her eyes closed.
"Six days, no brake. No."
"I see your point, and appreciate it," Gray cut in. "But now what? This deceleration business ... there is a whole lot I don't know, but some things I do!"
Rat refused the expected answer. "Land tonight, I think. Never been to Earth before. Somebody meet us, I think."
"You can bet your leather boots somebody will meet us!" Gladney cried. Gray turned to him. "The Chief'll have the whole planet waiting for you !" He laughed with real satisfaction. "Oh yes, Rat, they'll be somebody waiting for us all right." And then he added: "If we land."
"Oh, we land." Rat confided, glad to share a secret.
"Yeah," Gladney grated. "But in how many little pieces?"
"I've never been to Earth before. Nice, I think." Patti Gray caught something new in the tone and stared at him. Gladney must have noticed it, too.
The Centaurian moved sideways and pointed. Gray placed her eyes in the vacated position.
"Earth!" she shouted.
"Quite. Nice. Do me a favor?"
"Just name it!"
"Not drink long time. Some water?"
Gray nodded and went to the faucet. The drumming seemed remote, the tension vanished. She was an uncommonly long time in returning, at last she appeared beside him, outstretched hands dry.
"There isn't any left, Rat."
Rat batted his tired eyes expressively. "Tasted punk," he grinned at her.
She sat down on the floor suddenly and buried her face.
"Rat," she said presently, "I want to ask you something, rather personal? Your ... name. 'Rat'? Roberds told me something about your record. But ... please tell me, Rat. You didn't know the attack was coming, did you?"
He grinned again and waggled his head at her. "No. Who tell Rat?" Suddenly he was deadly serious as he spoke to her. "Rat a.w.o.l., go out to help sick man alone in desert. Rat leave post. Not time send call through. Come back with man, find horrible thing happen."
"But why didn't you explain?"
He grinned again. "Who believe? Sick man die soon after."
Gladney sat up. He had heard the conversation between the two. "You're right, Rat. No one would have believed you then, and no one will now. You've been safe enough on Mars, but the police will nab you as soon as you get out of the ship."
"They can't!" cried Patti Gray. "They can't hurt him after what he's done now."
The Centaurian grinned in a cynical way.
"Police not get me, Gladney. Gladney's memory damn punk, I think. Earth pretty nice place, maybe. But not for Rat."
Gladney stared at him for minutes. Then: "Say, I get it ... you're—"
"Shut up!" Rat cut him off sharply. "You talk too much." He cast a glance at Nurse Gray and then threw a meaning look at Gladney.
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What are Professor Venetti’s inventions and what do they do?
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After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about The Expendables by Jim Harmon.
Relevant chunks:
THE EXPENDABLES
BY JIM HARMON
It was just a little black box, useful for getting rid of things. Trouble was, it worked too well!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
"You see my problem, Professor?" Tony Carmen held his pinkly manicured, flashily ringed hands wide.
I saw his problem and it was warmly embarrassing.
"Really, Mr. Carmen," I said, "this isn't the sort of thing you discuss with a total stranger. I'm not a doctor—not of medicine, anyway—or a lawyer."
"They can't help me. I need an operator in your line."
"I work for the United States government. I can't become involved in anything illegal."
Carmen smoothed down the front of his too-tight midnight blue suit and touched the diamond sticking in his silver tie. "You can't, Professor Venetti? Ever hear of the Mafia?"
"I've heard of it," I said uneasily. "An old fraternal organization something like the Moose or Rosicrucians, founded in Sicily. It allegedly controls organized crime in the U.S. But that is a responsibility-eluding myth that honest Italian-Americans are stamping out. We don't even like to see the word in print."
"I can understand honest Italian-Americans feeling that way. But guys like me know the Mafia is still with it. We can put the squeeze on marks like you pretty easy."
You don't have to tell even a third generation American about the Mafia. Maybe that was the trouble. I had heard too much and for too long. All the stories I had ever heard about the Mafia, true or false, built up an unendurable threat.
"All right, I'll try to help you, Carmen. But ... that is, you didn't kill any of these people?"
He snorted. "I haven't killed anybody since early 1943."
"Please," I said weakly. "You needn't incriminate yourself with me."
"I was in the Marines," Carmen said hotly. "Listen, Professor, these aren't no Prohibition times. Not many people get made for a hit these days. Mother, most of these bodies they keep ditching at my club haven't been murdered by anybody. They're accident victims. Rumbums with too much anti-freeze for a summer's day, Spanish-American War vets going to visit Teddy in the natural course of events. Harry Keno just stows them at my place to embarrass me. Figures to make me lose my liquor license or take a contempt before the Grand Jury."
"I don't suppose you could just go to the police—" I saw the answer in his eyes. "No. I don't suppose you could."
"I told you once, Professor, but I'll tell you again. I have to get rid of these bodies they keep leaving in my kitchen. I can take 'em and throw them in the river, sure. But what if me or my boys are stopped en route by some tipped badge?"
"Quicklime?" I suggested automatically.
"What are you talking about? Are you sure you're some kind of scientist? Lime doesn't do much to a stiff at all. Kind of putrifies them like...."
"I forgot," I admitted. "I'd read it in so many stories I'd forgotten it wouldn't work. And I suppose the furnace leaves ashes and there's always traces of hair and teeth in the garbage disposal... An interesting problem, at that."
"I figured you could handle it," Carmen said, leaning back comfortably in the favorite chair of my bachelor apartment. "I heard you were working on something to get rid of trash for the government."
"That," I told him, "is restricted information. I subcontracted that work from the big telephone laboratories. How did you find it out?"
"Ways, Professor, ways."
The government did want me to find a way to dispose of wastes—radioactive wastes. It was the most important problem any country could have in this time of growing atomic industry. Now a small-time gangster was asking me to use this research to help him dispose of hot corpses. It made my scientific blood seethe. But the shadow of the Black Hand cooled it off.
"Maybe I can find something in that area of research to help you," I said. "I'll call you."
"Don't take too long, Professor," Carmen said cordially.
The big drum topped with a metallic coolie's hat had started out as a neutralizer for radioactivity. Now I didn't know what to call it.
The AEC had found burying canisters of hot rubbish in the desert or in the Gulf had eventually proved unsatisfactory. Earth tremors or changes of temperature split the tanks in the ground, causing leaks. The undersea containers rusted and corroded through the time, poisoning fish and fishermen.
Through the SBA I had been awarded a subcontract to work on the problem. The ideal solution would be to find a way to neutralize radioactive emanations, alpha, beta, X et cetera. (No, my dear, et cetera rays aren't any more dangerous than the rest.) But this is easier written than done.
Of course, getting energy to destroy energy without producing energy or matter is a violation of the maxim of the conservation of energy. But I didn't let that stop me—any more than I would have let the velocity of light put any limitations on a spacecraft engine had I been engaged to work on one. You can't allow other people's ideas to tie you hand and foot. There are some who tell me, however, that my refusal to honor such time-tested cliches is why I only have a small private laboratory owned by myself, my late wife's father and the bank, instead of working in the vast facilities of Bell, Du Pont, or General Motors. To this, I can only smile and nod.
But even refusing to be balked by conservative ideas, I failed.
I could not neutralize radioactivity. All I had been able to do (by a basic disturbance in the electromagnetogravitational co-ordinant system for Earth-Sun) was to reduce the mass of the radioactive matter.
This only concentrated the radiations, as in boiling contaminated water. It did make the hot stuff vaguely easier to handle, but it was no breakthrough on the central problem.
Now, in the middle of this, I was supposed to find a way to get rid of some damned bodies for Carmen.
Pressed for time and knowing the results wouldn't have to be so precise or carefully defined for a racketeer as for the United States government, I began experimenting.
I cut corners.
I bypassed complete safety circuits.
I put dangerous overloads on some transformers and doodled with the wiring diagrams. If I got some kind of passable incinerator I would be happy.
I turned the machine on.
The lights popped out.
There were changes that should be made before I tried that again, but instead I only found a larger fuse for a heavier load and jammed that in the switchbox.
I flipped my machine into service once again. The lights flickered and held.
The dials on my control board told me the story. It was hard to take.
But there it was.
The internal Scale showed zero.
I had had a slightly hot bar of silver alloy inside. It was completely gone. Mass zero. The temperature gauge showed that there had been no change in centigrade reading that couldn't be explained by the mechanical operation of the machine itself. There had been no sudden discharge of electricity or radioactivity. I checked for a standard anti-gravity effect but there was none. Gravity inside the cylinder had gone to zero but never to minus.
I was at last violating conservation of energy—not by successfully inverting the cube of the ionization factor, but by destroying mass ... by simply making it cease to exist with no cause-and-effect side effects.
I knew the government wouldn't be interested, since I couldn't explain how my device worked. No amount of successful demonstration could ever convince anybody with any scientific training that it actually did work.
But I shrewdly judged that Tony Carmen wouldn't ask an embarrassing
"how" when he was incapable of understanding the explanation.
"Yeah, but how does it work?" Tony Carmen demanded of me, sleeking his mirror-black hair and staring up at the disk-topped drum.
"Why do you care?" I asked irritably. "It will dispose of your bodies for you."
"I got a reason that goes beyond the stiff, but let's stick to that just for now. Where are these bodies going? I don't want them winding up in the D.A.'s bathtub."
"Why not? How could they trace them back to you?"
"You're the scientist," Tony said hotly. "I got great respect for those crime lab boys. Maybe the stiff got some of my exclusive brand of talc on it, I don't know."
"Listen here, Carmen," I said, "what makes you think these bodies are going somewhere? Think of it only as a kind of—incinerator."
"Not on your life, Professor. The gadget don't get hot so how can it burn? It don't use enough electricity to fry. It don't cut 'em up or crush 'em down, or dissolve them in acid. I've seen disappearing cabinets before."
Mafia or not, I saw red. "Are you daring to suggest that I am working some trick with trap doors or sliding panels?"
"Easy, Professor," Carmen said, effortlessly shoving me back with one palm. "I'm not saying you have the machine rigged. It's just that you have to be dropping the stuff through a sliding panel in—well, everything around us. You're sliding all that aside and dropping things through. But I want to know where they wind up. Reasonable?"
Carmen was an uneducated lout and a criminal but he had an instinctive feel for the mechanics of physics.
"I don't know where the stuff goes, Carmen," I finally admitted. "It might go into another plane of existence. 'Another dimension' the writers for the American Weekly would describe it. Or into our past, or our future."
The swarthy racketeer pursed his lips and apparently did some rapid calculation.
"I don't mind the first two, but I don't like them going into the future. If they do that, they may show up again in six months."
"Or six million years."
"You'll have to cut that future part out, Professor."
I was beginning to get a trifle impatient. All those folk tales I had heard about the Mafia were getting more distant. "See here, Carmen, I could lie to you and say they went into the prehistoric past and you would never know the difference. But the truth is, I just don't know where the processed material goes. There's a chance it may go into the future, yes. But unless it goes exactly one year or exactly so many years it would appear in empty space ... because the earth will have moved from the spot it was transmitted. I don't know for sure. Perhaps the slight Deneb-ward movement of the Solar System would wreck a perfect three-point landing even then and cause the dispatched materials to burn up from atmospheric friction, like meteors. You will just have to take a chance on the future. That's the best I can do."
Carmen inhaled deeply. "Okay. I'll risk it. Pretty long odds against any squeal on the play. How many of these things can you turn out, Professor?"
"I can construct a duplicate of this device so that you may destroy the unwanted corpses that you would have me believe are delivered to you with the regularity of the morning milk run."
The racketeer waved that suggestion aside. "I'm talking about a big operation, Venetti. These things can take the place of incinerators, garbage disposals, waste baskets...."
"Impractical," I snorted. "You don't realize the tremendous amount of electrical power these devices require...."
"Nuts! From what you said, the machine is like a TV set; it takes a lot of power to get it started, but then on it coasts on its own generators."
"There's something to what you say," I admitted in the face of his unexpected information. "But I can hardly turn my invention over to your entirely persuasive salesmen, I'm sure. This is part of the results of an investigation for the government. Washington will have to decide what to do with the machine."
"Listen, Professor," Carmen began, "the Mafia—"
"What makes you think I'm any more afraid of the Mafia than I am of the F.B.I.? I may have already sealed my fate by letting you in on this much. Machinegunning is hardly a less attractive fate to me than a poor security rating. To me, being dead professionally would be as bad as being dead biologically."
Tony Carmen laid a heavy hand on my shoulder. I finally deduced he intended to be cordial.
"Of course," he said smoothly "you have to give this to Washington but there are ways , Professor. I know. I'm a business man—"
"You are ?" I said.
He named some of the businesses in which he held large shares of stock.
"You are ."
"I've had experience in this sort of thing. We simply leak the information to a few hundred well selected persons about all that your machine can do. We'll call 'em Expendables, because they can expend anything."
"I," I interjected, "planned to call it the Venetti Machine."
"Professor, who calls the radio the Marconi these days?"
"There are Geiger-Muller Counters, though," I said.
"You don't have to give a Geiger counter the sex appeal of a TV set or a hardtop convertible. We'll call them Expendables. No home will be complete without one."
"Perfect for disposing of unwanted bodies," I mused. "The murder rate will go alarmingly with those devices within easy reach."
"Did that stop Sam Colt or Henry Ford?" Tony Carmen asked reasonably....
Naturally, I was aware that the government would not be interested in my machine. I am not a Fortean, a psychic, a psionicist or a screwball. But the government frequently gets things it doesn't know what to do with—like airplanes in the 'twenties. When it doesn't know what to do, it doesn't do it.
There have been hundreds of workable perpetual motion machines patented, for example. Of course, they weren't vices in the strictest sense of the word. Many of them used the external power of gravity, they would wear out or slow down in time from friction, but for the meanwhile, for some ten to two hundred years they would just sit there, moving. No one had ever been able to figure out what to do with them.
I knew the AEC wasn't going to dump tons of radioactive waste (with some possible future reclaimation value) into a machine which they didn't believe actually could work.
Tony Carmen knew exactly what to do with an Expendable once he got his hands on it.
Naturally, that was what I had been afraid of.
The closed sedan was warm, even in early December.
Outside, the street was a progression of shadowed block forms. I was shivering slightly, my teeth rattling like the porcelain they were. Was this the storied "ride," I wondered?
Carmen finally returned to the car, unlatched the door and slid in. He did not reinsert the ignition key. I did not feel like sprinting down the deserted street.
"The boys will have it set up in a minute," Tony the racketeer informed me.
"What?" The firing squad?
"The Expendable, of course."
"Here? You dragged me out here to see how you have prostituted my invention? I presume you've set it up with a 'Keep Our City Clean' sign pasted on it."
He chuckled. It was a somewhat nasty sound, or so I imagined.
A flashlight winked in the sooty twilight.
"Okay. Let's go," Tony said, slapping my shoulder.
I got out of the car, rubbing my flabby bicep. Whenever I took my teen-age daughter to the beach from my late wife's parents' home, I frequently found 230 pound bullies did kick sand in my ears.
The machine was installed on the corner, half covered with a gloomy white shroud, and fearlessly plugged into the city lighting system via a blanketed streetlamp. Two hoods hovered in a doorway ready to take care of the first cop with a couple of fifties or a single .38, as necessity dictated.
Tony guided my elbow. "Okay, Professor, I think I understand the bit now, but I'll let you run it up with the flagpole for me, to see how it waves to the national anthem."
"Here?" I spluttered once more. "I told you, Carmen, I wanted nothing more to do with you. Your check is still on deposit...."
"You didn't want anything to do with me in the first place." The thug's teeth flashed in the night. "Throw your contraption into gear, buddy."
That was the first time the tone of respect, even if faked, had gone out of his voice. I moved to the switchboard of my invention. What remained was as simple as adjusting a modern floor lamp to a medium light position. I flipped.
Restraining any impulse toward colloqualism, I was also deeply disturbed by what next occurred.
One of the massive square shapes on the horizon vanished.
"What have you done?" I yelped, ripping the cover off the machine.
Even under the uncertain illumination of the smogged stars I could see that the unit was half gone—in fact, exactly halved.
"Squint the Seal is one of my boys. He used to be a mechanic in the old days for Burger, Madle, the guys who used to rob banks and stuff." There was an unmistakable note of boyish admiration in Carmen's voice.
"He figured the thing would work like that. Separate the poles and you increase the size of the working area."
"You mean square the operational field. Your idiot doesn't even know mechanics."
"No, but he knows all about how any kind of machine works."
"You call that working?" I demanded. "Do you realize what you have there, Carmen?"
"Sure. A disintegrator ray, straight out of Startling Stories ."
My opinion as to the type of person who followed the pages of science-fiction magazines with fluttering lips and tracing finger was upheld.
I looked at the old warehouse and of course didn't see it.
"What was this a test for?" I asked, fearful of the Frankenstein I had made. "What are you planning to do now?"
"This was no test, Venetti. This was it. I just wiped out Harry Keno and his intimates right in the middle of their confidential squat."
"Good heavens. That's uncouthly old-fashioned of you, Carmen! Why, that's murder ."
"Not," Carmen said, "without no corpus delecti ."
"The body of the crime remains without the body of the victim," I remembered from my early Ellery Queen training.
"You're talking too much, Professor," Tony suggested. "Remember, you did it with your machine."
"Yes," I said at length. "And why are we standing here letting those machines sit there?"
There were two small items of interest to me in the Times the following morning.
One two-inch story—barely making page one because of a hole to fill at the bottom of an account of the number of victims of Indian summer heat prostration—told of the incineration of a warehouse on Fleet Street by an ingenious new arson bomb that left "virtually" no trace. (Maybe the fire inspector had planted a few traces to make his explanation more creditable.)
The second item was further over in a science column just off the editorial page. It told of the government—!—developing a new process of waste disposal rivaling the old Buck Rogers disintegrator ray.
This, I presumed, was one of Tony Carmen's information leaks.
If he hoped to arouse the public into demanding my invention I doubted he would succeed. The public had been told repeatedly of a new radioactive process for preserving food and a painless way of spraying injections through the skin. But they were still stuck with refrigerators and hypodermic needles.
I had forced my way half-way through the paper and the terrible coffee I made when the doorbell rang.
I was hardly surprised when it turned out to be Tony Carmen behind the front door.
He pushed in, slapping a rolled newspaper in his palm. "Action, Professor."
"The district attorney has indicted you?" I asked hopefully.
"He's not even indicted you , Venetti. No, I got a feeler on this plant in the Times ."
I shook my head. "The government will take over the invention, no matter what the public wants."
"The public? Who cares about the public? The Arcivox corporation wants this machine of yours. They have their agents tracing the plant now. They will go from the columnist to his legman to my man and finally to you. Won't be long before they get here. An hour maybe."
"Arcivox makes radios and TV sets. What do they want with the Expendables?"
"Opening up a new appliance line with real innovations. I hear they got a new refrigerator. All open. Just shelves—no doors or sides. They want a revolutionary garbage disposal too."
"Do you own stock in the company? Is that how you know?"
"I own stock in a competitor. That's how I know," Carmen informed me.
"Listen, Professor, you can sell to Arcivox and still keep control of the patents through a separate corporation. And I'll give you 49% of its stock."
This was Carmen's idea of a magnanimous offer for my invention. It was a pretty good offer—49% and my good health.
"But will the government let Arcivox have the machine for commercial use?"
"The government would let Arcivox have the hydrogen bomb if they found a commercial use for it."
There was a sturdy knock on the door, not a shrill ring of the bell.
"That must be Arcivox now," Carmen growled. "They have the best detectives in the business. You know what to tell them?"
I knew what to tell them.
I peeled off my wet shirt and threw it across the corner of my desk, casting a reproving eye at the pastel air-conditioner in the window. It wasn't really the machine's fault—The water department reported the reservoir too low to run water-cooled systems. It would be a day or two before I could get the gas type into my office.
Miss Brown, my secretary, was getting a good look at my pale, bony chest. Well, for the salary she got, she could stand to look. Of course, she herself was wearing a modest one-strap sun dress, not shorts and halters like some of the girls.
"My," she observed "it certainly is humid for March, isn't it, Professor Venetti?"
I agreed that it was.
She got her pad and pencil ready.
"Wheedling form letter to Better Mousetraps. Where are our royalties for the last quarter of the year? We know we didn't have a full three months with our Expendable Field in operation on the new traps, but we want the payola for what we have coming.
"Condescending form letter to Humane Lethal Equipment. Absolutely do not send the California penal system any chambers equipped with our patented field until legislature officially approves them. We got away with it in New Mexico, but we're older and wiser now.
"Rush priority telegram to President, United States, any time in the next ten days. Thanks for citation, et cetera. Glad buddy system working out well in training battlefield disintegrator teams.
"Indignant form letter to Arcivox. We do not feel we are properly a co-respondent in your damage suits. Small children and appliances have always been a problem, viz ice boxes and refrigerators. Suggest you put a more complicated latch on the handles of the dangerously inferior doors you have covering our efficient, patented field."
I leaned back and took a breather. There was no getting around it—I just wasn't happy as a business man. I had been counting on being only a figurehead in the Expendable Patent Holding Corporation, but Tony Carmen didn't like office work. And he hadn't anyone he trusted any more than me. Even.
I jerked open a drawer and pulled off a paper towel from the roll I had stolen in the men's room. Scrubbing my chest and neck with it, I smoothed it out and dropped it into the wastebasket. It slid down the tapering sides and through the narrow slot above the Expendable Field. I had redesigned the wastebaskets after a janitor had stepped in one. But Gimpy was happy now, with the $50,000 we paid him.
I opened my mouth and Miss Brown's pencil perked up its eraser, reflecting her fierce alertness.
Tony Carmen banged open the door, and I closed my mouth.
"G-men on the way here," he blurted and collapsed into a chair opposite Miss Brown.
"Don't revert to type," I warned him. "What kind of G-Men? FBI? FCC? CIA? FDA? USTD?"
"Investigators for the Atomic Energy Commission."
The solemn, conservatively dressed young man in the door touched the edge of his snap-brim hat as he said it.
"Miss Brown, would you mind letting our visitor use your chair?" I asked.
"Not at all, sir," she said dreamily.
"May I suggest," I said, "that we might get more business done if you then removed yourself from the chair first."
Miss Brown leaped to her feet with a healthy galvanic response and quit the vicinity with her usual efficiency.
Once seated, the AEC man said "I'll get right to the point. You may find this troublesome, gentlemen, but your government intends to confiscate all of the devices using your so-called Expendable field, and forever bar their manufacture in this country or their importation."
"You stinking G-men aren't getting away with this," Carmen said ingratiatingly. "Ever hear of the Mafia?"
"Not much," the young man admitted earnestly, "since the FBI finished with its deportations a few years back."
I cleared my throat. "I must admit that the destruction of a multi-billion business is disconcerting before lunch. May we ask why you took this step?"
The agent inserted a finger between his collar and tie. "Have you noticed how unseasonably warm it is?"
"I wondered if you had. You're going to have heat prostration if you keep that suit coat on five minutes more."
The young man collapsed back in his chair, loosening the top button of his ivy league jacket, looking from my naked hide to the gossomer scrap of sport shirt Carmen wore. "We have to dress inconspicuously in the service," he panted weakly.
I nodded understandingly. "What does the heat have to do with the outlawing of the Expendables?"
"At first we thought there might be some truth in the folk nonsense that nuclear tests had something to do with raising the mean temperature of the world," the AEC man said. "But our scientists quickly found they weren't to blame."
"Clever of them."
"Yes, they saw that the widespread use of your machines was responsible for the higher temperature. Your device violates the law of conservation of energy, seemingly . It seemingly destroys matter without creating energy. Actually—"
He paused dramatically.
"Actually, your device added the energy it created in destroying matter to the energy potential of the planet in the form of heat . You see what that means? If your devices continue in operation, the mean temperature of Earth will rise to the point where we burst into flame. They must be outlawed!"
"I agree," I said reluctantly.
Tony Carmen spoke up. "No, you don't, Professor. We don't agree to that."
I waved his protests aside.
"I would agree," I said, "except that it wouldn't work. Explain the danger to the public, let them feel the heat rise themselves, and they will hoard Expendables against seizure and continue to use them, until we do burst into flame, as you put it so religiously."
"Why?" the young man demanded.
"Because Expendables are convenient. There is a ban on frivolous use of water due to the dire need. But the police still have to go stop people from watering lawns, and I suspect not a few swimming pools are being filled on the sly. Water is somebody else's worry. So will be generating enough heat to turn Eden into Hell."
"Mass psychology isn't my strongest point," the young man said worriedly. "But I suspect you may be right. Then—we'll be damned?"
"No, not necessarily," I told him comfortingly. "All we have to do is use up the excess energy with engines of a specific design."
"But can we design those engines in time?" the young man wondered with uncharacteristic gloom.
"Certainly," I said, practising the power of positive thinking. "Now that your world-wide testing laboratories have confirmed a vague fear of mine, I can easily reverse the field of the Expendable device and create a rather low-efficiency engine that consumes the excess energy in our planetary potential."
The agent of the AEC whose name I can never remember was present along
with Tony Carmen the night my assistants finished with the work I had
outlined.
While it was midnight outside, the fluorescents made the scene more
visible than sunlight. My Disexpendable was a medium-sized drum in a
tripod frame with an unturned coolie's hat at the bottom.
Breathlessly, I closed the switch and the scooped disc began slowly to
revolve.
"Is it my imagination," the agent asked, "or is it getting cooler in
here?"
"Professor." Carmen gave me a warning nudge.
There was now something on the revolving disc. It was a bar of some
shiny gray metal.
"Kill the power, Professor," Carmen said.
"Can it be," I wondered, "that the machine is somehow recreating or
drawing back the processed material from some other time or dimension?"
"Shut the thing off, Venetti!" the racketeer demanded.
But too late.
There was now a somewhat dead man sitting in the saddle of the turning
circle of metal.
If Harry Keno had only been sane when he turned up on that
merry-go-round in Boston I feel we would have learned much of immense
value on the nature of time and space.
As it is, I feel that it is a miscarriage of justice to hold me in
connection with the murders I am sure Tony Carmen did commit.
I hope this personal account when published will end the vicious
story supported by the district attorney that it was I who sought Tony
Carmen out and offered to dispose of his enemies and that I sought his
financial backing for the exploitation of my invention.
This is the true, and only true, account of the development of the
machine known as the Expendable.
I am only sorry, now that the temperature has been standardized once
more, that the Expendable's antithesis, the Disexpendable, is of too
low an order of efficiency to be of much value as a power source in
these days of nuclear and solar energy. So the world is again stuck
with the problem of waste disposal ... including all that I dumped
before. But as a great American once said, you can't win 'em all.
If you so desire, you may send your generous and fruitful letters
towards my upcoming defense in care of this civic-minded publication.
Question:
What are Professor Venetti’s inventions and what do they do?
Answer:
|
[
"Professor Venetti’s inventions are the Expendables which can decompose anything into nothingness without apparent side effects. It is first shown to violate the energy conservation rule when Professor Venetti finds it produces nothing after the decomposition, and he does not know where the decomposed particles go. However, later in the story, it is revealed by an investigator of the Atomic Energy Commission that the energy transformed from mass through the machine turns into heat, resulting in the rising global temperature. The other device he creates is Disexpendable, the reverse version of the Expendable. It is a medium-sized drum in a frame with an unturned coolie’s hat at the bottom. Disexpendable has a low-efficiency engine, and it can consume excess energy produced by the Expendable and lower the temperature. Consuming the excess energy also makes the once-decomposed mass back together again, such as the corpse.",
"Professor Venetti’s first invention is called an Expandable. Initially, it’s believed to be able to destroy any physical object without any energy traces. But later the characters learn that the energy of all the waste has been turning into heat, increasing the mean temperature on Earth. This invention almost could lead to climate catastrophe. The second invention is called the Disexpendable - it is an engine that uses excess heat energy. It can be created by reversing the field of the first mechanism. It can draw back the processed material or people, as we see when the body of Harry Keno, who vanished months ago, together with his warehouse, appears on the revolving disk of the engine. ",
"Professor Venetti worked for the U.S. government in order to make a device that could get rid of radioactive waste. The device that he created is called an expendable, and it is a box that gets rid of anything that is put in it without any trace. The inventions allow for an increased convenience for consumers who need to get rid of things. At first, the inventions were thought to have no environmental impact, but it is revealed that they had a lot of impact on global warming, as it released energy as heat energy. ",
"Professor Venetti is working on a secret project with the government to create an innovation that would potentially be able to get rid of radioactive wastes. The problem that Venetti is faced with is that getting an energy to destroy another energy without creating new energy actually violates the law of conservation of energy. Nevertheless, Venetti tries to challenge this law. Venetti has yet to succeed in finding such an invention because this requires a neutralization of the radioactive emanations while he has only been able to reduce the radioactive mass. Ultimately, motivated by Venetti’s agreement, he finds a way to make trash disappear but by completely destroying its mass. Together with Carmen, they call this machine the “Expendable.” The only issue is that Venetti does not actually know where the disappeared mass goes. Later, this invention causes issues as by violating the law of conservation of energy, it raises the Earth’s temperature. To fix this, Venetti comes up with another invention, the “Disexpendable,” which would do the opposite effect, consuming the excess energy. He is able to restore the cool temperature back but as a result, this unfortunately brings back all radioactive wastes that were removed by the “Expendables” too.\n"
] |
61171
|
THE EXPENDABLES
BY JIM HARMON
It was just a little black box, useful for getting rid of things. Trouble was, it worked too well!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
"You see my problem, Professor?" Tony Carmen held his pinkly manicured, flashily ringed hands wide.
I saw his problem and it was warmly embarrassing.
"Really, Mr. Carmen," I said, "this isn't the sort of thing you discuss with a total stranger. I'm not a doctor—not of medicine, anyway—or a lawyer."
"They can't help me. I need an operator in your line."
"I work for the United States government. I can't become involved in anything illegal."
Carmen smoothed down the front of his too-tight midnight blue suit and touched the diamond sticking in his silver tie. "You can't, Professor Venetti? Ever hear of the Mafia?"
"I've heard of it," I said uneasily. "An old fraternal organization something like the Moose or Rosicrucians, founded in Sicily. It allegedly controls organized crime in the U.S. But that is a responsibility-eluding myth that honest Italian-Americans are stamping out. We don't even like to see the word in print."
"I can understand honest Italian-Americans feeling that way. But guys like me know the Mafia is still with it. We can put the squeeze on marks like you pretty easy."
You don't have to tell even a third generation American about the Mafia. Maybe that was the trouble. I had heard too much and for too long. All the stories I had ever heard about the Mafia, true or false, built up an unendurable threat.
"All right, I'll try to help you, Carmen. But ... that is, you didn't kill any of these people?"
He snorted. "I haven't killed anybody since early 1943."
"Please," I said weakly. "You needn't incriminate yourself with me."
"I was in the Marines," Carmen said hotly. "Listen, Professor, these aren't no Prohibition times. Not many people get made for a hit these days. Mother, most of these bodies they keep ditching at my club haven't been murdered by anybody. They're accident victims. Rumbums with too much anti-freeze for a summer's day, Spanish-American War vets going to visit Teddy in the natural course of events. Harry Keno just stows them at my place to embarrass me. Figures to make me lose my liquor license or take a contempt before the Grand Jury."
"I don't suppose you could just go to the police—" I saw the answer in his eyes. "No. I don't suppose you could."
"I told you once, Professor, but I'll tell you again. I have to get rid of these bodies they keep leaving in my kitchen. I can take 'em and throw them in the river, sure. But what if me or my boys are stopped en route by some tipped badge?"
"Quicklime?" I suggested automatically.
"What are you talking about? Are you sure you're some kind of scientist? Lime doesn't do much to a stiff at all. Kind of putrifies them like...."
"I forgot," I admitted. "I'd read it in so many stories I'd forgotten it wouldn't work. And I suppose the furnace leaves ashes and there's always traces of hair and teeth in the garbage disposal... An interesting problem, at that."
"I figured you could handle it," Carmen said, leaning back comfortably in the favorite chair of my bachelor apartment. "I heard you were working on something to get rid of trash for the government."
"That," I told him, "is restricted information. I subcontracted that work from the big telephone laboratories. How did you find it out?"
"Ways, Professor, ways."
The government did want me to find a way to dispose of wastes—radioactive wastes. It was the most important problem any country could have in this time of growing atomic industry. Now a small-time gangster was asking me to use this research to help him dispose of hot corpses. It made my scientific blood seethe. But the shadow of the Black Hand cooled it off.
"Maybe I can find something in that area of research to help you," I said. "I'll call you."
"Don't take too long, Professor," Carmen said cordially.
The big drum topped with a metallic coolie's hat had started out as a neutralizer for radioactivity. Now I didn't know what to call it.
The AEC had found burying canisters of hot rubbish in the desert or in the Gulf had eventually proved unsatisfactory. Earth tremors or changes of temperature split the tanks in the ground, causing leaks. The undersea containers rusted and corroded through the time, poisoning fish and fishermen.
Through the SBA I had been awarded a subcontract to work on the problem. The ideal solution would be to find a way to neutralize radioactive emanations, alpha, beta, X et cetera. (No, my dear, et cetera rays aren't any more dangerous than the rest.) But this is easier written than done.
Of course, getting energy to destroy energy without producing energy or matter is a violation of the maxim of the conservation of energy. But I didn't let that stop me—any more than I would have let the velocity of light put any limitations on a spacecraft engine had I been engaged to work on one. You can't allow other people's ideas to tie you hand and foot. There are some who tell me, however, that my refusal to honor such time-tested cliches is why I only have a small private laboratory owned by myself, my late wife's father and the bank, instead of working in the vast facilities of Bell, Du Pont, or General Motors. To this, I can only smile and nod.
But even refusing to be balked by conservative ideas, I failed.
I could not neutralize radioactivity. All I had been able to do (by a basic disturbance in the electromagnetogravitational co-ordinant system for Earth-Sun) was to reduce the mass of the radioactive matter.
This only concentrated the radiations, as in boiling contaminated water. It did make the hot stuff vaguely easier to handle, but it was no breakthrough on the central problem.
Now, in the middle of this, I was supposed to find a way to get rid of some damned bodies for Carmen.
Pressed for time and knowing the results wouldn't have to be so precise or carefully defined for a racketeer as for the United States government, I began experimenting.
I cut corners.
I bypassed complete safety circuits.
I put dangerous overloads on some transformers and doodled with the wiring diagrams. If I got some kind of passable incinerator I would be happy.
I turned the machine on.
The lights popped out.
There were changes that should be made before I tried that again, but instead I only found a larger fuse for a heavier load and jammed that in the switchbox.
I flipped my machine into service once again. The lights flickered and held.
The dials on my control board told me the story. It was hard to take.
But there it was.
The internal Scale showed zero.
I had had a slightly hot bar of silver alloy inside. It was completely gone. Mass zero. The temperature gauge showed that there had been no change in centigrade reading that couldn't be explained by the mechanical operation of the machine itself. There had been no sudden discharge of electricity or radioactivity. I checked for a standard anti-gravity effect but there was none. Gravity inside the cylinder had gone to zero but never to minus.
I was at last violating conservation of energy—not by successfully inverting the cube of the ionization factor, but by destroying mass ... by simply making it cease to exist with no cause-and-effect side effects.
I knew the government wouldn't be interested, since I couldn't explain how my device worked. No amount of successful demonstration could ever convince anybody with any scientific training that it actually did work.
But I shrewdly judged that Tony Carmen wouldn't ask an embarrassing
"how" when he was incapable of understanding the explanation.
"Yeah, but how does it work?" Tony Carmen demanded of me, sleeking his mirror-black hair and staring up at the disk-topped drum.
"Why do you care?" I asked irritably. "It will dispose of your bodies for you."
"I got a reason that goes beyond the stiff, but let's stick to that just for now. Where are these bodies going? I don't want them winding up in the D.A.'s bathtub."
"Why not? How could they trace them back to you?"
"You're the scientist," Tony said hotly. "I got great respect for those crime lab boys. Maybe the stiff got some of my exclusive brand of talc on it, I don't know."
"Listen here, Carmen," I said, "what makes you think these bodies are going somewhere? Think of it only as a kind of—incinerator."
"Not on your life, Professor. The gadget don't get hot so how can it burn? It don't use enough electricity to fry. It don't cut 'em up or crush 'em down, or dissolve them in acid. I've seen disappearing cabinets before."
Mafia or not, I saw red. "Are you daring to suggest that I am working some trick with trap doors or sliding panels?"
"Easy, Professor," Carmen said, effortlessly shoving me back with one palm. "I'm not saying you have the machine rigged. It's just that you have to be dropping the stuff through a sliding panel in—well, everything around us. You're sliding all that aside and dropping things through. But I want to know where they wind up. Reasonable?"
Carmen was an uneducated lout and a criminal but he had an instinctive feel for the mechanics of physics.
"I don't know where the stuff goes, Carmen," I finally admitted. "It might go into another plane of existence. 'Another dimension' the writers for the American Weekly would describe it. Or into our past, or our future."
The swarthy racketeer pursed his lips and apparently did some rapid calculation.
"I don't mind the first two, but I don't like them going into the future. If they do that, they may show up again in six months."
"Or six million years."
"You'll have to cut that future part out, Professor."
I was beginning to get a trifle impatient. All those folk tales I had heard about the Mafia were getting more distant. "See here, Carmen, I could lie to you and say they went into the prehistoric past and you would never know the difference. But the truth is, I just don't know where the processed material goes. There's a chance it may go into the future, yes. But unless it goes exactly one year or exactly so many years it would appear in empty space ... because the earth will have moved from the spot it was transmitted. I don't know for sure. Perhaps the slight Deneb-ward movement of the Solar System would wreck a perfect three-point landing even then and cause the dispatched materials to burn up from atmospheric friction, like meteors. You will just have to take a chance on the future. That's the best I can do."
Carmen inhaled deeply. "Okay. I'll risk it. Pretty long odds against any squeal on the play. How many of these things can you turn out, Professor?"
"I can construct a duplicate of this device so that you may destroy the unwanted corpses that you would have me believe are delivered to you with the regularity of the morning milk run."
The racketeer waved that suggestion aside. "I'm talking about a big operation, Venetti. These things can take the place of incinerators, garbage disposals, waste baskets...."
"Impractical," I snorted. "You don't realize the tremendous amount of electrical power these devices require...."
"Nuts! From what you said, the machine is like a TV set; it takes a lot of power to get it started, but then on it coasts on its own generators."
"There's something to what you say," I admitted in the face of his unexpected information. "But I can hardly turn my invention over to your entirely persuasive salesmen, I'm sure. This is part of the results of an investigation for the government. Washington will have to decide what to do with the machine."
"Listen, Professor," Carmen began, "the Mafia—"
"What makes you think I'm any more afraid of the Mafia than I am of the F.B.I.? I may have already sealed my fate by letting you in on this much. Machinegunning is hardly a less attractive fate to me than a poor security rating. To me, being dead professionally would be as bad as being dead biologically."
Tony Carmen laid a heavy hand on my shoulder. I finally deduced he intended to be cordial.
"Of course," he said smoothly "you have to give this to Washington but there are ways , Professor. I know. I'm a business man—"
"You are ?" I said.
He named some of the businesses in which he held large shares of stock.
"You are ."
"I've had experience in this sort of thing. We simply leak the information to a few hundred well selected persons about all that your machine can do. We'll call 'em Expendables, because they can expend anything."
"I," I interjected, "planned to call it the Venetti Machine."
"Professor, who calls the radio the Marconi these days?"
"There are Geiger-Muller Counters, though," I said.
"You don't have to give a Geiger counter the sex appeal of a TV set or a hardtop convertible. We'll call them Expendables. No home will be complete without one."
"Perfect for disposing of unwanted bodies," I mused. "The murder rate will go alarmingly with those devices within easy reach."
"Did that stop Sam Colt or Henry Ford?" Tony Carmen asked reasonably....
Naturally, I was aware that the government would not be interested in my machine. I am not a Fortean, a psychic, a psionicist or a screwball. But the government frequently gets things it doesn't know what to do with—like airplanes in the 'twenties. When it doesn't know what to do, it doesn't do it.
There have been hundreds of workable perpetual motion machines patented, for example. Of course, they weren't vices in the strictest sense of the word. Many of them used the external power of gravity, they would wear out or slow down in time from friction, but for the meanwhile, for some ten to two hundred years they would just sit there, moving. No one had ever been able to figure out what to do with them.
I knew the AEC wasn't going to dump tons of radioactive waste (with some possible future reclaimation value) into a machine which they didn't believe actually could work.
Tony Carmen knew exactly what to do with an Expendable once he got his hands on it.
Naturally, that was what I had been afraid of.
The closed sedan was warm, even in early December.
Outside, the street was a progression of shadowed block forms. I was shivering slightly, my teeth rattling like the porcelain they were. Was this the storied "ride," I wondered?
Carmen finally returned to the car, unlatched the door and slid in. He did not reinsert the ignition key. I did not feel like sprinting down the deserted street.
"The boys will have it set up in a minute," Tony the racketeer informed me.
"What?" The firing squad?
"The Expendable, of course."
"Here? You dragged me out here to see how you have prostituted my invention? I presume you've set it up with a 'Keep Our City Clean' sign pasted on it."
He chuckled. It was a somewhat nasty sound, or so I imagined.
A flashlight winked in the sooty twilight.
"Okay. Let's go," Tony said, slapping my shoulder.
I got out of the car, rubbing my flabby bicep. Whenever I took my teen-age daughter to the beach from my late wife's parents' home, I frequently found 230 pound bullies did kick sand in my ears.
The machine was installed on the corner, half covered with a gloomy white shroud, and fearlessly plugged into the city lighting system via a blanketed streetlamp. Two hoods hovered in a doorway ready to take care of the first cop with a couple of fifties or a single .38, as necessity dictated.
Tony guided my elbow. "Okay, Professor, I think I understand the bit now, but I'll let you run it up with the flagpole for me, to see how it waves to the national anthem."
"Here?" I spluttered once more. "I told you, Carmen, I wanted nothing more to do with you. Your check is still on deposit...."
"You didn't want anything to do with me in the first place." The thug's teeth flashed in the night. "Throw your contraption into gear, buddy."
That was the first time the tone of respect, even if faked, had gone out of his voice. I moved to the switchboard of my invention. What remained was as simple as adjusting a modern floor lamp to a medium light position. I flipped.
Restraining any impulse toward colloqualism, I was also deeply disturbed by what next occurred.
One of the massive square shapes on the horizon vanished.
"What have you done?" I yelped, ripping the cover off the machine.
Even under the uncertain illumination of the smogged stars I could see that the unit was half gone—in fact, exactly halved.
"Squint the Seal is one of my boys. He used to be a mechanic in the old days for Burger, Madle, the guys who used to rob banks and stuff." There was an unmistakable note of boyish admiration in Carmen's voice.
"He figured the thing would work like that. Separate the poles and you increase the size of the working area."
"You mean square the operational field. Your idiot doesn't even know mechanics."
"No, but he knows all about how any kind of machine works."
"You call that working?" I demanded. "Do you realize what you have there, Carmen?"
"Sure. A disintegrator ray, straight out of Startling Stories ."
My opinion as to the type of person who followed the pages of science-fiction magazines with fluttering lips and tracing finger was upheld.
I looked at the old warehouse and of course didn't see it.
"What was this a test for?" I asked, fearful of the Frankenstein I had made. "What are you planning to do now?"
"This was no test, Venetti. This was it. I just wiped out Harry Keno and his intimates right in the middle of their confidential squat."
"Good heavens. That's uncouthly old-fashioned of you, Carmen! Why, that's murder ."
"Not," Carmen said, "without no corpus delecti ."
"The body of the crime remains without the body of the victim," I remembered from my early Ellery Queen training.
"You're talking too much, Professor," Tony suggested. "Remember, you did it with your machine."
"Yes," I said at length. "And why are we standing here letting those machines sit there?"
There were two small items of interest to me in the Times the following morning.
One two-inch story—barely making page one because of a hole to fill at the bottom of an account of the number of victims of Indian summer heat prostration—told of the incineration of a warehouse on Fleet Street by an ingenious new arson bomb that left "virtually" no trace. (Maybe the fire inspector had planted a few traces to make his explanation more creditable.)
The second item was further over in a science column just off the editorial page. It told of the government—!—developing a new process of waste disposal rivaling the old Buck Rogers disintegrator ray.
This, I presumed, was one of Tony Carmen's information leaks.
If he hoped to arouse the public into demanding my invention I doubted he would succeed. The public had been told repeatedly of a new radioactive process for preserving food and a painless way of spraying injections through the skin. But they were still stuck with refrigerators and hypodermic needles.
I had forced my way half-way through the paper and the terrible coffee I made when the doorbell rang.
I was hardly surprised when it turned out to be Tony Carmen behind the front door.
He pushed in, slapping a rolled newspaper in his palm. "Action, Professor."
"The district attorney has indicted you?" I asked hopefully.
"He's not even indicted you , Venetti. No, I got a feeler on this plant in the Times ."
I shook my head. "The government will take over the invention, no matter what the public wants."
"The public? Who cares about the public? The Arcivox corporation wants this machine of yours. They have their agents tracing the plant now. They will go from the columnist to his legman to my man and finally to you. Won't be long before they get here. An hour maybe."
"Arcivox makes radios and TV sets. What do they want with the Expendables?"
"Opening up a new appliance line with real innovations. I hear they got a new refrigerator. All open. Just shelves—no doors or sides. They want a revolutionary garbage disposal too."
"Do you own stock in the company? Is that how you know?"
"I own stock in a competitor. That's how I know," Carmen informed me.
"Listen, Professor, you can sell to Arcivox and still keep control of the patents through a separate corporation. And I'll give you 49% of its stock."
This was Carmen's idea of a magnanimous offer for my invention. It was a pretty good offer—49% and my good health.
"But will the government let Arcivox have the machine for commercial use?"
"The government would let Arcivox have the hydrogen bomb if they found a commercial use for it."
There was a sturdy knock on the door, not a shrill ring of the bell.
"That must be Arcivox now," Carmen growled. "They have the best detectives in the business. You know what to tell them?"
I knew what to tell them.
I peeled off my wet shirt and threw it across the corner of my desk, casting a reproving eye at the pastel air-conditioner in the window. It wasn't really the machine's fault—The water department reported the reservoir too low to run water-cooled systems. It would be a day or two before I could get the gas type into my office.
Miss Brown, my secretary, was getting a good look at my pale, bony chest. Well, for the salary she got, she could stand to look. Of course, she herself was wearing a modest one-strap sun dress, not shorts and halters like some of the girls.
"My," she observed "it certainly is humid for March, isn't it, Professor Venetti?"
I agreed that it was.
She got her pad and pencil ready.
"Wheedling form letter to Better Mousetraps. Where are our royalties for the last quarter of the year? We know we didn't have a full three months with our Expendable Field in operation on the new traps, but we want the payola for what we have coming.
"Condescending form letter to Humane Lethal Equipment. Absolutely do not send the California penal system any chambers equipped with our patented field until legislature officially approves them. We got away with it in New Mexico, but we're older and wiser now.
"Rush priority telegram to President, United States, any time in the next ten days. Thanks for citation, et cetera. Glad buddy system working out well in training battlefield disintegrator teams.
"Indignant form letter to Arcivox. We do not feel we are properly a co-respondent in your damage suits. Small children and appliances have always been a problem, viz ice boxes and refrigerators. Suggest you put a more complicated latch on the handles of the dangerously inferior doors you have covering our efficient, patented field."
I leaned back and took a breather. There was no getting around it—I just wasn't happy as a business man. I had been counting on being only a figurehead in the Expendable Patent Holding Corporation, but Tony Carmen didn't like office work. And he hadn't anyone he trusted any more than me. Even.
I jerked open a drawer and pulled off a paper towel from the roll I had stolen in the men's room. Scrubbing my chest and neck with it, I smoothed it out and dropped it into the wastebasket. It slid down the tapering sides and through the narrow slot above the Expendable Field. I had redesigned the wastebaskets after a janitor had stepped in one. But Gimpy was happy now, with the $50,000 we paid him.
I opened my mouth and Miss Brown's pencil perked up its eraser, reflecting her fierce alertness.
Tony Carmen banged open the door, and I closed my mouth.
"G-men on the way here," he blurted and collapsed into a chair opposite Miss Brown.
"Don't revert to type," I warned him. "What kind of G-Men? FBI? FCC? CIA? FDA? USTD?"
"Investigators for the Atomic Energy Commission."
The solemn, conservatively dressed young man in the door touched the edge of his snap-brim hat as he said it.
"Miss Brown, would you mind letting our visitor use your chair?" I asked.
"Not at all, sir," she said dreamily.
"May I suggest," I said, "that we might get more business done if you then removed yourself from the chair first."
Miss Brown leaped to her feet with a healthy galvanic response and quit the vicinity with her usual efficiency.
Once seated, the AEC man said "I'll get right to the point. You may find this troublesome, gentlemen, but your government intends to confiscate all of the devices using your so-called Expendable field, and forever bar their manufacture in this country or their importation."
"You stinking G-men aren't getting away with this," Carmen said ingratiatingly. "Ever hear of the Mafia?"
"Not much," the young man admitted earnestly, "since the FBI finished with its deportations a few years back."
I cleared my throat. "I must admit that the destruction of a multi-billion business is disconcerting before lunch. May we ask why you took this step?"
The agent inserted a finger between his collar and tie. "Have you noticed how unseasonably warm it is?"
"I wondered if you had. You're going to have heat prostration if you keep that suit coat on five minutes more."
The young man collapsed back in his chair, loosening the top button of his ivy league jacket, looking from my naked hide to the gossomer scrap of sport shirt Carmen wore. "We have to dress inconspicuously in the service," he panted weakly.
I nodded understandingly. "What does the heat have to do with the outlawing of the Expendables?"
"At first we thought there might be some truth in the folk nonsense that nuclear tests had something to do with raising the mean temperature of the world," the AEC man said. "But our scientists quickly found they weren't to blame."
"Clever of them."
"Yes, they saw that the widespread use of your machines was responsible for the higher temperature. Your device violates the law of conservation of energy, seemingly . It seemingly destroys matter without creating energy. Actually—"
He paused dramatically.
"Actually, your device added the energy it created in destroying matter to the energy potential of the planet in the form of heat . You see what that means? If your devices continue in operation, the mean temperature of Earth will rise to the point where we burst into flame. They must be outlawed!"
"I agree," I said reluctantly.
Tony Carmen spoke up. "No, you don't, Professor. We don't agree to that."
I waved his protests aside.
"I would agree," I said, "except that it wouldn't work. Explain the danger to the public, let them feel the heat rise themselves, and they will hoard Expendables against seizure and continue to use them, until we do burst into flame, as you put it so religiously."
"Why?" the young man demanded.
"Because Expendables are convenient. There is a ban on frivolous use of water due to the dire need. But the police still have to go stop people from watering lawns, and I suspect not a few swimming pools are being filled on the sly. Water is somebody else's worry. So will be generating enough heat to turn Eden into Hell."
"Mass psychology isn't my strongest point," the young man said worriedly. "But I suspect you may be right. Then—we'll be damned?"
"No, not necessarily," I told him comfortingly. "All we have to do is use up the excess energy with engines of a specific design."
"But can we design those engines in time?" the young man wondered with uncharacteristic gloom.
"Certainly," I said, practising the power of positive thinking. "Now that your world-wide testing laboratories have confirmed a vague fear of mine, I can easily reverse the field of the Expendable device and create a rather low-efficiency engine that consumes the excess energy in our planetary potential."
The agent of the AEC whose name I can never remember was present along
with Tony Carmen the night my assistants finished with the work I had
outlined.
While it was midnight outside, the fluorescents made the scene more
visible than sunlight. My Disexpendable was a medium-sized drum in a
tripod frame with an unturned coolie's hat at the bottom.
Breathlessly, I closed the switch and the scooped disc began slowly to
revolve.
"Is it my imagination," the agent asked, "or is it getting cooler in
here?"
"Professor." Carmen gave me a warning nudge.
There was now something on the revolving disc. It was a bar of some
shiny gray metal.
"Kill the power, Professor," Carmen said.
"Can it be," I wondered, "that the machine is somehow recreating or
drawing back the processed material from some other time or dimension?"
"Shut the thing off, Venetti!" the racketeer demanded.
But too late.
There was now a somewhat dead man sitting in the saddle of the turning
circle of metal.
If Harry Keno had only been sane when he turned up on that
merry-go-round in Boston I feel we would have learned much of immense
value on the nature of time and space.
As it is, I feel that it is a miscarriage of justice to hold me in
connection with the murders I am sure Tony Carmen did commit.
I hope this personal account when published will end the vicious
story supported by the district attorney that it was I who sought Tony
Carmen out and offered to dispose of his enemies and that I sought his
financial backing for the exploitation of my invention.
This is the true, and only true, account of the development of the
machine known as the Expendable.
I am only sorry, now that the temperature has been standardized once
more, that the Expendable's antithesis, the Disexpendable, is of too
low an order of efficiency to be of much value as a power source in
these days of nuclear and solar energy. So the world is again stuck
with the problem of waste disposal ... including all that I dumped
before. But as a great American once said, you can't win 'em all.
If you so desire, you may send your generous and fruitful letters
towards my upcoming defense in care of this civic-minded publication.
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What do Shano’s occupation and actions thoughts the story reveal about his traits?
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After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about Signal Red by Henry Guth.
Relevant chunks:
SIGNAL RED
By HENRY GUTH
They tried to stop him. Earth Flight 21 was a suicide run, a coffin ship, they told him. Uranian death lay athwart the space lanes. But Shano already knew this was his last ride.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Mercurian night settled black and thick over the Q City Spaceport. Tentative fingers of light flicked and probed the sky, and winked out.
"Here she comes," somebody in the line ahead said.
Shano coughed, his whole skeletal body jerking. Arthritic joints sent flashes of pain along his limbs. Here she comes, he thought, feeling neither glad nor sad.
He coughed and slipped polarized goggles over his eyes.
The spaceport emerged bathed in infra red. Hangars, cradles, freighter catapults and long runways stood out in sharp, diamond-clear detail. High up, beyond the cone of illumination, a detached triple row of bright specks—portholes of the liner Stardust —sank slowly down.
There was no eagerness in him. Only a tiredness. A relief. Relief from a lifetime of beating around the planets. A life of digging, lifting, lugging and pounding. Like a work-worn Martian camel, he was going home to die.
As though on oiled pistons the ship sank into the light, its long shark-like hull glowing soft and silvery, and settled with a feathery snuggle into the cradle's ribs.
The passenger line quivered as a loud-speaker boomed:
" Stardust, now arrived at Cradle Six! Stardust, Cradle Six! All passengers for Venus and Earth prepare to board in ten minutes. "
Shano coughed, and wiped phlegm from his thin lips, his hand following around the bony contours of his face, feeling the hollows and the beard stubble and loose skin of his neck. He coughed and thought of the vanium mines of Pluto, and his gum-clogged lungs. A vague, pressing desire for home overwhelmed him. It had been so long.
" Attention! Attention, Stardust passengers! The signal is red. The signal is red. Refunds now being made. Refunds now. Take-off in five minutes. "
The man ahead swore and flicked up an arm. "Red," he groaned. "By the infinite galaxies, this is the last straw!" He charged away, knocking Shano aside as he passed.
Red signal. In bewildered anxiety Shano lifted the goggles from his eyes and stared into the sudden blackness. The red signal. Danger out there. Passengers advised to ground themselves, or travel at their own risk.
He felt the passengers bump and fumble past him, grumbling vexatiously.
A hot dread assailed him, and he coughed, plucking at his chest. Plucking at an urgency there.
Dropping the goggles to his rheumy eyes, he saw that the passenger line had dissolved. He moved, shuffling, to the gate, thrust his ticket into the scanner slot, and pushed through the turnstile when it clicked.
" Flight twenty-one, now arriving from Venus ," the loud-speaker said monotonously. Shano glanced briefly upward and saw the gleaming belly of twenty-one sinking into the spaceport cone of light.
He clawed his way up the gangway and thrust out his ticket to the lieutenant standing alone at the air lock. The lieutenant, a sullen, chunky man with a queer nick in his jawbone, refused the ticket.
"Haven't you heard, mister? Red signal. Go on back."
Shano coughed, and peered through the lenses of his goggles. "Please," he said. "Want to go home. I've a right." The nicked jaw stirred faint memories within his glazed mind.
The lieutenant punched his ticket. "It's your funeral, old man."
The loud-speaker blared. " Stardust, taking off in thirty seconds. The signal is red. Stardust, taking— "
With the words dinning in his ears, Shano stepped into the air lock. The officer followed, spun wheels, and the lock closed. The outside was shut off.
Lifting goggles they entered the hull, through a series of two more locks, closing each behind them.
"We're afloat," the officer said. "We've taken off." A fleck of light danced far back in his eye. Shano felt the pressure of acceleration gradually increasing, increasing, and hurried in.
Captain Menthlo, a silver-mustached Jupiterian, broad, huge, yet crushable as a beetle, talked while his hands manipulated a panel of studs in the control room. The pilot, his back encased in leather, sat in a bucket seat before him, listening into earphones.
"Surprised to learn of a passenger aboard," the captain said, glancing briefly sideways. "You're entitled to know of the danger ahead." He flicked a final stud, spoke to the pilot and at last turned a serious, squared face to Shano. "Old man," he said. "There's a Uranian fleet out there. We don't know how many ships in this sector. Flight twenty-one, which just landed, had a skirmish with one, and got away. We may not be so lucky. You know how these Uranian devils are."
Shano coughed, and wiped his mouth. "Dirty devils," he said. "I was driv' off the planet once, before this war started. I know things about them Uranian devils. Heard them in the mines around. Hears things, a laborer does."
The captain seemed for the first time to realize the social status of his lone passenger, and he became a little gruff.
"Want you to sign this waiver, saying you're traveling at your own risk. We'll expect you to keep to your cabin as much as possible. When the trouble comes we can't bother with a passenger. In a few hours we'll shut down the ship entirely, and every mechanical device aboard, to try to avoid detection." His mustaches rose like two spears from each side of his squared nose as his face changed to an alert watchfulness. "Going home, eh?" he said. "You've knocked around some, by the looks of you. Pluto, from the sound of that cough."
Shano scrawled his signature on the waiver. "Yeah," he said. "Pluto. Where a man's lungs fights gas." He blinked watery eyes. "Captain, what's a notched jaw mean to you?"
"Well, old man," the captain grasped Shano's shoulder and turned him around. "It means somebody cut himself, shaving. You stick tight to your cabin." He nodded curtly and indicated the door.
Descending the companionway to the next deck Shano observed the nick-jawed lieutenant staring out the viewport, apparently idling. The man turned and gripped Shano's thin arm.
"A light?" he said, tapping a cigarette. Shano produced a lighter disk and the chunky man puffed. He was an Earthman and his jaw seemed cut with a knife, notched like a piece of wood. Across the breast of his tunic was a purple band, with the name Rourke . "Why are you so anxious to get aboard, old man?" He searched Shano's face. "There's trouble ahead, you know."
Shano coughed, wracking his body, as forgotten memories stirred sluggishly in his mind. "Yup," he said, and jerked free and stumbled down the steel deck.
In his cabin he lay on the bunk, lighted a cigarette and smoked, coughing and staring at the rivet-studded bulkhead. The slow movement of his mind resolved into a struggle, one idea groping for the other.
What were the things he'd heard about nicked jaws? And where had he heard them? Digging ore on Pluto; talk in the pits? Secretive suspicions voiced in smoke-laden saloons of Mars? In the labor gangs of Uranus? Where? Shano smoked and didn't know. But he knew there was a rumor, and that it was the talk of ignorant men. The captain had evaded it. Shano smoked and coughed and stared at the steel bulkhead and waited.
The ship's alarm clanged. Shano jerked from his bunk like a broken watch spring. He crouched, trembling, on arthritic joints, as a loud-speaker blared throughout the ship.
" All hands! We now maintain dead silence. Close down and stop all machinery. Power off and lights out. An enemy fleet is out there, listening and watching for mechanical and electronic disturbance. Atmosphere will be maintained from emergency oxygen cylinders. Stop pumps. "
Shano crouched and listened as the ship's steady drone ceased and the vibrations ceased. The pumps stopped, the lights went out.
Pressing the cold steel bulkhead, Shano heard oxygen hiss through the pipes. Hiss and hiss and then flow soundlessly, filling the cabin and his lungs. He choked.
The cabin was like a mine shaft, dark and cold. Feet pounded on the deck outside.
Shano clawed open the door. He peered out anxiously.
Cold blobs of light, phosphorescent bulbs held in the fists of men, glimmered by. Phosphorescent bulbs, because the power was off. Shano blinked. He saw officers and men, their faces tight and pinched, hurrying in all directions. Hurrying to shut down the ship.
He acted impulsively. A young ensign strode by, drawn blaster in hand. Shano followed him; followed the bluish glow of his bulb, through labyrinthine passages and down a companionway, coughing and leering against the pain in his joints. The blue light winked out in the distance and Shano stopped.
He was suddenly alarmed. The captain had warned him to stay in his cabin. He looked back and forth, wondering how to return.
A bell clanged.
Shano saw a cold bulb glowing down the passageway, and he shuffled hopefully toward it. The bulb moved away. He saw an indistinct figure disappear through a door marked, ENGINE ROOM.
Shano paused uncertainly at the end of the passageway. A thick cluster of vertical pipes filled the corner. He peered at the pipes and saw a gray box snuggled behind them. It had two toggle switches and a radium dial that quivered delicately.
Shano scratched his scalp as boots pounded on the decks, above and below. He listened attentively to the ship's familiar noises diminishing one by one. And finally even the pounding of feet died out; everything became still. The silence shrieked in his ears.
The ship coasted. Shano could sense it coasting. He couldn't feel it or hear it, but he knew it was sliding ghost-like through space like a submarine dead under water, slipping quietly past a listening enemy.
The ship's speaker rasped softly. " Emergency. Battle posts. "
The captain's voice. Calm, brief. It sent a tremor through Shano's body. He heard a quick scuffle of feet again, running feet, directly overhead, and the captain's voice, more urgently, "Power on. They've heard us."
The words carried no accusation, but Shano realized what they meant. A slip-up. Something left running. Vibrations picked up quickly by detectors of the Uranian space fleet.
Shano coughed and heard the ship come to life around him. He pulled himself out of the spasm, cursing Pluto. Cursing his diseased, gum-clogged lungs. Cursing the Uranian fleet that was trying to prevent his going home—even to die.
This was a strange battle. Strange indeed. It was mostly silence.
Occasionally, as though from another world, came a brief, curt order.
"Port guns alert." Then hush and tension.
The deck lurched and the ship swung this way and that. Maybe dodging, maybe maneuvering—Shano didn't know. He felt the deck lurch, that was all.
"Fire number seven."
He heard the weird scream of a ray gun, and felt the constricting terror that seemed to belt the ship like an iron band.
This was a battle in space, and out there were Uranian cruisers trying to blast the Stardust out of the sky. Trying and trying, while the captain dodged and fired back—pitted his skill and knowledge against an enemy Shano couldn't see.
He wanted desperately to help the captain break through, and get to Earth. But he could only cling to the plastic pipes and cough.
The ship jounced and slid beneath his feet, and was filled with sound. It rocked and rolled. Shano caromed off the bulkhead.
"Hold fire."
He crawled to his knees on the slippery deck, grabbed the pipes and pulled himself erect, hand over hand. His eyes came level with the gray metal box behind the pipes. He squinted, fascinated, at the quivering dial needle. "Hey!" he said.
"Stand by."
Shano puzzled it out, his mind groping. He wasn't used to thinking. Only working with his hands.
This box. This needle that had quivered when the ship was closed down....
"It's over. Chased them off. Ready guns before laying to. Third watch on duty."
Shano sighed at the sudden release of tension throughout the space liner Stardust .
Smoke spewed from his nostrils. His forehead wrinkled with concentration. Those rumors: "Man sells out to Uranus, gets a nick cut in his jaw. Ever see a man with a nick in his jaw? Watch him, he's up to something." The talk of ignorant men. Shano remembered.
He poked behind the pipes and angrily slapped the toggle switches on the box. The captain would only scoff. He'd never believe there was a traitor aboard who had planted an electronic signal box, giving away the ship's position. He'd never believe the babblings of an old man.
He straightened up, glaring angrily. He knew. And the knowledge made him cold and furious. He watched the engine room emergency exit as it opened cautiously.
A chunky man backed out, holstering a flat blaster. He turned and saw Shano, standing smoking. He walked over and nudged Shano, his face dark. Shano blew smoke into the dark face.
"Old man," said Rourke. "What're you doing down here?"
Shano blinked.
Rourke fingered the nick in his jaw, eyes glinting. "You're supposed to be in your cabin," he said. "Didn't I warn you we'd run into trouble?"
Shano smoked and contemplated the chunky man. Estimated his strength and youth and felt the anger and frustration mount in him. "Devil," he said.
"Devil," he said and dug his cigarette into the other's face.
He lunged then, clawing. He dug the cigarette into Rourke's flushed face, and clung to his body. Rourke howled. He fell backward to the deck, slapping at his blistered face. He thrashed around and Shano clung to him, battered, pressing the cigarette relentlessly, coughing, cursing the pain in his joints.
Shano grasped Rourke's neck with his hands. He twisted the neck with his gnarled hands. Strong hands that had worked.
He got up when Rourke stopped thrashing. The face was purple and he was dead. Shano shivered. He crouched in the passageway shivering and coughing.
A tremendous grinding sounded amid-ships. Loud rending noises of protesting metal. The ship bucked like a hooked fish. Then it was still. An empty clank echoed through the hull. The captain's voice came, almost yelling. "Emergency! Emergency! Back to your posts. Engine room—report! Engine room—"
Shano picked himself off the deck, his mind muddled. He coughed and put a cigarette to his lips, flicking a lighter disk jerkily from his pocket. He blew smoke from his nostrils and heard the renewed pounding of feet. What was going on now?
"Engine room! Your screen is dead! Switch onto loud-speaker system. Engine room!"
Giddily, Shano heard clicks and rasps and then a thick voice, atom motors whirring in the background.
"Selector's gone, sir. Direct hit. Heat ray through the deck plates. We've sealed the tear. Might repair selector in five hours."
Shano coughed and sent a burst of smoke from his mouth.
"Captain!" A rasping, grating sound ensued from a grill above Shano's head, then a disconnected voice. "Get the men out of there. It's useless. Hurry it up!" A series of clicks and the heavy voice of the chief engineer. "Captain! Somebody's smashed the selector chamber. Engine room's full of toxia gas!"
Shano jumped. He prodded the body on the deck with his toe.
The Stardust's mechanical voice bellowed: "Engine room!" It reproduced the captain's heavy breathing and his tired voice. "We're about midway to Venus," it said. "There were two ships and we drove them off. But there may be others. They'll be coming back. They know we've been hit. We have to get away fast!"
Shano could see the captain in his mind, worried, squared face slick with moisture. Shouting into a control room mike. Trying to find out what the matter was with his space ship.
The engineer's answer came from the grill. "Impossible, sir. Engine room full of toxia gas. Not a suit aboard prepared to withstand it. And we have to keep it in there. Selector filaments won't function without the gas. Our only chance was to put a man in the engine room to repair the broken selector valve rods or keep them running by hand."
"Blast it!" roared the captain. "No way of getting in there? Can't you by-pass the selector?"
"No. It's the heart of the new cosmic drive, sir. The fuels must pass through selector valves before entering the tube chambers. Filaments will operate so long as toxia gas is there to burn, and will keep trying to open the valves and compensate for fluctuating engine temperature. But the rod pins have melted down, sir—they're common tungsten steel—and when the rods pull a valve open, they slip off and drop down, useless. It's a mess. If we could only get a man in there he might lift up the dropped end of a rod and slip it into place each time it fell, and keep the valves working and feeding fuel."
The speaker spluttered and Shano smoked thoughtfully, listening to the talk back and forth, between the captain and the engineer. He didn't understand it, but knew that everything was ended. They were broken down in space and would never make Earth. Those Uranian devils would come streaking back. Catch them floating, helpless, and blast them to bits. And he would never get home to die.
Shano coughed, and cursed his lungs. Time was when these gum-clogged lungs had saved his life. In the Plutonian mines. Gas explosions in the tunnels. Toxia gas, seeping in, burning the men's insides. But with gum-clogged lungs he'd been able to work himself clear. Just getting sick where other men had died, their insides burned out.
Shano smoked and thought.
They wouldn't even know, he told himself, squirming through the emergency exit into the engine room, and sealing it after him. And they wouldn't understand if they did. Pink mist swirled about him. Toxia gas. Shano coughed.
He squinted around at the massive, incomprehensible machinery. The guts of the space ship.
Then he saw the shattered, gold-gleaming cylinder, gas hissing from a fine nozzle, and filaments glowing bluish inside it, still working away. He saw five heavy Carrsteel rods hanging useless, on melted-down pins, and the slots their pronged ends hooked into. He looked at his hands, and shook his head.
"One try," he said to himself. "One try, Shano. One important thing in your life. Here's your opportunity. The toxia gas will get you. It'll kill you at this concentration. But you'll last for maybe twelve hours. Another man wouldn't last a minute. Another man's lungs aren't clogged with Juno gum."
He grasped a rod and lifted it, sweating under the weight, and slipped the forked end into its slot. Going home to die, he thought. Well, maybe not going home. Couldn't remember what Earth looked like anyway.
What was that again? Oh yeah—just lift them up, and when they drop off, lift them up again.
Shano coughed, and lifted the heavy rods into position. One jerked back suddenly and smoothly, and something went, "Pop, pop," behind him and machinery whirred. He lifted the rod and slipped it back on. Another jerked, pulled open a large valve, and dropped off. Shano bent, and lifted, coughing and coughing. He forgot what he was doing, mind blank the way it went when he worked. Just rhythmically fell into the job, the way a laborer does. He waited for a rod to slip and fall, then lifted it up and slipped it in place, skin sweating, joints shooting pain along his limbs. He heard the machinery working. He heard the high, howling whine of cosmic jets. He, Shano, was making the machinery go. He was running the cosmic drive.
A bell clanged somewhere. "Engine room! Engine room! We're under way! What happened?"
Silence, while Shano coughed and made the machinery go, thinking about the Earth he hadn't seen for many years.
"Captain!" the speaker bawled. "There's a man in there! Working the valve rods! Somebody is in the engine room and the gas isn't...."
Shano grinned, feeling good. Feeling happy. Lifting the heavy steel rods, driving the ship. Keeping the jets screaming and hurtling the liner Stardust toward Venus. He wondered if they'd found Rourke yet. If he could keep going for twelve hours they would get to Venus. After that....
"Home," he coughed. "Hell! Who wants to go home?"
He plucked at his agitated chest, thinking of a whole damn Uranian fleet swooping down on a spot in space, expecting to find a crippled ship there with a spy inside it. And finding nothing. Because of Shano. A useless old man.
Coughing came out all mixed up with laughing.
Question:
What do Shano’s occupation and actions thoughts the story reveal about his traits?
Answer:
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[
"Shano’s occupation is being a miner and laborer. His time mining on Pluto leaves his lungs permanently damaged, and he has a constant cough that never seems to go away. However, he has been to many other planets as well, including Mars and Uranus. Although Shano is only a lowly miner, his actions also reveal how courageous and righteous he is as a person. His decision to take the liner, despite the red signal, shows that he is willing to take risks to reach his goal. Later, when he remembers why Rourke cannot be trusted, he does not hesitate to take matters into his own hands to deal with the traitor. Shano’s bravery is also shown when he braves the toxic gas to save the liner. He knows that he can last for up to 12 hours at most and that he will most likely die on the trip home. However, this does not deter him if he can get the ship safely to Venus. While Shano’s occupation in the story is not regarded highly, his actions show that he should not be underestimated. ",
"Shano is tired of his life and wants to rest. He goes back home with the thought of dying there. For this reason he puts himself in danger by taking this flight with a red signal - he doesn't have what to live for, only for coming home to die. He is also brave and noble as he saves the whole crew by going to the engine room. He is full of initiative, he can't sit still in the cabin. His mind is not used to thinking, he is a worker but he understands he is the only one who can last in the toxic gas and he understands who the traitor is. His desire to get home alive or dead moves him forward and makes him brave as it is the only sense in his life. He is happy to be of use at least as he feels old and feeble from time to time as he has worked with gas and his lungs are damaged.\n",
"Shano is very weak, when he coughs his whole body jerk. He also has arthritic joints pain along his limbs. He was digging, lifting, lugging and pounding around the planet for his whole life. He states that he is a laborer. He has worked in the Plutonian mines, where other men died from the toxia gas, he simply got sick because of the gum-clogged lungs. \n\nHe acts impulsively. He has heard rumors about nicked jaws, which lead him to murder Rourke. He does not really feel happy or sad when thinking of going home, but he is determined to go home to die. However, he changes his mind when he heard about the toxia gas in the engine room. When the red signal appears, he still decides to aboard the ship. He knows that he is not used to thinking, but doing works by his hands. Shano knows that he is helping the ship by entering the Engine Room, thus he feels happy. He calls himself useless, but being able to accomplish something as important as killing a spy and driving the ship, he feels good. This is more important than dying at home. ",
"Shano is an ex-labourer, working on different planets as he went. He has spent his life \"digging, lifting, lugging and pounding\". He is tired and hates the idea of spending another minute on Mercury. He is frustrated with his position in life, having a bit of a chip on his shoulder, immediately noticing the change in treatment the captain shows him once he realises his occupation. A lifetime of working on his feet has left his body aching, and all he wants to do is get home to die. It seems he has given up in life. He believes that he hasn't lived a life of any note, and he just wants to end it now. He reveals his insecurity through his thoughts, presuming about how the captain and crew see him based on his status. He is wise and has a great memory, being able to rehash a conversation he had with a coworker about a man with a notched jaw. He is clearly resentful of the way he has been treated in life, calling himself an \"ignorant\" man. He is clearly very curious, going outside his bunk when the ship goes dark. He breaks rules and doesn't take orders. He also clearly has a very strong sense of right and wrong, killing Rourke when he realises who he is. He decides he finally wants to be a hero in life, and goes and mends the ship. He displays not only his sense of duty in this but his longing for recognition. "
] |
63860
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SIGNAL RED
By HENRY GUTH
They tried to stop him. Earth Flight 21 was a suicide run, a coffin ship, they told him. Uranian death lay athwart the space lanes. But Shano already knew this was his last ride.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Mercurian night settled black and thick over the Q City Spaceport. Tentative fingers of light flicked and probed the sky, and winked out.
"Here she comes," somebody in the line ahead said.
Shano coughed, his whole skeletal body jerking. Arthritic joints sent flashes of pain along his limbs. Here she comes, he thought, feeling neither glad nor sad.
He coughed and slipped polarized goggles over his eyes.
The spaceport emerged bathed in infra red. Hangars, cradles, freighter catapults and long runways stood out in sharp, diamond-clear detail. High up, beyond the cone of illumination, a detached triple row of bright specks—portholes of the liner Stardust —sank slowly down.
There was no eagerness in him. Only a tiredness. A relief. Relief from a lifetime of beating around the planets. A life of digging, lifting, lugging and pounding. Like a work-worn Martian camel, he was going home to die.
As though on oiled pistons the ship sank into the light, its long shark-like hull glowing soft and silvery, and settled with a feathery snuggle into the cradle's ribs.
The passenger line quivered as a loud-speaker boomed:
" Stardust, now arrived at Cradle Six! Stardust, Cradle Six! All passengers for Venus and Earth prepare to board in ten minutes. "
Shano coughed, and wiped phlegm from his thin lips, his hand following around the bony contours of his face, feeling the hollows and the beard stubble and loose skin of his neck. He coughed and thought of the vanium mines of Pluto, and his gum-clogged lungs. A vague, pressing desire for home overwhelmed him. It had been so long.
" Attention! Attention, Stardust passengers! The signal is red. The signal is red. Refunds now being made. Refunds now. Take-off in five minutes. "
The man ahead swore and flicked up an arm. "Red," he groaned. "By the infinite galaxies, this is the last straw!" He charged away, knocking Shano aside as he passed.
Red signal. In bewildered anxiety Shano lifted the goggles from his eyes and stared into the sudden blackness. The red signal. Danger out there. Passengers advised to ground themselves, or travel at their own risk.
He felt the passengers bump and fumble past him, grumbling vexatiously.
A hot dread assailed him, and he coughed, plucking at his chest. Plucking at an urgency there.
Dropping the goggles to his rheumy eyes, he saw that the passenger line had dissolved. He moved, shuffling, to the gate, thrust his ticket into the scanner slot, and pushed through the turnstile when it clicked.
" Flight twenty-one, now arriving from Venus ," the loud-speaker said monotonously. Shano glanced briefly upward and saw the gleaming belly of twenty-one sinking into the spaceport cone of light.
He clawed his way up the gangway and thrust out his ticket to the lieutenant standing alone at the air lock. The lieutenant, a sullen, chunky man with a queer nick in his jawbone, refused the ticket.
"Haven't you heard, mister? Red signal. Go on back."
Shano coughed, and peered through the lenses of his goggles. "Please," he said. "Want to go home. I've a right." The nicked jaw stirred faint memories within his glazed mind.
The lieutenant punched his ticket. "It's your funeral, old man."
The loud-speaker blared. " Stardust, taking off in thirty seconds. The signal is red. Stardust, taking— "
With the words dinning in his ears, Shano stepped into the air lock. The officer followed, spun wheels, and the lock closed. The outside was shut off.
Lifting goggles they entered the hull, through a series of two more locks, closing each behind them.
"We're afloat," the officer said. "We've taken off." A fleck of light danced far back in his eye. Shano felt the pressure of acceleration gradually increasing, increasing, and hurried in.
Captain Menthlo, a silver-mustached Jupiterian, broad, huge, yet crushable as a beetle, talked while his hands manipulated a panel of studs in the control room. The pilot, his back encased in leather, sat in a bucket seat before him, listening into earphones.
"Surprised to learn of a passenger aboard," the captain said, glancing briefly sideways. "You're entitled to know of the danger ahead." He flicked a final stud, spoke to the pilot and at last turned a serious, squared face to Shano. "Old man," he said. "There's a Uranian fleet out there. We don't know how many ships in this sector. Flight twenty-one, which just landed, had a skirmish with one, and got away. We may not be so lucky. You know how these Uranian devils are."
Shano coughed, and wiped his mouth. "Dirty devils," he said. "I was driv' off the planet once, before this war started. I know things about them Uranian devils. Heard them in the mines around. Hears things, a laborer does."
The captain seemed for the first time to realize the social status of his lone passenger, and he became a little gruff.
"Want you to sign this waiver, saying you're traveling at your own risk. We'll expect you to keep to your cabin as much as possible. When the trouble comes we can't bother with a passenger. In a few hours we'll shut down the ship entirely, and every mechanical device aboard, to try to avoid detection." His mustaches rose like two spears from each side of his squared nose as his face changed to an alert watchfulness. "Going home, eh?" he said. "You've knocked around some, by the looks of you. Pluto, from the sound of that cough."
Shano scrawled his signature on the waiver. "Yeah," he said. "Pluto. Where a man's lungs fights gas." He blinked watery eyes. "Captain, what's a notched jaw mean to you?"
"Well, old man," the captain grasped Shano's shoulder and turned him around. "It means somebody cut himself, shaving. You stick tight to your cabin." He nodded curtly and indicated the door.
Descending the companionway to the next deck Shano observed the nick-jawed lieutenant staring out the viewport, apparently idling. The man turned and gripped Shano's thin arm.
"A light?" he said, tapping a cigarette. Shano produced a lighter disk and the chunky man puffed. He was an Earthman and his jaw seemed cut with a knife, notched like a piece of wood. Across the breast of his tunic was a purple band, with the name Rourke . "Why are you so anxious to get aboard, old man?" He searched Shano's face. "There's trouble ahead, you know."
Shano coughed, wracking his body, as forgotten memories stirred sluggishly in his mind. "Yup," he said, and jerked free and stumbled down the steel deck.
In his cabin he lay on the bunk, lighted a cigarette and smoked, coughing and staring at the rivet-studded bulkhead. The slow movement of his mind resolved into a struggle, one idea groping for the other.
What were the things he'd heard about nicked jaws? And where had he heard them? Digging ore on Pluto; talk in the pits? Secretive suspicions voiced in smoke-laden saloons of Mars? In the labor gangs of Uranus? Where? Shano smoked and didn't know. But he knew there was a rumor, and that it was the talk of ignorant men. The captain had evaded it. Shano smoked and coughed and stared at the steel bulkhead and waited.
The ship's alarm clanged. Shano jerked from his bunk like a broken watch spring. He crouched, trembling, on arthritic joints, as a loud-speaker blared throughout the ship.
" All hands! We now maintain dead silence. Close down and stop all machinery. Power off and lights out. An enemy fleet is out there, listening and watching for mechanical and electronic disturbance. Atmosphere will be maintained from emergency oxygen cylinders. Stop pumps. "
Shano crouched and listened as the ship's steady drone ceased and the vibrations ceased. The pumps stopped, the lights went out.
Pressing the cold steel bulkhead, Shano heard oxygen hiss through the pipes. Hiss and hiss and then flow soundlessly, filling the cabin and his lungs. He choked.
The cabin was like a mine shaft, dark and cold. Feet pounded on the deck outside.
Shano clawed open the door. He peered out anxiously.
Cold blobs of light, phosphorescent bulbs held in the fists of men, glimmered by. Phosphorescent bulbs, because the power was off. Shano blinked. He saw officers and men, their faces tight and pinched, hurrying in all directions. Hurrying to shut down the ship.
He acted impulsively. A young ensign strode by, drawn blaster in hand. Shano followed him; followed the bluish glow of his bulb, through labyrinthine passages and down a companionway, coughing and leering against the pain in his joints. The blue light winked out in the distance and Shano stopped.
He was suddenly alarmed. The captain had warned him to stay in his cabin. He looked back and forth, wondering how to return.
A bell clanged.
Shano saw a cold bulb glowing down the passageway, and he shuffled hopefully toward it. The bulb moved away. He saw an indistinct figure disappear through a door marked, ENGINE ROOM.
Shano paused uncertainly at the end of the passageway. A thick cluster of vertical pipes filled the corner. He peered at the pipes and saw a gray box snuggled behind them. It had two toggle switches and a radium dial that quivered delicately.
Shano scratched his scalp as boots pounded on the decks, above and below. He listened attentively to the ship's familiar noises diminishing one by one. And finally even the pounding of feet died out; everything became still. The silence shrieked in his ears.
The ship coasted. Shano could sense it coasting. He couldn't feel it or hear it, but he knew it was sliding ghost-like through space like a submarine dead under water, slipping quietly past a listening enemy.
The ship's speaker rasped softly. " Emergency. Battle posts. "
The captain's voice. Calm, brief. It sent a tremor through Shano's body. He heard a quick scuffle of feet again, running feet, directly overhead, and the captain's voice, more urgently, "Power on. They've heard us."
The words carried no accusation, but Shano realized what they meant. A slip-up. Something left running. Vibrations picked up quickly by detectors of the Uranian space fleet.
Shano coughed and heard the ship come to life around him. He pulled himself out of the spasm, cursing Pluto. Cursing his diseased, gum-clogged lungs. Cursing the Uranian fleet that was trying to prevent his going home—even to die.
This was a strange battle. Strange indeed. It was mostly silence.
Occasionally, as though from another world, came a brief, curt order.
"Port guns alert." Then hush and tension.
The deck lurched and the ship swung this way and that. Maybe dodging, maybe maneuvering—Shano didn't know. He felt the deck lurch, that was all.
"Fire number seven."
He heard the weird scream of a ray gun, and felt the constricting terror that seemed to belt the ship like an iron band.
This was a battle in space, and out there were Uranian cruisers trying to blast the Stardust out of the sky. Trying and trying, while the captain dodged and fired back—pitted his skill and knowledge against an enemy Shano couldn't see.
He wanted desperately to help the captain break through, and get to Earth. But he could only cling to the plastic pipes and cough.
The ship jounced and slid beneath his feet, and was filled with sound. It rocked and rolled. Shano caromed off the bulkhead.
"Hold fire."
He crawled to his knees on the slippery deck, grabbed the pipes and pulled himself erect, hand over hand. His eyes came level with the gray metal box behind the pipes. He squinted, fascinated, at the quivering dial needle. "Hey!" he said.
"Stand by."
Shano puzzled it out, his mind groping. He wasn't used to thinking. Only working with his hands.
This box. This needle that had quivered when the ship was closed down....
"It's over. Chased them off. Ready guns before laying to. Third watch on duty."
Shano sighed at the sudden release of tension throughout the space liner Stardust .
Smoke spewed from his nostrils. His forehead wrinkled with concentration. Those rumors: "Man sells out to Uranus, gets a nick cut in his jaw. Ever see a man with a nick in his jaw? Watch him, he's up to something." The talk of ignorant men. Shano remembered.
He poked behind the pipes and angrily slapped the toggle switches on the box. The captain would only scoff. He'd never believe there was a traitor aboard who had planted an electronic signal box, giving away the ship's position. He'd never believe the babblings of an old man.
He straightened up, glaring angrily. He knew. And the knowledge made him cold and furious. He watched the engine room emergency exit as it opened cautiously.
A chunky man backed out, holstering a flat blaster. He turned and saw Shano, standing smoking. He walked over and nudged Shano, his face dark. Shano blew smoke into the dark face.
"Old man," said Rourke. "What're you doing down here?"
Shano blinked.
Rourke fingered the nick in his jaw, eyes glinting. "You're supposed to be in your cabin," he said. "Didn't I warn you we'd run into trouble?"
Shano smoked and contemplated the chunky man. Estimated his strength and youth and felt the anger and frustration mount in him. "Devil," he said.
"Devil," he said and dug his cigarette into the other's face.
He lunged then, clawing. He dug the cigarette into Rourke's flushed face, and clung to his body. Rourke howled. He fell backward to the deck, slapping at his blistered face. He thrashed around and Shano clung to him, battered, pressing the cigarette relentlessly, coughing, cursing the pain in his joints.
Shano grasped Rourke's neck with his hands. He twisted the neck with his gnarled hands. Strong hands that had worked.
He got up when Rourke stopped thrashing. The face was purple and he was dead. Shano shivered. He crouched in the passageway shivering and coughing.
A tremendous grinding sounded amid-ships. Loud rending noises of protesting metal. The ship bucked like a hooked fish. Then it was still. An empty clank echoed through the hull. The captain's voice came, almost yelling. "Emergency! Emergency! Back to your posts. Engine room—report! Engine room—"
Shano picked himself off the deck, his mind muddled. He coughed and put a cigarette to his lips, flicking a lighter disk jerkily from his pocket. He blew smoke from his nostrils and heard the renewed pounding of feet. What was going on now?
"Engine room! Your screen is dead! Switch onto loud-speaker system. Engine room!"
Giddily, Shano heard clicks and rasps and then a thick voice, atom motors whirring in the background.
"Selector's gone, sir. Direct hit. Heat ray through the deck plates. We've sealed the tear. Might repair selector in five hours."
Shano coughed and sent a burst of smoke from his mouth.
"Captain!" A rasping, grating sound ensued from a grill above Shano's head, then a disconnected voice. "Get the men out of there. It's useless. Hurry it up!" A series of clicks and the heavy voice of the chief engineer. "Captain! Somebody's smashed the selector chamber. Engine room's full of toxia gas!"
Shano jumped. He prodded the body on the deck with his toe.
The Stardust's mechanical voice bellowed: "Engine room!" It reproduced the captain's heavy breathing and his tired voice. "We're about midway to Venus," it said. "There were two ships and we drove them off. But there may be others. They'll be coming back. They know we've been hit. We have to get away fast!"
Shano could see the captain in his mind, worried, squared face slick with moisture. Shouting into a control room mike. Trying to find out what the matter was with his space ship.
The engineer's answer came from the grill. "Impossible, sir. Engine room full of toxia gas. Not a suit aboard prepared to withstand it. And we have to keep it in there. Selector filaments won't function without the gas. Our only chance was to put a man in the engine room to repair the broken selector valve rods or keep them running by hand."
"Blast it!" roared the captain. "No way of getting in there? Can't you by-pass the selector?"
"No. It's the heart of the new cosmic drive, sir. The fuels must pass through selector valves before entering the tube chambers. Filaments will operate so long as toxia gas is there to burn, and will keep trying to open the valves and compensate for fluctuating engine temperature. But the rod pins have melted down, sir—they're common tungsten steel—and when the rods pull a valve open, they slip off and drop down, useless. It's a mess. If we could only get a man in there he might lift up the dropped end of a rod and slip it into place each time it fell, and keep the valves working and feeding fuel."
The speaker spluttered and Shano smoked thoughtfully, listening to the talk back and forth, between the captain and the engineer. He didn't understand it, but knew that everything was ended. They were broken down in space and would never make Earth. Those Uranian devils would come streaking back. Catch them floating, helpless, and blast them to bits. And he would never get home to die.
Shano coughed, and cursed his lungs. Time was when these gum-clogged lungs had saved his life. In the Plutonian mines. Gas explosions in the tunnels. Toxia gas, seeping in, burning the men's insides. But with gum-clogged lungs he'd been able to work himself clear. Just getting sick where other men had died, their insides burned out.
Shano smoked and thought.
They wouldn't even know, he told himself, squirming through the emergency exit into the engine room, and sealing it after him. And they wouldn't understand if they did. Pink mist swirled about him. Toxia gas. Shano coughed.
He squinted around at the massive, incomprehensible machinery. The guts of the space ship.
Then he saw the shattered, gold-gleaming cylinder, gas hissing from a fine nozzle, and filaments glowing bluish inside it, still working away. He saw five heavy Carrsteel rods hanging useless, on melted-down pins, and the slots their pronged ends hooked into. He looked at his hands, and shook his head.
"One try," he said to himself. "One try, Shano. One important thing in your life. Here's your opportunity. The toxia gas will get you. It'll kill you at this concentration. But you'll last for maybe twelve hours. Another man wouldn't last a minute. Another man's lungs aren't clogged with Juno gum."
He grasped a rod and lifted it, sweating under the weight, and slipped the forked end into its slot. Going home to die, he thought. Well, maybe not going home. Couldn't remember what Earth looked like anyway.
What was that again? Oh yeah—just lift them up, and when they drop off, lift them up again.
Shano coughed, and lifted the heavy rods into position. One jerked back suddenly and smoothly, and something went, "Pop, pop," behind him and machinery whirred. He lifted the rod and slipped it back on. Another jerked, pulled open a large valve, and dropped off. Shano bent, and lifted, coughing and coughing. He forgot what he was doing, mind blank the way it went when he worked. Just rhythmically fell into the job, the way a laborer does. He waited for a rod to slip and fall, then lifted it up and slipped it in place, skin sweating, joints shooting pain along his limbs. He heard the machinery working. He heard the high, howling whine of cosmic jets. He, Shano, was making the machinery go. He was running the cosmic drive.
A bell clanged somewhere. "Engine room! Engine room! We're under way! What happened?"
Silence, while Shano coughed and made the machinery go, thinking about the Earth he hadn't seen for many years.
"Captain!" the speaker bawled. "There's a man in there! Working the valve rods! Somebody is in the engine room and the gas isn't...."
Shano grinned, feeling good. Feeling happy. Lifting the heavy steel rods, driving the ship. Keeping the jets screaming and hurtling the liner Stardust toward Venus. He wondered if they'd found Rourke yet. If he could keep going for twelve hours they would get to Venus. After that....
"Home," he coughed. "Hell! Who wants to go home?"
He plucked at his agitated chest, thinking of a whole damn Uranian fleet swooping down on a spot in space, expecting to find a crippled ship there with a spy inside it. And finding nothing. Because of Shano. A useless old man.
Coughing came out all mixed up with laughing.
|
What is the meaning of the trip back for the whole story?
|
After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about Tea Tray in the Sky by Evelyn E. Smith.
Relevant chunks:
Tea Tray in the Sky
By EVELYN E. SMITH
Illustrated by ASHMAN
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction September 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Visiting a society is tougher than being born into it. A 40 credit tour is no substitute!
The picture changed on the illuminated panel that filled the forward end of the shelf on which Michael lay. A haggard blonde woman sprawled apathetically in a chair.
"Rundown, nervous, hypertensive?" inquired a mellifluous voice. "In need of mental therapy? Buy Grugis juice; it's not expensive. And they swear by it on Meropé."
A disembodied pair of hands administered a spoonful of Grugis juice to the woman, whereupon her hair turned bright yellow, makeup bloomed on her face, her clothes grew briefer, and she burst into a fast Callistan clog.
"I see from your hair that you have been a member of one of the Brotherhoods," the passenger lying next to Michael on the shelf remarked inquisitively. He was a middle-aged man, his dust-brown hair thinning on top, his small blue eyes glittering preternaturally from the lenses fitted over his eyeballs.
Michael rubbed his fingers ruefully over the blond stubble on his scalp and wished he had waited until his tonsure were fully grown before he had ventured out into the world. But he had been so impatient to leave the Lodge, so impatient to exchange the flowing robes of the Brotherhood for the close-fitting breeches and tunic of the outer world that had seemed so glamorous and now proved so itchy.
"Yes," he replied courteously, for he knew the first rule of universal behavior, "I have been a Brother."
"Now why would a good-looking young fellow like you want to join a Brotherhood?" his shelf companion wanted to know. "Trouble over a female?"
Michael shook his head, smiling. "No, I have been a member of the Angeleno Brotherhood since I was an infant. My father brought me when he entered."
The other man clucked sympathetically. "No doubt he was grieved over the death of your mother."
Michael closed his eyes to shut out the sight of a baby protruding its fat face at him three-dimensionally, but he could not shut out its lisping voice: "Does your child refuse its food, grow wizened like a monkey? It will grow plump with oh-so-good Mealy Mush from Nunki."
"No, sir," Michael replied. "Father said that was one of the few blessings that brightened an otherwise benighted life."
Horror contorted his fellow traveller's plump features. "Be careful, young man!" he warned. "Lucky for you that you are talking to someone as broad-minded as I, but others aren't. You might be reported for violating a tabu. An Earth tabu, moreover."
"An Earth tabu?"
"Certainly. Motherhood is sacred here on Earth and so, of course, in the entire United Universe. You should have known that."
Michael blushed. He should indeed. For a year prior to his leaving the Lodge, he had carefully studied the customs and tabus of the Universe so that he should be able to enter the new life he planned for himself, with confidence and ease. Under the system of universal kinship, all the customs and all the tabus of all the planets were the law on all the other planets. For the Wise Ones had decided many years before that wars arose from not understanding one's fellows, not sympathizing with them. If every nation, every planet, every solar system had the same laws, customs, and habits, they reasoned, there would be no differences, and hence no wars.
Future events had proved them to be correct. For five hundred years there had been no war in the United Universe, and there was peace and plenty for all. Only one crime was recognized throughout the solar systems—injuring a fellow-creature by word or deed (and the telepaths of Aldebaran were still trying to add thought to the statute).
Why, then, Michael had questioned the Father Superior, was there any reason for the Lodge's existence, any reason for a group of humans to retire from the world and live in the simple ways of their primitive forefathers? When there had been war, injustice, tyranny, there had, perhaps, been an understandable emotional reason for fleeing the world. But now why refuse to face a desirable reality? Why turn one's face upon the present and deliberately go back to the life of the past—the high collars, vests and trousers, the inefficient coal furnaces, the rude gasoline tractors of medieval days?
The Father Superior had smiled. "You are not yet a fully fledged Brother, Michael. You cannot enter your novitiate until you've achieved your majority, and you won't be thirty for another five years. Why don't you spend some time outside and see how you like it?"
Michael had agreed, but before leaving he had spent months studying the ways of the United Universe. He had skimmed over Earth, because he had been so sure he'd know its ways instinctively. Remembering his preparations, he was astonished by his smug self-confidence.
A large scarlet pencil jumped merrily across the advideo screen. The face on the eraser opened its mouth and sang: "Our pencils are finest from point up to rubber, for the lead is from Yed, while the wood comes from Dschubba."
"Is there any way of turning that thing off?" Michael wanted to know.
The other man smiled. "If there were, my boy, do you think anybody would watch it? Furthermore, turning it off would violate the spirit of free enterprise. We wouldn't want that, would we?"
"Oh, no!" Michael agreed hastily. "Certainly not."
"And it might hurt the advertiser's feelings, cause him ego injury."
"How could I ever have had such a ridiculous idea?" Michael murmured, abashed.
"Allow me to introduce myself," said his companion. "My name is Pierce B. Carpenter. Aphrodisiacs are my line. Here's my card." He handed Michael a transparent tab with the photograph of Mr. Carpenter suspended inside, together with his registration number, his name, his address, and the Universal seal of approval. Clearly he was a character of the utmost respectability.
"My name's Michael Frey," the young man responded, smiling awkwardly.
"I'm afraid I don't have any cards."
"Well, you wouldn't have had any use for them where you were. Now, look here, son," Carpenter went on in a lowered voice, "I know you've just come from the Lodge and the mistakes you'll make will be through ignorance rather than deliberate malice. But the police wouldn't understand. You know what the sacred writings say: 'Ignorance of The Law is no excuse.' I'd be glad to give you any little tips I can. For instance, your hands...."
Michael spread his hands out in front of him. They were perfectly good hands, he thought. "Is there something wrong with them?"
Carpenter blushed and looked away. "Didn't you know that on Electra it is forbidden for anyone to appear in public with his hands bare?"
"Of course I know that," Michael said impatiently. "But what's that got to do with me?"
The salesman was wide-eyed. "But if it is forbidden on Electra, it becomes automatically prohibited here."
"But Electrans have eight fingers on each hand," Michael protested,
"with two fingernails on each—all covered with green scales."
Carpenter drew himself up as far as it was possible to do so while lying down. "Do eight fingers make one a lesser Universal?"
"Of course not, but—"
"Is he inferior to you then because he has sixteen fingernails?"
"Certainly not, but—"
"Would you like to be called guilty of—" Carpenter paused before the dreaded word—" intolerance ?"
"No, no, no !" Michael almost shrieked. It would be horrible for him to be arrested before he even had time to view Portyork. "I have lots of gloves in my pack," he babbled. "Lots and lots. I'll put some on right away."
With nervous haste, he pressed the lever which dropped his pack down from the storage compartment. It landed on his stomach. The device had been invented by one of the Dschubbans who are, as everyone knows, hoop-shaped.
Michael pushed the button marked Gloves A , and a pair of yellow gauntlets slid out.
Carpenter pressed his hands to his eyes. "Yellow is the color of death on Saturn, and you know how morbid the Saturnians are about passing away! No one ever wears yellow!"
"Sorry," Michael said humbly. The button marked Gloves B yielded a pair of rose-colored gloves which harmonized ill with his scarlet tunic and turquoise breeches, but he was past caring for esthetic effects.
"The quality's high," sang a quartet of beautiful female humanoids,
"but the price is meager. You know when you buy Plummy Fruitcake from Vega."
The salesman patted Michael's shoulder. "You staying a while in Portyork?" Michael nodded. "Then you'd better stick close to me for a while until you learn our ways. You can't run around loose by yourself until you've acquired civilized behavior patterns, or you'll get into trouble."
"Thank you, sir," Michael said gratefully. "It's very kind of you."
He twisted himself around—it was boiling hot inside the jet bus and his damp clothes were clinging uncomfortably—and struck his head against the bottom of the shelf above. "Awfully inconvenient arrangement here," he commented. "Wonder why they don't have seats."
"Because this arrangement," Carpenter said stiffly, "is the one that has proved suitable for the greatest number of intelligent life-forms."
"Oh, I see," Michael murmured. "I didn't get a look at the other passengers. Are there many extraterrestrials on the bus?"
"Dozens of them. Haven't you heard the Sirians singing?"
A low moaning noise had been pervading the bus, but Michael had thought it arose from defective jets.
"Oh, yes!" he agreed. "And very beautiful it is, too! But so sad."
"Sirians are always sad," the salesman told him. "Listen."
Michael strained his ears past the racket of the advideo. Sure enough, he could make out words: "Our wings were unfurled in a far distant world, our bodies are pain-racked, delirious. And never, it seems, will we see, save in dreams, the bright purple swamps of our Sirius...."
Carpenter brushed away a tear. "Poignant, isn't it?"
"Very, very touching," Michael agreed. "Are they sick or something?"
"Oh, no; they wouldn't have been permitted on the bus if they were. They're just homesick. Sirians love being homesick. That's why they leave Sirius in such great numbers."
"Fasten your suction disks, please," the stewardess, a pretty two-headed Denebian, ordered as she walked up and down the gangway.
"We're coming into Portyork. I have an announcement to make to all passengers on behalf of the United Universe. Zosma was admitted into the Union early this morning."
All the passengers cheered.
"Since it is considered immodest on Zosma," she continued, "ever to appear with the heads bare, henceforward it will be tabu to be seen in public without some sort of head-covering."
Wild scrabbling sounds indicated that all the passengers were searching their packs for headgear. Michael unearthed a violet cap.
The salesmen unfolded what looked like a medieval opera hat in piercingly bright green.
"Always got to keep on your toes," he whispered to the younger man.
"The Universe is expanding every minute."
The bus settled softly on the landing field and the passengers flew, floated, crawled, undulated, or walked out. Michael looked around him curiously. The Lodge had contained no extraterrestrials, for such of those as sought seclusion had Brotherhoods on their own planets.
Of course, even in Angeles he had seen other-worlders—humanoids from Vega, scaly Electrans, the wispy ubiquitous Sirians—but nothing to compare with the crowds that surged here. Scarlet Meropians rubbed tentacles with bulging-eyed Talithans; lumpish gray Jovians plodded alongside graceful, spidery Nunkians. And there were countless others whom he had seen pictured in books, but never before in reality.
The gaily colored costumes and bodies of these beings rendered kaleidoscopic a field already brilliant with red-and-green lights and banners. The effect was enhanced by Mr. Carpenter, whose emerald-green cloak was drawn back to reveal a chartreuse tunic and olive-green breeches which had apparently been designed for a taller and somewhat less pudgy man.
Carpenter rubbed modestly gloved hands together. "I have no immediate business, so supposing I start showing you the sights. What would you like to see first, Mr. Frey? Or would you prefer a nice, restful movid?"
"Frankly," Michael admitted, "the first thing I'd like to do is get myself something to eat. I didn't have any breakfast and I'm famished." Two small creatures standing close to him giggled nervously and scuttled off on six legs apiece.
"Shh, not so loud! There are females present." Carpenter drew the youth to a secluded corner. "Don't you know that on Theemim it's frightfully vulgar to as much as speak of eating in public?"
"But why?" Michael demanded in too loud a voice. "What's wrong with eating in public here on Earth?"
Carpenter clapped a hand over the young man's mouth. "Hush," he cautioned. "After all, on Earth there are things we don't do or even mention in public, aren't there?"
"Well, yes. But those are different."
"Not at all. Those rules might seem just as ridiculous to a Theemimian. But the Theemimians have accepted our customs just as we have accepted the Theemimians'. How would you like it if a Theemimian violated one of our tabus in public? You must consider the feelings of the Theemimians as equal to your own. Observe the golden rule: 'Do unto extraterrestrials as you would be done by.'"
"But I'm still hungry," Michael persisted, modulating his voice, however, to a decent whisper. "Do the proprieties demand that I starve to death, or can I get something to eat somewhere?"
"Naturally," the salesman whispered back. "Portyork provides for all bodily needs. Numerous feeding stations are conveniently located throughout the port, and there must be some on the field."
After gazing furtively over his shoulder to see that no females were watching, Carpenter approached a large map of the landing field and pressed a button. A tiny red light winked demurely for an instant.
"That's the nearest one," Carpenter explained.
Inside a small, white, functional-looking building unobtrusively marked "Feeding Station," Carpenter showed Michael where to insert a two-credit piece in a slot. A door slid back and admitted Michael into a tiny, austere room, furnished only with a table, a chair, a food compartment, and an advideo. The food consisted of tabloid synthetics and was tasteless. Michael knew that only primitive creatures waste time and energy in growing and preparing natural foods. It was all a matter of getting used to this stuff, he thought glumly, as he tried to chew food that was meant to be gulped.
A ferret-eyed Yeddan appeared on the advideo. "Do you suffer from gastric disorders? Does your viscera get in your hair? A horrid condition, but swift abolition is yours with Al-Brom from Altair."
Michael finished his meal in fifteen minutes and left the compartment to find Carpenter awaiting him in the lobby, impatiently glancing at the luminous time dial embedded in his wrist.
"Let's go to the Old Town," he suggested to Michael. "It will be of great interest to a student and a newcomer like yourself."
A few yards away from the feeding station, the travel agents were lined up in rows, each outside his spaceship, each shouting the advantages of the tour he offered:
"Better than a mustard plaster is a weekend spent on Castor."
"If you want to show you like her, take her for a week to Spica."
"Movid stars go to Mars."
Carpenter smiled politely at them. "No space trips for us today, gentlemen. We're staying on Terra." He guided the bewildered young man through the crowds and to the gates of the field. Outside, a number of surface vehicles were lined up, with the drivers loudly competing for business.
"Come, take a ride in my rocket car, suited to both gent and lady, lined with luxury hukka fur brought from afar, and perfumed with rare scents from Algedi."
"Whichever movid film you choose to view will be yours in my fine cab from Mizar. Just press a button—it won't cost you nuttin'—see a passionate drama of long-vanished Mu or the bloodhounds pursuing Eliza."
"All honor be laid at the feet of free trade, but, whatever your race or your birth, each passenger curls up with two dancing girls who rides in the taxi from Earth."
"Couldn't we—couldn't we walk? At least part of the way?" Michael faltered.
Carpenter stared. "Walk! Don't you know it's forbidden to walk more than two hundred yards in any one direction? Fomalhautians never walk."
"But they have no feet."
"That has nothing whatsoever to do with it."
Carpenter gently urged the young man into the Algedian cab ... which reeked. Michael held his nose, but his mentor shook his head. "No, no! Tpiu Number Five is the most esteemed aroma on Algedi. It would break the driver's heart if he thought you didn't like it. You wouldn't want to be had up for ego injury, would you?"
"Of course not," Michael whispered weakly.
"Brunettes are darker and blondes are fairer," the advideo informed him, "when they wash out their hair with shampoos made on Chara."
After a time, Michael got more or less used to Tpiu Number Five and was able to take some interest in the passing landscape. Portyork, the biggest spaceport in the United Universe, was, of course, the most cosmopolitan city—cosmopolitan in its architecture as well as its inhabitants. Silver domes of Earth were crowded next to the tall helical edifices of the Venusians.
"You'll notice that the current medieval revival has even reached architecture," Carpenter pointed out. "See those period houses in the Frank Lloyd Wright and Inigo Jones manner?"
"Very quaint," Michael commented.
Great floating red and green balls lit the streets, even though it was still daylight, and long scarlet-and-emerald streamers whipped out from the most unlikely places. As Michael opened his mouth to inquire about this, "We now interrupt the commercials," the advideo said, "to bring you a brand new version of one of the medieval ballads that are becoming so popular...."
"I shall scream," stated Carpenter, "if they play Beautiful Blue Deneb just once more.... No, thank the Wise Ones, I've never heard this before."
"Thuban, Thuban, I've been thinking," sang a buxom Betelgeusian, "what a Cosmos this could be, if land masses were transported to replace the wasteful sea."
"I guess the first thing for me to do," Michael began in a businesslike manner, "is to get myself a room at a hotel.... What have I said now?"
"The word hotel ," Carpenter explained through pursed lips, "is not used in polite society any more. It has come to have unpleasant connotations. It means—a place of dancing girls. I hardly think...."
"Certainly not," Michael agreed austerely. "I merely want a lodging."
"That word is also—well, you see," Carpenter told him, "on Zaniah it is unthinkable to go anywhere without one's family."
"They're a sort of ant, aren't they? The Zaniahans, I mean."
"More like bees. So those creatures who travel—" Carpenter lowered his voice modestly "— alone hire a family for the duration of their stay. There are a number of families available, but the better types come rather high. There has been talk of reviving the old-fashioned price controls, but the Wise Ones say this would limit free enterprise as much as—if you'll excuse my use of the expression—tariffs would."
The taxi let them off at a square meadow which was filled with transparent plastic domes housing clocks of all varieties, most of the antique type based on the old twenty-four hour day instead of the standard thirty hours. There were few extraterrestrial clocks because most non-humans had time sense, Michael knew, and needed no mechanical devices.
"This," said Carpenter, "is Times Square. Once it wasn't really square, but it is contrary to Nekkarian custom to do, say, imply, or permit the existence of anything that isn't true, so when Nekkar entered the Union, we had to square off the place. And, of course, install the clocks. Finest clock museum in the Union, I understand."
"The pictures in my history books—" Michael began.
"Did I hear you correctly, sir?" The capes of a bright blue cloak trembled with the indignation of a scarlet, many-tentacled being. "Did you use the word history ?" He pronounced it in terms of loathing. "I have been grossly insulted and I shall be forced to report you to the police, sir."
"Please don't!" Carpenter begged. "This youth has just come from one of the Brotherhoods and is not yet accustomed to the ways of our universe. I know that, because of the great sophistication for which your race is noted, you will overlook this little gaucherie on his part."
"Well," the red one conceded, "let it not be said that Meropians are not tolerant. But, be careful, young man," he warned Michael. "There are other beings less sophisticated than we. Guard your tongue, or you might find yourself in trouble."
He indicated the stalwart constable who, splendid in gold helmet and gold-spangled pink tights, surveyed the terrain haughtily from his floating platform in the air.
"I should have told you," Carpenter reproached himself as the Meropian swirled off. "Never mention the word 'history' in front of a Meropian. They rose from barbarism in one generation, and so they haven't any history at all. Naturally, they're sensitive in the extreme about it."
"Naturally," Michael said. "Tell me, Mr. Carpenter, is there some special reason for everything being decorated in red and green? I noticed it along the way and it's all over here, too."
"Why, Christmas is coming, my boy," Carpenter answered, surprised.
"It's July already—about time they got started fixing things up. Some places are so slack, they haven't even got their Mother's Week shrines cleared away."
A bevy of tiny golden-haired, winged creatures circled slowly over Times Square.
"Izarians," Carpenter explained "They're much in demand for Christmas displays."
The small mouths opened and clear soprano voices filled the air: "It came upon the midnight clear, that glorious song of old, from angels bending near the Earth to tune their harps of gold. Peace on Earth, good will to men, from Heaven's All-Celestial. Peace to the Universe as well and every extraterrestrial.... Beat the drum and clash the cymbals; buy your Christmas gifts at Nimble's."
"This beautiful walk you see before you," Carpenter said, waving an expository arm, "shaded by boogil trees from Dschubba, is called Broadway. To your left you will be delighted to see—"
"Listen, could we—" Michael began.
"—Forty-second Street, which is now actually the forty-second—"
"By the way—"
"It is extremely rude and hence illegal," Carpenter glared, "to interrupt anyone who is speaking."
"But I would like," Michael whispered very earnestly, "to get washed. If I might."
The other man frowned. "Let me see. I believe one of the old landmarks was converted into a lavatory. Only thing of suitable dimensions. Anyhow, it was absolutely useless for any other purpose. We have to take a taxi there; it's more than two hundred yards. Custom, you know."
"A taxi? Isn't there one closer?"
"Ah, impatient youth! There aren't too many altogether. The installations are extremely expensive."
They hailed the nearest taxi, which happened to be one of the variety equipped with dancing girls. Fortunately the ride was brief.
Michael gazed at the Empire State Building with interest. It was in a remarkable state of preservation and looked just like the pictures in his history—in his books, except that none of them showed the huge golden sign "Public-Washport" riding on its spire.
Attendants directed traffic from a large circular desk in the lobby.
"Mercurians, seventy-eighth floor. A group Vegans, fourteenth floor right. B group, fourteenth floor left. C group, fifteenth floor right. D group, fifteenth floor left. Sirians, forty-ninth floor. Female humans fiftieth floor right, males, fiftieth floor left. Uranians, basement...."
Carpenter and Michael shared an elevator with a group of sad-eyed, translucent Sirians, who were singing as usual and accompanying themselves on wemps , a cross between a harp and a flute. "Foreign planets are strange and we're subject to mange. Foreign atmospheres prove deleterious. Only with our mind's eye can we sail through the sky to the bright purple swamps of our Sirius."
The cost of the compartment was half that of the feeding station; one credit in the slot unlocked the door. There was an advideo here, too:
"Friend, do you clean yourself each day? Now, let's not be evasive, for each one has his favored way. Some use an abrasive and some use oil. Some shed their skins, in a brand-new hide emerging. Some rub with grease put up in tins. For others there's deterging. Some lick themselves to take off grime. Some beat it off with rope. Some cook it away in boiling lime. Old-fashioned ones use soap. More ways there are than I recall, and each of these will differ, but the only one that works for all is Omniclene from Kiffa."
"And now," smiled Carpenter as the two humans left the building, "we must see you registered for a nice family. Nothing too ostentatious, but, on the other hand, you mustn't count credits and ally yourself beneath your station."
Michael gazed pensively at two slender, snakelike Difdans writhing
"Only 99 Shopping Days Till Christmas" across an aquamarine sky.
"They won't be permanent?" he asked. "The family, I mean?"
"Certainly not. You merely hire them for whatever length of time you choose. But why are you so anxious?"
The young man blushed. "Well, I'm thinking of having a family of my own some day. Pretty soon, as a matter of fact."
Carpenter beamed. "That's nice; you're being adopted! I do hope it's an Earth family that's chosen you—it's so awkward being adopted by extraterrestrials."
"Oh, no! I'm planning to have my own. That is, I've got a—a girl, you see, and I thought after I had secured employment of some kind in Portyork, I'd send for her and we'd get married and...."
" Married! " Carpenter was now completely shocked. "You mustn't use that word! Don't you know marriage was outlawed years ago? Exclusive possession of a member of the opposite sex is slavery on Talitha. Furthermore, supposing somebody else saw your—er—friend and wanted her also; you wouldn't wish him to endure the frustration of not having her, would you?"
Michael squared his jaw. "You bet I would."
Carpenter drew himself away slightly, as if to avoid contamination.
"This is un-Universal. Young man, if I didn't have a kind heart, I would report you."
Michael was too preoccupied to be disturbed by this threat. "You mean if I bring my girl here, I'd have to share her?"
"Certainly. And she'd have to share you. If somebody wanted you, that is."
"Then I'm not staying here," Michael declared firmly, ashamed to admit even to himself how much relief his decision was bringing him. "I don't think I like it, anyhow. I'm going back to the Brotherhood."
There was a short cold silence.
"You know, son," Carpenter finally said, "I think you might be right. I don't want to hurt your feelings—you promise I won't hurt your feelings?" he asked anxiously, afraid, Michael realized, that he might call a policeman for ego injury.
"You won't hurt my feelings, Mr. Carpenter."
"Well, I believe that there are certain individuals who just cannot adapt themselves to civilized behavior patterns. It's much better for them to belong to a Brotherhood such as yours than to be placed in one of the government incarceratoriums, comfortable and commodious though they are."
"Much better," Michael agreed.
"By the way," Carpenter went on, "I realize this is just vulgar curiosity on my part and you have a right to refuse an answer without fear of hurting my feelings, but how do you happen to have a—er—girl when you belong to a Brotherhood?"
Michael laughed. "Oh, 'Brotherhood' is merely a generic term. Both sexes are represented in our society."
"On Talitha—" Carpenter began.
"I know," Michael interrupted him, like the crude primitive he was and always would be. "But our females don't mind being generic."
A group of Sirians was traveling on the shelf above him on the slow, very slow jet bus that was flying Michael back to Angeles, back to the Lodge, back to the Brotherhood, back to her. Their melancholy howling was getting on his nerves, but in a little while, he told himself, it would be all over. He would be back home, safe with his own kind.
"When our minds have grown tired, when our lives have expired, when our sorrows no longer can weary us, let our ashes return, neatly packed in an urn, to the bright purple swamps of our Sirius."
The advideo crackled: "The gown her fairy godmother once gave to Cinderella was created by the haute couture of fashion-wise Capella."
The ancient taxi was there, the one that Michael had taken from the Lodge, early that morning, to the little Angeleno landing field, as if it had been waiting for his return.
"I see you're back, son," the driver said without surprise. He set the noisy old rockets blasting. "I been to Portyork once. It's not a bad place to live in, but I hate to visit it."
"I'm back!" Michael sank into the motheaten sable cushions and gazed with pleasure at the familiar landmarks half seen in the darkness. "I'm back! And a loud sneer to civilization!"
"Better be careful, son," the driver warned. "I know this is a rural area, but civilization is spreading. There are secret police all over. How do you know I ain't a government spy? I could pull you in for insulting civilization."
The elderly black and white advideo flickered, broke into purring sound: "Do you find life continues to daze you? Do you find for a quick death you hanker? Why not try the new style euthanasia, performed by skilled workmen from Ancha?"
Not any more, Michael thought contentedly. He was going home.
Question:
What is the meaning of the trip back for the whole story?
Answer:
|
[
"The final passages reflect how Michael's attitude towards the outside world has changed. The Sirians' song, which sparked curiosity in him in the beginning of the story, annoys him now and makes him miss home even more. The advideo is annoying as well, as those are all over the universe and can't be turned off. Those are the annoying features of the world about which nothing can be done, and for Michael one day was enough to get tired of them. Michael has fulfilled the purpose of his visit to Earth, he understands now why the Brotherhood is so isolated from the world and he likes it. He starts missing home and his girl in one day on Earth and gladly decides to return. The Earth experience makes him sure in how he wants to live in the future - in the Brotherhood, without the constant fear of mistakes and restrictions on every step, married to his girl. The civilization seems awful to the youth, but it is spreading, as the taxi driver says. Nevertheless, Michael doesn't care about it, he feels safe in Brotherhood, and it is definitely the right place for him.",
"The meaning of the trip back is to show Michael’s development throughout the story and how he has matured into realizing that he is much more suited for life at the Brotherhood than under the rules of the United Universe. This directly contrasts his initial plan too. He, at first, wants to move to Earth and away from the Brotherhood, thinking of how it would let him start a much more exciting new life. However, the trip back shows just how unadaptable he is to the strict customs that exist and constantly expand. When he realizes this, the trip back symbolizes his maturity and realization that life back home is what is much more suited for anyways. ",
"The meaning of the trip back to the Brotherhood means that Michael does not like the way that the civilized live. He specifically mentions that he is not staying in Portyork after hearing that if he brings his girl, they cannot permanently get married, since following the custom of Talitha, one cannot have exclusive possession over one from the other sex. Simply stated, he have to share her and she have to share him if anyone wishes to have either of them. Moreover, stating that the females at the Brotherhood don’t mind being generic shows that Michael does not praise the numerous tabus and customs that they have to follow simply because another planet is following it. ",
"The trip back means that the civilisation of the United Universe is spreading. Soon, the brotherhood will be taken over. There will be no trace of the old world. there will be nowhere to escape from this constant fear of saying the wrong thing by mistake, and ending up breaking the law. There will be no more love, or monogamous relationships. Micheal and his girlfriend might never get married. They might never be able to have a family. So many planets will eventually join that no one will be able to do or say anything at all, and the things that make different cultures special will be lost, as they offend another. \n"
] |
50847
|
Tea Tray in the Sky
By EVELYN E. SMITH
Illustrated by ASHMAN
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction September 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Visiting a society is tougher than being born into it. A 40 credit tour is no substitute!
The picture changed on the illuminated panel that filled the forward end of the shelf on which Michael lay. A haggard blonde woman sprawled apathetically in a chair.
"Rundown, nervous, hypertensive?" inquired a mellifluous voice. "In need of mental therapy? Buy Grugis juice; it's not expensive. And they swear by it on Meropé."
A disembodied pair of hands administered a spoonful of Grugis juice to the woman, whereupon her hair turned bright yellow, makeup bloomed on her face, her clothes grew briefer, and she burst into a fast Callistan clog.
"I see from your hair that you have been a member of one of the Brotherhoods," the passenger lying next to Michael on the shelf remarked inquisitively. He was a middle-aged man, his dust-brown hair thinning on top, his small blue eyes glittering preternaturally from the lenses fitted over his eyeballs.
Michael rubbed his fingers ruefully over the blond stubble on his scalp and wished he had waited until his tonsure were fully grown before he had ventured out into the world. But he had been so impatient to leave the Lodge, so impatient to exchange the flowing robes of the Brotherhood for the close-fitting breeches and tunic of the outer world that had seemed so glamorous and now proved so itchy.
"Yes," he replied courteously, for he knew the first rule of universal behavior, "I have been a Brother."
"Now why would a good-looking young fellow like you want to join a Brotherhood?" his shelf companion wanted to know. "Trouble over a female?"
Michael shook his head, smiling. "No, I have been a member of the Angeleno Brotherhood since I was an infant. My father brought me when he entered."
The other man clucked sympathetically. "No doubt he was grieved over the death of your mother."
Michael closed his eyes to shut out the sight of a baby protruding its fat face at him three-dimensionally, but he could not shut out its lisping voice: "Does your child refuse its food, grow wizened like a monkey? It will grow plump with oh-so-good Mealy Mush from Nunki."
"No, sir," Michael replied. "Father said that was one of the few blessings that brightened an otherwise benighted life."
Horror contorted his fellow traveller's plump features. "Be careful, young man!" he warned. "Lucky for you that you are talking to someone as broad-minded as I, but others aren't. You might be reported for violating a tabu. An Earth tabu, moreover."
"An Earth tabu?"
"Certainly. Motherhood is sacred here on Earth and so, of course, in the entire United Universe. You should have known that."
Michael blushed. He should indeed. For a year prior to his leaving the Lodge, he had carefully studied the customs and tabus of the Universe so that he should be able to enter the new life he planned for himself, with confidence and ease. Under the system of universal kinship, all the customs and all the tabus of all the planets were the law on all the other planets. For the Wise Ones had decided many years before that wars arose from not understanding one's fellows, not sympathizing with them. If every nation, every planet, every solar system had the same laws, customs, and habits, they reasoned, there would be no differences, and hence no wars.
Future events had proved them to be correct. For five hundred years there had been no war in the United Universe, and there was peace and plenty for all. Only one crime was recognized throughout the solar systems—injuring a fellow-creature by word or deed (and the telepaths of Aldebaran were still trying to add thought to the statute).
Why, then, Michael had questioned the Father Superior, was there any reason for the Lodge's existence, any reason for a group of humans to retire from the world and live in the simple ways of their primitive forefathers? When there had been war, injustice, tyranny, there had, perhaps, been an understandable emotional reason for fleeing the world. But now why refuse to face a desirable reality? Why turn one's face upon the present and deliberately go back to the life of the past—the high collars, vests and trousers, the inefficient coal furnaces, the rude gasoline tractors of medieval days?
The Father Superior had smiled. "You are not yet a fully fledged Brother, Michael. You cannot enter your novitiate until you've achieved your majority, and you won't be thirty for another five years. Why don't you spend some time outside and see how you like it?"
Michael had agreed, but before leaving he had spent months studying the ways of the United Universe. He had skimmed over Earth, because he had been so sure he'd know its ways instinctively. Remembering his preparations, he was astonished by his smug self-confidence.
A large scarlet pencil jumped merrily across the advideo screen. The face on the eraser opened its mouth and sang: "Our pencils are finest from point up to rubber, for the lead is from Yed, while the wood comes from Dschubba."
"Is there any way of turning that thing off?" Michael wanted to know.
The other man smiled. "If there were, my boy, do you think anybody would watch it? Furthermore, turning it off would violate the spirit of free enterprise. We wouldn't want that, would we?"
"Oh, no!" Michael agreed hastily. "Certainly not."
"And it might hurt the advertiser's feelings, cause him ego injury."
"How could I ever have had such a ridiculous idea?" Michael murmured, abashed.
"Allow me to introduce myself," said his companion. "My name is Pierce B. Carpenter. Aphrodisiacs are my line. Here's my card." He handed Michael a transparent tab with the photograph of Mr. Carpenter suspended inside, together with his registration number, his name, his address, and the Universal seal of approval. Clearly he was a character of the utmost respectability.
"My name's Michael Frey," the young man responded, smiling awkwardly.
"I'm afraid I don't have any cards."
"Well, you wouldn't have had any use for them where you were. Now, look here, son," Carpenter went on in a lowered voice, "I know you've just come from the Lodge and the mistakes you'll make will be through ignorance rather than deliberate malice. But the police wouldn't understand. You know what the sacred writings say: 'Ignorance of The Law is no excuse.' I'd be glad to give you any little tips I can. For instance, your hands...."
Michael spread his hands out in front of him. They were perfectly good hands, he thought. "Is there something wrong with them?"
Carpenter blushed and looked away. "Didn't you know that on Electra it is forbidden for anyone to appear in public with his hands bare?"
"Of course I know that," Michael said impatiently. "But what's that got to do with me?"
The salesman was wide-eyed. "But if it is forbidden on Electra, it becomes automatically prohibited here."
"But Electrans have eight fingers on each hand," Michael protested,
"with two fingernails on each—all covered with green scales."
Carpenter drew himself up as far as it was possible to do so while lying down. "Do eight fingers make one a lesser Universal?"
"Of course not, but—"
"Is he inferior to you then because he has sixteen fingernails?"
"Certainly not, but—"
"Would you like to be called guilty of—" Carpenter paused before the dreaded word—" intolerance ?"
"No, no, no !" Michael almost shrieked. It would be horrible for him to be arrested before he even had time to view Portyork. "I have lots of gloves in my pack," he babbled. "Lots and lots. I'll put some on right away."
With nervous haste, he pressed the lever which dropped his pack down from the storage compartment. It landed on his stomach. The device had been invented by one of the Dschubbans who are, as everyone knows, hoop-shaped.
Michael pushed the button marked Gloves A , and a pair of yellow gauntlets slid out.
Carpenter pressed his hands to his eyes. "Yellow is the color of death on Saturn, and you know how morbid the Saturnians are about passing away! No one ever wears yellow!"
"Sorry," Michael said humbly. The button marked Gloves B yielded a pair of rose-colored gloves which harmonized ill with his scarlet tunic and turquoise breeches, but he was past caring for esthetic effects.
"The quality's high," sang a quartet of beautiful female humanoids,
"but the price is meager. You know when you buy Plummy Fruitcake from Vega."
The salesman patted Michael's shoulder. "You staying a while in Portyork?" Michael nodded. "Then you'd better stick close to me for a while until you learn our ways. You can't run around loose by yourself until you've acquired civilized behavior patterns, or you'll get into trouble."
"Thank you, sir," Michael said gratefully. "It's very kind of you."
He twisted himself around—it was boiling hot inside the jet bus and his damp clothes were clinging uncomfortably—and struck his head against the bottom of the shelf above. "Awfully inconvenient arrangement here," he commented. "Wonder why they don't have seats."
"Because this arrangement," Carpenter said stiffly, "is the one that has proved suitable for the greatest number of intelligent life-forms."
"Oh, I see," Michael murmured. "I didn't get a look at the other passengers. Are there many extraterrestrials on the bus?"
"Dozens of them. Haven't you heard the Sirians singing?"
A low moaning noise had been pervading the bus, but Michael had thought it arose from defective jets.
"Oh, yes!" he agreed. "And very beautiful it is, too! But so sad."
"Sirians are always sad," the salesman told him. "Listen."
Michael strained his ears past the racket of the advideo. Sure enough, he could make out words: "Our wings were unfurled in a far distant world, our bodies are pain-racked, delirious. And never, it seems, will we see, save in dreams, the bright purple swamps of our Sirius...."
Carpenter brushed away a tear. "Poignant, isn't it?"
"Very, very touching," Michael agreed. "Are they sick or something?"
"Oh, no; they wouldn't have been permitted on the bus if they were. They're just homesick. Sirians love being homesick. That's why they leave Sirius in such great numbers."
"Fasten your suction disks, please," the stewardess, a pretty two-headed Denebian, ordered as she walked up and down the gangway.
"We're coming into Portyork. I have an announcement to make to all passengers on behalf of the United Universe. Zosma was admitted into the Union early this morning."
All the passengers cheered.
"Since it is considered immodest on Zosma," she continued, "ever to appear with the heads bare, henceforward it will be tabu to be seen in public without some sort of head-covering."
Wild scrabbling sounds indicated that all the passengers were searching their packs for headgear. Michael unearthed a violet cap.
The salesmen unfolded what looked like a medieval opera hat in piercingly bright green.
"Always got to keep on your toes," he whispered to the younger man.
"The Universe is expanding every minute."
The bus settled softly on the landing field and the passengers flew, floated, crawled, undulated, or walked out. Michael looked around him curiously. The Lodge had contained no extraterrestrials, for such of those as sought seclusion had Brotherhoods on their own planets.
Of course, even in Angeles he had seen other-worlders—humanoids from Vega, scaly Electrans, the wispy ubiquitous Sirians—but nothing to compare with the crowds that surged here. Scarlet Meropians rubbed tentacles with bulging-eyed Talithans; lumpish gray Jovians plodded alongside graceful, spidery Nunkians. And there were countless others whom he had seen pictured in books, but never before in reality.
The gaily colored costumes and bodies of these beings rendered kaleidoscopic a field already brilliant with red-and-green lights and banners. The effect was enhanced by Mr. Carpenter, whose emerald-green cloak was drawn back to reveal a chartreuse tunic and olive-green breeches which had apparently been designed for a taller and somewhat less pudgy man.
Carpenter rubbed modestly gloved hands together. "I have no immediate business, so supposing I start showing you the sights. What would you like to see first, Mr. Frey? Or would you prefer a nice, restful movid?"
"Frankly," Michael admitted, "the first thing I'd like to do is get myself something to eat. I didn't have any breakfast and I'm famished." Two small creatures standing close to him giggled nervously and scuttled off on six legs apiece.
"Shh, not so loud! There are females present." Carpenter drew the youth to a secluded corner. "Don't you know that on Theemim it's frightfully vulgar to as much as speak of eating in public?"
"But why?" Michael demanded in too loud a voice. "What's wrong with eating in public here on Earth?"
Carpenter clapped a hand over the young man's mouth. "Hush," he cautioned. "After all, on Earth there are things we don't do or even mention in public, aren't there?"
"Well, yes. But those are different."
"Not at all. Those rules might seem just as ridiculous to a Theemimian. But the Theemimians have accepted our customs just as we have accepted the Theemimians'. How would you like it if a Theemimian violated one of our tabus in public? You must consider the feelings of the Theemimians as equal to your own. Observe the golden rule: 'Do unto extraterrestrials as you would be done by.'"
"But I'm still hungry," Michael persisted, modulating his voice, however, to a decent whisper. "Do the proprieties demand that I starve to death, or can I get something to eat somewhere?"
"Naturally," the salesman whispered back. "Portyork provides for all bodily needs. Numerous feeding stations are conveniently located throughout the port, and there must be some on the field."
After gazing furtively over his shoulder to see that no females were watching, Carpenter approached a large map of the landing field and pressed a button. A tiny red light winked demurely for an instant.
"That's the nearest one," Carpenter explained.
Inside a small, white, functional-looking building unobtrusively marked "Feeding Station," Carpenter showed Michael where to insert a two-credit piece in a slot. A door slid back and admitted Michael into a tiny, austere room, furnished only with a table, a chair, a food compartment, and an advideo. The food consisted of tabloid synthetics and was tasteless. Michael knew that only primitive creatures waste time and energy in growing and preparing natural foods. It was all a matter of getting used to this stuff, he thought glumly, as he tried to chew food that was meant to be gulped.
A ferret-eyed Yeddan appeared on the advideo. "Do you suffer from gastric disorders? Does your viscera get in your hair? A horrid condition, but swift abolition is yours with Al-Brom from Altair."
Michael finished his meal in fifteen minutes and left the compartment to find Carpenter awaiting him in the lobby, impatiently glancing at the luminous time dial embedded in his wrist.
"Let's go to the Old Town," he suggested to Michael. "It will be of great interest to a student and a newcomer like yourself."
A few yards away from the feeding station, the travel agents were lined up in rows, each outside his spaceship, each shouting the advantages of the tour he offered:
"Better than a mustard plaster is a weekend spent on Castor."
"If you want to show you like her, take her for a week to Spica."
"Movid stars go to Mars."
Carpenter smiled politely at them. "No space trips for us today, gentlemen. We're staying on Terra." He guided the bewildered young man through the crowds and to the gates of the field. Outside, a number of surface vehicles were lined up, with the drivers loudly competing for business.
"Come, take a ride in my rocket car, suited to both gent and lady, lined with luxury hukka fur brought from afar, and perfumed with rare scents from Algedi."
"Whichever movid film you choose to view will be yours in my fine cab from Mizar. Just press a button—it won't cost you nuttin'—see a passionate drama of long-vanished Mu or the bloodhounds pursuing Eliza."
"All honor be laid at the feet of free trade, but, whatever your race or your birth, each passenger curls up with two dancing girls who rides in the taxi from Earth."
"Couldn't we—couldn't we walk? At least part of the way?" Michael faltered.
Carpenter stared. "Walk! Don't you know it's forbidden to walk more than two hundred yards in any one direction? Fomalhautians never walk."
"But they have no feet."
"That has nothing whatsoever to do with it."
Carpenter gently urged the young man into the Algedian cab ... which reeked. Michael held his nose, but his mentor shook his head. "No, no! Tpiu Number Five is the most esteemed aroma on Algedi. It would break the driver's heart if he thought you didn't like it. You wouldn't want to be had up for ego injury, would you?"
"Of course not," Michael whispered weakly.
"Brunettes are darker and blondes are fairer," the advideo informed him, "when they wash out their hair with shampoos made on Chara."
After a time, Michael got more or less used to Tpiu Number Five and was able to take some interest in the passing landscape. Portyork, the biggest spaceport in the United Universe, was, of course, the most cosmopolitan city—cosmopolitan in its architecture as well as its inhabitants. Silver domes of Earth were crowded next to the tall helical edifices of the Venusians.
"You'll notice that the current medieval revival has even reached architecture," Carpenter pointed out. "See those period houses in the Frank Lloyd Wright and Inigo Jones manner?"
"Very quaint," Michael commented.
Great floating red and green balls lit the streets, even though it was still daylight, and long scarlet-and-emerald streamers whipped out from the most unlikely places. As Michael opened his mouth to inquire about this, "We now interrupt the commercials," the advideo said, "to bring you a brand new version of one of the medieval ballads that are becoming so popular...."
"I shall scream," stated Carpenter, "if they play Beautiful Blue Deneb just once more.... No, thank the Wise Ones, I've never heard this before."
"Thuban, Thuban, I've been thinking," sang a buxom Betelgeusian, "what a Cosmos this could be, if land masses were transported to replace the wasteful sea."
"I guess the first thing for me to do," Michael began in a businesslike manner, "is to get myself a room at a hotel.... What have I said now?"
"The word hotel ," Carpenter explained through pursed lips, "is not used in polite society any more. It has come to have unpleasant connotations. It means—a place of dancing girls. I hardly think...."
"Certainly not," Michael agreed austerely. "I merely want a lodging."
"That word is also—well, you see," Carpenter told him, "on Zaniah it is unthinkable to go anywhere without one's family."
"They're a sort of ant, aren't they? The Zaniahans, I mean."
"More like bees. So those creatures who travel—" Carpenter lowered his voice modestly "— alone hire a family for the duration of their stay. There are a number of families available, but the better types come rather high. There has been talk of reviving the old-fashioned price controls, but the Wise Ones say this would limit free enterprise as much as—if you'll excuse my use of the expression—tariffs would."
The taxi let them off at a square meadow which was filled with transparent plastic domes housing clocks of all varieties, most of the antique type based on the old twenty-four hour day instead of the standard thirty hours. There were few extraterrestrial clocks because most non-humans had time sense, Michael knew, and needed no mechanical devices.
"This," said Carpenter, "is Times Square. Once it wasn't really square, but it is contrary to Nekkarian custom to do, say, imply, or permit the existence of anything that isn't true, so when Nekkar entered the Union, we had to square off the place. And, of course, install the clocks. Finest clock museum in the Union, I understand."
"The pictures in my history books—" Michael began.
"Did I hear you correctly, sir?" The capes of a bright blue cloak trembled with the indignation of a scarlet, many-tentacled being. "Did you use the word history ?" He pronounced it in terms of loathing. "I have been grossly insulted and I shall be forced to report you to the police, sir."
"Please don't!" Carpenter begged. "This youth has just come from one of the Brotherhoods and is not yet accustomed to the ways of our universe. I know that, because of the great sophistication for which your race is noted, you will overlook this little gaucherie on his part."
"Well," the red one conceded, "let it not be said that Meropians are not tolerant. But, be careful, young man," he warned Michael. "There are other beings less sophisticated than we. Guard your tongue, or you might find yourself in trouble."
He indicated the stalwart constable who, splendid in gold helmet and gold-spangled pink tights, surveyed the terrain haughtily from his floating platform in the air.
"I should have told you," Carpenter reproached himself as the Meropian swirled off. "Never mention the word 'history' in front of a Meropian. They rose from barbarism in one generation, and so they haven't any history at all. Naturally, they're sensitive in the extreme about it."
"Naturally," Michael said. "Tell me, Mr. Carpenter, is there some special reason for everything being decorated in red and green? I noticed it along the way and it's all over here, too."
"Why, Christmas is coming, my boy," Carpenter answered, surprised.
"It's July already—about time they got started fixing things up. Some places are so slack, they haven't even got their Mother's Week shrines cleared away."
A bevy of tiny golden-haired, winged creatures circled slowly over Times Square.
"Izarians," Carpenter explained "They're much in demand for Christmas displays."
The small mouths opened and clear soprano voices filled the air: "It came upon the midnight clear, that glorious song of old, from angels bending near the Earth to tune their harps of gold. Peace on Earth, good will to men, from Heaven's All-Celestial. Peace to the Universe as well and every extraterrestrial.... Beat the drum and clash the cymbals; buy your Christmas gifts at Nimble's."
"This beautiful walk you see before you," Carpenter said, waving an expository arm, "shaded by boogil trees from Dschubba, is called Broadway. To your left you will be delighted to see—"
"Listen, could we—" Michael began.
"—Forty-second Street, which is now actually the forty-second—"
"By the way—"
"It is extremely rude and hence illegal," Carpenter glared, "to interrupt anyone who is speaking."
"But I would like," Michael whispered very earnestly, "to get washed. If I might."
The other man frowned. "Let me see. I believe one of the old landmarks was converted into a lavatory. Only thing of suitable dimensions. Anyhow, it was absolutely useless for any other purpose. We have to take a taxi there; it's more than two hundred yards. Custom, you know."
"A taxi? Isn't there one closer?"
"Ah, impatient youth! There aren't too many altogether. The installations are extremely expensive."
They hailed the nearest taxi, which happened to be one of the variety equipped with dancing girls. Fortunately the ride was brief.
Michael gazed at the Empire State Building with interest. It was in a remarkable state of preservation and looked just like the pictures in his history—in his books, except that none of them showed the huge golden sign "Public-Washport" riding on its spire.
Attendants directed traffic from a large circular desk in the lobby.
"Mercurians, seventy-eighth floor. A group Vegans, fourteenth floor right. B group, fourteenth floor left. C group, fifteenth floor right. D group, fifteenth floor left. Sirians, forty-ninth floor. Female humans fiftieth floor right, males, fiftieth floor left. Uranians, basement...."
Carpenter and Michael shared an elevator with a group of sad-eyed, translucent Sirians, who were singing as usual and accompanying themselves on wemps , a cross between a harp and a flute. "Foreign planets are strange and we're subject to mange. Foreign atmospheres prove deleterious. Only with our mind's eye can we sail through the sky to the bright purple swamps of our Sirius."
The cost of the compartment was half that of the feeding station; one credit in the slot unlocked the door. There was an advideo here, too:
"Friend, do you clean yourself each day? Now, let's not be evasive, for each one has his favored way. Some use an abrasive and some use oil. Some shed their skins, in a brand-new hide emerging. Some rub with grease put up in tins. For others there's deterging. Some lick themselves to take off grime. Some beat it off with rope. Some cook it away in boiling lime. Old-fashioned ones use soap. More ways there are than I recall, and each of these will differ, but the only one that works for all is Omniclene from Kiffa."
"And now," smiled Carpenter as the two humans left the building, "we must see you registered for a nice family. Nothing too ostentatious, but, on the other hand, you mustn't count credits and ally yourself beneath your station."
Michael gazed pensively at two slender, snakelike Difdans writhing
"Only 99 Shopping Days Till Christmas" across an aquamarine sky.
"They won't be permanent?" he asked. "The family, I mean?"
"Certainly not. You merely hire them for whatever length of time you choose. But why are you so anxious?"
The young man blushed. "Well, I'm thinking of having a family of my own some day. Pretty soon, as a matter of fact."
Carpenter beamed. "That's nice; you're being adopted! I do hope it's an Earth family that's chosen you—it's so awkward being adopted by extraterrestrials."
"Oh, no! I'm planning to have my own. That is, I've got a—a girl, you see, and I thought after I had secured employment of some kind in Portyork, I'd send for her and we'd get married and...."
" Married! " Carpenter was now completely shocked. "You mustn't use that word! Don't you know marriage was outlawed years ago? Exclusive possession of a member of the opposite sex is slavery on Talitha. Furthermore, supposing somebody else saw your—er—friend and wanted her also; you wouldn't wish him to endure the frustration of not having her, would you?"
Michael squared his jaw. "You bet I would."
Carpenter drew himself away slightly, as if to avoid contamination.
"This is un-Universal. Young man, if I didn't have a kind heart, I would report you."
Michael was too preoccupied to be disturbed by this threat. "You mean if I bring my girl here, I'd have to share her?"
"Certainly. And she'd have to share you. If somebody wanted you, that is."
"Then I'm not staying here," Michael declared firmly, ashamed to admit even to himself how much relief his decision was bringing him. "I don't think I like it, anyhow. I'm going back to the Brotherhood."
There was a short cold silence.
"You know, son," Carpenter finally said, "I think you might be right. I don't want to hurt your feelings—you promise I won't hurt your feelings?" he asked anxiously, afraid, Michael realized, that he might call a policeman for ego injury.
"You won't hurt my feelings, Mr. Carpenter."
"Well, I believe that there are certain individuals who just cannot adapt themselves to civilized behavior patterns. It's much better for them to belong to a Brotherhood such as yours than to be placed in one of the government incarceratoriums, comfortable and commodious though they are."
"Much better," Michael agreed.
"By the way," Carpenter went on, "I realize this is just vulgar curiosity on my part and you have a right to refuse an answer without fear of hurting my feelings, but how do you happen to have a—er—girl when you belong to a Brotherhood?"
Michael laughed. "Oh, 'Brotherhood' is merely a generic term. Both sexes are represented in our society."
"On Talitha—" Carpenter began.
"I know," Michael interrupted him, like the crude primitive he was and always would be. "But our females don't mind being generic."
A group of Sirians was traveling on the shelf above him on the slow, very slow jet bus that was flying Michael back to Angeles, back to the Lodge, back to the Brotherhood, back to her. Their melancholy howling was getting on his nerves, but in a little while, he told himself, it would be all over. He would be back home, safe with his own kind.
"When our minds have grown tired, when our lives have expired, when our sorrows no longer can weary us, let our ashes return, neatly packed in an urn, to the bright purple swamps of our Sirius."
The advideo crackled: "The gown her fairy godmother once gave to Cinderella was created by the haute couture of fashion-wise Capella."
The ancient taxi was there, the one that Michael had taken from the Lodge, early that morning, to the little Angeleno landing field, as if it had been waiting for his return.
"I see you're back, son," the driver said without surprise. He set the noisy old rockets blasting. "I been to Portyork once. It's not a bad place to live in, but I hate to visit it."
"I'm back!" Michael sank into the motheaten sable cushions and gazed with pleasure at the familiar landmarks half seen in the darkness. "I'm back! And a loud sneer to civilization!"
"Better be careful, son," the driver warned. "I know this is a rural area, but civilization is spreading. There are secret police all over. How do you know I ain't a government spy? I could pull you in for insulting civilization."
The elderly black and white advideo flickered, broke into purring sound: "Do you find life continues to daze you? Do you find for a quick death you hanker? Why not try the new style euthanasia, performed by skilled workmen from Ancha?"
Not any more, Michael thought contentedly. He was going home.
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Describe the character of Ryd.
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After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about Saboteur of Space by Robert Abernathy.
Relevant chunks:
Saboteur of Space
By ROBERT ABERNATHY
Fresh power was coming to Earth, energy which would bring life to a dying planet. Only two men stood in its way, one a cowardly rat, the other a murderous martyr; both pawns in a cosmic game where death moved his chessmen of fate—and even the winner would lose.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Ryd Randl stood, slouching a little, in the darkened footway, and watched the sky over Dynamopolis come alive with searchlights. The shuttered glow of Burshis' Stumble Inn was only a few yards off to his right, but even that lodestone failed before the novel interest of a ship about to ground in the one-time Port of Ten Thousand Ships.
Now he made out the flicker of the braking drive a mile or so overhead, and presently soft motor thunder came down to blanket the almost lightless city with sound. A beam swayed through the throbbing darkness, caught the descending ship and held it, a small gleaming minnow slipping through the dark heavens. A faint glow rose from Pi Mesa, where the spaceport lay above the city, as a runway lighted up—draining the last reserves of the city's stored power, but draining them gladly now that, in those autumn days of the historic year 819, relief was in sight.
Ryd shrugged limply; the play was meaningless to him. He turned to shuffle down the inviting ramp into the glowing interior of Burshis' dive.
The place was crowded with men and smoke. Perhaps half the former were asleep, on tables or on the floor; but for the few places like Burshis' which were still open under the power shortage, many would have frozen, these days, in the chilly nights at fourteen thousand feet. For Dynamopolis sprawled atop the world, now as in the old days when it had been built to be the power center of North America.
The rocket blasts crescendoed and died up on Pi Mesa as Ryd wedged himself with difficulty into the group along the bar. If anyone recognized him, they showed it only by looking fixedly at something else. Only Burshis Yuns kept his static smile and nodded with surprising friendliness at Ryd's pinched, old-young face.
Ryd was startled by the nod. Burshis finished serving another customer and maneuvered down the stained chrome-and-synthyl bar. Ryd was heartened.
"Say, Burshis," he started nervously, as the bulky man halted with his back to him. But Burshis turned, still smiling, shaking his head so that his jowls quivered.
"No loans," he said flatly. "But just one on the house, Ryd."
The drink almost spilled itself in Ryd's hand. Clutching it convulsively, he made his eyes narrow and said suspiciously, "What you setting 'em up for, Burshis? It's the first time since—"
Burshis' smile stayed put. He said affably, "Didn't you hear that ship that just came down on the Mesa? That was the ship from Mars—the escort they were sending with the power cylinder. The power's coming in again." He turned to greet a coin-tapping newcomer, added over his shoulder: "You know what that means, Ryd. Some life around here again. Jobs for all the bums in this town—even for you."
He left Ryd frowning, thinking fuzzily. A warming gulp seemed to clear his head. Jobs. So they thought they could put that over on him again, huh? Well, he'd show them. He was smart; he was a damn good helio man—no, that had been ten years ago. But now he was out of the habit of working, anyway. No job for Ryd Randl. They gave him one once and then took it away. He drank still more deeply.
The man on Ryd's immediate right leaned toward him. He laid a hand on his arm, gripping it hard, and said quietly: "So you're Ryd Randl."
Ryd had a bad moment before he saw that the face wasn't that of any plain-clothes man he knew. For that matter, it didn't belong to anybody he had ever known—an odd, big-boned face, strikingly ugly, with a beak-nose that was yet not too large for the hard jaw or too bleak for the thin mouth below it. An expensive transparent hat slanted over the face, and from its iridescent shadows gleamed eyes that were alert and almost frighteningly black. Ryd noted that the man wore a dark-gray cellotex of a sort rarely seen in joints like Burshis'.
"Suppose we step outside, Ryd. I'd like to talk to you."
"What's the idea?" demanded Ryd, his small store of natural courage floated to the top by alcohol.
The other seemed to realize that he was getting ahead of himself. He leaned back slightly, drew a deep breath, and said slowly and distinctly. "Would you care to make some money, my friend?"
" Huh? Why, yeh—I guess so—"
"Then come with me." The hand still on his arm was insistent. In his daze, Ryd let himself be drawn away from the bar into the sluggish crowd; then he suddenly remembered his unfinished drink, and made frantic gestures. Deliberately misunderstanding, the tall stranger fumbled briefly, tossed a coin on the counter-top, and hustled Ryd out, past the blue-and-gold-lit meloderge that was softly pouring out its endlessly changing music, through the swinging doors into the dark.
Outside, between lightless buildings, the still cold closed in on them. They kept walking—so fast that Ryd began to lose his breath, long-accustomed though his lungs were to the high, thin air.
"So you're Ryd Randl," repeated the stranger after a moment's silence.
"I might have known you. But I'd almost given up finding you tonight."
Ryd tried feebly to wrench free, stumbled. "Look," he gasped. "If you're a cop, say so!"
The other laughed shortly. "No. I'm just a man about to offer you a chance. For a come-back, Ryd—a chance to live again.... My name—you can call me Mury."
Ryd was voiceless. Something seemed increasingly ominous about the tall, spare man at his side. He wished himself back in Burshis' with his first free drink in a month. The thought of it brought tears to his eyes.
"How long have you been out of a job, Ryd?"
"Nine ... ten years. Say, what's it to you?"
"And why, Ryd?"
"Why...? Look, mister, I was a helio operator." He hunched his narrow shoulders and spread his hands in an habitual gesture of defeat. "Damn good one, too—I was a foreman ten years ago. But I don't have the physique for Mars—I might just have made it then , but I thought the plant was going to open again and—"
And that was it. The almost airless Martian sky, with its burning actinic rays, is so favorable for the use of the helio-dynamic engine. And after the middle of the eighth century, robot labor gave Mars its full economic independence—and domination. For power is—power; and there is the Restriction Act to keep men on Earth even if more than two in ten could live healthily on the outer world.
"Ten years ago," Mury nodded as if satisfied. "That must have been the Power Company of North America—the main plant by Dynamopolis itself, that shut down in December, 809. They were the last to close down outside the military bases in the Kun Lun."
Ryd was pacing beside him now. He felt a queer upsurge of confidence in this strange man; for too long he had met no sympathy and all too few men who talked his language. He burst out: "They wouldn't take me, damn them! Said my record wasn't good enough for them. That is, I didn't have a drag with any of the Poligerents."
"I know all about your record," said Mury softly.
Ryd's suspicions came back abruptly, and he reverted to his old kicked-dog manner. "How do you know? And what's it to you?"
All at once, Mury came to a stop, and swung around to face him squarely, hard eyes compelling. They were on an overpass, not far from where the vast, almost wholly deserted offices of the Triplanet Freighting Company sprawled over a square mile of city. A half-smile twisted Mury's thin lips.
"Don't misunderstand me, Ryd—you mean nothing at all to me as an individual. But you're one of a vast mass of men for whom I am working—the billions caught in the net of a corrupt government and sold as an economic prey to the ruthless masters of Mars. This, after they've borne all the hardships of a year of embargo, have offered their hands willingly to the rebuilding of decadent Earth, only to be refused by the weak leaders who can neither defy the enemy nor capitulate frankly to him."
Ryd was dazed. His mind had never been constructed to cope with such ideas and the past few years had not improved its capabilities. "Are you talking about the power cylinder?" he demanded blurrily.
Mury cast a glance toward the Milky Way as if to descry the Martian cargo projectile somewhere up among its countless lights. He said simply, "Yes."
"I don't get it," mumbled Ryd, frowning. He found words that he had heard somewhere a day or so before, in some bar or flophouse: "The power cylinder is going to be the salvation of Earth. It's a shot in the arm—no, right in the heart of Earth industry, here in Dynamopolis. It will turn the wheels and light the cities and—"
"To hell with that!" snapped Mury, suddenly savage. His hands came up slightly, the fingers flexing; then dropped back to his sides. "Don't you know you're repeating damnable lies?"
Ryd could only stare, cringing and bewildered. Mury went on with a passion shocking after his smooth calm:
"The power shell is aid, yes—but with what a price! It's the thirty pieces of silver for which the venal fools who rule our nations have sold the whole planet to Mars. Because they lack the courage and vision to retool Earth's plants and factories for the inescapable conflict, they're selling us out—making Earth, the first home of man, a colony of the Red Planet. Do you know what Earth is to the great Martian land-owners? Do you? " He paused out of breath; then finished venomously, "Earth is a great pool of labor ready to be tapped, cheaper than robots—cheap as slaves !"
"What about it?" gulped Ryd, drawing away from the fanatic. "What you want me to do about it?"
Mury took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. His face was once more bleakly impassive; only the mouth was an ugly line. "We're going to do something about it, you and I. Tonight. Now."
Ryd was nearly sober. And wholly terrified. He got out chokingly,
"What's that mean?"
"The power shell—isn't coming in as planned."
"You can't do that."
" We can," said Mury with a heavy accent on the first word. "And there are fifty thousand credits in it for you, Ryd. Are you with us?"
Suspicion was chill reality now in Ryd's mind. And he knew one thing certainly—if he refused now to accompany Mury, he would be killed, by this man or another of his kind. For the secret power known only as We never took chances. Whispered-of, terrible, and world-embracing, desperate upshot of the times in its principles of dynamitism, war, and panclasm—that was We .
The question hung in the air for a long moment. Then Ryd, with an effort, said, "Sure." A moment later it struck him that the monosyllabic assent was suspicious; he added quickly, "I got nothing to lose, see?" It was, he realized, the cold truth.
"You won't lose," said Mury. He seemed to relax. But the menace with which he had clothed himself clung, as he turned back on the way they had come.
Ryd followed dog-like, his feet in their worn shoes moving without his volition. He was frightened. Out of his very fright came a longing to placate Mury, assure him that he, Ryd, was on the same side whatever happened....
After some steps he stole a sidelong glance at his tall companion, and whined, "Where ... where we going now?"
Mury paused in his long stride, removed a hand from a pocket of the gray topcoat that wrapped him as in somber thoughts. Wordlessly, he pointed as Ryd had known he would—toward where a pale man-made dawn seemed breaking over Pi Mesa.
II
"One blow for freedom!" said Mury with caught breath. His voice fell upon air scarcely stilled since the sodden thump of the blow that had killed the guard.
The body lay between them, face down on the graveled way in the inky moon-shadow. On one side Pi Mesa stretched away two hundred yards to drop sharply into the night; on the other was the unlighted mass of the long, continuous, low buildings that housed now unused fuel pumps and servicing equipment. Looking down at the dead huddle at his feet, a little stunned by the reality of this, Ryd knew that he was in it now. He was caught in the machinery.
Mury hefted the length of steel in his hand once more, as if testing the weight that had crushed a man's skull so easily. Then, with a short wrist-flip, he sent it flying into the dried weeds which had over-grown the aero field on the mesa's rim during the summer months after State order had grounded all fliers in America.
"All right, Ryd," he said coolly. "Trade clothes with this fellow. I've brought you this far—you're taking me the rest of the way."
The rest of the way.
Ryd was still panting, and his side was paining from the strenuous exertion of the long climb up the side of the mountain, far from the guarded highway. His fingers, numbed by the cold of the high, thin air, shook as he knelt and fumbled with the zippers of the dead guard's uniform. The belted gun, however, was heavy and oddly comforting as he clumsily buckled it about his hips. He knew enough of weapons to recognize this as, not the usual paralyzer, but a flame pistol, powerful and deadly. He let his hand linger on its butt; then strong fingers tightened on his bony wrist, and he looked up with a start into the sardonic black eyes of the Panclast.
"No use now for firearms," said Mury. "All the guns we could carry wouldn't help us if we were caught out there. That gun is just a stage property for the little play we're going to give in about three minutes—when you'll act a guardsman escorting me, a Poligerent of Dynamopolis, aboard the towship Shahrazad ."
For a moment Ryd felt relief—he had hazily imagined that Mury's hatred of Mars and all things Martian might have led him to try to sabotage the Martian warship which lay somewhere on the runways beyond the long, low buildings, and which would be closely guarded. But the towship would also be guarded ... he shivered in the cold, dry night air.
Mury had melted into the shadow a few yards away. There was a light scraping, then a green flame sputtered, briefly lighting up his hands and face, and narrowing at once to a thin, singing needle of light. He had turned a pocket electron torch against the lock-mechanism of a small, disused metal door.
Ryd watched in painful suspense. There was no sound in his ears save for the hard, dry shrilling of the ray as it bit into the steel. It seemed to be crying: run, run —but he remembered the power that knew how to punish better than the law, and stood still, shivering.
The lock gave way and the door slipped aside. A light went on inside, and Ryd's heart stopped, backfired, and started again, raggedly. The same automatic mechanism that had turned the lights on had started the air-fresher, which picked up speed with a soft whine, sweeping out the long-stale atmosphere. Mury motioned to Ryd to follow him in.
It was still musty in the narrow passage, between the closely-pressing walls, beneath the great tubes and cable sheathings that fluted the ceiling overhead. A stairway spiraled up on the right to the control cupola somewhere overhead; even in the airtight gallery a thin film of dust lay on every step. Up there were the meters and switches of the disused terminal facilities of the spaceport; beyond the metal door marked CAUTION, just beyond the stairwell, lay the long runway down which the ships of space had glided to be serviced, refueled, and launched into the sky once more by now dormant machines.
"Wait," said Mury succinctly; he vanished up the spiral stair, his long legs taking two steps at a time. After an aching minute's silence, he was back. All was clear as seen from the turret-windows overhead.
They emerged in shadow, hugging the wall. Almost a quarter of a mile to the right the megalith of the Communications Tower, crowned with many lights where the signal-men sat godlike in its summit. Its floodlights shed a vast oval of light out over the mesa, where the mile-long runways—no longer polished mirror-like as in the days of Dynamopolis' glory—stretched away into the darkness of the table land. A handful of odd ships—mere remnant of the hundreds that Pi Mesa port had berthed—huddled under the solenoid wickets, as if driven together by the chill of the thin, knife-like wind that blew across the mesa.
As the two paced slowly across the runways, Ryd had a sense of protective isolation in the vast impersonality of the spaceport. Surely, in this Titanic desolation of metal slabs and flat-roofed buildings, dominated by the one great tower, total insignificance must mean safety for them.
And indeed no guard challenged them. There were armed men watching for all intruders out on the desert beyond the runways, but once inside, Ryd's borrowed blue seemed to serve as passport enough. Nonetheless, the passport's knees were shaking when they stood at last, inconspicuous still, at the shadowed base of the Communications Tower.
Not far off, a half-dozen dignitaries, huddled close together in the midst of these Cyclopean man-made things that dwarfed their policies, their principles and ambitions, stood talking rather nervously with two officers, aristocratically gaudy in the scarlet of the Martian Fleet. Blue-clad guardsmen of Earth watched from a distance—watched boredly enough.
And out on the steel-stripped tarmac, under the solenoid of Number Two Runway, lay a towship, backed like a stegosaur with its massive magnets—the Shahrazad , panting like a dragon amid rolling clouds of steam. She was plainly ready to go into space. The bottom dropped out of Ryd's stomach before he realized that a warning at least must be sounded before the ship could lift. But that might come any moment now.
"Relax," said Mury in a low voice. "Nothing's gone wrong. We'll be aboard the Shahrazad when she lifts." For a moment his black eyes shifted, hardening, toward Runway Four. The Martian warship lay there beyond the solenoid, a spiteful hundred-foot swordfish of steel, with blind gunvalves, row on row, along its sleek sides and turret-blisters. It had not yet been tugged onto the turntable; it could not be leaving again very soon, though Earth weight was undoubtedly incommoding its crew. About it a few figures stood that were stiffly erect and immobile, as tall as tall men. From head to toe they were scarlet.
"Robots!" gasped Ryd, clutching his companion's arm convulsively.
"Martian soldier robots!"
"They're unarmed, harmless. They aren't your police with built-in weapons. Only the humans are dangerous. But we've got to move. For God's sake, take it easy."
Ryd licked dry lips. "Are we going—out into space?"
"Where else?" said Mury.
The official-looking individual in the expensive topcoat and sport hat had reached the starboard airlock of the towship before anyone thought to question his authorization, escorted as he was by a blue-uniformed guardsman. When another sentry, pacing between runways a hundred yards from the squat space vessel, paused to wonder, it was—as it came about—just a little too late.
The guard turned and swung briskly off to intercept the oddly-behaving pair, hand crowding the butt of his pistol, for he was growing uneasy. His alarm mounted rapidly, till he nearly sprained an ankle in sprinting across the last of the two intervening runways, between the solenoid wickets. Those metal arches, crowding one on the other in perspective, formed a tunnel that effectively shielded the Shahrazad's airlocks from more distant view; the gang of notables attracted by the occasion was already being shepherded back to safety by the Communications guards, whose attention was thus well taken up.
The slight man in guardsman's blue glanced over his shoulder and vanished abruptly into the circular lock. His companion wheeled on the topmost step, looking down with some irritation on his unhandsome face, but with no apparent doubt of his command of the situation.
"Yes?" he inquired frostily.
"What goes on here?" snapped the guard, frowning at the tall figure silhouetted against the glow in the airlock. "The crew's signaled all aboard and the ship lifts in two minutes. You ought to be—"
"I am Semul Mury, Poligerent for the City of Dynamopolis," interrupted the tall man with asperity. "The City is naturally interested in the delivery of the power which will revivify our industries." He paused, sighed, shifting his weight to the next lower step of the gangway. "I suppose you'll want to re-check my credentials?"
The guard was somewhat confused; a Poligerent, in ninth-century bureaucracy, was a force to be reckoned with. But he contrived to nod with an appearance of brusqueness.
Fully expecting official papers, signed and garnished with all the pompous seals of a chartered metropolis, the guard was dazed to receive instead a terrific left-handed foul to the pit of the stomach, and as he reeled dizzily, retching and clawing for his gun, to find that gun no longer holstered but in the hand of the self-styled Poligerent, pointing at its licensed owner.
"I think," Mury said quietly, flexing his left wrist with care the while his right held the gun steady, "that you'd better come aboard with us."
The guard was not more cowardly than the run of politically-appointed civic guardsmen. But a flame gun kills more frightfully than the ancient electric chair. He complied, grasping the railing with both hands as he stumbled before Mury up the gangway—for he was still very sick indeed, wholly apart from his bewilderment, which was enormous.
Above, Ryd Randl waited in the lock, flattened against the curved wall, white and jittering. The inner door was shut, an impenetrable countersunk mirror of metal.
"Cover him, Ryd," ordered Mury flatly. In obedience Ryd lugged out the heavy flame pistol and pointed it; his finger was dangerously tremulous on the firing lever. He moistened his lips to voice his fears; but Mury, pocketing the other gun, threw the three-way switch on the side panel, the switch that should have controlled the inner lock.
Nothing happened.
"Oh, God. We're caught. We're trapped!" The outer gangway had slid up, the lock wheezed shut, forming an impenetrable crypt of niosteel.
Mury smiled with supernal calm. "We won't be here long," he said. Then, to quiet Ryd's fears, he went on: "The central control panel and the three local switches inside, between, and outside the locks are on the circuit in that order. Unless the locks were closed from the switch just beyond the inner lock, that lock will open when the central control panel is cut out in preparation for lifting."
Almost as he paused and drew breath, a light sprang out over the switch he had closed and the inner lock swung silently free of its gaskets. Ryd felt a trembling relief; but Mury's voice lashed out like a whip as he slipped cat-like into the passage.
"Keep him covered. Back out of the lock."
Ryd backed—the white, tense face of the prisoner holding his own nervous gaze—and, almost out of the lock, stumbled over the metal pressure rings. And the gun was out of his unsure grip, clattering somewhere near his slithering feet, as he started to fall.
He saw the guardsman hurl himself forward; then he was flung spinning, back against the engine-room door. In a flash, even as he struggled to keep on his feet, he saw the man in the airlock coming up from a crouch, shifting the pistol in his right hand to reach its firing lever; he saw Mury sidestep swiftly and throw the master control switch outside.
The inner lock whooshed shut, barely missing Ryd. At the same instant, the flame gun lighted locks and passage with one terrific flash, and a scorched, discolored spot appeared on the beveled metal of the opposite lock a foot from Mury's right shoulder.
"You damned clumsy little fool—" said Mury with soft intensity. Then, while the air around the metal walls still buzzed and snapped with blue sparks, he whirled and went up the control-room gangway in two quick bounds. Even as he went the flame gun thundered again in the starboard airlock.
Mury was just in time, for the pilot had been about to flash "Ready" to the Communications Tower when the explosions had given him pause. But the latter and his two companions were neither ready nor armed; clamped in their seats at the controls, already marked, they were helpless in an instant before the leveled menace of the gun. And the imprisoned guardsman, having wasted most of his charges, was helpless, too, in his little cell of steel.
"It's been tried before," said one of the masked men. He had a blond, youthful thatch and a smooth healthy face below the mask, together with an astrogator's triangled stars which made him ex officio the brains of the vessel. "Stealing a ship—it can't be done any more."
"It's been done again," said Mury grimly. "And you don't know the half of it. But—you will. I'll need you. As for your friends—" The gun muzzle shifted slightly to indicate the pilot and the engineer. "Out of those clamps. You're going to ride this out in the portside airlock."
He had to repeat the command, in tones that snapped with menace, before they started with fumbling, rebellious hands to strip their armor from themselves. The burly engineer was muttering phrases of obscene fervor; the weedy young pilot was wild-eyed. The blond astrogator, sitting still masked and apparently unmoved, demanded:
"What do you think you're trying to do?"
"What do you think?" demanded Mury in return. "I'm taking the ship into space. On schedule and on course—to meet the power shell." The flame gun moved with a jerk. "And as for you—what's your name?"
"Yet Arliess."
"You want to make the trip alive, don't you, Yet Arliess?"
The young astrogator stared at him and at the gun through masking goggles; then he sank into his seat with a slow shudder. "Why, yes," he said as if in wonder, "I do."
III
Shahrazad drove steadily forward into deep space, vibrating slightly to the tremendous thrust of her powerful engines. The small, cramped cabin was stiflingly hot to the three armored men who sat before its banked dials, watching their steady needles.
Ryd had blacked out, darkness washing into his eyes and consciousness draining from his head, as the space ship had pitched out into emptiness over the end of the runway on Pi Mesa and Mury had cut in the maindrive. Pressure greater than anything he had ever felt had crushed him; his voice had been snatched from his lips by those terrible forces and lost beneath the opening thunder of the three-inch tubes. Up and up, while the acceleration climbed to seven gravities—and Ryd had lost every sensation, not to regain them until Earth was dropping away under the towship's keel.
A single gravity held them back and down in the tilted seats, and the control panels seemed to curve half above them, their banks of lights confused with the stars coldly through the great nose window. In the control room all sounds impinged on a background made up of the insect hum of air-purifiers, the almost supersonic whine of the fast-spinning gyroscopes somewhere behind them, the deep continuous growl of the engines.
Mury's voice broke through that steady murmur, coming from Ryd's right.
"You can unfasten your anticlamps, Ryd," he said dryly. "That doesn't mean you," to the young navigator, on his other hand as he sat in the pilot's seat with his pressure-clamps thrown back and his gloved hands free to caress the multiplex controls before him. Clipped to the sloping dash at his left elbow was a loaded flame gun.
Ryd emerged, with much bungling, from his padded clamps, and shook his head groggily as he ran a hand through his slightly thinning hair. He ventured shakily, "Where are we?"
Mury smiled slightly. "Only our astrogator," he indicated Arliess, still masked and fettered, "can tell you that with precision. I understand only enough of astrogational practice to make sure that he is holding to the course outlined on the log. For that matter ... he is an intelligent young man and if he were not blinded by notions of duty to an outworn system.... We are now somewhere near the orbit of the Moon. Isn't that right, Arliess?"
The other did not seem to hear; he sat staring blindly before him through his goggles at the slowly-changing chart, where cryptic lights burned, some moving like glowing paramecia along fine-traced luminous tracks.
Mury too sat silent and immobile for a minute or more. Then, abruptly, he inclined his universal chair far to the right, and his long frame seemed to tense oddly. His finger stabbed out one of the sparks of light.
"What's that, Arliess?"
The astrogator broke his silence. "A ship."
"I know that well enough. What ship?"
"I supposed you had examined the log. It would have told you that that's the liner Alborak , out of Aeropolis with a diplomatic mission for Mars."
Mury shook his head regretfully. "That won't wash, Arliess. Even if you suppose her off course, no liner aspace ever carried a tenth of that drive."
"I don't know what you're talking about," said Arliess. But his voice was raw and unsteady.
"I'm talking about this. That ship is a warship, and it's looking for us—will intercept us inside of twenty minutes at the most!"
Question:
Describe the character of Ryd.
Answer:
|
[
"Ryd is a resentful and skeptical person because he has been without a job for at least ten years. His only solace comes from drinking at Burshis’ Stumble Inn, where he can pretend that no one knows him and have a nice chat with the bar owner. \n\nHe knows he was a good helio engineer, and he is fully aware that he did not deserve to have his job ripped from his hands. When the bartender suggests that he will have a new job soon, Ryd thinks to himself that anyone who wants to give him a job can screw off. He has been without one for too long to even know how to manage it. \n\nRyd is also skeptical of people around him. When Mury approaches him at the bar, he notices right away that Mury seems out of place in the way that he’s dressed. He also gives Mury an attitude when the man starts a conversation with him. He has learned not to trust many people, so he acts contrary to his natural intuition when he listens to Mury and almost immediately believes he has his best interest in mind.\n\nRyd is not a trained spy or someone who has a lot of experience with committing crimes, so he is very out of place on his mission with Mury. He is jumpy, anxious, and concerned for his safety throughout the job. He is so uncomfortable holding a weapon that he actually drops his flame pistol in a control room and nearly starts a fire. He leaves the dirty work to Mury, and he does not offer to shoot anyone or engage in combat or do anything that isn’t directly asked of him. Ryd goes along for the ride because he is afraid that Mury will kill him if he backs out of the mission, and he also realizes that Mury’s plan may be the only thing that saves men like him from becoming slaves. \n",
"Ryd is a man who lost his job a decade ago and still feels badly about it since he hasn’t been able to find a job since then. He is somewhat angry about losing his job because it wasn’t lost through any wrongdoing on his part but because he was a helio operator, and helios worked much better on Mars. He has a reputation now for asking people for loans, so when they see him, no one wants to look him in the eye for fear that he will ask for yet more money. When the owner of Burshis points out that the power cylinder from Mars will bring back jobs, Ryd acknowledges to himself that there won’t be any jobs for him; he is out of the habit of working now. Ryd has a mostly fearful outlook on life now. When Mury wants to speak with him outside the bar, Ryd is suspicious and worries that Mury might be a police officer. Ryd also feels that no one is sympathetic with him; when he did try to get another job, he was turned down because he wasn’t allied with the Poligerents. After Ryd mentions the power cylinder as the salvation of Earth, Mury lets him know that this view is based on lies because the deal is based on Earth becoming a colony of Mars. When Ryd is reluctant to help Mury, the mention of money helps sway him to help as does the thought that they will kill him now that he knows so much if he doesn’t help. At the same time, Ryd wants to help Mury to win his approval. Ryd goes along with Mury’s plans, not because he believes in the cause but because he is afraid. Ryd remains fearful and uncertain in each part of the plan as they carry it out, and he relies on Mury’s calm, cool demeanor and assurances to keep from falling apart.\n",
"Ryd Randl was a helio operator, who lost his job some time ago. He is struggling like many other people on Earth because of the black out power outages and inability to find work. His eagerness to get new work causes him to take risks, and get involved with Mury’s revolutionary plan. Ryd comes across as a law-abiding Earth citizen who is deeply uncomfortable with the crimes Mury ropes him into, but goes along with them in order to be paid.\n\n",
"Ryd is an Earthman who has been out of work for the past decade. His struggles with finding another job, making enough money to get by, and general hardships have made him somewhat bitter and static. Ryd is first introduced on cold Dynamopolis when he’s entering a pub, knowing he can’t pay for anything. He’s lucky to get his first free drink of the month, and he savors his alcohol. \nAlthough Ryd looked for a new job at first, he soon grew to resent the institution and men that had forced him out of his position. He was a helio operator, and a damn good one according to him, and enjoyed his job. Now, after being out of work for 10 years, he’d rather stick it to the man than beg for a new position. \nThroughout his adventure with Mury, Ryd falters on the occasion. He is not cowardly, but he is certainly not as experienced or as dangerous as Mury. However, since Ryd has nothing to lose--truly, no house, no job, no family--he can do whatever Mury asks him to, though he will pester him with questions along the way. \n"
] |
62997
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Saboteur of Space
By ROBERT ABERNATHY
Fresh power was coming to Earth, energy which would bring life to a dying planet. Only two men stood in its way, one a cowardly rat, the other a murderous martyr; both pawns in a cosmic game where death moved his chessmen of fate—and even the winner would lose.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Ryd Randl stood, slouching a little, in the darkened footway, and watched the sky over Dynamopolis come alive with searchlights. The shuttered glow of Burshis' Stumble Inn was only a few yards off to his right, but even that lodestone failed before the novel interest of a ship about to ground in the one-time Port of Ten Thousand Ships.
Now he made out the flicker of the braking drive a mile or so overhead, and presently soft motor thunder came down to blanket the almost lightless city with sound. A beam swayed through the throbbing darkness, caught the descending ship and held it, a small gleaming minnow slipping through the dark heavens. A faint glow rose from Pi Mesa, where the spaceport lay above the city, as a runway lighted up—draining the last reserves of the city's stored power, but draining them gladly now that, in those autumn days of the historic year 819, relief was in sight.
Ryd shrugged limply; the play was meaningless to him. He turned to shuffle down the inviting ramp into the glowing interior of Burshis' dive.
The place was crowded with men and smoke. Perhaps half the former were asleep, on tables or on the floor; but for the few places like Burshis' which were still open under the power shortage, many would have frozen, these days, in the chilly nights at fourteen thousand feet. For Dynamopolis sprawled atop the world, now as in the old days when it had been built to be the power center of North America.
The rocket blasts crescendoed and died up on Pi Mesa as Ryd wedged himself with difficulty into the group along the bar. If anyone recognized him, they showed it only by looking fixedly at something else. Only Burshis Yuns kept his static smile and nodded with surprising friendliness at Ryd's pinched, old-young face.
Ryd was startled by the nod. Burshis finished serving another customer and maneuvered down the stained chrome-and-synthyl bar. Ryd was heartened.
"Say, Burshis," he started nervously, as the bulky man halted with his back to him. But Burshis turned, still smiling, shaking his head so that his jowls quivered.
"No loans," he said flatly. "But just one on the house, Ryd."
The drink almost spilled itself in Ryd's hand. Clutching it convulsively, he made his eyes narrow and said suspiciously, "What you setting 'em up for, Burshis? It's the first time since—"
Burshis' smile stayed put. He said affably, "Didn't you hear that ship that just came down on the Mesa? That was the ship from Mars—the escort they were sending with the power cylinder. The power's coming in again." He turned to greet a coin-tapping newcomer, added over his shoulder: "You know what that means, Ryd. Some life around here again. Jobs for all the bums in this town—even for you."
He left Ryd frowning, thinking fuzzily. A warming gulp seemed to clear his head. Jobs. So they thought they could put that over on him again, huh? Well, he'd show them. He was smart; he was a damn good helio man—no, that had been ten years ago. But now he was out of the habit of working, anyway. No job for Ryd Randl. They gave him one once and then took it away. He drank still more deeply.
The man on Ryd's immediate right leaned toward him. He laid a hand on his arm, gripping it hard, and said quietly: "So you're Ryd Randl."
Ryd had a bad moment before he saw that the face wasn't that of any plain-clothes man he knew. For that matter, it didn't belong to anybody he had ever known—an odd, big-boned face, strikingly ugly, with a beak-nose that was yet not too large for the hard jaw or too bleak for the thin mouth below it. An expensive transparent hat slanted over the face, and from its iridescent shadows gleamed eyes that were alert and almost frighteningly black. Ryd noted that the man wore a dark-gray cellotex of a sort rarely seen in joints like Burshis'.
"Suppose we step outside, Ryd. I'd like to talk to you."
"What's the idea?" demanded Ryd, his small store of natural courage floated to the top by alcohol.
The other seemed to realize that he was getting ahead of himself. He leaned back slightly, drew a deep breath, and said slowly and distinctly. "Would you care to make some money, my friend?"
" Huh? Why, yeh—I guess so—"
"Then come with me." The hand still on his arm was insistent. In his daze, Ryd let himself be drawn away from the bar into the sluggish crowd; then he suddenly remembered his unfinished drink, and made frantic gestures. Deliberately misunderstanding, the tall stranger fumbled briefly, tossed a coin on the counter-top, and hustled Ryd out, past the blue-and-gold-lit meloderge that was softly pouring out its endlessly changing music, through the swinging doors into the dark.
Outside, between lightless buildings, the still cold closed in on them. They kept walking—so fast that Ryd began to lose his breath, long-accustomed though his lungs were to the high, thin air.
"So you're Ryd Randl," repeated the stranger after a moment's silence.
"I might have known you. But I'd almost given up finding you tonight."
Ryd tried feebly to wrench free, stumbled. "Look," he gasped. "If you're a cop, say so!"
The other laughed shortly. "No. I'm just a man about to offer you a chance. For a come-back, Ryd—a chance to live again.... My name—you can call me Mury."
Ryd was voiceless. Something seemed increasingly ominous about the tall, spare man at his side. He wished himself back in Burshis' with his first free drink in a month. The thought of it brought tears to his eyes.
"How long have you been out of a job, Ryd?"
"Nine ... ten years. Say, what's it to you?"
"And why, Ryd?"
"Why...? Look, mister, I was a helio operator." He hunched his narrow shoulders and spread his hands in an habitual gesture of defeat. "Damn good one, too—I was a foreman ten years ago. But I don't have the physique for Mars—I might just have made it then , but I thought the plant was going to open again and—"
And that was it. The almost airless Martian sky, with its burning actinic rays, is so favorable for the use of the helio-dynamic engine. And after the middle of the eighth century, robot labor gave Mars its full economic independence—and domination. For power is—power; and there is the Restriction Act to keep men on Earth even if more than two in ten could live healthily on the outer world.
"Ten years ago," Mury nodded as if satisfied. "That must have been the Power Company of North America—the main plant by Dynamopolis itself, that shut down in December, 809. They were the last to close down outside the military bases in the Kun Lun."
Ryd was pacing beside him now. He felt a queer upsurge of confidence in this strange man; for too long he had met no sympathy and all too few men who talked his language. He burst out: "They wouldn't take me, damn them! Said my record wasn't good enough for them. That is, I didn't have a drag with any of the Poligerents."
"I know all about your record," said Mury softly.
Ryd's suspicions came back abruptly, and he reverted to his old kicked-dog manner. "How do you know? And what's it to you?"
All at once, Mury came to a stop, and swung around to face him squarely, hard eyes compelling. They were on an overpass, not far from where the vast, almost wholly deserted offices of the Triplanet Freighting Company sprawled over a square mile of city. A half-smile twisted Mury's thin lips.
"Don't misunderstand me, Ryd—you mean nothing at all to me as an individual. But you're one of a vast mass of men for whom I am working—the billions caught in the net of a corrupt government and sold as an economic prey to the ruthless masters of Mars. This, after they've borne all the hardships of a year of embargo, have offered their hands willingly to the rebuilding of decadent Earth, only to be refused by the weak leaders who can neither defy the enemy nor capitulate frankly to him."
Ryd was dazed. His mind had never been constructed to cope with such ideas and the past few years had not improved its capabilities. "Are you talking about the power cylinder?" he demanded blurrily.
Mury cast a glance toward the Milky Way as if to descry the Martian cargo projectile somewhere up among its countless lights. He said simply, "Yes."
"I don't get it," mumbled Ryd, frowning. He found words that he had heard somewhere a day or so before, in some bar or flophouse: "The power cylinder is going to be the salvation of Earth. It's a shot in the arm—no, right in the heart of Earth industry, here in Dynamopolis. It will turn the wheels and light the cities and—"
"To hell with that!" snapped Mury, suddenly savage. His hands came up slightly, the fingers flexing; then dropped back to his sides. "Don't you know you're repeating damnable lies?"
Ryd could only stare, cringing and bewildered. Mury went on with a passion shocking after his smooth calm:
"The power shell is aid, yes—but with what a price! It's the thirty pieces of silver for which the venal fools who rule our nations have sold the whole planet to Mars. Because they lack the courage and vision to retool Earth's plants and factories for the inescapable conflict, they're selling us out—making Earth, the first home of man, a colony of the Red Planet. Do you know what Earth is to the great Martian land-owners? Do you? " He paused out of breath; then finished venomously, "Earth is a great pool of labor ready to be tapped, cheaper than robots—cheap as slaves !"
"What about it?" gulped Ryd, drawing away from the fanatic. "What you want me to do about it?"
Mury took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. His face was once more bleakly impassive; only the mouth was an ugly line. "We're going to do something about it, you and I. Tonight. Now."
Ryd was nearly sober. And wholly terrified. He got out chokingly,
"What's that mean?"
"The power shell—isn't coming in as planned."
"You can't do that."
" We can," said Mury with a heavy accent on the first word. "And there are fifty thousand credits in it for you, Ryd. Are you with us?"
Suspicion was chill reality now in Ryd's mind. And he knew one thing certainly—if he refused now to accompany Mury, he would be killed, by this man or another of his kind. For the secret power known only as We never took chances. Whispered-of, terrible, and world-embracing, desperate upshot of the times in its principles of dynamitism, war, and panclasm—that was We .
The question hung in the air for a long moment. Then Ryd, with an effort, said, "Sure." A moment later it struck him that the monosyllabic assent was suspicious; he added quickly, "I got nothing to lose, see?" It was, he realized, the cold truth.
"You won't lose," said Mury. He seemed to relax. But the menace with which he had clothed himself clung, as he turned back on the way they had come.
Ryd followed dog-like, his feet in their worn shoes moving without his volition. He was frightened. Out of his very fright came a longing to placate Mury, assure him that he, Ryd, was on the same side whatever happened....
After some steps he stole a sidelong glance at his tall companion, and whined, "Where ... where we going now?"
Mury paused in his long stride, removed a hand from a pocket of the gray topcoat that wrapped him as in somber thoughts. Wordlessly, he pointed as Ryd had known he would—toward where a pale man-made dawn seemed breaking over Pi Mesa.
II
"One blow for freedom!" said Mury with caught breath. His voice fell upon air scarcely stilled since the sodden thump of the blow that had killed the guard.
The body lay between them, face down on the graveled way in the inky moon-shadow. On one side Pi Mesa stretched away two hundred yards to drop sharply into the night; on the other was the unlighted mass of the long, continuous, low buildings that housed now unused fuel pumps and servicing equipment. Looking down at the dead huddle at his feet, a little stunned by the reality of this, Ryd knew that he was in it now. He was caught in the machinery.
Mury hefted the length of steel in his hand once more, as if testing the weight that had crushed a man's skull so easily. Then, with a short wrist-flip, he sent it flying into the dried weeds which had over-grown the aero field on the mesa's rim during the summer months after State order had grounded all fliers in America.
"All right, Ryd," he said coolly. "Trade clothes with this fellow. I've brought you this far—you're taking me the rest of the way."
The rest of the way.
Ryd was still panting, and his side was paining from the strenuous exertion of the long climb up the side of the mountain, far from the guarded highway. His fingers, numbed by the cold of the high, thin air, shook as he knelt and fumbled with the zippers of the dead guard's uniform. The belted gun, however, was heavy and oddly comforting as he clumsily buckled it about his hips. He knew enough of weapons to recognize this as, not the usual paralyzer, but a flame pistol, powerful and deadly. He let his hand linger on its butt; then strong fingers tightened on his bony wrist, and he looked up with a start into the sardonic black eyes of the Panclast.
"No use now for firearms," said Mury. "All the guns we could carry wouldn't help us if we were caught out there. That gun is just a stage property for the little play we're going to give in about three minutes—when you'll act a guardsman escorting me, a Poligerent of Dynamopolis, aboard the towship Shahrazad ."
For a moment Ryd felt relief—he had hazily imagined that Mury's hatred of Mars and all things Martian might have led him to try to sabotage the Martian warship which lay somewhere on the runways beyond the long, low buildings, and which would be closely guarded. But the towship would also be guarded ... he shivered in the cold, dry night air.
Mury had melted into the shadow a few yards away. There was a light scraping, then a green flame sputtered, briefly lighting up his hands and face, and narrowing at once to a thin, singing needle of light. He had turned a pocket electron torch against the lock-mechanism of a small, disused metal door.
Ryd watched in painful suspense. There was no sound in his ears save for the hard, dry shrilling of the ray as it bit into the steel. It seemed to be crying: run, run —but he remembered the power that knew how to punish better than the law, and stood still, shivering.
The lock gave way and the door slipped aside. A light went on inside, and Ryd's heart stopped, backfired, and started again, raggedly. The same automatic mechanism that had turned the lights on had started the air-fresher, which picked up speed with a soft whine, sweeping out the long-stale atmosphere. Mury motioned to Ryd to follow him in.
It was still musty in the narrow passage, between the closely-pressing walls, beneath the great tubes and cable sheathings that fluted the ceiling overhead. A stairway spiraled up on the right to the control cupola somewhere overhead; even in the airtight gallery a thin film of dust lay on every step. Up there were the meters and switches of the disused terminal facilities of the spaceport; beyond the metal door marked CAUTION, just beyond the stairwell, lay the long runway down which the ships of space had glided to be serviced, refueled, and launched into the sky once more by now dormant machines.
"Wait," said Mury succinctly; he vanished up the spiral stair, his long legs taking two steps at a time. After an aching minute's silence, he was back. All was clear as seen from the turret-windows overhead.
They emerged in shadow, hugging the wall. Almost a quarter of a mile to the right the megalith of the Communications Tower, crowned with many lights where the signal-men sat godlike in its summit. Its floodlights shed a vast oval of light out over the mesa, where the mile-long runways—no longer polished mirror-like as in the days of Dynamopolis' glory—stretched away into the darkness of the table land. A handful of odd ships—mere remnant of the hundreds that Pi Mesa port had berthed—huddled under the solenoid wickets, as if driven together by the chill of the thin, knife-like wind that blew across the mesa.
As the two paced slowly across the runways, Ryd had a sense of protective isolation in the vast impersonality of the spaceport. Surely, in this Titanic desolation of metal slabs and flat-roofed buildings, dominated by the one great tower, total insignificance must mean safety for them.
And indeed no guard challenged them. There were armed men watching for all intruders out on the desert beyond the runways, but once inside, Ryd's borrowed blue seemed to serve as passport enough. Nonetheless, the passport's knees were shaking when they stood at last, inconspicuous still, at the shadowed base of the Communications Tower.
Not far off, a half-dozen dignitaries, huddled close together in the midst of these Cyclopean man-made things that dwarfed their policies, their principles and ambitions, stood talking rather nervously with two officers, aristocratically gaudy in the scarlet of the Martian Fleet. Blue-clad guardsmen of Earth watched from a distance—watched boredly enough.
And out on the steel-stripped tarmac, under the solenoid of Number Two Runway, lay a towship, backed like a stegosaur with its massive magnets—the Shahrazad , panting like a dragon amid rolling clouds of steam. She was plainly ready to go into space. The bottom dropped out of Ryd's stomach before he realized that a warning at least must be sounded before the ship could lift. But that might come any moment now.
"Relax," said Mury in a low voice. "Nothing's gone wrong. We'll be aboard the Shahrazad when she lifts." For a moment his black eyes shifted, hardening, toward Runway Four. The Martian warship lay there beyond the solenoid, a spiteful hundred-foot swordfish of steel, with blind gunvalves, row on row, along its sleek sides and turret-blisters. It had not yet been tugged onto the turntable; it could not be leaving again very soon, though Earth weight was undoubtedly incommoding its crew. About it a few figures stood that were stiffly erect and immobile, as tall as tall men. From head to toe they were scarlet.
"Robots!" gasped Ryd, clutching his companion's arm convulsively.
"Martian soldier robots!"
"They're unarmed, harmless. They aren't your police with built-in weapons. Only the humans are dangerous. But we've got to move. For God's sake, take it easy."
Ryd licked dry lips. "Are we going—out into space?"
"Where else?" said Mury.
The official-looking individual in the expensive topcoat and sport hat had reached the starboard airlock of the towship before anyone thought to question his authorization, escorted as he was by a blue-uniformed guardsman. When another sentry, pacing between runways a hundred yards from the squat space vessel, paused to wonder, it was—as it came about—just a little too late.
The guard turned and swung briskly off to intercept the oddly-behaving pair, hand crowding the butt of his pistol, for he was growing uneasy. His alarm mounted rapidly, till he nearly sprained an ankle in sprinting across the last of the two intervening runways, between the solenoid wickets. Those metal arches, crowding one on the other in perspective, formed a tunnel that effectively shielded the Shahrazad's airlocks from more distant view; the gang of notables attracted by the occasion was already being shepherded back to safety by the Communications guards, whose attention was thus well taken up.
The slight man in guardsman's blue glanced over his shoulder and vanished abruptly into the circular lock. His companion wheeled on the topmost step, looking down with some irritation on his unhandsome face, but with no apparent doubt of his command of the situation.
"Yes?" he inquired frostily.
"What goes on here?" snapped the guard, frowning at the tall figure silhouetted against the glow in the airlock. "The crew's signaled all aboard and the ship lifts in two minutes. You ought to be—"
"I am Semul Mury, Poligerent for the City of Dynamopolis," interrupted the tall man with asperity. "The City is naturally interested in the delivery of the power which will revivify our industries." He paused, sighed, shifting his weight to the next lower step of the gangway. "I suppose you'll want to re-check my credentials?"
The guard was somewhat confused; a Poligerent, in ninth-century bureaucracy, was a force to be reckoned with. But he contrived to nod with an appearance of brusqueness.
Fully expecting official papers, signed and garnished with all the pompous seals of a chartered metropolis, the guard was dazed to receive instead a terrific left-handed foul to the pit of the stomach, and as he reeled dizzily, retching and clawing for his gun, to find that gun no longer holstered but in the hand of the self-styled Poligerent, pointing at its licensed owner.
"I think," Mury said quietly, flexing his left wrist with care the while his right held the gun steady, "that you'd better come aboard with us."
The guard was not more cowardly than the run of politically-appointed civic guardsmen. But a flame gun kills more frightfully than the ancient electric chair. He complied, grasping the railing with both hands as he stumbled before Mury up the gangway—for he was still very sick indeed, wholly apart from his bewilderment, which was enormous.
Above, Ryd Randl waited in the lock, flattened against the curved wall, white and jittering. The inner door was shut, an impenetrable countersunk mirror of metal.
"Cover him, Ryd," ordered Mury flatly. In obedience Ryd lugged out the heavy flame pistol and pointed it; his finger was dangerously tremulous on the firing lever. He moistened his lips to voice his fears; but Mury, pocketing the other gun, threw the three-way switch on the side panel, the switch that should have controlled the inner lock.
Nothing happened.
"Oh, God. We're caught. We're trapped!" The outer gangway had slid up, the lock wheezed shut, forming an impenetrable crypt of niosteel.
Mury smiled with supernal calm. "We won't be here long," he said. Then, to quiet Ryd's fears, he went on: "The central control panel and the three local switches inside, between, and outside the locks are on the circuit in that order. Unless the locks were closed from the switch just beyond the inner lock, that lock will open when the central control panel is cut out in preparation for lifting."
Almost as he paused and drew breath, a light sprang out over the switch he had closed and the inner lock swung silently free of its gaskets. Ryd felt a trembling relief; but Mury's voice lashed out like a whip as he slipped cat-like into the passage.
"Keep him covered. Back out of the lock."
Ryd backed—the white, tense face of the prisoner holding his own nervous gaze—and, almost out of the lock, stumbled over the metal pressure rings. And the gun was out of his unsure grip, clattering somewhere near his slithering feet, as he started to fall.
He saw the guardsman hurl himself forward; then he was flung spinning, back against the engine-room door. In a flash, even as he struggled to keep on his feet, he saw the man in the airlock coming up from a crouch, shifting the pistol in his right hand to reach its firing lever; he saw Mury sidestep swiftly and throw the master control switch outside.
The inner lock whooshed shut, barely missing Ryd. At the same instant, the flame gun lighted locks and passage with one terrific flash, and a scorched, discolored spot appeared on the beveled metal of the opposite lock a foot from Mury's right shoulder.
"You damned clumsy little fool—" said Mury with soft intensity. Then, while the air around the metal walls still buzzed and snapped with blue sparks, he whirled and went up the control-room gangway in two quick bounds. Even as he went the flame gun thundered again in the starboard airlock.
Mury was just in time, for the pilot had been about to flash "Ready" to the Communications Tower when the explosions had given him pause. But the latter and his two companions were neither ready nor armed; clamped in their seats at the controls, already marked, they were helpless in an instant before the leveled menace of the gun. And the imprisoned guardsman, having wasted most of his charges, was helpless, too, in his little cell of steel.
"It's been tried before," said one of the masked men. He had a blond, youthful thatch and a smooth healthy face below the mask, together with an astrogator's triangled stars which made him ex officio the brains of the vessel. "Stealing a ship—it can't be done any more."
"It's been done again," said Mury grimly. "And you don't know the half of it. But—you will. I'll need you. As for your friends—" The gun muzzle shifted slightly to indicate the pilot and the engineer. "Out of those clamps. You're going to ride this out in the portside airlock."
He had to repeat the command, in tones that snapped with menace, before they started with fumbling, rebellious hands to strip their armor from themselves. The burly engineer was muttering phrases of obscene fervor; the weedy young pilot was wild-eyed. The blond astrogator, sitting still masked and apparently unmoved, demanded:
"What do you think you're trying to do?"
"What do you think?" demanded Mury in return. "I'm taking the ship into space. On schedule and on course—to meet the power shell." The flame gun moved with a jerk. "And as for you—what's your name?"
"Yet Arliess."
"You want to make the trip alive, don't you, Yet Arliess?"
The young astrogator stared at him and at the gun through masking goggles; then he sank into his seat with a slow shudder. "Why, yes," he said as if in wonder, "I do."
III
Shahrazad drove steadily forward into deep space, vibrating slightly to the tremendous thrust of her powerful engines. The small, cramped cabin was stiflingly hot to the three armored men who sat before its banked dials, watching their steady needles.
Ryd had blacked out, darkness washing into his eyes and consciousness draining from his head, as the space ship had pitched out into emptiness over the end of the runway on Pi Mesa and Mury had cut in the maindrive. Pressure greater than anything he had ever felt had crushed him; his voice had been snatched from his lips by those terrible forces and lost beneath the opening thunder of the three-inch tubes. Up and up, while the acceleration climbed to seven gravities—and Ryd had lost every sensation, not to regain them until Earth was dropping away under the towship's keel.
A single gravity held them back and down in the tilted seats, and the control panels seemed to curve half above them, their banks of lights confused with the stars coldly through the great nose window. In the control room all sounds impinged on a background made up of the insect hum of air-purifiers, the almost supersonic whine of the fast-spinning gyroscopes somewhere behind them, the deep continuous growl of the engines.
Mury's voice broke through that steady murmur, coming from Ryd's right.
"You can unfasten your anticlamps, Ryd," he said dryly. "That doesn't mean you," to the young navigator, on his other hand as he sat in the pilot's seat with his pressure-clamps thrown back and his gloved hands free to caress the multiplex controls before him. Clipped to the sloping dash at his left elbow was a loaded flame gun.
Ryd emerged, with much bungling, from his padded clamps, and shook his head groggily as he ran a hand through his slightly thinning hair. He ventured shakily, "Where are we?"
Mury smiled slightly. "Only our astrogator," he indicated Arliess, still masked and fettered, "can tell you that with precision. I understand only enough of astrogational practice to make sure that he is holding to the course outlined on the log. For that matter ... he is an intelligent young man and if he were not blinded by notions of duty to an outworn system.... We are now somewhere near the orbit of the Moon. Isn't that right, Arliess?"
The other did not seem to hear; he sat staring blindly before him through his goggles at the slowly-changing chart, where cryptic lights burned, some moving like glowing paramecia along fine-traced luminous tracks.
Mury too sat silent and immobile for a minute or more. Then, abruptly, he inclined his universal chair far to the right, and his long frame seemed to tense oddly. His finger stabbed out one of the sparks of light.
"What's that, Arliess?"
The astrogator broke his silence. "A ship."
"I know that well enough. What ship?"
"I supposed you had examined the log. It would have told you that that's the liner Alborak , out of Aeropolis with a diplomatic mission for Mars."
Mury shook his head regretfully. "That won't wash, Arliess. Even if you suppose her off course, no liner aspace ever carried a tenth of that drive."
"I don't know what you're talking about," said Arliess. But his voice was raw and unsteady.
"I'm talking about this. That ship is a warship, and it's looking for us—will intercept us inside of twenty minutes at the most!"
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What is the importance of the communication device in the story?
|
After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about Growing up on Big Muddy by Charles V. De Vet.
Relevant chunks:
Well, naturally Kaiser would transmit baby talk messages to his mother ship! He was—
GROWING UP ON BIG MUDDY
By CHARLES V. DE VET
Illustrated by TURPIN
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction July 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Kaiser stared at the tape in his hand for a long uncomprehending minute. How long had the stuff been coming through in this inane baby talk? And why hadn't he noticed it before? Why had he had to read this last communication a third time before he recognized anything unusual about it?
He went over the words again, as though maybe this time they'd read as they should.
OO IS SICK, SMOKY. DO TO BEDDY-BY. KEEP UM WARM. WHEN UM FEELS BETTER, LET USNS KNOW.
SS II
Kaiser let himself ease back in the pilot chair and rolled the tape thoughtfully between his fingers. Overhead and to each side, large drops of rain thudded softly against the transparent walls of the scout ship and dripped wearily from the bottom ledge to the ground.
"Damn this climate!" Kaiser muttered irrelevantly. "Doesn't it ever do anything here except rain?"
His attention returned to the matter at hand. Why the baby talk? And why was his memory so hazy? How long had he been here? What had he been doing during that time?
Listlessly he reached for the towel at his elbow and wiped the moisture from his face and bare shoulders. The air conditioning had gone out when the scout ship cracked up. He'd have to repair the scout or he was stuck here for good. He remembered now that he had gone over the job very carefully and thoroughly, and had found it too big to handle alone—or without better equipment, at least. Yet there was little or no chance of his being able to find either here.
Calmly, deliberately, Kaiser collected his thoughts, his memories, and brought them out where he could look at them:
The mother ship, Soscites II , had been on the last leg of its planet-mapping tour. It had dropped Kaiser in the one remaining scout ship—the other seven had all been lost one way or another during the exploring of new worlds—and set itself into a giant orbit about this planet that Kaiser had named Big Muddy.
The Soscites II had to maintain its constant speed; it had no means of slowing, except to stop, and no way to start again once it did stop. Its limited range of maneuverability made it necessary to set up an orbit that would take it approximately one month, Earth time, to circle a pinpointed planet. And now its fuel was low.
Kaiser had that one month to repair his scout or be stranded here forever.
That was all he could remember. Nothing of what he had been doing recently.
A small shiver passed through his body as he glanced once again at the tape in his hand. Baby talk....
One thing he could find out: how long this had been going on. He turned to the communicator and unhooked the paper receptacle on its bottom. It held about a yard and a half of tape, probably his last several messages—both those sent and those received. He pulled it out impatiently and began reading.
The first was from himself:
YOUR SUGGESTIONS NO HELP. HOW AM I GOING TO REPAIR DAMAGE TO SCOUT WITHOUT PROPER EQUIPMENT? AND WHERE DO I GET IT? DO YOU THINK I FOUND A TOOL SHOP DOWN HERE? FOR GOD'S SAKE, COME UP WITH SOMETHING BETTER.
VISITED SEAL-PEOPLE AGAIN TODAY. STILL HAVE THEIR STINK IN MY NOSE. FOUND HUTS ALONG RIVER BANK, SO I GUESS THEY DON'T LIVE IN WATER. BUT THEY DO SPEND MOST OF THEIR TIME THERE. NO, I HAVE NO WAY OF ESTIMATING THEIR INTELLIGENCE. I WOULD JUDGE IT AVERAGES NO HIGHER THAN SEVEN-YEAR-OLD HUMAN. THEY DEFINITELY DO TALK TO ONE ANOTHER. WILL TRY TO FIND OUT MORE ABOUT THEM, BUT YOU GET TO WORK FAST ON HOW I REPAIR SCOUT.
SWELLING IN ARM WORSE AND AM DEVELOPING A FEVER. TEMPERATURE 102.7 AN HOUR AGO.
SMOKY
The ship must have answered immediately, for the return message time was six hours later than his own, the minimum interval necessary for two-way exchange.
DOING OUR BEST, SMOKY. YOUR IMMEDIATE PROBLEM, AS WE SEE IT, IS TO KEEP WELL. WE FED ALL THE INFORMATION YOU GAVE US INTO SAM, BUT YOU DIDN'T HAVE MUCH EXCEPT THE STING IN YOUR ARM. AS EXPECTED, ALL THAT CAME OUT WAS "DATA INSUFFICIENT." TRY TO GIVE US MORE. ALSO DETAIL ALL SYMPTOMS SINCE YOUR LAST REPORT. IN THE MEANTIME, WE'RE DOING EVERYTHING WE CAN AT THIS END. GOOD LUCK.
SS II
Sam, Kaiser knew, was the ship's mechanical diagnostician. His report followed:
ARM SWOLLEN. UNABLE TO KEEP DOWN FOOD LAST TWELVE HOURS. ABOUT TWO HOURS AGO, ENTIRE BODY TURNED LIVID RED. BRIEF PERIODS OF BLANKNESS. THINGS KEEP COMING AND GOING. SICK AS HELL. HURRY.
SMOKY
The ship's next message read:
INFECTION QUITE DEFINITE. BUT SOMETHING STRANGE THERE. GIVE US ANYTHING MORE YOU HAVE.
SS II
His own reply perplexed Kaiser:
LAST LETTER FUNNY. I NOT UNDERSTAND. WHY IS OO SENDING GARBLE TALK? DID USNS MAKE UP SECRET MESSAGES?
SMOKY
The expedition, apparently, was as puzzled as he:
WHAT'S THE MATTER, SMOKY? THAT LAST MESSAGE WAS IN PLAIN TERRAN. NO REASON WHY YOU COULDN'T READ IT. AND WHY THE BABY TALK? IF YOU'RE SPOOFING, STOP. GIVE US MORE SYMPTOMS. HOW ARE YOU FEELING NOW?
SS II
The baby talk was worse on Kaiser's next:
TWAZY. WHAT FOR OO TENDING TWAZY LETTERS? FINK UM CAN WEAD TWAZY LETTERS? SKIN ALL YELLOW NOW. COLD. COLD. CO
The ship's following communication was three hours late. It was the last on the tape—the one Kaiser had read earlier. Apparently they decided to humor him.
OO IS SICK, SMOKY. DO TO BEDDY-BY. KEEP UM WARM. WHEN UM FEELS BETTER, LET USNS KNOW.
SS II
That was not much help. All it told him was that he had been sick.
He felt better now, outside of a muscular weariness, as though convalescing from a long illness. He put the back of his hand to his forehead. Cool. No fever anyway.
He glanced at the clock-calendar on the instrument board and back at the date and time on the tape where he'd started his baby talk. Twenty hours. He hadn't been out of his head too long. He began punching the communicator keys while he nibbled at a biscuit.
SEEM TO BE FULLY RECOVERED. FEELING FINE. ANYTHING NEW FROM SAM? AND HOW ABOUT THE DAMAGE TO SCOUT? GIVE ME ANYTHING YOU HAVE ON EITHER OR BOTH.
SMOKY
Kaiser felt suddenly weary. He lay on the scout's bunk and tried to sleep. Soon he was in that phantasm land between sleep and wakefulness—he knew he was not sleeping, yet he did dream.
It was the same dream he had had many times before. In it, he was back home again, the home he had joined the space service to escape. He had realized soon after his marriage that his wife, Helene, did not love him. She had married him for the security his pay check provided. And though it soon became evident that she, too, regretted her bargain, she would not divorce him. Instead, she had her revenge on him by persistent nagging, by letting herself grow fat and querulous, and by caring for their house only in a slovenly way.
Her crippled brother had moved in with them the day they were married. His mind was as crippled as his body and he took an unhealthy delight in helping his sister torment Kaiser.
Kaiser came wide awake in a cold sweat. The clock showed that only an hour had passed since he had sent his last message to the ship. Still five more long hours to wait. He rose and wiped the sweat from his neck and shoulders and restlessly paced the small corridor of the scout.
After a few minutes, he stopped pacing and peered out into the gloom of Big Muddy. The rain seemed to have eased off some. Not much more than a heavy drizzle now.
Kaiser reached impulsively for the slicker he had thrown over a chest against one wall and put it on, then a pair of hip-high plastic boots and a plastic hat. He opened the door. The scout had come to rest with a slight tilt when it crashed, and Kaiser had to sit down and roll over onto his stomach to ease himself to the ground.
The weather outside was normal for Big Muddy: wet, humid, and warm.
Kaiser sank to his ankles in soft mud before his feet reached solid ground. He half walked and half slid to the rear of the scout. Beside the ship, the "octopus" was busily at work. Tentacles and antennae, extending from the yard-high box of its body, tested and recorded temperature, atmosphere, soil, and all other pertinent planetary conditions. The octopus was connected to the ship's communicator and all its findings were being transmitted to the mother ship for study.
Kaiser observed that it was working well and turned toward a wide, sluggish river, perhaps two hundred yards from the scout. Once there, he headed upstream. He could hear the pipings, and now and then a higher whistling, of the seal-people before he reached a bend and saw them. As usual, most were swimming in the river.
One old fellow, whose chocolate-brown fur showed a heavy intermixture of gray, was sitting on the bank of the river just at the bend. Perhaps a lookout. He pulled himself to his feet as he spied Kaiser and his toothless, hard-gummed mouth opened and emitted a long whistle that might have been a greeting—or a warning to the others that a stranger approached.
The native stood perhaps five feet tall, with the heavy, blubbery body of a seal, and short, thick arms. Membranes connected the arms to his body from shoulder-pits to mid-biceps. The arms ended in three-fingered, thumbless hands. His legs also were short and thick, with footpads that splayed out at forty-five-degree angles. They gave his legs the appearance of a split tail. About him hung a rank-fish smell that made Kaiser's stomach squirm.
The old fellow sounded a cheerful chirp as Kaiser came near. Feeling slightly ineffectual, Kaiser raised both hands and held them palm forward. The other chirped again and Kaiser went on toward the main group.
They had stopped their play and eating as Kaiser approached and now most of them swam in to shore and stood in the water, staring and piping. They varied in size from small seal-pups to full-grown adults. Some chewed on bunches of water weed, which they manipulated with their lips and drew into their mouths.
They had mammalian characteristics, Kaiser had noted before, so it was not difficult to distinguish the females from the males. The proportion was roughly fifty-fifty.
Several of the bolder males climbed up beside Kaiser and began pawing his plastic clothing. Kaiser stood still and tried to keep his breathing shallow, for their odor was almost more than he could bear. One native smeared Kaiser's face with an exploring paw and Kaiser gagged and pushed him roughly away. He was bound by regulations to display no hostility to newly discovered natives, but he couldn't take much more of this.
A young female splashed water on two young males who stood near and they turned with shrill pipings and chased her into the water. The entire group seemed to lose interest in Kaiser and joined in the chase, or went back to other diversions of their own. Kaiser's inspectors followed.
They were a mindless lot, Kaiser observed. The river supplied them with an easy existence, with food and living space, and apparently they had few natural enemies.
Kaiser walked away, following the long slow bend of the river, and came to a collection of perhaps two hundred dwellings built in three haphazard rows along the river bank. He took time to study their construction more closely this time.
They were all round domes, little more than the height of a man, built of blocks that appeared to be mud, packed with river weed and sand. How they were able to dry these to give them the necessary solidity, Kaiser did not know. He had found no signs that they knew how to use fire, and all apparent evidence was against their having it. They then had to have sunlight. Maybe it rained less during certain seasons.
The domes' construction was based on a series of four arches built in a circle. When the base covering the periphery had been laid, four others were built on and between them, and continued in successive tiers until the top was reached. Each tier thus furnished support for the next above. No other framework was needed. The final tier formed the roof. They made sound shelters, but Kaiser had peered into several and found them dark and dank—and as smelly as the natives themselves.
The few loungers in the village paid little attention to Kaiser and he wandered through the irregular streets until he became bored and returned to the scout.
The Soscites II sent little that helped during the next twelve hours and Kaiser occupied his time trying again to repair the damage to the scout.
The job appeared maddeningly simply. As the scout had glided in for a soft landing, its metal bottom had ridden a concealed rock and bent inward. The bent metal had carried up with it the tube supplying the fuel pump and flattened it against the motor casing.
Opening the tube again would not have been difficult, but first it had to be freed from under the ship. Kaiser had tried forcing the sheet metal back into place with a small crowbar—the best leverage he had on hand—but it resisted his best efforts. He still could think of no way to do the job, simple as it was, though he gave his concentration to it the rest of the day.
That evening, Kaiser received information from the Soscites II that was at least definite:
SET YOURSELF FOR A SHOCK, SMOKY. SAM FINALLY CAME THROUGH. YOU WON'T LIKE WHAT YOU HEAR. AT LEAST NOT AT FIRST. BUT IT COULD BE WORSE. YOU HAVE BEEN INVADED BY A SYMBIOTE—SIMILAR TO THE TYPE FOUND ON THE SAND WORLD, BARTEL-BLEETHERS. GIVE US A FEW MORE HOURS TO WORK WITH SAM AND WE'LL GET YOU ALL THE PARTICULARS HE CAN GIVE US. HANG ON NOW!
SOSCITES II
Kaiser's reply was short and succinct:
WHAT THE HELL?
SMOKY
Soscites II's next communication followed within twenty minutes and was signed by the ship's doctor:
JUST A FEW WORDS, SMOKY, IN CASE YOU'RE WORRIED. I THOUGHT I'D GET THIS OFF WHILE WE'RE WAITING FOR MORE INFORMATION FROM SAM. REMEMBER THAT A SYMBIOTE IS NOT A PARASITE. IT WILL NOT HARM YOU, EXCEPT INADVERTENTLY. YOUR WELFARE IS AS ESSENTIAL TO IT AS TO YOU. ALMOST CERTAINLY, IF YOU DIE, IT WILL DIE WITH YOU. ANY TROUBLE YOU'VE HAD SO FAR WAS PROBABLY CAUSED BY THE SYMBIOTE'S DIFFICULTY IN ADJUSTING ITSELF TO ITS NEW ENVIRONMENT. IN A WAY, I ENVY YOU. MORE LATER, WHEN WE FINISH WITH SAM.
J. G. ZARWELL
Kaiser did not answer. The news was so startling, so unforeseen, that his mind refused to accept the actuality. He lay on the scout's bunk and stared at the ceiling without conscious attention, and with very little clear thought, for several hours—until the next communication came in:
WELL, THIS IS WHAT SAM HAS TO SAY, SMOKY. SYMBIOTE AMICABLE AND APPARENTLY SWIFTLY ADAPTABLE. YOUR CHANGING COLOR, DIFFICULTY IN EATING AND EVEN BABY TALK WERE THE RESULT OF ITS EFFORTS TO GIVE YOU WHAT IT BELIEVED YOU NEEDED OR WANTED.
CHANGING COLOR: PROTECTIVE CAMOUFLAGE. TROUBLE KEEPING FOOD DOWN: IT KEPT YOUR STOMACH EMPTY BECAUSE IT SENSED YOU WERE IN TROUBLE AND MIGHT HAVE NEED FOR SHARP REFLEXES, WITH NO EXCESS WEIGHT TO CARRY. THE BABY TALK WE AREN'T TOO CERTAIN ABOUT, BUT OUR BEST CONCLUSION IS THAT WHEN YOU WERE A CHILD, YOU WERE MOST HAPPY. IT WAS TRYING TO GIVE YOU BACK THAT HAPPY STATE OF MIND. OBVIOUSLY IT QUICKLY RECOGNIZED THE MISTAKES IT MADE AND CORRECTED THEM.
SAM CAME UP WITH A FEW MORE IDEAS, BUT WE WANT TO WORK ON THEM A BIT BEFORE WE SEND THEM THROUGH. SLEEP ON THIS.
SS II
Kaiser could imagine that most of the crew were not too concerned about the trouble he was in. He was not the gregarious type and had no close friends on board. He had hoped to find the solitude he liked best in space, but he had been disappointed. True, there were fewer people here, but he was brought into such intimate contact with them that he would have been more contented living in a crowded city.
His naturally unsociable nature was more irksome to the crew because he was more intelligent and efficient than they were. He did his work well and painstakingly and was seldom in error. They would have liked him better had he been more prone to mistakes. He was certain that they respected him, but they did not like him. And he returned the dislike.
The suggestion that he get some sleep might not be a bad idea. He hadn't slept in over eighteen hours, Kaiser realized—and fell instantly asleep.
The communicator had a message waiting for him when he awoke:
SAM COULDN'T HELP US MUCH ON THIS PART, BUT AFTER RESEARCH AND MUCH DISCUSSION, WE ARRIVED AT THE FOLLOWING TWO CONCLUSIONS.
FIRST, PHYSICAL PROPERTY OF SYMBIOTE IS EITHER THAT OF A VERY THIN LIQUID OR, MORE PROBABLY, A VIRUS FORM WITH SWIFT PROPAGATION CHARACTERISTIC. IT UNDOUBTEDLY LIVES IN YOUR BLOOD STREAM AND PERMEATES YOUR SYSTEM.
SECOND, IT SEEMED TO US, AS IT MUST HAVE TO YOU, THAT THE SYMBIOTE COULD ONLY KNOW WHAT YOU WANTED BY READING YOUR MIND. HOWEVER, WE BELIEVE DIFFERENTLY NOW. WE THINK THAT IT HAS SUCH CLOSE CONTACT WITH YOUR GLANDS AND THEIR SECRETIONS, WHICH STIMULATE EMOTION, THAT IT CAN GAUGE YOUR FEELINGS EVEN MORE ACCURATELY THAN YOU YOURSELF CAN. THUS IT CAN JUDGE YOUR LIKES AND DISLIKES QUITE ACCURATELY.
WE WOULD LIKE TO HAVE YOU TEST OUR THEORY. THERE ARE DOZENS OF WAYS. IF YOU ARE STUMPED AND NEED SUGGESTIONS, JUST LET US KNOW. WE AWAIT WORD FROM YOU WITH GREAT INTEREST.
SS II
By now, Kaiser had accepted what had happened to him. His distress and anxiety were gone and he was impatient to do what he could to establish better contact with his uninvited tenant. With eager anticipation, he set to thinking how it could be done. After a few minutes, an idea occurred to him.
Taking a small scalpel from a medical kit, he made a shallow cut in his arm, just deep enough to bleed freely. He knew that the pain would supply the necessary glandular reaction. The cut bled a few slow drops—and as Kaiser watched, a shiny film formed and the bleeding stopped.
That checked pretty well with the ship's theory.
Perhaps the symbiote had made his senses more acute. He tried closing his eyes and fingering several objects in the room. It seemed to him that he could determine the texture of each better than before, but the test was inconclusive. Walking to the rear of the scout, he tried reading the printed words on the instrument panel. Each letter stood out sharp and clear!
Kaiser wondered if he might not make an immediate, practical use of the symbiote's apparent desire to help him. Concentrating on the discomfort of the high humidity and exaggerating his own displeasure with it, he waited. The result surprised and pleased him.
The temperature within the scout cabin seemed to lower, the moisture on his body vanished, and he was more comfortable than he had yet been here.
As a double check, he looked at the ship's thermometer. Temperature
102, humidity 113—just about the same as it had been on earlier readings.
During the next twenty-four hours, Kaiser and the mother ship exchanged messages at regular six-hour intervals. In between, he worked at repairing the damaged scout. He had no more success than before.
He tired easily and lay on the cot often to rest. Each time he seemed to drop off to sleep immediately—and awake at the exact times he had decided on beforehand. At first, despite the lack of success in straightening the bent metal of the scout bottom, there had been a subdued exhilaration in reporting each new discovery concerning the symbiote, but as time passed, his enthusiasm ebbed. His one really important problem was how to repair the scout and he was fast becoming discouraged.
At last Kaiser could bear the futility of his efforts no longer. He sent out a terse message to the Soscites II :
TAKING SHORT TRIP TO ANOTHER LOCATION ON RIVER. HOPE TO FIND MORE INTELLIGENT NATIVES. COULD BE THAT THE SETTLEMENT I FOUND HERE IS ANALOGOUS TO TRIBE OF MONKEYS ON EARTH. I KNOW THE CHANCE IS SMALL, BUT WHAT HAVE I TO LOSE? I CAN'T FIX SCOUT WITHOUT BETTER TOOLS, AND IF MY GUESS IS RIGHT, I MAY BE ABLE TO GET EQUIPMENT. EXPECT TO RETURN IN TEN OR TWELVE HOURS. PLEASE KEEP CONTACT WITH SCOUT.
SMOKY
Kaiser packed a mudsled with tent, portable generator and guard wires, a spare sidearm and ammunition, and food for two days. He had noticed that a range of high hills, which caused the bend in the river at the native settlement, seemed to continue its long curve, and he wondered if the hills might not turn the river in the shape of a giant horseshoe. He intended to find out.
Wrapping his equipment in a plastic tarp, Kaiser eased it out the doorway and tied it on the sled. He hooked a towline to a harness on his shoulders and began his journey—in the opposite direction from the first native settlement.
He walked for more than seven hours before he found that his surmise had been correct. And a second cluster of huts, and seal-people in the river, greeted his sight. He received a further pleasant surprise. This group was decidedly more advanced than the first!
They were little different in actual physical appearance; the change was mainly noticeable in their actions and demeanor. And their odor was more subdued, less repugnant.
By signs, Kaiser indicated that he came in peace, and they seemed to understand. A thick-bodied male went solemnly to the river bank and called to a second, who dived and brought up a mouthful of weed. The first male took the weed and brought it to Kaiser. This was obviously a gesture of friendship.
The weed had a white starchy core and looked edible. Kaiser cleaned part of it with his handkerchief, bit and chewed it.
The weed had a slight iron taste, but was not unpalatable. He swallowed the mouthful and tried another. He ate most of what had been given him and waited with some trepidation for a reaction.
As dusk fell, Kaiser set up his tent a few hundred yards back from the native settlement. All apprehension about how his stomach would react to the river weed had left him. Apparently it could be assimilated by his digestive system. Lying on his air mattress, he felt thoroughly at peace with this world.
Once, just before dropping off to sleep, he heard the snuffling noise of some large animal outside his tent and picked up a pistol, just in case. However, the first jolt of the guard-wire charge discouraged the beast and Kaiser heard it shuffle away, making puzzled mewing sounds as it went.
The next morning, Kaiser left off all his clothes except a pair of shorts and went swimming in the river. The seal-people were already in the water when he arrived and were very friendly.
That friendliness nearly resulted in disaster. The natives crowded around as he swam—they maneuvered with an otter-like proficiency—and often nudged him with their bodies when they came too close. He had difficulty keeping afloat and soon turned and started back. As he neared the river edge, a playful female grabbed him by the ankle and pulled him under.
Kaiser tried to break her hold, but she evidently thought he was clowning and wrapped her warm furred arms around him and held him helpless. They sank deeper.
When his breath threatened to burst from his lungs in a stream of bubbles, and he still could not free himself, Kaiser brought his knee up into her stomach and her grip loosened abruptly. He reached the surface, choking and coughing, and swam blindly toward shore until his feet hit the river bottom.
As he stood on the bank, getting his breath, the natives were quiet and seemed to be looking at him reproachfully. He stood for a time, trying to think of a way to explain the necessity of what he had done, but there was none. He shrugged helplessly.
There was no longer anything to be gained by staying here—if they had the tools he needed, he had no way of finding out or asking for them—and he packed and started back to the scout.
Kaiser's good spirits returned on his return journey. He had enjoyed the relief from the tedium of spending day after day in the scout, and now he enjoyed the exercise of pulling the mudsled. Above the waist, he wore only the harness and the large, soft drops of rain against his bare skin were pleasant to feel.
When he reached the scout, Kaiser began to unload the sled. The tarpaulin caught on the edge of a runner and he gave it a tug to free it. To his amazement, the heavy sled turned completely over, spilling the equipment to the ground.
Perplexed, Kaiser stooped and began replacing the spilled articles in the tarp. They felt exceptionally light. He paused again, and suddenly his eyes widened.
Moving quickly to the door of the scout, he shoved his equipment through and crawled in behind it. He did not consult the communicator, as he customarily did on entering, but went directly to the warped place on the floor and picked up the crowbar he had laid there.
Inserting the bar between the metal of the scout bottom and the engine casing, he lifted. Nothing happened. He rested a minute and tried again, this time concentrating on his desire to raise the bar. The metal beneath yielded slightly—but he felt the palms of his hands bruise against the lever.
Only after he dropped the bar did he realize the force he had exerted. His hands ached and tingled. His strength must have been increased tremendously. With his plastic coat wrapped around the lever, he tried again. The metal of the scout bottom gave slowly—until the fuel pump hung free!
Kaiser did not repair the tube immediately. He let the solution rest in his hands, like a package to be opened, the pleasure of its anticipation to be enjoyed as much as the final act.
He transmitted the news of what he had been able to do and sat down to read the two messages waiting for him.
The first was quite routine:
REPORTS FROM THE OCTOPUS INDICATE THAT BIG MUDDY UNDERGOES RADICAL WEATHER-CYCLE CHANGES DURING SPRING AND FALL SEASONS, FROM EXTREME MOISTURE TO EXTREME ARIDITY. AT HEIGHT OF DRY SEASON, PLANET MUST BE COMPLETELY DEVOID OF SURFACE LIQUID.
TO SURVIVE THESE UNUSUAL EXTREMES, SEAL-PEOPLE WOULD NEED EXTREME ADAPTABILITY. THIS VERIFIES OUR EARLIER GUESS THAT NATIVES HAVE SYMBIOSIS WITH THE SAME VIRUS FORM THAT INVADED YOU. WITH SYMBIOTES' AID, SUCH RADICAL PHYSICAL CHANGE COULD BE POSSIBLE. WILL KEEP YOU INFORMED.
GIVE US ANY NEW INFORMATION YOU MIGHT HAVE ON NATIVES.
SS II
The second report was not so routine. Kaiser thought he detected a note of uneasiness in it.
SUGGEST YOU DEVOTE ALL TIME AND EFFORT TO REPAIR OF SCOUT. INFORMATION ON SEAL-PEOPLE ADEQUATE FOR OUR PURPOSES.
SS II
Kaiser did not answer either communication. His earlier report had covered all that he had learned lately. He lay on his cot and went to sleep.
In the morning, another message was waiting:
VERY PLEASED TO HEAR OF PROGRESS ON REPAIR OF SCOUT. COMPLETE AS QUICKLY AS POSSIBLE AND RETURN HERE IMMEDIATELY.
SS II
Kaiser wondered about the abrupt recall. Could the Soscites II be experiencing some difficulty? He shrugged the thought aside. If they were, they would have told him. The last notes had had more than just a suggestion of urgency—there appeared to be a deliberate concealing of information.
Strangely, the messages indicated need for haste did not prod Kaiser. He knew now that the job could be done, perhaps in a few hours' time. And the Soscites II would not complete its orbit of the planet for two weeks yet.
Without putting on more than the shirt and trousers he had grown used to wearing, Kaiser went outside and wandered listlessly about the vicinity of the ship for several hours. When he became hungry, he went back inside.
Another message came in as he finished eating. This one was from the captain himself:
WHY HAVE WE RECEIVED NO VERIFICATION OF LAST INSTRUCTIONS? REPAIR SCOUT IMMEDIATELY AND RETURN WITHOUT FURTHER DELAY. THIS IS AN ORDER!
H. A. HESSE, CAPT.
Kaiser pushed the last of his meal—which he had been eating with his fingers—into his mouth, crumpled the tape, wiped the grease from his hands with it and dropped it to the floor.
He pondered mildly, as he packed his equipment, why he was disregarding the captain's message. For some reason, it seemed too trivial for serious consideration. He placated his slightly uneasy conscience only to the extent of packing the communicator in with his other equipment. It was a self-contained unit and he'd be able to receive messages from the ship on his trip.
The tracks of his earlier journey had been erased by the soft rain, and when Kaiser reached the river, he found that he had not returned to the village he had visited the day before. However, there were other seal-people here.
And they were almost human!
The resemblance was still not so much in their physical makeup—that was little changed from the first he had found—as in their obviously greater intelligence.
This was mainly noticeable in their facile expressions as they talked. Kaiser was even certain that he read smiles on their faces when he slipped on a particularly slick mud patch as he hurried toward them. Where the members of the first tribes had all looked almost exactly alike, these had very marked individual characteristics. Also, these had no odor—only a mild, rather pleasing scent. When they came to meet him, Kaiser could detect distinct syllabism in their pipings.
Most of the natives returned to the river after the first ten minutes of curious inspection, but two stayed behind as Kaiser set up his tent.
One was a female.
They made small noises while he went about his work. After a time, he understood that they were trying to give names to his paraphernalia. He tried saying "tent" and "wire" and "tarp" as he handled each object, but their piping voices could not repeat the words. Kaiser amused himself by trying to imitate their sounds for the articles. He was fairly successful. He was certain that he could soon learn enough to carry on a limited conversation.
The male became bored after a time and left, but the girl stayed until Kaiser finished. She motioned to him then to follow. When they reached the river bank, he saw that she wanted him to go into the water.
Before he had time to decide, Kaiser heard the small bell of the communicator from the tent behind him. He stood undecided for a moment, then returned and read the message on the tape:
STILL ANXIOUSLY AWAITING WORD FROM YOU.
IN MEANTIME, GIVE VERY CLOSE ATTENTION TO FOLLOWING.
WE KNOW THAT THE SYMBIOTES MUST BE ABLE TO MAKE RADICAL CHANGES IN THE PHYSIOLOGY OF THE SEAL-PEOPLE. THERE IS EVERY PROBABILITY THAT YOURS WILL ATTEMPT TO DO THE SAME TO YOU—TO BETTER FIT YOUR BODY TO ITS PRESENT ENVIRONMENT.
THE DANGER, WHICH WE HESITATED TO MENTION UNTIL NOW—WHEN YOU HAVE FORCED US BY YOUR OBSTINATE SILENCE—IS THAT IT CAN ALTER YOUR MIND ALSO. YOUR REPORT ON SECOND TRIBE OF SEAL-PEOPLE STRONGLY INDICATES THAT THIS IS ALREADY HAPPENING. THEY WERE PROBABLY NOT MORE INTELLIGENT AND HUMANLIKE THAN THE OTHERS. ON THE CONTRARY, YOU ARE BECOMING MORE LIKE THEM.
DANGER ACUTE. RETURN IMMEDIATELY. REPEAT: IMMEDIATELY!
SS II
Kaiser picked up a large rock and slowly, methodically pounded the communicator into a flattened jumble of metal and loose parts.
When he finished, he returned to the waiting girl on the river bank. She pointed at his plastic trousers and made laughing sounds in her throat. Kaiser returned the laugh and stripped off the trousers. They ran, still laughing, into the water.
Already the long pink hair that had been growing on his body during the past week was beginning to turn brown at the roots.
Question:
What is the importance of the communication device in the story?
Answer:
|
[
"The communicator allows Kaiser to receive messages from the mothership and its team. It’s the only mechanism that connects him to other intelligent human beings. Throughout the story, these messages help him understand why he had a fever, swelling, a brief period of blankness, and why he used baby-talk. Using the communication device, the mothership’s team and scientists explain to Kaiser what kind of symbiote lives in his body and how it can gauge his emotional reactions and adapt to various environmental and mental triggers. They manage to ask Keiser to test their theory and later inform him of their findings regarding the planet's climate. They use the tape to order Kaiser to return as soon as possible and finally tell him that the symbiote is probably changing his mind and turning him into someone equal in intelligence to the seal-people. ",
"The communication device is what lets Kaiser continue communicating with the mother ship. Without it, he would not have been able to form any form of communication and try to find a solution to his problem. Although the mothership is not helpful in terms of helping him repair the scout ship, he does report to them his symptoms of illness. He gets all of his instructions from them, and they are the ones to diagnose him of having a symbiote in his body. The communication device ties Kaiser to his mission, and he would not be able to receive instructions for the next step if he did not have the communication device. At the end of the story, however, Kaiser sees the communication device as a hindrance because he has no close friends in the crew anyways. He destroys, finally setting himself free from the mothership. ",
"The communication device is the only linkage Kaiser has to his crewmates aboard the SS II, and it is the only way Kaiser is able to get verified information (i.e. about his sickness, then later, the seal-creatures). It emphasizes the distance between Kaiser and everybody else. \n\nIt builds tension in the story as communications only come after a period of delivery time. In addition, the messages that come through are often unfinished in the sense that not the full truth of information is provided. ",
"The communication device is the only form of communication that Kaiser has with his crew in the large ship. Kaiser was feeling very sick at the beginning of the story, even forgetting parts of what he did. This communication system allowed him to communicate with the ship’s doctor and understand what was going on with him. The communication also allowed Kaiser to understand the implications of his new symbiote. In the end, the communications that the crew sent Kaiser showed the negative effects of the symbiote, and how it would slowly turn Kaiser into a seal-person. "
] |
51398
|
Well, naturally Kaiser would transmit baby talk messages to his mother ship! He was—
GROWING UP ON BIG MUDDY
By CHARLES V. DE VET
Illustrated by TURPIN
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction July 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Kaiser stared at the tape in his hand for a long uncomprehending minute. How long had the stuff been coming through in this inane baby talk? And why hadn't he noticed it before? Why had he had to read this last communication a third time before he recognized anything unusual about it?
He went over the words again, as though maybe this time they'd read as they should.
OO IS SICK, SMOKY. DO TO BEDDY-BY. KEEP UM WARM. WHEN UM FEELS BETTER, LET USNS KNOW.
SS II
Kaiser let himself ease back in the pilot chair and rolled the tape thoughtfully between his fingers. Overhead and to each side, large drops of rain thudded softly against the transparent walls of the scout ship and dripped wearily from the bottom ledge to the ground.
"Damn this climate!" Kaiser muttered irrelevantly. "Doesn't it ever do anything here except rain?"
His attention returned to the matter at hand. Why the baby talk? And why was his memory so hazy? How long had he been here? What had he been doing during that time?
Listlessly he reached for the towel at his elbow and wiped the moisture from his face and bare shoulders. The air conditioning had gone out when the scout ship cracked up. He'd have to repair the scout or he was stuck here for good. He remembered now that he had gone over the job very carefully and thoroughly, and had found it too big to handle alone—or without better equipment, at least. Yet there was little or no chance of his being able to find either here.
Calmly, deliberately, Kaiser collected his thoughts, his memories, and brought them out where he could look at them:
The mother ship, Soscites II , had been on the last leg of its planet-mapping tour. It had dropped Kaiser in the one remaining scout ship—the other seven had all been lost one way or another during the exploring of new worlds—and set itself into a giant orbit about this planet that Kaiser had named Big Muddy.
The Soscites II had to maintain its constant speed; it had no means of slowing, except to stop, and no way to start again once it did stop. Its limited range of maneuverability made it necessary to set up an orbit that would take it approximately one month, Earth time, to circle a pinpointed planet. And now its fuel was low.
Kaiser had that one month to repair his scout or be stranded here forever.
That was all he could remember. Nothing of what he had been doing recently.
A small shiver passed through his body as he glanced once again at the tape in his hand. Baby talk....
One thing he could find out: how long this had been going on. He turned to the communicator and unhooked the paper receptacle on its bottom. It held about a yard and a half of tape, probably his last several messages—both those sent and those received. He pulled it out impatiently and began reading.
The first was from himself:
YOUR SUGGESTIONS NO HELP. HOW AM I GOING TO REPAIR DAMAGE TO SCOUT WITHOUT PROPER EQUIPMENT? AND WHERE DO I GET IT? DO YOU THINK I FOUND A TOOL SHOP DOWN HERE? FOR GOD'S SAKE, COME UP WITH SOMETHING BETTER.
VISITED SEAL-PEOPLE AGAIN TODAY. STILL HAVE THEIR STINK IN MY NOSE. FOUND HUTS ALONG RIVER BANK, SO I GUESS THEY DON'T LIVE IN WATER. BUT THEY DO SPEND MOST OF THEIR TIME THERE. NO, I HAVE NO WAY OF ESTIMATING THEIR INTELLIGENCE. I WOULD JUDGE IT AVERAGES NO HIGHER THAN SEVEN-YEAR-OLD HUMAN. THEY DEFINITELY DO TALK TO ONE ANOTHER. WILL TRY TO FIND OUT MORE ABOUT THEM, BUT YOU GET TO WORK FAST ON HOW I REPAIR SCOUT.
SWELLING IN ARM WORSE AND AM DEVELOPING A FEVER. TEMPERATURE 102.7 AN HOUR AGO.
SMOKY
The ship must have answered immediately, for the return message time was six hours later than his own, the minimum interval necessary for two-way exchange.
DOING OUR BEST, SMOKY. YOUR IMMEDIATE PROBLEM, AS WE SEE IT, IS TO KEEP WELL. WE FED ALL THE INFORMATION YOU GAVE US INTO SAM, BUT YOU DIDN'T HAVE MUCH EXCEPT THE STING IN YOUR ARM. AS EXPECTED, ALL THAT CAME OUT WAS "DATA INSUFFICIENT." TRY TO GIVE US MORE. ALSO DETAIL ALL SYMPTOMS SINCE YOUR LAST REPORT. IN THE MEANTIME, WE'RE DOING EVERYTHING WE CAN AT THIS END. GOOD LUCK.
SS II
Sam, Kaiser knew, was the ship's mechanical diagnostician. His report followed:
ARM SWOLLEN. UNABLE TO KEEP DOWN FOOD LAST TWELVE HOURS. ABOUT TWO HOURS AGO, ENTIRE BODY TURNED LIVID RED. BRIEF PERIODS OF BLANKNESS. THINGS KEEP COMING AND GOING. SICK AS HELL. HURRY.
SMOKY
The ship's next message read:
INFECTION QUITE DEFINITE. BUT SOMETHING STRANGE THERE. GIVE US ANYTHING MORE YOU HAVE.
SS II
His own reply perplexed Kaiser:
LAST LETTER FUNNY. I NOT UNDERSTAND. WHY IS OO SENDING GARBLE TALK? DID USNS MAKE UP SECRET MESSAGES?
SMOKY
The expedition, apparently, was as puzzled as he:
WHAT'S THE MATTER, SMOKY? THAT LAST MESSAGE WAS IN PLAIN TERRAN. NO REASON WHY YOU COULDN'T READ IT. AND WHY THE BABY TALK? IF YOU'RE SPOOFING, STOP. GIVE US MORE SYMPTOMS. HOW ARE YOU FEELING NOW?
SS II
The baby talk was worse on Kaiser's next:
TWAZY. WHAT FOR OO TENDING TWAZY LETTERS? FINK UM CAN WEAD TWAZY LETTERS? SKIN ALL YELLOW NOW. COLD. COLD. CO
The ship's following communication was three hours late. It was the last on the tape—the one Kaiser had read earlier. Apparently they decided to humor him.
OO IS SICK, SMOKY. DO TO BEDDY-BY. KEEP UM WARM. WHEN UM FEELS BETTER, LET USNS KNOW.
SS II
That was not much help. All it told him was that he had been sick.
He felt better now, outside of a muscular weariness, as though convalescing from a long illness. He put the back of his hand to his forehead. Cool. No fever anyway.
He glanced at the clock-calendar on the instrument board and back at the date and time on the tape where he'd started his baby talk. Twenty hours. He hadn't been out of his head too long. He began punching the communicator keys while he nibbled at a biscuit.
SEEM TO BE FULLY RECOVERED. FEELING FINE. ANYTHING NEW FROM SAM? AND HOW ABOUT THE DAMAGE TO SCOUT? GIVE ME ANYTHING YOU HAVE ON EITHER OR BOTH.
SMOKY
Kaiser felt suddenly weary. He lay on the scout's bunk and tried to sleep. Soon he was in that phantasm land between sleep and wakefulness—he knew he was not sleeping, yet he did dream.
It was the same dream he had had many times before. In it, he was back home again, the home he had joined the space service to escape. He had realized soon after his marriage that his wife, Helene, did not love him. She had married him for the security his pay check provided. And though it soon became evident that she, too, regretted her bargain, she would not divorce him. Instead, she had her revenge on him by persistent nagging, by letting herself grow fat and querulous, and by caring for their house only in a slovenly way.
Her crippled brother had moved in with them the day they were married. His mind was as crippled as his body and he took an unhealthy delight in helping his sister torment Kaiser.
Kaiser came wide awake in a cold sweat. The clock showed that only an hour had passed since he had sent his last message to the ship. Still five more long hours to wait. He rose and wiped the sweat from his neck and shoulders and restlessly paced the small corridor of the scout.
After a few minutes, he stopped pacing and peered out into the gloom of Big Muddy. The rain seemed to have eased off some. Not much more than a heavy drizzle now.
Kaiser reached impulsively for the slicker he had thrown over a chest against one wall and put it on, then a pair of hip-high plastic boots and a plastic hat. He opened the door. The scout had come to rest with a slight tilt when it crashed, and Kaiser had to sit down and roll over onto his stomach to ease himself to the ground.
The weather outside was normal for Big Muddy: wet, humid, and warm.
Kaiser sank to his ankles in soft mud before his feet reached solid ground. He half walked and half slid to the rear of the scout. Beside the ship, the "octopus" was busily at work. Tentacles and antennae, extending from the yard-high box of its body, tested and recorded temperature, atmosphere, soil, and all other pertinent planetary conditions. The octopus was connected to the ship's communicator and all its findings were being transmitted to the mother ship for study.
Kaiser observed that it was working well and turned toward a wide, sluggish river, perhaps two hundred yards from the scout. Once there, he headed upstream. He could hear the pipings, and now and then a higher whistling, of the seal-people before he reached a bend and saw them. As usual, most were swimming in the river.
One old fellow, whose chocolate-brown fur showed a heavy intermixture of gray, was sitting on the bank of the river just at the bend. Perhaps a lookout. He pulled himself to his feet as he spied Kaiser and his toothless, hard-gummed mouth opened and emitted a long whistle that might have been a greeting—or a warning to the others that a stranger approached.
The native stood perhaps five feet tall, with the heavy, blubbery body of a seal, and short, thick arms. Membranes connected the arms to his body from shoulder-pits to mid-biceps. The arms ended in three-fingered, thumbless hands. His legs also were short and thick, with footpads that splayed out at forty-five-degree angles. They gave his legs the appearance of a split tail. About him hung a rank-fish smell that made Kaiser's stomach squirm.
The old fellow sounded a cheerful chirp as Kaiser came near. Feeling slightly ineffectual, Kaiser raised both hands and held them palm forward. The other chirped again and Kaiser went on toward the main group.
They had stopped their play and eating as Kaiser approached and now most of them swam in to shore and stood in the water, staring and piping. They varied in size from small seal-pups to full-grown adults. Some chewed on bunches of water weed, which they manipulated with their lips and drew into their mouths.
They had mammalian characteristics, Kaiser had noted before, so it was not difficult to distinguish the females from the males. The proportion was roughly fifty-fifty.
Several of the bolder males climbed up beside Kaiser and began pawing his plastic clothing. Kaiser stood still and tried to keep his breathing shallow, for their odor was almost more than he could bear. One native smeared Kaiser's face with an exploring paw and Kaiser gagged and pushed him roughly away. He was bound by regulations to display no hostility to newly discovered natives, but he couldn't take much more of this.
A young female splashed water on two young males who stood near and they turned with shrill pipings and chased her into the water. The entire group seemed to lose interest in Kaiser and joined in the chase, or went back to other diversions of their own. Kaiser's inspectors followed.
They were a mindless lot, Kaiser observed. The river supplied them with an easy existence, with food and living space, and apparently they had few natural enemies.
Kaiser walked away, following the long slow bend of the river, and came to a collection of perhaps two hundred dwellings built in three haphazard rows along the river bank. He took time to study their construction more closely this time.
They were all round domes, little more than the height of a man, built of blocks that appeared to be mud, packed with river weed and sand. How they were able to dry these to give them the necessary solidity, Kaiser did not know. He had found no signs that they knew how to use fire, and all apparent evidence was against their having it. They then had to have sunlight. Maybe it rained less during certain seasons.
The domes' construction was based on a series of four arches built in a circle. When the base covering the periphery had been laid, four others were built on and between them, and continued in successive tiers until the top was reached. Each tier thus furnished support for the next above. No other framework was needed. The final tier formed the roof. They made sound shelters, but Kaiser had peered into several and found them dark and dank—and as smelly as the natives themselves.
The few loungers in the village paid little attention to Kaiser and he wandered through the irregular streets until he became bored and returned to the scout.
The Soscites II sent little that helped during the next twelve hours and Kaiser occupied his time trying again to repair the damage to the scout.
The job appeared maddeningly simply. As the scout had glided in for a soft landing, its metal bottom had ridden a concealed rock and bent inward. The bent metal had carried up with it the tube supplying the fuel pump and flattened it against the motor casing.
Opening the tube again would not have been difficult, but first it had to be freed from under the ship. Kaiser had tried forcing the sheet metal back into place with a small crowbar—the best leverage he had on hand—but it resisted his best efforts. He still could think of no way to do the job, simple as it was, though he gave his concentration to it the rest of the day.
That evening, Kaiser received information from the Soscites II that was at least definite:
SET YOURSELF FOR A SHOCK, SMOKY. SAM FINALLY CAME THROUGH. YOU WON'T LIKE WHAT YOU HEAR. AT LEAST NOT AT FIRST. BUT IT COULD BE WORSE. YOU HAVE BEEN INVADED BY A SYMBIOTE—SIMILAR TO THE TYPE FOUND ON THE SAND WORLD, BARTEL-BLEETHERS. GIVE US A FEW MORE HOURS TO WORK WITH SAM AND WE'LL GET YOU ALL THE PARTICULARS HE CAN GIVE US. HANG ON NOW!
SOSCITES II
Kaiser's reply was short and succinct:
WHAT THE HELL?
SMOKY
Soscites II's next communication followed within twenty minutes and was signed by the ship's doctor:
JUST A FEW WORDS, SMOKY, IN CASE YOU'RE WORRIED. I THOUGHT I'D GET THIS OFF WHILE WE'RE WAITING FOR MORE INFORMATION FROM SAM. REMEMBER THAT A SYMBIOTE IS NOT A PARASITE. IT WILL NOT HARM YOU, EXCEPT INADVERTENTLY. YOUR WELFARE IS AS ESSENTIAL TO IT AS TO YOU. ALMOST CERTAINLY, IF YOU DIE, IT WILL DIE WITH YOU. ANY TROUBLE YOU'VE HAD SO FAR WAS PROBABLY CAUSED BY THE SYMBIOTE'S DIFFICULTY IN ADJUSTING ITSELF TO ITS NEW ENVIRONMENT. IN A WAY, I ENVY YOU. MORE LATER, WHEN WE FINISH WITH SAM.
J. G. ZARWELL
Kaiser did not answer. The news was so startling, so unforeseen, that his mind refused to accept the actuality. He lay on the scout's bunk and stared at the ceiling without conscious attention, and with very little clear thought, for several hours—until the next communication came in:
WELL, THIS IS WHAT SAM HAS TO SAY, SMOKY. SYMBIOTE AMICABLE AND APPARENTLY SWIFTLY ADAPTABLE. YOUR CHANGING COLOR, DIFFICULTY IN EATING AND EVEN BABY TALK WERE THE RESULT OF ITS EFFORTS TO GIVE YOU WHAT IT BELIEVED YOU NEEDED OR WANTED.
CHANGING COLOR: PROTECTIVE CAMOUFLAGE. TROUBLE KEEPING FOOD DOWN: IT KEPT YOUR STOMACH EMPTY BECAUSE IT SENSED YOU WERE IN TROUBLE AND MIGHT HAVE NEED FOR SHARP REFLEXES, WITH NO EXCESS WEIGHT TO CARRY. THE BABY TALK WE AREN'T TOO CERTAIN ABOUT, BUT OUR BEST CONCLUSION IS THAT WHEN YOU WERE A CHILD, YOU WERE MOST HAPPY. IT WAS TRYING TO GIVE YOU BACK THAT HAPPY STATE OF MIND. OBVIOUSLY IT QUICKLY RECOGNIZED THE MISTAKES IT MADE AND CORRECTED THEM.
SAM CAME UP WITH A FEW MORE IDEAS, BUT WE WANT TO WORK ON THEM A BIT BEFORE WE SEND THEM THROUGH. SLEEP ON THIS.
SS II
Kaiser could imagine that most of the crew were not too concerned about the trouble he was in. He was not the gregarious type and had no close friends on board. He had hoped to find the solitude he liked best in space, but he had been disappointed. True, there were fewer people here, but he was brought into such intimate contact with them that he would have been more contented living in a crowded city.
His naturally unsociable nature was more irksome to the crew because he was more intelligent and efficient than they were. He did his work well and painstakingly and was seldom in error. They would have liked him better had he been more prone to mistakes. He was certain that they respected him, but they did not like him. And he returned the dislike.
The suggestion that he get some sleep might not be a bad idea. He hadn't slept in over eighteen hours, Kaiser realized—and fell instantly asleep.
The communicator had a message waiting for him when he awoke:
SAM COULDN'T HELP US MUCH ON THIS PART, BUT AFTER RESEARCH AND MUCH DISCUSSION, WE ARRIVED AT THE FOLLOWING TWO CONCLUSIONS.
FIRST, PHYSICAL PROPERTY OF SYMBIOTE IS EITHER THAT OF A VERY THIN LIQUID OR, MORE PROBABLY, A VIRUS FORM WITH SWIFT PROPAGATION CHARACTERISTIC. IT UNDOUBTEDLY LIVES IN YOUR BLOOD STREAM AND PERMEATES YOUR SYSTEM.
SECOND, IT SEEMED TO US, AS IT MUST HAVE TO YOU, THAT THE SYMBIOTE COULD ONLY KNOW WHAT YOU WANTED BY READING YOUR MIND. HOWEVER, WE BELIEVE DIFFERENTLY NOW. WE THINK THAT IT HAS SUCH CLOSE CONTACT WITH YOUR GLANDS AND THEIR SECRETIONS, WHICH STIMULATE EMOTION, THAT IT CAN GAUGE YOUR FEELINGS EVEN MORE ACCURATELY THAN YOU YOURSELF CAN. THUS IT CAN JUDGE YOUR LIKES AND DISLIKES QUITE ACCURATELY.
WE WOULD LIKE TO HAVE YOU TEST OUR THEORY. THERE ARE DOZENS OF WAYS. IF YOU ARE STUMPED AND NEED SUGGESTIONS, JUST LET US KNOW. WE AWAIT WORD FROM YOU WITH GREAT INTEREST.
SS II
By now, Kaiser had accepted what had happened to him. His distress and anxiety were gone and he was impatient to do what he could to establish better contact with his uninvited tenant. With eager anticipation, he set to thinking how it could be done. After a few minutes, an idea occurred to him.
Taking a small scalpel from a medical kit, he made a shallow cut in his arm, just deep enough to bleed freely. He knew that the pain would supply the necessary glandular reaction. The cut bled a few slow drops—and as Kaiser watched, a shiny film formed and the bleeding stopped.
That checked pretty well with the ship's theory.
Perhaps the symbiote had made his senses more acute. He tried closing his eyes and fingering several objects in the room. It seemed to him that he could determine the texture of each better than before, but the test was inconclusive. Walking to the rear of the scout, he tried reading the printed words on the instrument panel. Each letter stood out sharp and clear!
Kaiser wondered if he might not make an immediate, practical use of the symbiote's apparent desire to help him. Concentrating on the discomfort of the high humidity and exaggerating his own displeasure with it, he waited. The result surprised and pleased him.
The temperature within the scout cabin seemed to lower, the moisture on his body vanished, and he was more comfortable than he had yet been here.
As a double check, he looked at the ship's thermometer. Temperature
102, humidity 113—just about the same as it had been on earlier readings.
During the next twenty-four hours, Kaiser and the mother ship exchanged messages at regular six-hour intervals. In between, he worked at repairing the damaged scout. He had no more success than before.
He tired easily and lay on the cot often to rest. Each time he seemed to drop off to sleep immediately—and awake at the exact times he had decided on beforehand. At first, despite the lack of success in straightening the bent metal of the scout bottom, there had been a subdued exhilaration in reporting each new discovery concerning the symbiote, but as time passed, his enthusiasm ebbed. His one really important problem was how to repair the scout and he was fast becoming discouraged.
At last Kaiser could bear the futility of his efforts no longer. He sent out a terse message to the Soscites II :
TAKING SHORT TRIP TO ANOTHER LOCATION ON RIVER. HOPE TO FIND MORE INTELLIGENT NATIVES. COULD BE THAT THE SETTLEMENT I FOUND HERE IS ANALOGOUS TO TRIBE OF MONKEYS ON EARTH. I KNOW THE CHANCE IS SMALL, BUT WHAT HAVE I TO LOSE? I CAN'T FIX SCOUT WITHOUT BETTER TOOLS, AND IF MY GUESS IS RIGHT, I MAY BE ABLE TO GET EQUIPMENT. EXPECT TO RETURN IN TEN OR TWELVE HOURS. PLEASE KEEP CONTACT WITH SCOUT.
SMOKY
Kaiser packed a mudsled with tent, portable generator and guard wires, a spare sidearm and ammunition, and food for two days. He had noticed that a range of high hills, which caused the bend in the river at the native settlement, seemed to continue its long curve, and he wondered if the hills might not turn the river in the shape of a giant horseshoe. He intended to find out.
Wrapping his equipment in a plastic tarp, Kaiser eased it out the doorway and tied it on the sled. He hooked a towline to a harness on his shoulders and began his journey—in the opposite direction from the first native settlement.
He walked for more than seven hours before he found that his surmise had been correct. And a second cluster of huts, and seal-people in the river, greeted his sight. He received a further pleasant surprise. This group was decidedly more advanced than the first!
They were little different in actual physical appearance; the change was mainly noticeable in their actions and demeanor. And their odor was more subdued, less repugnant.
By signs, Kaiser indicated that he came in peace, and they seemed to understand. A thick-bodied male went solemnly to the river bank and called to a second, who dived and brought up a mouthful of weed. The first male took the weed and brought it to Kaiser. This was obviously a gesture of friendship.
The weed had a white starchy core and looked edible. Kaiser cleaned part of it with his handkerchief, bit and chewed it.
The weed had a slight iron taste, but was not unpalatable. He swallowed the mouthful and tried another. He ate most of what had been given him and waited with some trepidation for a reaction.
As dusk fell, Kaiser set up his tent a few hundred yards back from the native settlement. All apprehension about how his stomach would react to the river weed had left him. Apparently it could be assimilated by his digestive system. Lying on his air mattress, he felt thoroughly at peace with this world.
Once, just before dropping off to sleep, he heard the snuffling noise of some large animal outside his tent and picked up a pistol, just in case. However, the first jolt of the guard-wire charge discouraged the beast and Kaiser heard it shuffle away, making puzzled mewing sounds as it went.
The next morning, Kaiser left off all his clothes except a pair of shorts and went swimming in the river. The seal-people were already in the water when he arrived and were very friendly.
That friendliness nearly resulted in disaster. The natives crowded around as he swam—they maneuvered with an otter-like proficiency—and often nudged him with their bodies when they came too close. He had difficulty keeping afloat and soon turned and started back. As he neared the river edge, a playful female grabbed him by the ankle and pulled him under.
Kaiser tried to break her hold, but she evidently thought he was clowning and wrapped her warm furred arms around him and held him helpless. They sank deeper.
When his breath threatened to burst from his lungs in a stream of bubbles, and he still could not free himself, Kaiser brought his knee up into her stomach and her grip loosened abruptly. He reached the surface, choking and coughing, and swam blindly toward shore until his feet hit the river bottom.
As he stood on the bank, getting his breath, the natives were quiet and seemed to be looking at him reproachfully. He stood for a time, trying to think of a way to explain the necessity of what he had done, but there was none. He shrugged helplessly.
There was no longer anything to be gained by staying here—if they had the tools he needed, he had no way of finding out or asking for them—and he packed and started back to the scout.
Kaiser's good spirits returned on his return journey. He had enjoyed the relief from the tedium of spending day after day in the scout, and now he enjoyed the exercise of pulling the mudsled. Above the waist, he wore only the harness and the large, soft drops of rain against his bare skin were pleasant to feel.
When he reached the scout, Kaiser began to unload the sled. The tarpaulin caught on the edge of a runner and he gave it a tug to free it. To his amazement, the heavy sled turned completely over, spilling the equipment to the ground.
Perplexed, Kaiser stooped and began replacing the spilled articles in the tarp. They felt exceptionally light. He paused again, and suddenly his eyes widened.
Moving quickly to the door of the scout, he shoved his equipment through and crawled in behind it. He did not consult the communicator, as he customarily did on entering, but went directly to the warped place on the floor and picked up the crowbar he had laid there.
Inserting the bar between the metal of the scout bottom and the engine casing, he lifted. Nothing happened. He rested a minute and tried again, this time concentrating on his desire to raise the bar. The metal beneath yielded slightly—but he felt the palms of his hands bruise against the lever.
Only after he dropped the bar did he realize the force he had exerted. His hands ached and tingled. His strength must have been increased tremendously. With his plastic coat wrapped around the lever, he tried again. The metal of the scout bottom gave slowly—until the fuel pump hung free!
Kaiser did not repair the tube immediately. He let the solution rest in his hands, like a package to be opened, the pleasure of its anticipation to be enjoyed as much as the final act.
He transmitted the news of what he had been able to do and sat down to read the two messages waiting for him.
The first was quite routine:
REPORTS FROM THE OCTOPUS INDICATE THAT BIG MUDDY UNDERGOES RADICAL WEATHER-CYCLE CHANGES DURING SPRING AND FALL SEASONS, FROM EXTREME MOISTURE TO EXTREME ARIDITY. AT HEIGHT OF DRY SEASON, PLANET MUST BE COMPLETELY DEVOID OF SURFACE LIQUID.
TO SURVIVE THESE UNUSUAL EXTREMES, SEAL-PEOPLE WOULD NEED EXTREME ADAPTABILITY. THIS VERIFIES OUR EARLIER GUESS THAT NATIVES HAVE SYMBIOSIS WITH THE SAME VIRUS FORM THAT INVADED YOU. WITH SYMBIOTES' AID, SUCH RADICAL PHYSICAL CHANGE COULD BE POSSIBLE. WILL KEEP YOU INFORMED.
GIVE US ANY NEW INFORMATION YOU MIGHT HAVE ON NATIVES.
SS II
The second report was not so routine. Kaiser thought he detected a note of uneasiness in it.
SUGGEST YOU DEVOTE ALL TIME AND EFFORT TO REPAIR OF SCOUT. INFORMATION ON SEAL-PEOPLE ADEQUATE FOR OUR PURPOSES.
SS II
Kaiser did not answer either communication. His earlier report had covered all that he had learned lately. He lay on his cot and went to sleep.
In the morning, another message was waiting:
VERY PLEASED TO HEAR OF PROGRESS ON REPAIR OF SCOUT. COMPLETE AS QUICKLY AS POSSIBLE AND RETURN HERE IMMEDIATELY.
SS II
Kaiser wondered about the abrupt recall. Could the Soscites II be experiencing some difficulty? He shrugged the thought aside. If they were, they would have told him. The last notes had had more than just a suggestion of urgency—there appeared to be a deliberate concealing of information.
Strangely, the messages indicated need for haste did not prod Kaiser. He knew now that the job could be done, perhaps in a few hours' time. And the Soscites II would not complete its orbit of the planet for two weeks yet.
Without putting on more than the shirt and trousers he had grown used to wearing, Kaiser went outside and wandered listlessly about the vicinity of the ship for several hours. When he became hungry, he went back inside.
Another message came in as he finished eating. This one was from the captain himself:
WHY HAVE WE RECEIVED NO VERIFICATION OF LAST INSTRUCTIONS? REPAIR SCOUT IMMEDIATELY AND RETURN WITHOUT FURTHER DELAY. THIS IS AN ORDER!
H. A. HESSE, CAPT.
Kaiser pushed the last of his meal—which he had been eating with his fingers—into his mouth, crumpled the tape, wiped the grease from his hands with it and dropped it to the floor.
He pondered mildly, as he packed his equipment, why he was disregarding the captain's message. For some reason, it seemed too trivial for serious consideration. He placated his slightly uneasy conscience only to the extent of packing the communicator in with his other equipment. It was a self-contained unit and he'd be able to receive messages from the ship on his trip.
The tracks of his earlier journey had been erased by the soft rain, and when Kaiser reached the river, he found that he had not returned to the village he had visited the day before. However, there were other seal-people here.
And they were almost human!
The resemblance was still not so much in their physical makeup—that was little changed from the first he had found—as in their obviously greater intelligence.
This was mainly noticeable in their facile expressions as they talked. Kaiser was even certain that he read smiles on their faces when he slipped on a particularly slick mud patch as he hurried toward them. Where the members of the first tribes had all looked almost exactly alike, these had very marked individual characteristics. Also, these had no odor—only a mild, rather pleasing scent. When they came to meet him, Kaiser could detect distinct syllabism in their pipings.
Most of the natives returned to the river after the first ten minutes of curious inspection, but two stayed behind as Kaiser set up his tent.
One was a female.
They made small noises while he went about his work. After a time, he understood that they were trying to give names to his paraphernalia. He tried saying "tent" and "wire" and "tarp" as he handled each object, but their piping voices could not repeat the words. Kaiser amused himself by trying to imitate their sounds for the articles. He was fairly successful. He was certain that he could soon learn enough to carry on a limited conversation.
The male became bored after a time and left, but the girl stayed until Kaiser finished. She motioned to him then to follow. When they reached the river bank, he saw that she wanted him to go into the water.
Before he had time to decide, Kaiser heard the small bell of the communicator from the tent behind him. He stood undecided for a moment, then returned and read the message on the tape:
STILL ANXIOUSLY AWAITING WORD FROM YOU.
IN MEANTIME, GIVE VERY CLOSE ATTENTION TO FOLLOWING.
WE KNOW THAT THE SYMBIOTES MUST BE ABLE TO MAKE RADICAL CHANGES IN THE PHYSIOLOGY OF THE SEAL-PEOPLE. THERE IS EVERY PROBABILITY THAT YOURS WILL ATTEMPT TO DO THE SAME TO YOU—TO BETTER FIT YOUR BODY TO ITS PRESENT ENVIRONMENT.
THE DANGER, WHICH WE HESITATED TO MENTION UNTIL NOW—WHEN YOU HAVE FORCED US BY YOUR OBSTINATE SILENCE—IS THAT IT CAN ALTER YOUR MIND ALSO. YOUR REPORT ON SECOND TRIBE OF SEAL-PEOPLE STRONGLY INDICATES THAT THIS IS ALREADY HAPPENING. THEY WERE PROBABLY NOT MORE INTELLIGENT AND HUMANLIKE THAN THE OTHERS. ON THE CONTRARY, YOU ARE BECOMING MORE LIKE THEM.
DANGER ACUTE. RETURN IMMEDIATELY. REPEAT: IMMEDIATELY!
SS II
Kaiser picked up a large rock and slowly, methodically pounded the communicator into a flattened jumble of metal and loose parts.
When he finished, he returned to the waiting girl on the river bank. She pointed at his plastic trousers and made laughing sounds in her throat. Kaiser returned the laugh and stripped off the trousers. They ran, still laughing, into the water.
Already the long pink hair that had been growing on his body during the past week was beginning to turn brown at the roots.
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What role does the hanged human body play in the story?
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After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about The Hanging Stranger by Philip K. Dick.
Relevant chunks:
THE HANGING STRANGER
BY PHILIP K. DICK
ILLUSTRATED BY SMITH
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Science Fiction Adventures Magazine December 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Ed had always been a practical man, when he saw something was wrong he tried to correct it. Then one day he saw
it
hanging in the town square.
Five o'clock Ed Loyce washed up, tossed on his hat and coat, got his car out and headed across town toward his TV sales store. He was tired. His back and shoulders ached from digging dirt out of the basement and wheeling it into the back yard. But for a forty-year-old man he had done okay. Janet could get a new vase with the money he had saved; and he liked the idea of repairing the foundations himself!
It was getting dark. The setting sun cast long rays over the scurrying commuters, tired and grim-faced, women loaded down with bundles and packages, students swarming home from the university, mixing with clerks and businessmen and drab secretaries. He stopped his Packard for a red light and then started it up again. The store had been open without him; he'd arrive just in time to spell the help for dinner, go over the records of the day, maybe even close a couple of sales himself. He drove slowly past the small square of green in the center of the street, the town park. There were no parking places in front of LOYCE TV SALES AND SERVICE. He cursed under his breath and swung the car in a U-turn. Again he passed the little square of green with its lonely drinking fountain and bench and single lamppost.
From the lamppost something was hanging. A shapeless dark bundle, swinging a little with the wind. Like a dummy of some sort. Loyce rolled down his window and peered out. What the hell was it? A display of some kind? Sometimes the Chamber of Commerce put up displays in the square.
Again he made a U-turn and brought his car around. He passed the park and concentrated on the dark bundle. It wasn't a dummy. And if it was a display it was a strange kind. The hackles on his neck rose and he swallowed uneasily. Sweat slid out on his face and hands.
It was a body. A human body.
"Look at it!" Loyce snapped. "Come on out here!"
Don Fergusson came slowly out of the store, buttoning his pin-stripe coat with dignity. "This is a big deal, Ed. I can't just leave the guy standing there."
"See it?" Ed pointed into the gathering gloom. The lamppost jutted up against the sky—the post and the bundle swinging from it. "There it is. How the hell long has it been there?" His voice rose excitedly. "What's wrong with everybody? They just walk on past!"
Don Fergusson lit a cigarette slowly. "Take it easy, old man. There must be a good reason, or it wouldn't be there."
"A reason! What kind of a reason?"
Fergusson shrugged. "Like the time the Traffic Safety Council put that wrecked Buick there. Some sort of civic thing. How would I know?"
Jack Potter from the shoe shop joined them. "What's up, boys?"
"There's a body hanging from the lamppost," Loyce said. "I'm going to call the cops."
"They must know about it," Potter said. "Or otherwise it wouldn't be there."
"I got to get back in." Fergusson headed back into the store. "Business before pleasure."
Loyce began to get hysterical. "You see it? You see it hanging there? A man's body! A dead man!"
"Sure, Ed. I saw it this afternoon when I went out for coffee."
"You mean it's been there all afternoon?"
"Sure. What's the matter?" Potter glanced at his watch. "Have to run. See you later, Ed."
Potter hurried off, joining the flow of people moving along the sidewalk. Men and women, passing by the park. A few glanced up curiously at the dark bundle—and then went on. Nobody stopped. Nobody paid any attention.
"I'm going nuts," Loyce whispered. He made his way to the curb and crossed out into traffic, among the cars. Horns honked angrily at him. He gained the curb and stepped up onto the little square of green.
The man had been middle-aged. His clothing was ripped and torn, a gray suit, splashed and caked with dried mud. A stranger. Loyce had never seen him before. Not a local man. His face was partly turned, away, and in the evening wind he spun a little, turning gently, silently. His skin was gouged and cut. Red gashes, deep scratches of congealed blood. A pair of steel-rimmed glasses hung from one ear, dangling foolishly. His eyes bulged. His mouth was open, tongue thick and ugly blue.
"For Heaven's sake," Loyce muttered, sickened. He pushed down his nausea and made his way back to the sidewalk. He was shaking all over, with revulsion—and fear.
Why? Who was the man? Why was he hanging there? What did it mean?
And—why didn't anybody notice?
He bumped into a small man hurrying along the sidewalk. "Watch it!" the man grated, "Oh, it's you, Ed."
Ed nodded dazedly. "Hello, Jenkins."
"What's the matter?" The stationery clerk caught Ed's arm. "You look sick."
"The body. There in the park."
"Sure, Ed." Jenkins led him into the alcove of LOYCE TV SALES AND SERVICE. "Take it easy."
Margaret Henderson from the jewelry store joined them. "Something wrong?"
"Ed's not feeling well."
Loyce yanked himself free. "How can you stand here? Don't you see it? For God's sake—"
"What's he talking about?" Margaret asked nervously.
"The body!" Ed shouted. "The body hanging there!"
More people collected. "Is he sick? It's Ed Loyce. You okay, Ed?"
"The body!" Loyce screamed, struggling to get past them. Hands caught at him. He tore loose. "Let me go! The police! Get the police!"
"Ed—"
"Better get a doctor!"
"He must be sick."
"Or drunk."
Loyce fought his way through the people. He stumbled and half fell. Through a blur he saw rows of faces, curious, concerned, anxious. Men and women halting to see what the disturbance was. He fought past them toward his store. He could see Fergusson inside talking to a man, showing him an Emerson TV set. Pete Foley in the back at the service counter, setting up a new Philco. Loyce shouted at them frantically. His voice was lost in the roar of traffic and the murmur around him.
"Do something!" he screamed. "Don't stand there! Do something! Something's wrong! Something's happened! Things are going on!"
The crowd melted respectfully for the two heavy-set cops moving efficiently toward Loyce.
"Name?" the cop with the notebook murmured.
"Loyce." He mopped his forehead wearily. "Edward C. Loyce. Listen to me. Back there—"
"Address?" the cop demanded. The police car moved swiftly through traffic, shooting among the cars and buses. Loyce sagged against the seat, exhausted and confused. He took a deep shuddering breath.
"1368 Hurst Road."
"That's here in Pikeville?"
"That's right." Loyce pulled himself up with a violent effort. "Listen to me. Back there. In the square. Hanging from the lamppost—"
"Where were you today?" the cop behind the wheel demanded.
"Where?" Loyce echoed.
"You weren't in your shop, were you?"
"No." He shook his head. "No, I was home. Down in the basement."
"In the basement ?"
"Digging. A new foundation. Getting out the dirt to pour a cement frame. Why? What has that to do with—"
"Was anybody else down there with you?"
"No. My wife was downtown. My kids were at school." Loyce looked from one heavy-set cop to the other. Hope flicked across his face, wild hope.
"You mean because I was down there I missed—the explanation? I didn't get in on it? Like everybody else?"
After a pause the cop with the notebook said: "That's right. You missed the explanation."
"Then it's official? The body—it's supposed to be hanging there?"
"It's supposed to be hanging there. For everybody to see."
Ed Loyce grinned weakly. "Good Lord. I guess I sort of went off the deep end. I thought maybe something had happened. You know, something like the Ku Klux Klan. Some kind of violence. Communists or Fascists taking over." He wiped his face with his breast-pocket handkerchief, his hands shaking. "I'm glad to know it's on the level."
"It's on the level." The police car was getting near the Hall of Justice. The sun had set. The streets were gloomy and dark. The lights had not yet come on.
"I feel better," Loyce said. "I was pretty excited there, for a minute. I guess I got all stirred up. Now that I understand, there's no need to take me in, is there?"
The two cops said nothing.
"I should be back at my store. The boys haven't had dinner. I'm all right, now. No more trouble. Is there any need of—"
"This won't take long," the cop behind the wheel interrupted. "A short process. Only a few minutes."
"I hope it's short," Loyce muttered. The car slowed down for a stoplight. "I guess I sort of disturbed the peace. Funny, getting excited like that and—"
Loyce yanked the door open. He sprawled out into the street and rolled to his feet. Cars were moving all around him, gaining speed as the light changed. Loyce leaped onto the curb and raced among the people, burrowing into the swarming crowds. Behind him he heard sounds, shouts, people running.
They weren't cops. He had realized that right away. He knew every cop in Pikeville. A man couldn't own a store, operate a business in a small town for twenty-five years without getting to know all the cops.
They weren't cops—and there hadn't been any explanation. Potter, Fergusson, Jenkins, none of them knew why it was there. They didn't know—and they didn't care. That was the strange part.
Loyce ducked into a hardware store. He raced toward the back, past the startled clerks and customers, into the shipping room and through the back door. He tripped over a garbage can and ran up a flight of concrete steps. He climbed over a fence and jumped down on the other side, gasping and panting.
There was no sound behind him. He had got away.
He was at the entrance of an alley, dark and strewn with boards and ruined boxes and tires. He could see the street at the far end. A street light wavered and came on. Men and women. Stores. Neon signs. Cars.
And to his right—the police station.
He was close, terribly close. Past the loading platform of a grocery store rose the white concrete side of the Hall of Justice. Barred windows. The police antenna. A great concrete wall rising up in the darkness. A bad place for him to be near. He was too close. He had to keep moving, get farther away from them.
Them?
Loyce moved cautiously down the alley. Beyond the police station was the City Hall, the old-fashioned yellow structure of wood and gilded brass and broad cement steps. He could see the endless rows of offices, dark windows, the cedars and beds of flowers on each side of the entrance.
And—something else.
Above the City Hall was a patch of darkness, a cone of gloom denser than the surrounding night. A prism of black that spread out and was lost into the sky.
He listened. Good God, he could hear something. Something that made him struggle frantically to close his ears, his mind, to shut out the sound. A buzzing. A distant, muted hum like a great swarm of bees.
Loyce gazed up, rigid with horror. The splotch of darkness, hanging over the City Hall. Darkness so thick it seemed almost solid. In the vortex something moved. Flickering shapes. Things, descending from the sky, pausing momentarily above the City Hall, fluttering over it in a dense swarm and then dropping silently onto the roof.
Shapes. Fluttering shapes from the sky. From the crack of darkness that hung above him.
He was seeing—them.
For a long time Loyce watched, crouched behind a sagging fence in a pool of scummy water.
They were landing. Coming down in groups, landing on the roof of the City Hall and disappearing inside. They had wings. Like giant insects of some kind. They flew and fluttered and came to rest—and then crawled crab-fashion, sideways, across the roof and into the building.
He was sickened. And fascinated. Cold night wind blew around him and he shuddered. He was tired, dazed with shock. On the front steps of the City Hall were men, standing here and there. Groups of men coming out of the building and halting for a moment before going on.
Were there more of them?
It didn't seem possible. What he saw descending from the black chasm weren't men. They were alien—from some other world, some other dimension. Sliding through this slit, this break in the shell of the universe. Entering through this gap, winged insects from another realm of being.
On the steps of the City Hall a group of men broke up. A few moved toward a waiting car. One of the remaining shapes started to re-enter the City Hall. It changed its mind and turned to follow the others.
Loyce closed his eyes in horror. His senses reeled. He hung on tight, clutching at the sagging fence. The shape, the man-shape, had abruptly fluttered up and flapped after the others. It flew to the sidewalk and came to rest among them.
Pseudo-men. Imitation men. Insects with ability to disguise themselves as men. Like other insects familiar to Earth. Protective coloration. Mimicry.
Loyce pulled himself away. He got slowly to his feet. It was night. The alley was totally dark. But maybe they could see in the dark. Maybe darkness made no difference to them.
He left the alley cautiously and moved out onto the street. Men and women flowed past, but not so many, now. At the bus-stops stood waiting groups. A huge bus lumbered along the street, its lights flashing in the evening gloom.
Loyce moved forward. He pushed his way among those waiting and when the bus halted he boarded it and took a seat in the rear, by the door. A moment later the bus moved into life and rumbled down the street.
Loyce relaxed a little. He studied the people around him. Dulled, tired faces. People going home from work. Quite ordinary faces. None of them paid any attention to him. All sat quietly, sunk down in their seats, jiggling with the motion of the bus.
The man sitting next to him unfolded a newspaper. He began to read the sports section, his lips moving. An ordinary man. Blue suit. Tie. A businessman, or a salesman. On his way home to his wife and family.
Across the aisle a young woman, perhaps twenty. Dark eyes and hair, a package on her lap. Nylons and heels. Red coat and white angora sweater. Gazing absently ahead of her.
A high school boy in jeans and black jacket.
A great triple-chinned woman with an immense shopping bag loaded with packages and parcels. Her thick face dim with weariness.
Ordinary people. The kind that rode the bus every evening. Going home to their families. To dinner.
Going home—with their minds dead. Controlled, filmed over with the mask of an alien being that had appeared and taken possession of them, their town, their lives. Himself, too. Except that he happened to be deep in his cellar instead of in the store. Somehow, he had been overlooked. They had missed him. Their control wasn't perfect, foolproof.
Maybe there were others.
Hope flickered in Loyce. They weren't omnipotent. They had made a mistake, not got control of him. Their net, their field of control, had passed over him. He had emerged from his cellar as he had gone down. Apparently their power-zone was limited.
A few seats down the aisle a man was watching him. Loyce broke off his chain of thought. A slender man, with dark hair and a small mustache. Well-dressed, brown suit and shiny shoes. A book between his small hands. He was watching Loyce, studying him intently. He turned quickly away.
Loyce tensed. One of them ? Or—another they had missed?
The man was watching him again. Small dark eyes, alive and clever. Shrewd. A man too shrewd for them—or one of the things itself, an alien insect from beyond.
The bus halted. An elderly man got on slowly and dropped his token into the box. He moved down the aisle and took a seat opposite Loyce.
The elderly man caught the sharp-eyed man's gaze. For a split second something passed between them.
A look rich with meaning.
Loyce got to his feet. The bus was moving. He ran to the door. One step down into the well. He yanked the emergency door release. The rubber door swung open.
"Hey!" the driver shouted, jamming on the brakes. "What the hell—"
Loyce squirmed through. The bus was slowing down. Houses on all sides. A residential district, lawns and tall apartment buildings. Behind him, the bright-eyed man had leaped up. The elderly man was also on his feet. They were coming after him.
Loyce leaped. He hit the pavement with terrific force and rolled against the curb. Pain lapped over him. Pain and a vast tide of blackness. Desperately, he fought it off. He struggled to his knees and then slid down again. The bus had stopped. People were getting off.
Loyce groped around. His fingers closed over something. A rock, lying in the gutter. He crawled to his feet, grunting with pain. A shape loomed before him. A man, the bright-eyed man with the book.
Loyce kicked. The man gasped and fell. Loyce brought the rock down. The man screamed and tried to roll away. " Stop! For God's sake listen—"
He struck again. A hideous crunching sound. The man's voice cut off and dissolved in a bubbling wail. Loyce scrambled up and back. The others were there, now. All around him. He ran, awkwardly, down the sidewalk, up a driveway. None of them followed him. They had stopped and were bending over the inert body of the man with the book, the bright-eyed man who had come after him.
Had he made a mistake?
But it was too late to worry about that. He had to get out—away from them. Out of Pikeville, beyond the crack of darkness, the rent between their world and his.
"Ed!" Janet Loyce backed away nervously. "What is it? What—"
Ed Loyce slammed the door behind him and came into the living room.
"Pull down the shades. Quick."
Janet moved toward the window. "But—"
"Do as I say. Who else is here besides you?"
"Nobody. Just the twins. They're upstairs in their room. What's happened? You look so strange. Why are you home?"
Ed locked the front door. He prowled around the house, into the kitchen. From the drawer under the sink he slid out the big butcher knife and ran his finger along it. Sharp. Plenty sharp. He returned to the living room.
"Listen to me," he said. "I don't have much time. They know I escaped and they'll be looking for me."
"Escaped?" Janet's face twisted with bewilderment and fear. "Who?"
"The town has been taken over. They're in control. I've got it pretty well figured out. They started at the top, at the City Hall and police department. What they did with the real humans they—"
"What are you talking about?"
"We've been invaded. From some other universe, some other dimension. They're insects. Mimicry. And more. Power to control minds. Your mind."
"My mind?"
"Their entrance is here , in Pikeville. They've taken over all of you. The whole town—except me. We're up against an incredibly powerful enemy, but they have their limitations. That's our hope. They're limited! They can make mistakes!"
Janet shook her head. "I don't understand, Ed. You must be insane."
"Insane? No. Just lucky. If I hadn't been down in the basement I'd be like all the rest of you." Loyce peered out the window. "But I can't stand here talking. Get your coat."
"My coat?"
"We're getting out of here. Out of Pikeville. We've got to get help. Fight this thing. They can be beaten. They're not infallible. It's going to be close—but we may make it if we hurry. Come on!" He grabbed her arm roughly. "Get your coat and call the twins. We're all leaving. Don't stop to pack. There's no time for that."
White-faced, his wife moved toward the closet and got down her coat.
"Where are we going?"
Ed pulled open the desk drawer and spilled the contents out onto the floor. He grabbed up a road map and spread it open. "They'll have the highway covered, of course. But there's a back road. To Oak Grove. I got onto it once. It's practically abandoned. Maybe they'll forget about it."
"The old Ranch Road? Good Lord—it's completely closed. Nobody's supposed to drive over it."
"I know." Ed thrust the map grimly into his coat. "That's our best chance. Now call down the twins and let's get going. Your car is full of gas, isn't it?"
Janet was dazed.
"The Chevy? I had it filled up yesterday afternoon." Janet moved toward the stairs. "Ed, I—"
"Call the twins!" Ed unlocked the front door and peered out. Nothing stirred. No sign of life. All right so far.
"Come on downstairs," Janet called in a wavering voice. "We're—going out for awhile."
"Now?" Tommy's voice came.
"Hurry up," Ed barked. "Get down here, both of you."
Tommy appeared at the top of the stairs. "I was doing my home work. We're starting fractions. Miss Parker says if we don't get this done—"
"You can forget about fractions." Ed grabbed his son as he came down the stairs and propelled him toward the door. "Where's Jim?"
"He's coming."
Jim started slowly down the stairs. "What's up, Dad?"
"We're going for a ride."
"A ride? Where?"
Ed turned to Janet. "We'll leave the lights on. And the TV set. Go turn it on." He pushed her toward the set. "So they'll think we're still—"
He heard the buzz. And dropped instantly, the long butcher knife out. Sickened, he saw it coming down the stairs at him, wings a blur of motion as it aimed itself. It still bore a vague resemblance to Jimmy. It was small, a baby one. A brief glimpse—the thing hurtling at him, cold, multi-lensed inhuman eyes. Wings, body still clothed in yellow T-shirt and jeans, the mimic outline still stamped on it. A strange half-turn of its body as it reached him. What was it doing?
A stinger.
Loyce stabbed wildly at it. It retreated, buzzing frantically. Loyce rolled and crawled toward the door. Tommy and Janet stood still as statues, faces blank. Watching without expression. Loyce stabbed again. This time the knife connected. The thing shrieked and faltered. It bounced against the wall and fluttered down.
Something lapped through his mind. A wall of force, energy, an alien mind probing into him. He was suddenly paralyzed. The mind entered his own, touched against him briefly, shockingly. An utterly alien presence, settling over him—and then it flickered out as the thing collapsed in a broken heap on the rug.
It was dead. He turned it over with his foot. It was an insect, a fly of some kind. Yellow T-shirt, jeans. His son Jimmy.... He closed his mind tight. It was too late to think about that. Savagely he scooped up his knife and headed toward the door. Janet and Tommy stood stone-still, neither of them moving.
The car was out. He'd never get through. They'd be waiting for him. It was ten miles on foot. Ten long miles over rough ground, gulleys and open fields and hills of uncut forest. He'd have to go alone.
Loyce opened the door. For a brief second he looked back at his wife and son. Then he slammed the door behind him and raced down the porch steps.
A moment later he was on his way, hurrying swiftly through the darkness toward the edge of town.
The early morning sunlight was blinding. Loyce halted, gasping for breath, swaying back and forth. Sweat ran down in his eyes. His clothing was torn, shredded by the brush and thorns through which he had crawled. Ten miles—on his hands and knees. Crawling, creeping through the night. His shoes were mud-caked. He was scratched and limping, utterly exhausted.
But ahead of him lay Oak Grove.
He took a deep breath and started down the hill. Twice he stumbled and fell, picking himself up and trudging on. His ears rang. Everything receded and wavered. But he was there. He had got out, away from Pikeville.
A farmer in a field gaped at him. From a house a young woman watched in wonder. Loyce reached the road and turned onto it. Ahead of him was a gasoline station and a drive-in. A couple of trucks, some chickens pecking in the dirt, a dog tied with a string.
The white-clad attendant watched suspiciously as he dragged himself up to the station. "Thank God." He caught hold of the wall. "I didn't think I was going to make it. They followed me most of the way. I could hear them buzzing. Buzzing and flitting around behind me."
"What happened?" the attendant demanded. "You in a wreck? A hold-up?"
Loyce shook his head wearily. "They have the whole town. The City Hall and the police station. They hung a man from the lamppost. That was the first thing I saw. They've got all the roads blocked. I saw them hovering over the cars coming in. About four this morning I got beyond them. I knew it right away. I could feel them leave. And then the sun came up."
The attendant licked his lip nervously. "You're out of your head. I better get a doctor."
"Get me into Oak Grove," Loyce gasped. He sank down on the gravel.
"We've got to get started—cleaning them out. Got to get started right away."
They kept a tape recorder going all the time he talked. When he had finished the Commissioner snapped off the recorder and got to his feet. He stood for a moment, deep in thought. Finally he got out his cigarettes and lit up slowly, a frown on his beefy face.
"You don't believe me," Loyce said.
The Commissioner offered him a cigarette. Loyce pushed it impatiently away. "Suit yourself." The Commissioner moved over to the window and stood for a time looking out at the town of Oak Grove. "I believe you," he said abruptly.
Loyce sagged. "Thank God."
"So you got away." The Commissioner shook his head. "You were down in your cellar instead of at work. A freak chance. One in a million."
Loyce sipped some of the black coffee they had brought him. "I have a theory," he murmured.
"What is it?"
"About them. Who they are. They take over one area at a time. Starting at the top—the highest level of authority. Working down from there in a widening circle. When they're firmly in control they go on to the next town. They spread, slowly, very gradually. I think it's been going on for a long time."
"A long time?"
"Thousands of years. I don't think it's new."
"Why do you say that?"
"When I was a kid.... A picture they showed us in Bible League. A religious picture—an old print. The enemy gods, defeated by Jehovah. Moloch, Beelzebub, Moab, Baalin, Ashtaroth—"
"So?"
"They were all represented by figures." Loyce looked up at the Commissioner. "Beelzebub was represented as—a giant fly."
The Commissioner grunted. "An old struggle."
"They've been defeated. The Bible is an account of their defeats. They make gains—but finally they're defeated."
"Why defeated?"
"They can't get everyone. They didn't get me. And they never got the Hebrews. The Hebrews carried the message to the whole world. The realization of the danger. The two men on the bus. I think they understood. Had escaped, like I did." He clenched his fists. "I killed one of them. I made a mistake. I was afraid to take a chance."
The Commissioner nodded. "Yes, they undoubtedly had escaped, as you did. Freak accidents. But the rest of the town was firmly in control." He turned from the window. "Well, Mr. Loyce. You seem to have figured everything out."
"Not everything. The hanging man. The dead man hanging from the lamppost. I don't understand that. Why? Why did they deliberately hang him there?"
"That would seem simple." The Commissioner smiled faintly. " Bait. "
Loyce stiffened. His heart stopped beating. "Bait? What do you mean?"
"To draw you out. Make you declare yourself. So they'd know who was under control—and who had escaped."
Loyce recoiled with horror. "Then they expected failures! They anticipated—" He broke off. "They were ready with a trap."
"And you showed yourself. You reacted. You made yourself known." The Commissioner abruptly moved toward the door. "Come along, Loyce. There's a lot to do. We must get moving. There's no time to waste."
Loyce started slowly to his feet, numbed. "And the man. Who was the man? I never saw him before. He wasn't a local man. He was a stranger. All muddy and dirty, his face cut, slashed—"
There was a strange look on the Commissioner's face as he answered.
"Maybe," he said softly, "you'll understand that, too. Come along with me, Mr. Loyce." He held the door open, his eyes gleaming. Loyce caught a glimpse of the street in front of the police station. Policemen, a platform of some sort. A telephone pole—and a rope! "Right this way," the Commissioner said, smiling coldly.
As the sun set, the vice-president of the Oak Grove Merchants' Bank came up out of the vault, threw the heavy time locks, put on his hat and coat, and hurried outside onto the sidewalk. Only a few people were there, hurrying home to dinner.
"Good night," the guard said, locking the door after him.
"Good night," Clarence Mason murmured. He started along the street toward his car. He was tired. He had been working all day down in the vault, examining the lay-out of the safety deposit boxes to see if there was room for another tier. He was glad to be finished.
At the corner he halted. The street lights had not yet come on. The street was dim. Everything was vague. He looked around—and froze.
From the telephone pole in front of the police station, something large and shapeless hung. It moved a little with the wind.
What the hell was it?
Mason approached it warily. He wanted to get home. He was tired and hungry. He thought of his wife, his kids, a hot meal on the dinner table. But there was something about the dark bundle, something ominous and ugly. The light was bad; he couldn't tell what it was. Yet it drew him on, made him move closer for a better look. The shapeless thing made him uneasy. He was frightened by it. Frightened—and fascinated.
And the strange part was that nobody else seemed to notice it.
Question:
What role does the hanged human body play in the story?
Answer:
|
[
"The hanged human body is bait to lure people who escape successfully from the mind control of alien flies and draw themselves out. People who are not under mental control would try everything they can to escape from the controlled town to the nearby uncontrolled town, but when they arrive in the uncontrolled town, they will be hanged as another bait in the new town, just like what happens to Ed Loyce in the story. When Ed notices the hanged body in the park and the strangeness that nobody cares about, he tries everything to alert people and escape. Yet, he ends up being suspended by the Commissioner in the town nearby as a new bait to lure people like him. The fact that the uncontrolled person escapes from the controlled town is also why the hanged body looks like a stranger in a town because the person often comes from another town. This fact also constitutes why the body is caked with mud, and its clothes are torn and ripped because it is the consequence of a long journey from another town to where it is hanged.",
"The hanging body is an important part of the story because it is what tells Ed that something is wrong with the people around him. When Ed sees the hanging body in the middle of the town square, he tries to tell everyone around that something is wrong, but no one seems to care. At the end, Ed figures out that the body was used by the aliens to lure out the humans that they hadn’t controlled yet, which is exactly what happened to him. Also, it is insinuated that Ed was killed and hanged in another town to repeat the same cycle again. ",
"The hanged human body is supposed to be a bait for the aliens to figure out who has escaped their control. As an escaped person would not have received the announcement that there was a body being hanged, it would allow them to better capture the escaped person. The hanged human body is also implied to be another person who escaped, because Clarence Mason also sees a body that is hanging. Since both Ed Loyce and Clarence Mason had a freak chance of not being infected by the aliens, because they were not present for the so-called “announcement” of the hanged body, it also makes them targets. For Loyce, the hanged body is the start of his observation of the aliens and realization that the entire town is under control. \n",
"This body serves as bait to help the alien insects find people that are not yet under their control. The body draws Ed’s attention, and eventually, he gets taken by the aliens disguised as police officers. It helps him initially realize that something has changed the town's citizens. He soon finds out that Pikeville has been invaded by some aliens. At the end, we also learn that this hanging man was probably a citizen of some nearby town who, just like Loyce, managed to escape the alien insects and come to Pikeville to get help. These insects have invaded more than one city. They kill survivors to make them serve as baits for future survivors. "
] |
41562
|
THE HANGING STRANGER
BY PHILIP K. DICK
ILLUSTRATED BY SMITH
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Science Fiction Adventures Magazine December 1953. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Ed had always been a practical man, when he saw something was wrong he tried to correct it. Then one day he saw
it
hanging in the town square.
Five o'clock Ed Loyce washed up, tossed on his hat and coat, got his car out and headed across town toward his TV sales store. He was tired. His back and shoulders ached from digging dirt out of the basement and wheeling it into the back yard. But for a forty-year-old man he had done okay. Janet could get a new vase with the money he had saved; and he liked the idea of repairing the foundations himself!
It was getting dark. The setting sun cast long rays over the scurrying commuters, tired and grim-faced, women loaded down with bundles and packages, students swarming home from the university, mixing with clerks and businessmen and drab secretaries. He stopped his Packard for a red light and then started it up again. The store had been open without him; he'd arrive just in time to spell the help for dinner, go over the records of the day, maybe even close a couple of sales himself. He drove slowly past the small square of green in the center of the street, the town park. There were no parking places in front of LOYCE TV SALES AND SERVICE. He cursed under his breath and swung the car in a U-turn. Again he passed the little square of green with its lonely drinking fountain and bench and single lamppost.
From the lamppost something was hanging. A shapeless dark bundle, swinging a little with the wind. Like a dummy of some sort. Loyce rolled down his window and peered out. What the hell was it? A display of some kind? Sometimes the Chamber of Commerce put up displays in the square.
Again he made a U-turn and brought his car around. He passed the park and concentrated on the dark bundle. It wasn't a dummy. And if it was a display it was a strange kind. The hackles on his neck rose and he swallowed uneasily. Sweat slid out on his face and hands.
It was a body. A human body.
"Look at it!" Loyce snapped. "Come on out here!"
Don Fergusson came slowly out of the store, buttoning his pin-stripe coat with dignity. "This is a big deal, Ed. I can't just leave the guy standing there."
"See it?" Ed pointed into the gathering gloom. The lamppost jutted up against the sky—the post and the bundle swinging from it. "There it is. How the hell long has it been there?" His voice rose excitedly. "What's wrong with everybody? They just walk on past!"
Don Fergusson lit a cigarette slowly. "Take it easy, old man. There must be a good reason, or it wouldn't be there."
"A reason! What kind of a reason?"
Fergusson shrugged. "Like the time the Traffic Safety Council put that wrecked Buick there. Some sort of civic thing. How would I know?"
Jack Potter from the shoe shop joined them. "What's up, boys?"
"There's a body hanging from the lamppost," Loyce said. "I'm going to call the cops."
"They must know about it," Potter said. "Or otherwise it wouldn't be there."
"I got to get back in." Fergusson headed back into the store. "Business before pleasure."
Loyce began to get hysterical. "You see it? You see it hanging there? A man's body! A dead man!"
"Sure, Ed. I saw it this afternoon when I went out for coffee."
"You mean it's been there all afternoon?"
"Sure. What's the matter?" Potter glanced at his watch. "Have to run. See you later, Ed."
Potter hurried off, joining the flow of people moving along the sidewalk. Men and women, passing by the park. A few glanced up curiously at the dark bundle—and then went on. Nobody stopped. Nobody paid any attention.
"I'm going nuts," Loyce whispered. He made his way to the curb and crossed out into traffic, among the cars. Horns honked angrily at him. He gained the curb and stepped up onto the little square of green.
The man had been middle-aged. His clothing was ripped and torn, a gray suit, splashed and caked with dried mud. A stranger. Loyce had never seen him before. Not a local man. His face was partly turned, away, and in the evening wind he spun a little, turning gently, silently. His skin was gouged and cut. Red gashes, deep scratches of congealed blood. A pair of steel-rimmed glasses hung from one ear, dangling foolishly. His eyes bulged. His mouth was open, tongue thick and ugly blue.
"For Heaven's sake," Loyce muttered, sickened. He pushed down his nausea and made his way back to the sidewalk. He was shaking all over, with revulsion—and fear.
Why? Who was the man? Why was he hanging there? What did it mean?
And—why didn't anybody notice?
He bumped into a small man hurrying along the sidewalk. "Watch it!" the man grated, "Oh, it's you, Ed."
Ed nodded dazedly. "Hello, Jenkins."
"What's the matter?" The stationery clerk caught Ed's arm. "You look sick."
"The body. There in the park."
"Sure, Ed." Jenkins led him into the alcove of LOYCE TV SALES AND SERVICE. "Take it easy."
Margaret Henderson from the jewelry store joined them. "Something wrong?"
"Ed's not feeling well."
Loyce yanked himself free. "How can you stand here? Don't you see it? For God's sake—"
"What's he talking about?" Margaret asked nervously.
"The body!" Ed shouted. "The body hanging there!"
More people collected. "Is he sick? It's Ed Loyce. You okay, Ed?"
"The body!" Loyce screamed, struggling to get past them. Hands caught at him. He tore loose. "Let me go! The police! Get the police!"
"Ed—"
"Better get a doctor!"
"He must be sick."
"Or drunk."
Loyce fought his way through the people. He stumbled and half fell. Through a blur he saw rows of faces, curious, concerned, anxious. Men and women halting to see what the disturbance was. He fought past them toward his store. He could see Fergusson inside talking to a man, showing him an Emerson TV set. Pete Foley in the back at the service counter, setting up a new Philco. Loyce shouted at them frantically. His voice was lost in the roar of traffic and the murmur around him.
"Do something!" he screamed. "Don't stand there! Do something! Something's wrong! Something's happened! Things are going on!"
The crowd melted respectfully for the two heavy-set cops moving efficiently toward Loyce.
"Name?" the cop with the notebook murmured.
"Loyce." He mopped his forehead wearily. "Edward C. Loyce. Listen to me. Back there—"
"Address?" the cop demanded. The police car moved swiftly through traffic, shooting among the cars and buses. Loyce sagged against the seat, exhausted and confused. He took a deep shuddering breath.
"1368 Hurst Road."
"That's here in Pikeville?"
"That's right." Loyce pulled himself up with a violent effort. "Listen to me. Back there. In the square. Hanging from the lamppost—"
"Where were you today?" the cop behind the wheel demanded.
"Where?" Loyce echoed.
"You weren't in your shop, were you?"
"No." He shook his head. "No, I was home. Down in the basement."
"In the basement ?"
"Digging. A new foundation. Getting out the dirt to pour a cement frame. Why? What has that to do with—"
"Was anybody else down there with you?"
"No. My wife was downtown. My kids were at school." Loyce looked from one heavy-set cop to the other. Hope flicked across his face, wild hope.
"You mean because I was down there I missed—the explanation? I didn't get in on it? Like everybody else?"
After a pause the cop with the notebook said: "That's right. You missed the explanation."
"Then it's official? The body—it's supposed to be hanging there?"
"It's supposed to be hanging there. For everybody to see."
Ed Loyce grinned weakly. "Good Lord. I guess I sort of went off the deep end. I thought maybe something had happened. You know, something like the Ku Klux Klan. Some kind of violence. Communists or Fascists taking over." He wiped his face with his breast-pocket handkerchief, his hands shaking. "I'm glad to know it's on the level."
"It's on the level." The police car was getting near the Hall of Justice. The sun had set. The streets were gloomy and dark. The lights had not yet come on.
"I feel better," Loyce said. "I was pretty excited there, for a minute. I guess I got all stirred up. Now that I understand, there's no need to take me in, is there?"
The two cops said nothing.
"I should be back at my store. The boys haven't had dinner. I'm all right, now. No more trouble. Is there any need of—"
"This won't take long," the cop behind the wheel interrupted. "A short process. Only a few minutes."
"I hope it's short," Loyce muttered. The car slowed down for a stoplight. "I guess I sort of disturbed the peace. Funny, getting excited like that and—"
Loyce yanked the door open. He sprawled out into the street and rolled to his feet. Cars were moving all around him, gaining speed as the light changed. Loyce leaped onto the curb and raced among the people, burrowing into the swarming crowds. Behind him he heard sounds, shouts, people running.
They weren't cops. He had realized that right away. He knew every cop in Pikeville. A man couldn't own a store, operate a business in a small town for twenty-five years without getting to know all the cops.
They weren't cops—and there hadn't been any explanation. Potter, Fergusson, Jenkins, none of them knew why it was there. They didn't know—and they didn't care. That was the strange part.
Loyce ducked into a hardware store. He raced toward the back, past the startled clerks and customers, into the shipping room and through the back door. He tripped over a garbage can and ran up a flight of concrete steps. He climbed over a fence and jumped down on the other side, gasping and panting.
There was no sound behind him. He had got away.
He was at the entrance of an alley, dark and strewn with boards and ruined boxes and tires. He could see the street at the far end. A street light wavered and came on. Men and women. Stores. Neon signs. Cars.
And to his right—the police station.
He was close, terribly close. Past the loading platform of a grocery store rose the white concrete side of the Hall of Justice. Barred windows. The police antenna. A great concrete wall rising up in the darkness. A bad place for him to be near. He was too close. He had to keep moving, get farther away from them.
Them?
Loyce moved cautiously down the alley. Beyond the police station was the City Hall, the old-fashioned yellow structure of wood and gilded brass and broad cement steps. He could see the endless rows of offices, dark windows, the cedars and beds of flowers on each side of the entrance.
And—something else.
Above the City Hall was a patch of darkness, a cone of gloom denser than the surrounding night. A prism of black that spread out and was lost into the sky.
He listened. Good God, he could hear something. Something that made him struggle frantically to close his ears, his mind, to shut out the sound. A buzzing. A distant, muted hum like a great swarm of bees.
Loyce gazed up, rigid with horror. The splotch of darkness, hanging over the City Hall. Darkness so thick it seemed almost solid. In the vortex something moved. Flickering shapes. Things, descending from the sky, pausing momentarily above the City Hall, fluttering over it in a dense swarm and then dropping silently onto the roof.
Shapes. Fluttering shapes from the sky. From the crack of darkness that hung above him.
He was seeing—them.
For a long time Loyce watched, crouched behind a sagging fence in a pool of scummy water.
They were landing. Coming down in groups, landing on the roof of the City Hall and disappearing inside. They had wings. Like giant insects of some kind. They flew and fluttered and came to rest—and then crawled crab-fashion, sideways, across the roof and into the building.
He was sickened. And fascinated. Cold night wind blew around him and he shuddered. He was tired, dazed with shock. On the front steps of the City Hall were men, standing here and there. Groups of men coming out of the building and halting for a moment before going on.
Were there more of them?
It didn't seem possible. What he saw descending from the black chasm weren't men. They were alien—from some other world, some other dimension. Sliding through this slit, this break in the shell of the universe. Entering through this gap, winged insects from another realm of being.
On the steps of the City Hall a group of men broke up. A few moved toward a waiting car. One of the remaining shapes started to re-enter the City Hall. It changed its mind and turned to follow the others.
Loyce closed his eyes in horror. His senses reeled. He hung on tight, clutching at the sagging fence. The shape, the man-shape, had abruptly fluttered up and flapped after the others. It flew to the sidewalk and came to rest among them.
Pseudo-men. Imitation men. Insects with ability to disguise themselves as men. Like other insects familiar to Earth. Protective coloration. Mimicry.
Loyce pulled himself away. He got slowly to his feet. It was night. The alley was totally dark. But maybe they could see in the dark. Maybe darkness made no difference to them.
He left the alley cautiously and moved out onto the street. Men and women flowed past, but not so many, now. At the bus-stops stood waiting groups. A huge bus lumbered along the street, its lights flashing in the evening gloom.
Loyce moved forward. He pushed his way among those waiting and when the bus halted he boarded it and took a seat in the rear, by the door. A moment later the bus moved into life and rumbled down the street.
Loyce relaxed a little. He studied the people around him. Dulled, tired faces. People going home from work. Quite ordinary faces. None of them paid any attention to him. All sat quietly, sunk down in their seats, jiggling with the motion of the bus.
The man sitting next to him unfolded a newspaper. He began to read the sports section, his lips moving. An ordinary man. Blue suit. Tie. A businessman, or a salesman. On his way home to his wife and family.
Across the aisle a young woman, perhaps twenty. Dark eyes and hair, a package on her lap. Nylons and heels. Red coat and white angora sweater. Gazing absently ahead of her.
A high school boy in jeans and black jacket.
A great triple-chinned woman with an immense shopping bag loaded with packages and parcels. Her thick face dim with weariness.
Ordinary people. The kind that rode the bus every evening. Going home to their families. To dinner.
Going home—with their minds dead. Controlled, filmed over with the mask of an alien being that had appeared and taken possession of them, their town, their lives. Himself, too. Except that he happened to be deep in his cellar instead of in the store. Somehow, he had been overlooked. They had missed him. Their control wasn't perfect, foolproof.
Maybe there were others.
Hope flickered in Loyce. They weren't omnipotent. They had made a mistake, not got control of him. Their net, their field of control, had passed over him. He had emerged from his cellar as he had gone down. Apparently their power-zone was limited.
A few seats down the aisle a man was watching him. Loyce broke off his chain of thought. A slender man, with dark hair and a small mustache. Well-dressed, brown suit and shiny shoes. A book between his small hands. He was watching Loyce, studying him intently. He turned quickly away.
Loyce tensed. One of them ? Or—another they had missed?
The man was watching him again. Small dark eyes, alive and clever. Shrewd. A man too shrewd for them—or one of the things itself, an alien insect from beyond.
The bus halted. An elderly man got on slowly and dropped his token into the box. He moved down the aisle and took a seat opposite Loyce.
The elderly man caught the sharp-eyed man's gaze. For a split second something passed between them.
A look rich with meaning.
Loyce got to his feet. The bus was moving. He ran to the door. One step down into the well. He yanked the emergency door release. The rubber door swung open.
"Hey!" the driver shouted, jamming on the brakes. "What the hell—"
Loyce squirmed through. The bus was slowing down. Houses on all sides. A residential district, lawns and tall apartment buildings. Behind him, the bright-eyed man had leaped up. The elderly man was also on his feet. They were coming after him.
Loyce leaped. He hit the pavement with terrific force and rolled against the curb. Pain lapped over him. Pain and a vast tide of blackness. Desperately, he fought it off. He struggled to his knees and then slid down again. The bus had stopped. People were getting off.
Loyce groped around. His fingers closed over something. A rock, lying in the gutter. He crawled to his feet, grunting with pain. A shape loomed before him. A man, the bright-eyed man with the book.
Loyce kicked. The man gasped and fell. Loyce brought the rock down. The man screamed and tried to roll away. " Stop! For God's sake listen—"
He struck again. A hideous crunching sound. The man's voice cut off and dissolved in a bubbling wail. Loyce scrambled up and back. The others were there, now. All around him. He ran, awkwardly, down the sidewalk, up a driveway. None of them followed him. They had stopped and were bending over the inert body of the man with the book, the bright-eyed man who had come after him.
Had he made a mistake?
But it was too late to worry about that. He had to get out—away from them. Out of Pikeville, beyond the crack of darkness, the rent between their world and his.
"Ed!" Janet Loyce backed away nervously. "What is it? What—"
Ed Loyce slammed the door behind him and came into the living room.
"Pull down the shades. Quick."
Janet moved toward the window. "But—"
"Do as I say. Who else is here besides you?"
"Nobody. Just the twins. They're upstairs in their room. What's happened? You look so strange. Why are you home?"
Ed locked the front door. He prowled around the house, into the kitchen. From the drawer under the sink he slid out the big butcher knife and ran his finger along it. Sharp. Plenty sharp. He returned to the living room.
"Listen to me," he said. "I don't have much time. They know I escaped and they'll be looking for me."
"Escaped?" Janet's face twisted with bewilderment and fear. "Who?"
"The town has been taken over. They're in control. I've got it pretty well figured out. They started at the top, at the City Hall and police department. What they did with the real humans they—"
"What are you talking about?"
"We've been invaded. From some other universe, some other dimension. They're insects. Mimicry. And more. Power to control minds. Your mind."
"My mind?"
"Their entrance is here , in Pikeville. They've taken over all of you. The whole town—except me. We're up against an incredibly powerful enemy, but they have their limitations. That's our hope. They're limited! They can make mistakes!"
Janet shook her head. "I don't understand, Ed. You must be insane."
"Insane? No. Just lucky. If I hadn't been down in the basement I'd be like all the rest of you." Loyce peered out the window. "But I can't stand here talking. Get your coat."
"My coat?"
"We're getting out of here. Out of Pikeville. We've got to get help. Fight this thing. They can be beaten. They're not infallible. It's going to be close—but we may make it if we hurry. Come on!" He grabbed her arm roughly. "Get your coat and call the twins. We're all leaving. Don't stop to pack. There's no time for that."
White-faced, his wife moved toward the closet and got down her coat.
"Where are we going?"
Ed pulled open the desk drawer and spilled the contents out onto the floor. He grabbed up a road map and spread it open. "They'll have the highway covered, of course. But there's a back road. To Oak Grove. I got onto it once. It's practically abandoned. Maybe they'll forget about it."
"The old Ranch Road? Good Lord—it's completely closed. Nobody's supposed to drive over it."
"I know." Ed thrust the map grimly into his coat. "That's our best chance. Now call down the twins and let's get going. Your car is full of gas, isn't it?"
Janet was dazed.
"The Chevy? I had it filled up yesterday afternoon." Janet moved toward the stairs. "Ed, I—"
"Call the twins!" Ed unlocked the front door and peered out. Nothing stirred. No sign of life. All right so far.
"Come on downstairs," Janet called in a wavering voice. "We're—going out for awhile."
"Now?" Tommy's voice came.
"Hurry up," Ed barked. "Get down here, both of you."
Tommy appeared at the top of the stairs. "I was doing my home work. We're starting fractions. Miss Parker says if we don't get this done—"
"You can forget about fractions." Ed grabbed his son as he came down the stairs and propelled him toward the door. "Where's Jim?"
"He's coming."
Jim started slowly down the stairs. "What's up, Dad?"
"We're going for a ride."
"A ride? Where?"
Ed turned to Janet. "We'll leave the lights on. And the TV set. Go turn it on." He pushed her toward the set. "So they'll think we're still—"
He heard the buzz. And dropped instantly, the long butcher knife out. Sickened, he saw it coming down the stairs at him, wings a blur of motion as it aimed itself. It still bore a vague resemblance to Jimmy. It was small, a baby one. A brief glimpse—the thing hurtling at him, cold, multi-lensed inhuman eyes. Wings, body still clothed in yellow T-shirt and jeans, the mimic outline still stamped on it. A strange half-turn of its body as it reached him. What was it doing?
A stinger.
Loyce stabbed wildly at it. It retreated, buzzing frantically. Loyce rolled and crawled toward the door. Tommy and Janet stood still as statues, faces blank. Watching without expression. Loyce stabbed again. This time the knife connected. The thing shrieked and faltered. It bounced against the wall and fluttered down.
Something lapped through his mind. A wall of force, energy, an alien mind probing into him. He was suddenly paralyzed. The mind entered his own, touched against him briefly, shockingly. An utterly alien presence, settling over him—and then it flickered out as the thing collapsed in a broken heap on the rug.
It was dead. He turned it over with his foot. It was an insect, a fly of some kind. Yellow T-shirt, jeans. His son Jimmy.... He closed his mind tight. It was too late to think about that. Savagely he scooped up his knife and headed toward the door. Janet and Tommy stood stone-still, neither of them moving.
The car was out. He'd never get through. They'd be waiting for him. It was ten miles on foot. Ten long miles over rough ground, gulleys and open fields and hills of uncut forest. He'd have to go alone.
Loyce opened the door. For a brief second he looked back at his wife and son. Then he slammed the door behind him and raced down the porch steps.
A moment later he was on his way, hurrying swiftly through the darkness toward the edge of town.
The early morning sunlight was blinding. Loyce halted, gasping for breath, swaying back and forth. Sweat ran down in his eyes. His clothing was torn, shredded by the brush and thorns through which he had crawled. Ten miles—on his hands and knees. Crawling, creeping through the night. His shoes were mud-caked. He was scratched and limping, utterly exhausted.
But ahead of him lay Oak Grove.
He took a deep breath and started down the hill. Twice he stumbled and fell, picking himself up and trudging on. His ears rang. Everything receded and wavered. But he was there. He had got out, away from Pikeville.
A farmer in a field gaped at him. From a house a young woman watched in wonder. Loyce reached the road and turned onto it. Ahead of him was a gasoline station and a drive-in. A couple of trucks, some chickens pecking in the dirt, a dog tied with a string.
The white-clad attendant watched suspiciously as he dragged himself up to the station. "Thank God." He caught hold of the wall. "I didn't think I was going to make it. They followed me most of the way. I could hear them buzzing. Buzzing and flitting around behind me."
"What happened?" the attendant demanded. "You in a wreck? A hold-up?"
Loyce shook his head wearily. "They have the whole town. The City Hall and the police station. They hung a man from the lamppost. That was the first thing I saw. They've got all the roads blocked. I saw them hovering over the cars coming in. About four this morning I got beyond them. I knew it right away. I could feel them leave. And then the sun came up."
The attendant licked his lip nervously. "You're out of your head. I better get a doctor."
"Get me into Oak Grove," Loyce gasped. He sank down on the gravel.
"We've got to get started—cleaning them out. Got to get started right away."
They kept a tape recorder going all the time he talked. When he had finished the Commissioner snapped off the recorder and got to his feet. He stood for a moment, deep in thought. Finally he got out his cigarettes and lit up slowly, a frown on his beefy face.
"You don't believe me," Loyce said.
The Commissioner offered him a cigarette. Loyce pushed it impatiently away. "Suit yourself." The Commissioner moved over to the window and stood for a time looking out at the town of Oak Grove. "I believe you," he said abruptly.
Loyce sagged. "Thank God."
"So you got away." The Commissioner shook his head. "You were down in your cellar instead of at work. A freak chance. One in a million."
Loyce sipped some of the black coffee they had brought him. "I have a theory," he murmured.
"What is it?"
"About them. Who they are. They take over one area at a time. Starting at the top—the highest level of authority. Working down from there in a widening circle. When they're firmly in control they go on to the next town. They spread, slowly, very gradually. I think it's been going on for a long time."
"A long time?"
"Thousands of years. I don't think it's new."
"Why do you say that?"
"When I was a kid.... A picture they showed us in Bible League. A religious picture—an old print. The enemy gods, defeated by Jehovah. Moloch, Beelzebub, Moab, Baalin, Ashtaroth—"
"So?"
"They were all represented by figures." Loyce looked up at the Commissioner. "Beelzebub was represented as—a giant fly."
The Commissioner grunted. "An old struggle."
"They've been defeated. The Bible is an account of their defeats. They make gains—but finally they're defeated."
"Why defeated?"
"They can't get everyone. They didn't get me. And they never got the Hebrews. The Hebrews carried the message to the whole world. The realization of the danger. The two men on the bus. I think they understood. Had escaped, like I did." He clenched his fists. "I killed one of them. I made a mistake. I was afraid to take a chance."
The Commissioner nodded. "Yes, they undoubtedly had escaped, as you did. Freak accidents. But the rest of the town was firmly in control." He turned from the window. "Well, Mr. Loyce. You seem to have figured everything out."
"Not everything. The hanging man. The dead man hanging from the lamppost. I don't understand that. Why? Why did they deliberately hang him there?"
"That would seem simple." The Commissioner smiled faintly. " Bait. "
Loyce stiffened. His heart stopped beating. "Bait? What do you mean?"
"To draw you out. Make you declare yourself. So they'd know who was under control—and who had escaped."
Loyce recoiled with horror. "Then they expected failures! They anticipated—" He broke off. "They were ready with a trap."
"And you showed yourself. You reacted. You made yourself known." The Commissioner abruptly moved toward the door. "Come along, Loyce. There's a lot to do. We must get moving. There's no time to waste."
Loyce started slowly to his feet, numbed. "And the man. Who was the man? I never saw him before. He wasn't a local man. He was a stranger. All muddy and dirty, his face cut, slashed—"
There was a strange look on the Commissioner's face as he answered.
"Maybe," he said softly, "you'll understand that, too. Come along with me, Mr. Loyce." He held the door open, his eyes gleaming. Loyce caught a glimpse of the street in front of the police station. Policemen, a platform of some sort. A telephone pole—and a rope! "Right this way," the Commissioner said, smiling coldly.
As the sun set, the vice-president of the Oak Grove Merchants' Bank came up out of the vault, threw the heavy time locks, put on his hat and coat, and hurried outside onto the sidewalk. Only a few people were there, hurrying home to dinner.
"Good night," the guard said, locking the door after him.
"Good night," Clarence Mason murmured. He started along the street toward his car. He was tired. He had been working all day down in the vault, examining the lay-out of the safety deposit boxes to see if there was room for another tier. He was glad to be finished.
At the corner he halted. The street lights had not yet come on. The street was dim. Everything was vague. He looked around—and froze.
From the telephone pole in front of the police station, something large and shapeless hung. It moved a little with the wind.
What the hell was it?
Mason approached it warily. He wanted to get home. He was tired and hungry. He thought of his wife, his kids, a hot meal on the dinner table. But there was something about the dark bundle, something ominous and ugly. The light was bad; he couldn't tell what it was. Yet it drew him on, made him move closer for a better look. The shapeless thing made him uneasy. He was frightened by it. Frightened—and fascinated.
And the strange part was that nobody else seemed to notice it.
|
What are some of the equipment used in the story?
|
After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about Acid Bath by Bill Garson.
Relevant chunks:
ACID BATH
By VASELEOS GARSON
The starways' Lone Watcher had expected some odd developments
in his singular, nerve-fraught job on the asteroid. But nothing like the
weird twenty-one-day liquid test devised by the invading Steel-Blues.
Jon Karyl
was bolting in a new baffle
plate on the stationary rocket engine.
It was a tedious job and took all his
concentration. So he wasn't paying too much
attention to what was going on in other
parts of the little asteroid.
He didn't see the peculiar blue space
ship, its rockets throttled down, as it drifted
to land only a few hundred yards away from
his plastic igloo.
Nor did he see the half-dozen steel-blue
creatures slide out of the peculiar vessel's
airlock.
It was only as he crawled out of the
depths of the rocket power plant that he
realized something was wrong.
By then it was almost too late. The six
blue figures were only fifty feet away, approaching
him at a lope.
Jon Karyl took one look and went bounding
over the asteroid's rocky slopes in fifty-foot
bounds.
When you're a Lone Watcher, and
strangers catch you unawares, you don't
stand still. You move fast. It's the Watcher's
first rule. Stay alive. An Earthship may depend
upon your life.
As he fled, Jon Karyl cursed softly under
his breath. The automatic alarm should have
shrilled out a warning.
Then he saved as much of his breath as
he could as some sort of power wave tore
up the rocky sward to his left. He twisted
and zig-zagged in his flight, trying to get
out of sight of the strangers.
Once hidden from their eyes, he could cut
back and head for the underground entrance
to the service station.
He glanced back finally.
Two of the steel-blue creatures were jack-rabbiting
after him, and rapidly closing the
distance.
Jon Karyl unsheathed the stubray pistol
at his side, turned the oxygen dial up for
greater exertion, increased the gravity pull
in his space-suit boots as he neared the
ravine he'd been racing for.
The oxygen was just taking hold when
he hit the lip of the ravine and began
sprinting through its man-high bush-strewn
course.
The power ray from behind ripped out
great gobs of the sheltering bushes. But
running naturally, bent close to the bottom
of the ravine, Jon Karyl dodged the bare
spots. The oxygen made the tremendous
exertion easy for his lungs as he sped down
the dim trail, hidden from the two steel-blue
stalkers.
He'd eluded them, temporarily at least,
Jon Karyl decided when he finally edged off
the dim trail and watched for movement
along the route behind him.
He stood up, finally, pushed aside the
leafy overhang of a bush and looked for
landmarks along the edge of the ravine.
He found one, a stubby bush, shaped like
a Maltese cross, clinging to the lip of the
ravine. The hidden entrance to the service
station wasn't far off.
His pistol held ready, he moved quietly
on down the ravine until the old water
course made an abrupt hairpin turn.
Instead of following around the sharp
bend, Jon Karyl moved straight ahead
through the overhanging bushes until he
came to a dense thicket. Dropping to his
hands and knees he worked his way under
the edge of the thicket into a hollowed-out
space in the center.
There
, just ahead of him, was the lock
leading into the service station. Slipping
a key out of a leg pouch on the space suit,
he jabbed it into the center of the lock,
opening the lever housing.
He pulled strongly on the lever. With a
hiss of escaping air, the lock swung open.
Jon Karyl darted inside, the door closing
softly behind.
At the end of the long tunnel he stepped
to the televisor which was fixed on the area
surrounding the station.
Jon Karyl saw none of the steel-blue creatures.
But he saw their ship. It squatted
like a smashed-down kid's top, its lock shut
tight.
He tuned the televisor to its widest range
and finally spotted one of the Steel-Blues.
He was looking into the stationary rocket
engine.
As Karyl watched, a second Steel-Blue
came crawling out of the ship.
The two Steel-Blues moved toward the
center of the televisor range. They're coming
toward the station, Karyl thought grimly.
Karyl examined the two creatures. They
were of the steel-blue color from the crown
of their egg-shaped heads to the tips of
their walking appendages.
They were about the height of Karyl—six
feet. But where he tapered from broad
shoulders to flat hips, they were straight up
and down. They had no legs, just appendages,
many-jointed that stretched and
shrank independent of the other, but keeping
the cylindrical body with its four pairs
of tentacles on a level balance.
Where their eyes would have been was
an elliptical-shaped lens, covering half the
egg-head, with its converging ends curving
around the sides of the head.
Robots! Jon gauged immediately. But
where were their masters?
The Steel-Blues moved out of the range
of the televisor. A minute later Jon heard
a pounding from the station upstairs.
He chuckled. They were like the wolf of
pre-atomic days who huffed and puffed to
blow the house down.
The outer shell of the station was formed
from stelrylite, the toughest metal in the
solar system. With the self-sealing lock of
the same resistant material, a mere pounding
was nothing.
Jon thought he'd have a look-see anyway.
He went up the steel ladder leading to the
station's power plant and the televisor that
could look into every room within the
station.
He heaved a slight sigh when he reached
the power room, for right at his hand were
weapons to blast the ship from the asteroid.
Jon adjusted one televisor to take in the
lock to the station. His teeth suddenly
clamped down on his lower lip.
Those Steel-Blues were pounding holes
into the stelrylite with round-headed metal
clubs. But it was impossible. Stelrylite didn't
break up that easily.
Jon leaped to a row of studs, lining up
the revolving turret which capped the station
so that its thin fin pointed at the
squat ship of the invaders.
Then he went to the atomic cannon's
firing buttons.
He pressed first the yellow, then the blue
button. Finally the red one.
The thin fin—the cannon's sight—split in
half as the turret opened and the coiled nose
of the cannon protruded. There was a
soundless flash. Then a sharp crack.
Jon was dumbfounded when he saw the
bolt ricochet off the ship. This was no ship
of the solar system. There was nothing that
could withstand even the slight jolt of power
given by the station cannon on any of the
Sun's worlds. But what was this? A piece of
the ship had changed. A bubble of metal,
like a huge drop of blue wax, dripped off
the vessel and struck the rocket of the
asteroid. It steamed and ran in rivulets.
He pressed the red button again.
Then abruptly he was on the floor of the
power room, his legs strangely cut out from
under him. He tried to move them. They lay
flaccid. His arms seemed all right and tried
to lever himself to an upright position.
Damn it, he seemed as if he were paralyzed
from the waist down. But it couldn't
happen that suddenly.
He turned his head.
A Steel-Blue stood facing him. A forked
tentacle held a square black box.
Jon could read nothing in that metallic
face. He said, voice muffled by the confines
of the plastic helmet, "Who are you?"
"I am"—there was a rising inflection in
the answer—"a Steel-Blue."
There were no lips on the Steel-Blue's
face to move. "That is what I have named
you," Jon Karyl said. "But what are you?"
"A robot," came the immediate answer.
Jon was quite sure then that the Steel-Blue
was telepathic. "Yes," the Steel-Blue answered.
"We talk in the language of the
mind. Come!" he said peremptorily, motioning
with the square black box.
The paralysis left Karyl's legs. He followed
the Steel-Blue, aware that the lens
he'd seen on the creature's face had a
counterpart on the back of the egg-head.
Eyes in the back of his head, Jon thought.
That's quite an innovation. "Thank you,"
Steel-Blue said.
There wasn't much fear in Jon Karyl's
mind. Psychiatrists had proved that when he
had applied for this high-paying but man-killing
job as a Lone Watcher on the Solar
System's starways.
He had little fear now, only curiosity.
These Steel-Blues didn't seem inimical.
They could have snuffed out my life very
simply. Perhaps they and Solarians can be
friends.
Steel-Blue chuckled.
Jon
followed him through the sundered
lock of the station. Karyl stopped for a
moment to examine the wreckage of the
lock. It had been punched full of holes as
if it had been some soft cheese instead of a
metal which Earthmen had spent nearly a
century perfecting.
"We appreciate your compliment," Steel-Blue
said. "But that metal also is found on
our world. It's probably the softest and most
malleable we have. We were surprised you—earthmen,
is it?—use it as protective
metal."
"Why are you in this system?" Jon asked,
hardly expecting an answer.
It came anyway. "For the same reason you
Earthmen are reaching out farther into your
system. We need living room. You have
strategically placed planets for our use. We
will use them."
Jon sighed. For 400 years scientists had
been preaching preparedness as Earth flung
her ships into the reaches of the solar system,
taking the first long step toward the
conquest of space.
There are other races somewhere, they
argued. As strong and smart as man, many
of them so transcending man in mental and
inventive power that we must be prepared to
strike the minute danger shows.
Now here was the answer to the scientists'
warning. Invasion by extra-terrestrials.
"What did you say?" asked Steel-Blue.
"I couldn't understand."
"Just thinking to myself," Jon answered.
It was a welcome surprise. Apparently his
thoughts had to be directed outward, rather
than inward, in order for the Steel-Blues to
read it.
He followed the Steel-Blue into the gaping
lock of the invaders' space ship wondering
how he could warn Earth. The Space
Patrol cruiser was due in for refueling at
his service station in 21 days. But by that
time he probably would be mouldering in
the rocky dust of the asteroid.
It was pitch dark within the ship but the
Steel-Blue seemed to have no trouble at all
maneuvering through the maze of corridors.
Jon followed him, attached to one tentacle.
Finally Jon and his guide entered a circular
room, bright with light streaming from
a glass-like, bulging skylight. They apparently
were near topside of the vessel.
A Steel-Blue, more massive than his
guide and with four more pair of tentacles,
including two short ones that grew from the
top of its head, spoke out.
"This is the violator?" Jon's Steel-Blue
nodded.
"You know the penalty? Carry it out."
"He also is an inhabitant of this system,"
Jon's guide added.
"Examine him first, then give him the
death."
Jon Karyl shrugged as he was led from
the lighted room through more corridors.
If it got too bad he still had the stubray
pistol.
Anyway, he was curious. He'd taken on
the lonely, nerve-wracking job of service
station attendant just to see what it offered.
Here was a part of it, and it was certainly
something new.
"This is the examination room," his
Steel-Blue said, almost contemptuously.
A green effulgence surrounded him.
There
was a hiss. Simultaneously, as the
tiny microphone on the outside of his
suit picked up the hiss, he felt a chill go
through his body. Then it seemed as if a
half dozen hands were inside him, examining
his internal organs. His stomach contracted.
He felt a squeeze on his heart. His
lungs tickled.
There were several more queer motions
inside his body.
Then another Steel-Blue voice said:
"He is a soft-metal creature, made up of
metals that melt at a very low temperature.
He also contains a liquid whose makeup I
cannot ascertain by ray-probe. Bring him
back when the torture is done."
Jon Karyl grinned a trifle wryly. What
kind of torture could this be?
Would it last 21 days? He glanced at the
chronometer on his wrist.
Jon's Steel-Blue led him out of the alien
ship and halted expectantly just outside the
ship's lock.
Jon Karyl waited, too. He thought of the
stubray pistol holstered at his hip. Shoot my
way out? It'd be fun while it lasted. But he
toted up the disadvantages.
He either would have to find a hiding
place on the asteroid, and if the Steel-Blues
wanted him bad enough they could tear the
whole place to pieces, or somehow get
aboard the little life ship hidden in the
service station.
In that he would be just a sitting duck.
He shrugged off the slight temptation to
use the pistol. He was still curious.
And he was interested in staying alive as
long as possible. There was a remote chance
he might warn the SP ship. Unconsciously,
he glanced toward his belt to see the little
power pack which, if under ideal conditions,
could finger out fifty thousand miles into
space.
If he could somehow stay alive the 21
days he might be able to warn the patrol.
He couldn't do it by attempting to flee, for
his life would be snuffed out immediately.
The Steel-Blue said quietly:
"It might be ironical to let you warn
that SP ship you keep thinking about. But
we know your weapon now. Already our
ship is equipped with a force field designed
especially to deflect your atomic guns."
Jon Karyl covered up his thoughts
quickly. They can delve deeper than the
surface of the mind. Or wasn't I keeping a
leash on my thoughts?
The Steel-Blue chuckled. "You get—absent-minded,
is it?—every once in a
while."
Just then four other Steel-Blues appeared
lugging great sheets of plastic and various
other equipment.
They dumped their loads and began unbundling
them.
Working swiftly, they built a plastic
igloo, smaller than the living room in the
larger service station igloo. They ranged instruments
inside—one of them Jon Karyl
recognized as an air pump from within the
station—and they laid out a pallet.
When they were done Jon saw a miniature
reproduction of the service station, lacking
only the cannon cap and fin, and with clear
plastic walls instead of the opaqueness of the
other.
His Steel-Blue said: "We have reproduced
the atmosphere of your station so that you
be watched while you undergo the torture
under the normal conditions of your life."
"What is this torture?" Jon Karyl asked.
The answer was almost caressing: "It is
a liquid we use to dissolve metals. It causes
joints to harden if even so much as a drop
remains on it long. It eats away the metal,
leaving a scaly residue which crumbles
eventually into dust.
"We will dilute it with a harmless liquid
for you since No. 1 does not wish you to die
instantly.
"Enter your"—the Steel-Blue hesitated—"mausoleum.
You die in your own atmosphere.
However, we took the liberty of purifying
it. There were dangerous elements in
it."
Jon walked into the little igloo. The
Steel-Blues sealed the lock, fingered dials
and switches on the outside. Jon's space suit
deflated. Pressure was building up in the
igloo.
He took a sample of the air, found that
it was good, although quite rich in oxygen
compared with what he'd been using in the
service station and in his suit.
With a sigh of relief he took off his helmet
and gulped huge draughts of the air.
He sat down on the pallet and waited
for the torture to begin.
The Steel Blues crowded about the igloo,
staring at him through elliptical eyes.
Apparently, they too, were waiting for the
torture to begin.
Jon thought the excess of oxygen was
making him light-headed.
He stared at a cylinder which was beginning
to sprout tentacles from the circle.
He rubbed his eyes and looked again. An
opening, like the adjustable eye-piece of a
spacescope, was appearing in the center of
the cylinder.
A square, glass-like tumbler sat in the
opening disclosed in the four-foot cylinder
that had sprouted tentacles. It contained a
yellowish liquid.
One of the tentacles reached into the
opening and clasped the glass. The opening
closed and the cylinder, propelled by locomotor
appendages, moved toward Jon.
He didn't like the looks of the liquid in
the tumbler. It looked like an acid of some
sort. He raised to his feet.
He unsheathed the stubray gun and prepared
to blast the cylinder.
The
cylinder moved so fast Jon felt his
eyes jump in his head. He brought the
stubray gun up—but he was helpless. The
pistol kept on going up. With a deft movement,
one of the tentacles had speared it
from his hand and was holding it out of
his reach.
Jon kicked at the glass in the cylinder's
hand. But he was too slow. Two tentacles
gripped the kicking leg. Another struck him
in the chest, knocking him to the pallet. The
same tentacle, assisted by a new one,
pinioned his shoulders.
Four tentacles held him supine. The cylinder
lifted a glass-like cap from the tumbler
of liquid.
Lying there helplessly, Jon was remembering
an old fairy tale he'd read as a kid.
Something about a fellow named Socrates
who was given a cup of hemlock to drink.
It was the finis for Socrates. But the old
hero had been nonchalant and calm about
the whole thing.
With a sigh, Jon Karyl, who was curious
unto death, relaxed and said, "All right,
bub, you don't have to force-feed me. I'll
take it like a man."
The cylinder apparently understood him,
for it handed him the tumbler. It even reholstered
his stubray pistol.
Jon brought the glass of liquid under his
nose. The fumes of the liquid were pungent.
It brought tears to his eyes.
He looked at the cylinder, then at the
Steel-Blues crowding around the plastic
igloo. He waved the glass at the audience.
"To Earth, ever triumphant," he toasted.
Then he drained the glass at a gulp.
Its taste was bitter, and he felt hot
prickles jab at his scalp. It was like eating
very hot peppers. His eyes filled with tears.
He coughed as the stuff went down.
But he was still alive, he thought in
amazement. He'd drunk the hemlock and
was still alive.
The reaction set in quickly. He hadn't
known until then how tense he'd been. Now
with the torture ordeal over, he relaxed. He
laid down on the pallet and went to sleep.
There was one lone Steel-Blue watching
him when he rubbed the sleep out of his
eyes and sat up.
He vanished almost instantly. He, or another
like him, returned immediately accompanied
by a half-dozen others, including
the multi-tentacled creature known as No. 1.
One said,
"You are alive." The thought registered
amazement. "When you lost consciousness,
we thought you had"—there was a hesitation—"as
you say, died."
"No," Jon Karyl said. "I didn't die. I
was just plain dead-beat so I went to sleep."
The Steel-Blues apparently didn't understand.
"Good it is that you live. The torture
will continue," spoke No. 1 before loping
away.
The cylinder business began again. This
time, Jon drank the bitter liquid slowly, trying
to figure out what it was. It had a
familiar, tantalizing taste but he couldn't
quite put a taste-finger on it.
His belly said he was hungry. He glanced
at his chronometer. Only 20 days left before
the SP ship arrived.
Would this torture—he chuckled—last
until then? But he was growing more and
more conscious that his belly was screaming
for hunger. The liquid had taken the edge
off his thirst.
It was on the fifth day of his torture that
Jon Karyl decided that he was going to get
something to eat or perish in the attempt.
The cylinder sat passively in its niche in
the circle. A dozen Steel-Blues were watching
as Jon put on his helmet and unsheathed
his stubray.
They merely watched as he pressed the
stubray's firing stud. Invisible rays licked
out of the bulbous muzzle of the pistol.
The plastic splintered.
Jon was out of his goldfish bowl and
striding toward his own igloo adjacent to
the service station when a Steel-Blue
accosted him.
"Out of my way," grunted Jon, waving
the stubray. "I'm hungry."
"I'm the first Steel-Blue you met," said
the creature who barred his way. "Go back
to your torture."
"But I'm so hungry I'll chew off one of
your tentacles and eat it without seasoning."
"Eat?" The Steel-Blue sounded puzzled.
"I want to refuel. I've got to have food
to keep my engine going."
Steel-Blue chuckled. "So the hemlock, as
you call it, is beginning to affect you at
last? Back to the torture room."
"Like R-dust," Jon growled. He pressed
the firing stud on the stubray gun. One of
Steel-Blue's tentacles broke off and fell to
the rocky sward.
Steel-Blue jerked out the box he'd used
once before. A tentacle danced over it.
Abruptly Jon found himself standing on
a pinnacle of rock. Steel-Blue had cut a
swath around him 15 feet deep and five feet
wide.
"Back to the room," Steel-Blue commanded.
Jon resheathed the stubray pistol,
shrugged non-committally and leaped the
trench. He walked slowly back and reentered
the torture chamber.
The Steel-Blues rapidly repaired the damage
he'd done.
As he watched them, Jon was still curious,
but he was getting mad underneath at
the cold egoism of the Steel-Blues.
By the shimmering clouds of Earth, by
her green fields, and dark forests, he'd
stay alive to warn the SP ship.
Yes, he'd stay alive till then. And send
the story of the Steel-Blues' corrosive acid
to it. Then hundreds of Earth's ships could
equip themselves with spray guns and squirt
citric acid and watch the Steel-Blues fade
away.
It sounded almost silly to Jon Karyl. The
fruit acid of Earth to repel these invaders—it
doesn't sound possible. That couldn't be
the answer.
Citric acid wasn't the answer, Jon Karyl
discovered a week later.
The Steel-Blue who had captured him in
the power room of the service station came
in to examine him.
"You're still holding out, I see," he observed
after poking Jon in every sensitive
part of his body.
"I'll suggest to No. 1 that we increase
the power of the—ah—hemlock. How do
you feel?"
Between the rich oxygen and the dizziness
of hunger, Jon was a bit delirious. But he
answered honestly enough: "My guts feel as
if they're chewing each other up. My bones
ache. My joints creak. I can't coordinate I'm
so hungry."
"That is the hemlock," Steel-Blue said.
It was when he quaffed the new and
stronger draught that Jon knew that his
hope that it was citric acid was squelched.
The acid taste was weaker which meant
that the citric acid was the diluting liquid.
It was the liquid he couldn't taste beneath
the tang of the citric acid that was the corrosive
acid.
On the fourteenth day, Jon was so weak
he didn't feel much like moving around. He
let the cylinder feed him the hemlock.
No. 1 came again to see him, and went
away chuckling, "Decrease the dilution.
This Earthman at last is beginning to
suffer."
Staying
alive had now become a fetish
with Jon.
On the sixteenth day, the Earthman realized
that the Steel-Blues also were waiting
for the SP ship.
The extra-terrestrials had repaired the
blue ship where the service station atomic
ray had struck. And they were doing a little
target practice with plastic bubbles only a
few miles above the asteroid.
When his chronometer clocked off the
beginning of the twenty-first day, Jon received
a tumbler of the hemlock from the
hands of No. 1 himself.
"It is the hemlock," he chuckled, "undiluted.
Drink it and your torture is over.
You will die before your SP ship is destroyed.
"We have played with you long enough.
Today we begin to toy with your SP ship.
Drink up, Earthman, drink to enslavement."
Weak though he was Jon lunged to his
feet, spilling the tumbler of liquid. It ran
cool along the plastic arm of his space suit.
He changed his mind about throwing the
contents on No. 1.
With a smile he set the glass at his lips
and drank. Then he laughed at No. 1.
"The SP ship will turn your ship into
jelly."
No. 1 swept out, chuckling. "Boast if you
will, Earthman, it's your last chance."
There was an exultation in Jon's heart
that deadened the hunger and washed away
the nausea.
At last he knew what the hemlock was.
He sat on the pallet adjusting the little
power-pack radio. The SP ship should now
be within range of the set. The space patrol
was notorious for its accuracy in keeping to
schedule. Seconds counted like years. They
had to be on the nose, or it meant disaster
or death.
He sent out the call letters.
"AX to SP-101 ... AX to SP-101 ... AX
to SP-101 ..."
Three times he sent the call, then began
sending his message, hoping that his signal
was reaching the ship. He couldn't know if
they answered. Though the power pack
could get out a message over a vast distance,
it could not pick up messages even
when backed by an SP ship's power unless
the ship was only a few hundred miles
away.
The power pack was strictly a distress
signal.
He didn't know how long he'd been
sending, nor how many times his weary
voice had repeated the short but desperate
message.
He kept watching the heavens and hoping.
Abruptly he knew the SP ship was coming,
for the blue ship of the Steel-Blues was
rising silently from the asteroid.
Up and up it rose, then flames flickered
in a circle about its curious shape. The ship
disappeared, suddenly accelerating.
Jon Karyl strained his eyes.
Finally he looked away from the heavens
to the two Steel-Blues who stood negligently
outside the goldfish bowl.
Once more, Jon used the stubray pistol.
He marched out of the plastic igloo and ran
toward the service station.
He didn't know how weak he was until
he stumbled and fell only a few feet from
his prison.
The Steel-Blues just watched him.
He crawled on, around the circular pit in
the sward of the asteroid where one Steel-Blue
had shown him the power of his
weapon.
He'd been crawling through a nightmare
for years when the quiet voice penetrated
his dulled mind.
"Take it easy, Karyl. You're among
friends."
He pried open his eyes with his will. He
saw the blue and gold of a space guard's
uniform. He sighed and drifted into unconsciousness.
He was
still weak days later when
Capt. Ron Small of SP-101 said,
"Yes, Karyl, it's ironical. They fed you
what they thought was sure death, and it's
the only thing that kept you going long
enough to warn us."
"I was dumb for a long time," Karyl said.
"I thought that it was the acid, almost to
the very last. But when I drank that last
glass, I knew they didn't have a chance.
"They were metal monsters. No wonder
they feared that liquid. It would rust their
joints, short their wiring, and kill them.
No wonder they stared when I kept alive
after drinking enough to completely annihilate
a half-dozen of them.
"But what happened when you met the
ship?"
The space captain grinned.
"Not much. Our crew was busy creating
a hollow shell filled with water to be shot
out of a rocket tube converted into a projectile
thrower.
"These Steel-Blues, as you call them, put
traction beams on us and started tugging us
toward the asteroid. We tried a couple of
atomic shots but when they just glanced off,
we gave up.
"They weren't expecting the shell of
water. When it hit that blue ship, you could
almost see it oxidize before your eyes.
"I guess they knew what was wrong right
away. They let go the traction beams and
tried to get away. They forgot about the
force field, so we just poured atomic fire
into the weakening ship. It just melted
away."
Jon Karyl got up from the divan where
he'd been lying. "They thought I was a
metal creature, too. But where do you suppose
they came from?"
The captain shrugged. "Who knows?"
Jon set two glasses on the table.
"Have a drink of the best damn water in
the solar system?" He asked Capt. Small.
"Don't mind if I do."
The water twinkled in the two glasses,
winking as if it knew just what it had
done.
Question:
What are some of the equipment used in the story?
Answer:
|
[
"Jon uses a stubray pistol that he keeps on him at all times. The space station itself is fairly equipped, with a thin turret that can fire atomic cannons. The ship that the Steel Blues arrive in is very advanced as well, and it is capable of recovering from the cannon. The Steel Blue’s build his habitat out of plastic and other material that they have in possession. When the Steel Blue’s begin Jon’s torture, they feed him a drink that he thinks is hemlock. Later, Jon also uses his little power-pack radio to send a distress signal to the SP ship. When the SP ship defeats the Steel Blues, they use a rocket tube to shoot water and then atomic fire. ",
"One equipment is the power-pack radio that Jon has. He uses it at the end of the story to send out call letters to warn the space patrol ship of the awaiting attack from the Steel-Blues. He continually sends the message as a distress signal, unable to receive a message back. \n\nAnother piece of equipment is Jon's stubray gun. Kept on him as a protective weapon, he first attempts to blast the cylinder with it. His attempt was unsuccessful as the Steel-Blue quickly apprehended it, before being returned to him. Later on in the story, Jon uses it to escape his plastic igloo prison. ",
"Jon Karyl, a starways’ Lone Watcher on an asteroid, is in a rocket when he notices the invasion of the Steel-Blues, non-terrestrial robotic creatures who try to invade the terrestrial territory. Jon Karyl also possesses a stubray pistol, which he often uses to break his way out of the prison, which the Steel-Blues make, or attack the Steel-Blues. When he flees from the Steel-Blues, he also wears a spacesuit, whose boots can control gravity pull. He takes off his spacesuit until he goes into the prison made by the Steel-Blues. Jon Karyl uses the televisors in the service station to spot the motion of Steel-Blues and the revolving turret to attack the Steel-Blues’ ship. Jon wears a chronometer on his wrist to track the time, counting the remaining days of the arrival of the space patrol ship. He uses the power-pack radio to send the message to the space patrol ship on the day of their arrival.",
"Both Jon and the Steel-blues use equipment throughout the story. First, Jon uses space boots and an oxygen dial when running from the steel-blues. The space boots allow him to control his gravitational pull, and the oxygen dial allows him to control the amount of oxygen that he is inhaling. Jon also uses a stubray pistol throughout the story to fight off the steel-blues and to escape from them. The steel-blues use black boxes to control different things. They also have smaller robots, which is what gives Jon the acid every day."
] |
29159
|
ACID BATH
By VASELEOS GARSON
The starways' Lone Watcher had expected some odd developments
in his singular, nerve-fraught job on the asteroid. But nothing like the
weird twenty-one-day liquid test devised by the invading Steel-Blues.
Jon Karyl
was bolting in a new baffle
plate on the stationary rocket engine.
It was a tedious job and took all his
concentration. So he wasn't paying too much
attention to what was going on in other
parts of the little asteroid.
He didn't see the peculiar blue space
ship, its rockets throttled down, as it drifted
to land only a few hundred yards away from
his plastic igloo.
Nor did he see the half-dozen steel-blue
creatures slide out of the peculiar vessel's
airlock.
It was only as he crawled out of the
depths of the rocket power plant that he
realized something was wrong.
By then it was almost too late. The six
blue figures were only fifty feet away, approaching
him at a lope.
Jon Karyl took one look and went bounding
over the asteroid's rocky slopes in fifty-foot
bounds.
When you're a Lone Watcher, and
strangers catch you unawares, you don't
stand still. You move fast. It's the Watcher's
first rule. Stay alive. An Earthship may depend
upon your life.
As he fled, Jon Karyl cursed softly under
his breath. The automatic alarm should have
shrilled out a warning.
Then he saved as much of his breath as
he could as some sort of power wave tore
up the rocky sward to his left. He twisted
and zig-zagged in his flight, trying to get
out of sight of the strangers.
Once hidden from their eyes, he could cut
back and head for the underground entrance
to the service station.
He glanced back finally.
Two of the steel-blue creatures were jack-rabbiting
after him, and rapidly closing the
distance.
Jon Karyl unsheathed the stubray pistol
at his side, turned the oxygen dial up for
greater exertion, increased the gravity pull
in his space-suit boots as he neared the
ravine he'd been racing for.
The oxygen was just taking hold when
he hit the lip of the ravine and began
sprinting through its man-high bush-strewn
course.
The power ray from behind ripped out
great gobs of the sheltering bushes. But
running naturally, bent close to the bottom
of the ravine, Jon Karyl dodged the bare
spots. The oxygen made the tremendous
exertion easy for his lungs as he sped down
the dim trail, hidden from the two steel-blue
stalkers.
He'd eluded them, temporarily at least,
Jon Karyl decided when he finally edged off
the dim trail and watched for movement
along the route behind him.
He stood up, finally, pushed aside the
leafy overhang of a bush and looked for
landmarks along the edge of the ravine.
He found one, a stubby bush, shaped like
a Maltese cross, clinging to the lip of the
ravine. The hidden entrance to the service
station wasn't far off.
His pistol held ready, he moved quietly
on down the ravine until the old water
course made an abrupt hairpin turn.
Instead of following around the sharp
bend, Jon Karyl moved straight ahead
through the overhanging bushes until he
came to a dense thicket. Dropping to his
hands and knees he worked his way under
the edge of the thicket into a hollowed-out
space in the center.
There
, just ahead of him, was the lock
leading into the service station. Slipping
a key out of a leg pouch on the space suit,
he jabbed it into the center of the lock,
opening the lever housing.
He pulled strongly on the lever. With a
hiss of escaping air, the lock swung open.
Jon Karyl darted inside, the door closing
softly behind.
At the end of the long tunnel he stepped
to the televisor which was fixed on the area
surrounding the station.
Jon Karyl saw none of the steel-blue creatures.
But he saw their ship. It squatted
like a smashed-down kid's top, its lock shut
tight.
He tuned the televisor to its widest range
and finally spotted one of the Steel-Blues.
He was looking into the stationary rocket
engine.
As Karyl watched, a second Steel-Blue
came crawling out of the ship.
The two Steel-Blues moved toward the
center of the televisor range. They're coming
toward the station, Karyl thought grimly.
Karyl examined the two creatures. They
were of the steel-blue color from the crown
of their egg-shaped heads to the tips of
their walking appendages.
They were about the height of Karyl—six
feet. But where he tapered from broad
shoulders to flat hips, they were straight up
and down. They had no legs, just appendages,
many-jointed that stretched and
shrank independent of the other, but keeping
the cylindrical body with its four pairs
of tentacles on a level balance.
Where their eyes would have been was
an elliptical-shaped lens, covering half the
egg-head, with its converging ends curving
around the sides of the head.
Robots! Jon gauged immediately. But
where were their masters?
The Steel-Blues moved out of the range
of the televisor. A minute later Jon heard
a pounding from the station upstairs.
He chuckled. They were like the wolf of
pre-atomic days who huffed and puffed to
blow the house down.
The outer shell of the station was formed
from stelrylite, the toughest metal in the
solar system. With the self-sealing lock of
the same resistant material, a mere pounding
was nothing.
Jon thought he'd have a look-see anyway.
He went up the steel ladder leading to the
station's power plant and the televisor that
could look into every room within the
station.
He heaved a slight sigh when he reached
the power room, for right at his hand were
weapons to blast the ship from the asteroid.
Jon adjusted one televisor to take in the
lock to the station. His teeth suddenly
clamped down on his lower lip.
Those Steel-Blues were pounding holes
into the stelrylite with round-headed metal
clubs. But it was impossible. Stelrylite didn't
break up that easily.
Jon leaped to a row of studs, lining up
the revolving turret which capped the station
so that its thin fin pointed at the
squat ship of the invaders.
Then he went to the atomic cannon's
firing buttons.
He pressed first the yellow, then the blue
button. Finally the red one.
The thin fin—the cannon's sight—split in
half as the turret opened and the coiled nose
of the cannon protruded. There was a
soundless flash. Then a sharp crack.
Jon was dumbfounded when he saw the
bolt ricochet off the ship. This was no ship
of the solar system. There was nothing that
could withstand even the slight jolt of power
given by the station cannon on any of the
Sun's worlds. But what was this? A piece of
the ship had changed. A bubble of metal,
like a huge drop of blue wax, dripped off
the vessel and struck the rocket of the
asteroid. It steamed and ran in rivulets.
He pressed the red button again.
Then abruptly he was on the floor of the
power room, his legs strangely cut out from
under him. He tried to move them. They lay
flaccid. His arms seemed all right and tried
to lever himself to an upright position.
Damn it, he seemed as if he were paralyzed
from the waist down. But it couldn't
happen that suddenly.
He turned his head.
A Steel-Blue stood facing him. A forked
tentacle held a square black box.
Jon could read nothing in that metallic
face. He said, voice muffled by the confines
of the plastic helmet, "Who are you?"
"I am"—there was a rising inflection in
the answer—"a Steel-Blue."
There were no lips on the Steel-Blue's
face to move. "That is what I have named
you," Jon Karyl said. "But what are you?"
"A robot," came the immediate answer.
Jon was quite sure then that the Steel-Blue
was telepathic. "Yes," the Steel-Blue answered.
"We talk in the language of the
mind. Come!" he said peremptorily, motioning
with the square black box.
The paralysis left Karyl's legs. He followed
the Steel-Blue, aware that the lens
he'd seen on the creature's face had a
counterpart on the back of the egg-head.
Eyes in the back of his head, Jon thought.
That's quite an innovation. "Thank you,"
Steel-Blue said.
There wasn't much fear in Jon Karyl's
mind. Psychiatrists had proved that when he
had applied for this high-paying but man-killing
job as a Lone Watcher on the Solar
System's starways.
He had little fear now, only curiosity.
These Steel-Blues didn't seem inimical.
They could have snuffed out my life very
simply. Perhaps they and Solarians can be
friends.
Steel-Blue chuckled.
Jon
followed him through the sundered
lock of the station. Karyl stopped for a
moment to examine the wreckage of the
lock. It had been punched full of holes as
if it had been some soft cheese instead of a
metal which Earthmen had spent nearly a
century perfecting.
"We appreciate your compliment," Steel-Blue
said. "But that metal also is found on
our world. It's probably the softest and most
malleable we have. We were surprised you—earthmen,
is it?—use it as protective
metal."
"Why are you in this system?" Jon asked,
hardly expecting an answer.
It came anyway. "For the same reason you
Earthmen are reaching out farther into your
system. We need living room. You have
strategically placed planets for our use. We
will use them."
Jon sighed. For 400 years scientists had
been preaching preparedness as Earth flung
her ships into the reaches of the solar system,
taking the first long step toward the
conquest of space.
There are other races somewhere, they
argued. As strong and smart as man, many
of them so transcending man in mental and
inventive power that we must be prepared to
strike the minute danger shows.
Now here was the answer to the scientists'
warning. Invasion by extra-terrestrials.
"What did you say?" asked Steel-Blue.
"I couldn't understand."
"Just thinking to myself," Jon answered.
It was a welcome surprise. Apparently his
thoughts had to be directed outward, rather
than inward, in order for the Steel-Blues to
read it.
He followed the Steel-Blue into the gaping
lock of the invaders' space ship wondering
how he could warn Earth. The Space
Patrol cruiser was due in for refueling at
his service station in 21 days. But by that
time he probably would be mouldering in
the rocky dust of the asteroid.
It was pitch dark within the ship but the
Steel-Blue seemed to have no trouble at all
maneuvering through the maze of corridors.
Jon followed him, attached to one tentacle.
Finally Jon and his guide entered a circular
room, bright with light streaming from
a glass-like, bulging skylight. They apparently
were near topside of the vessel.
A Steel-Blue, more massive than his
guide and with four more pair of tentacles,
including two short ones that grew from the
top of its head, spoke out.
"This is the violator?" Jon's Steel-Blue
nodded.
"You know the penalty? Carry it out."
"He also is an inhabitant of this system,"
Jon's guide added.
"Examine him first, then give him the
death."
Jon Karyl shrugged as he was led from
the lighted room through more corridors.
If it got too bad he still had the stubray
pistol.
Anyway, he was curious. He'd taken on
the lonely, nerve-wracking job of service
station attendant just to see what it offered.
Here was a part of it, and it was certainly
something new.
"This is the examination room," his
Steel-Blue said, almost contemptuously.
A green effulgence surrounded him.
There
was a hiss. Simultaneously, as the
tiny microphone on the outside of his
suit picked up the hiss, he felt a chill go
through his body. Then it seemed as if a
half dozen hands were inside him, examining
his internal organs. His stomach contracted.
He felt a squeeze on his heart. His
lungs tickled.
There were several more queer motions
inside his body.
Then another Steel-Blue voice said:
"He is a soft-metal creature, made up of
metals that melt at a very low temperature.
He also contains a liquid whose makeup I
cannot ascertain by ray-probe. Bring him
back when the torture is done."
Jon Karyl grinned a trifle wryly. What
kind of torture could this be?
Would it last 21 days? He glanced at the
chronometer on his wrist.
Jon's Steel-Blue led him out of the alien
ship and halted expectantly just outside the
ship's lock.
Jon Karyl waited, too. He thought of the
stubray pistol holstered at his hip. Shoot my
way out? It'd be fun while it lasted. But he
toted up the disadvantages.
He either would have to find a hiding
place on the asteroid, and if the Steel-Blues
wanted him bad enough they could tear the
whole place to pieces, or somehow get
aboard the little life ship hidden in the
service station.
In that he would be just a sitting duck.
He shrugged off the slight temptation to
use the pistol. He was still curious.
And he was interested in staying alive as
long as possible. There was a remote chance
he might warn the SP ship. Unconsciously,
he glanced toward his belt to see the little
power pack which, if under ideal conditions,
could finger out fifty thousand miles into
space.
If he could somehow stay alive the 21
days he might be able to warn the patrol.
He couldn't do it by attempting to flee, for
his life would be snuffed out immediately.
The Steel-Blue said quietly:
"It might be ironical to let you warn
that SP ship you keep thinking about. But
we know your weapon now. Already our
ship is equipped with a force field designed
especially to deflect your atomic guns."
Jon Karyl covered up his thoughts
quickly. They can delve deeper than the
surface of the mind. Or wasn't I keeping a
leash on my thoughts?
The Steel-Blue chuckled. "You get—absent-minded,
is it?—every once in a
while."
Just then four other Steel-Blues appeared
lugging great sheets of plastic and various
other equipment.
They dumped their loads and began unbundling
them.
Working swiftly, they built a plastic
igloo, smaller than the living room in the
larger service station igloo. They ranged instruments
inside—one of them Jon Karyl
recognized as an air pump from within the
station—and they laid out a pallet.
When they were done Jon saw a miniature
reproduction of the service station, lacking
only the cannon cap and fin, and with clear
plastic walls instead of the opaqueness of the
other.
His Steel-Blue said: "We have reproduced
the atmosphere of your station so that you
be watched while you undergo the torture
under the normal conditions of your life."
"What is this torture?" Jon Karyl asked.
The answer was almost caressing: "It is
a liquid we use to dissolve metals. It causes
joints to harden if even so much as a drop
remains on it long. It eats away the metal,
leaving a scaly residue which crumbles
eventually into dust.
"We will dilute it with a harmless liquid
for you since No. 1 does not wish you to die
instantly.
"Enter your"—the Steel-Blue hesitated—"mausoleum.
You die in your own atmosphere.
However, we took the liberty of purifying
it. There were dangerous elements in
it."
Jon walked into the little igloo. The
Steel-Blues sealed the lock, fingered dials
and switches on the outside. Jon's space suit
deflated. Pressure was building up in the
igloo.
He took a sample of the air, found that
it was good, although quite rich in oxygen
compared with what he'd been using in the
service station and in his suit.
With a sigh of relief he took off his helmet
and gulped huge draughts of the air.
He sat down on the pallet and waited
for the torture to begin.
The Steel Blues crowded about the igloo,
staring at him through elliptical eyes.
Apparently, they too, were waiting for the
torture to begin.
Jon thought the excess of oxygen was
making him light-headed.
He stared at a cylinder which was beginning
to sprout tentacles from the circle.
He rubbed his eyes and looked again. An
opening, like the adjustable eye-piece of a
spacescope, was appearing in the center of
the cylinder.
A square, glass-like tumbler sat in the
opening disclosed in the four-foot cylinder
that had sprouted tentacles. It contained a
yellowish liquid.
One of the tentacles reached into the
opening and clasped the glass. The opening
closed and the cylinder, propelled by locomotor
appendages, moved toward Jon.
He didn't like the looks of the liquid in
the tumbler. It looked like an acid of some
sort. He raised to his feet.
He unsheathed the stubray gun and prepared
to blast the cylinder.
The
cylinder moved so fast Jon felt his
eyes jump in his head. He brought the
stubray gun up—but he was helpless. The
pistol kept on going up. With a deft movement,
one of the tentacles had speared it
from his hand and was holding it out of
his reach.
Jon kicked at the glass in the cylinder's
hand. But he was too slow. Two tentacles
gripped the kicking leg. Another struck him
in the chest, knocking him to the pallet. The
same tentacle, assisted by a new one,
pinioned his shoulders.
Four tentacles held him supine. The cylinder
lifted a glass-like cap from the tumbler
of liquid.
Lying there helplessly, Jon was remembering
an old fairy tale he'd read as a kid.
Something about a fellow named Socrates
who was given a cup of hemlock to drink.
It was the finis for Socrates. But the old
hero had been nonchalant and calm about
the whole thing.
With a sigh, Jon Karyl, who was curious
unto death, relaxed and said, "All right,
bub, you don't have to force-feed me. I'll
take it like a man."
The cylinder apparently understood him,
for it handed him the tumbler. It even reholstered
his stubray pistol.
Jon brought the glass of liquid under his
nose. The fumes of the liquid were pungent.
It brought tears to his eyes.
He looked at the cylinder, then at the
Steel-Blues crowding around the plastic
igloo. He waved the glass at the audience.
"To Earth, ever triumphant," he toasted.
Then he drained the glass at a gulp.
Its taste was bitter, and he felt hot
prickles jab at his scalp. It was like eating
very hot peppers. His eyes filled with tears.
He coughed as the stuff went down.
But he was still alive, he thought in
amazement. He'd drunk the hemlock and
was still alive.
The reaction set in quickly. He hadn't
known until then how tense he'd been. Now
with the torture ordeal over, he relaxed. He
laid down on the pallet and went to sleep.
There was one lone Steel-Blue watching
him when he rubbed the sleep out of his
eyes and sat up.
He vanished almost instantly. He, or another
like him, returned immediately accompanied
by a half-dozen others, including
the multi-tentacled creature known as No. 1.
One said,
"You are alive." The thought registered
amazement. "When you lost consciousness,
we thought you had"—there was a hesitation—"as
you say, died."
"No," Jon Karyl said. "I didn't die. I
was just plain dead-beat so I went to sleep."
The Steel-Blues apparently didn't understand.
"Good it is that you live. The torture
will continue," spoke No. 1 before loping
away.
The cylinder business began again. This
time, Jon drank the bitter liquid slowly, trying
to figure out what it was. It had a
familiar, tantalizing taste but he couldn't
quite put a taste-finger on it.
His belly said he was hungry. He glanced
at his chronometer. Only 20 days left before
the SP ship arrived.
Would this torture—he chuckled—last
until then? But he was growing more and
more conscious that his belly was screaming
for hunger. The liquid had taken the edge
off his thirst.
It was on the fifth day of his torture that
Jon Karyl decided that he was going to get
something to eat or perish in the attempt.
The cylinder sat passively in its niche in
the circle. A dozen Steel-Blues were watching
as Jon put on his helmet and unsheathed
his stubray.
They merely watched as he pressed the
stubray's firing stud. Invisible rays licked
out of the bulbous muzzle of the pistol.
The plastic splintered.
Jon was out of his goldfish bowl and
striding toward his own igloo adjacent to
the service station when a Steel-Blue
accosted him.
"Out of my way," grunted Jon, waving
the stubray. "I'm hungry."
"I'm the first Steel-Blue you met," said
the creature who barred his way. "Go back
to your torture."
"But I'm so hungry I'll chew off one of
your tentacles and eat it without seasoning."
"Eat?" The Steel-Blue sounded puzzled.
"I want to refuel. I've got to have food
to keep my engine going."
Steel-Blue chuckled. "So the hemlock, as
you call it, is beginning to affect you at
last? Back to the torture room."
"Like R-dust," Jon growled. He pressed
the firing stud on the stubray gun. One of
Steel-Blue's tentacles broke off and fell to
the rocky sward.
Steel-Blue jerked out the box he'd used
once before. A tentacle danced over it.
Abruptly Jon found himself standing on
a pinnacle of rock. Steel-Blue had cut a
swath around him 15 feet deep and five feet
wide.
"Back to the room," Steel-Blue commanded.
Jon resheathed the stubray pistol,
shrugged non-committally and leaped the
trench. He walked slowly back and reentered
the torture chamber.
The Steel-Blues rapidly repaired the damage
he'd done.
As he watched them, Jon was still curious,
but he was getting mad underneath at
the cold egoism of the Steel-Blues.
By the shimmering clouds of Earth, by
her green fields, and dark forests, he'd
stay alive to warn the SP ship.
Yes, he'd stay alive till then. And send
the story of the Steel-Blues' corrosive acid
to it. Then hundreds of Earth's ships could
equip themselves with spray guns and squirt
citric acid and watch the Steel-Blues fade
away.
It sounded almost silly to Jon Karyl. The
fruit acid of Earth to repel these invaders—it
doesn't sound possible. That couldn't be
the answer.
Citric acid wasn't the answer, Jon Karyl
discovered a week later.
The Steel-Blue who had captured him in
the power room of the service station came
in to examine him.
"You're still holding out, I see," he observed
after poking Jon in every sensitive
part of his body.
"I'll suggest to No. 1 that we increase
the power of the—ah—hemlock. How do
you feel?"
Between the rich oxygen and the dizziness
of hunger, Jon was a bit delirious. But he
answered honestly enough: "My guts feel as
if they're chewing each other up. My bones
ache. My joints creak. I can't coordinate I'm
so hungry."
"That is the hemlock," Steel-Blue said.
It was when he quaffed the new and
stronger draught that Jon knew that his
hope that it was citric acid was squelched.
The acid taste was weaker which meant
that the citric acid was the diluting liquid.
It was the liquid he couldn't taste beneath
the tang of the citric acid that was the corrosive
acid.
On the fourteenth day, Jon was so weak
he didn't feel much like moving around. He
let the cylinder feed him the hemlock.
No. 1 came again to see him, and went
away chuckling, "Decrease the dilution.
This Earthman at last is beginning to
suffer."
Staying
alive had now become a fetish
with Jon.
On the sixteenth day, the Earthman realized
that the Steel-Blues also were waiting
for the SP ship.
The extra-terrestrials had repaired the
blue ship where the service station atomic
ray had struck. And they were doing a little
target practice with plastic bubbles only a
few miles above the asteroid.
When his chronometer clocked off the
beginning of the twenty-first day, Jon received
a tumbler of the hemlock from the
hands of No. 1 himself.
"It is the hemlock," he chuckled, "undiluted.
Drink it and your torture is over.
You will die before your SP ship is destroyed.
"We have played with you long enough.
Today we begin to toy with your SP ship.
Drink up, Earthman, drink to enslavement."
Weak though he was Jon lunged to his
feet, spilling the tumbler of liquid. It ran
cool along the plastic arm of his space suit.
He changed his mind about throwing the
contents on No. 1.
With a smile he set the glass at his lips
and drank. Then he laughed at No. 1.
"The SP ship will turn your ship into
jelly."
No. 1 swept out, chuckling. "Boast if you
will, Earthman, it's your last chance."
There was an exultation in Jon's heart
that deadened the hunger and washed away
the nausea.
At last he knew what the hemlock was.
He sat on the pallet adjusting the little
power-pack radio. The SP ship should now
be within range of the set. The space patrol
was notorious for its accuracy in keeping to
schedule. Seconds counted like years. They
had to be on the nose, or it meant disaster
or death.
He sent out the call letters.
"AX to SP-101 ... AX to SP-101 ... AX
to SP-101 ..."
Three times he sent the call, then began
sending his message, hoping that his signal
was reaching the ship. He couldn't know if
they answered. Though the power pack
could get out a message over a vast distance,
it could not pick up messages even
when backed by an SP ship's power unless
the ship was only a few hundred miles
away.
The power pack was strictly a distress
signal.
He didn't know how long he'd been
sending, nor how many times his weary
voice had repeated the short but desperate
message.
He kept watching the heavens and hoping.
Abruptly he knew the SP ship was coming,
for the blue ship of the Steel-Blues was
rising silently from the asteroid.
Up and up it rose, then flames flickered
in a circle about its curious shape. The ship
disappeared, suddenly accelerating.
Jon Karyl strained his eyes.
Finally he looked away from the heavens
to the two Steel-Blues who stood negligently
outside the goldfish bowl.
Once more, Jon used the stubray pistol.
He marched out of the plastic igloo and ran
toward the service station.
He didn't know how weak he was until
he stumbled and fell only a few feet from
his prison.
The Steel-Blues just watched him.
He crawled on, around the circular pit in
the sward of the asteroid where one Steel-Blue
had shown him the power of his
weapon.
He'd been crawling through a nightmare
for years when the quiet voice penetrated
his dulled mind.
"Take it easy, Karyl. You're among
friends."
He pried open his eyes with his will. He
saw the blue and gold of a space guard's
uniform. He sighed and drifted into unconsciousness.
He was
still weak days later when
Capt. Ron Small of SP-101 said,
"Yes, Karyl, it's ironical. They fed you
what they thought was sure death, and it's
the only thing that kept you going long
enough to warn us."
"I was dumb for a long time," Karyl said.
"I thought that it was the acid, almost to
the very last. But when I drank that last
glass, I knew they didn't have a chance.
"They were metal monsters. No wonder
they feared that liquid. It would rust their
joints, short their wiring, and kill them.
No wonder they stared when I kept alive
after drinking enough to completely annihilate
a half-dozen of them.
"But what happened when you met the
ship?"
The space captain grinned.
"Not much. Our crew was busy creating
a hollow shell filled with water to be shot
out of a rocket tube converted into a projectile
thrower.
"These Steel-Blues, as you call them, put
traction beams on us and started tugging us
toward the asteroid. We tried a couple of
atomic shots but when they just glanced off,
we gave up.
"They weren't expecting the shell of
water. When it hit that blue ship, you could
almost see it oxidize before your eyes.
"I guess they knew what was wrong right
away. They let go the traction beams and
tried to get away. They forgot about the
force field, so we just poured atomic fire
into the weakening ship. It just melted
away."
Jon Karyl got up from the divan where
he'd been lying. "They thought I was a
metal creature, too. But where do you suppose
they came from?"
The captain shrugged. "Who knows?"
Jon set two glasses on the table.
"Have a drink of the best damn water in
the solar system?" He asked Capt. Small.
"Don't mind if I do."
The water twinkled in the two glasses,
winking as if it knew just what it had
done.
|
Who is Captain Midas and what are some of his characteristics?
|
After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about Captain Midas by Alfred Coppel.
Relevant chunks:
CAPTAIN MIDAS
By ALFRED COPPEL, JR.
The captain of the Martian Maid stared avidly at the torn derelict floating against the velvet void. Here was treasure beyond his wildest dreams! How could he know his dreams should have been nightmares?
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Gold! A magic word, even today, isn't it? Lust and gold ... they go hand in hand. Like the horsemen of the Apocalypse. And, of course, there's another word needed to make up the trilogy. You don't get any thing for nothing. So add this: Cost. Or you might call it pain, sorrow, agony. Call it what you like. It's what you pay for great treasure....
These things were true when fabled Jason sailed the Argo beyond Colchis seeking the Fleece. They were true when men sailed the southern oceans in wooden ships. And the conquest of space hasn't changed us a bit. We're still a greedy lot....
I'm a queer one to be saying these things, but then, who has more right? Look at me. My hair is gray and my face ... my face is a mask. The flesh hangs on my bones like a yellow cloth on a rickety frame. I am old, old. And I wait here on my hospital cot—wait for the weight of years I never lived to drag me under and let me forget the awful things my eyes have seen.
I'm poor, too, or else I wouldn't be here in this place of dying for old spacemen. I haven't a dime except for the pittance the Holcomb Foundation calls a spaceman's pension. Yet I had millions in my hands. Treasure beyond your wildest dreams! Cursed treasure....
You smile. You are thinking that I'm just an old man, beached earthside, spinning tall tales to impress the youngsters. Maybe, thinking about the kind of spacemen my generation produced, you have the idea that if ever we'd so much as laid a hand on anything of value out in space we'd not let go until Hell froze over! Well, you're right about that. We didn't seek the spaceways for the advancement of civilization or any of that Foundation bushwah, you can be certain of that. We did it for us ... for Number One. That's the kind of men we were, and we were proud of it. We hung onto what we found because the risks were high and we were entitled to keep what we could out there. But there are strange things in the sky. Things that don't respond to all of our neat little Laws and Theories. There are things that are no part of the world of men, thick with danger—and horror.
If you doubt that—and I can see you do—just look at me. I suppose you've never heard of the Martian Maid, and so you don't know the story of what happened to her crew or her skipper. I can give you this much of an answer. I was her skipper. And her crew? They ride high in the sky ... dust by this time. And all because they were men, and men are greedy and hasty and full of an unreasoning, unthinking love for gold. They ride a golden ship that they paid for with all the years of their lives. It's all theirs now. Bought and paid for.
It wasn't too long ago that I lifted the Maid off Solis Lacus on that last flight. Not many of you will remember her class of ship, so many advances have been made in the last few years. The Maid was two hundred feet from tip to tail, and as sleek a spacer as ever came out of the Foundation Yards. Chemical fueled, she was nothing at all like the spherical hyperdrives we see today. She was armed, too. The Foundation still thought of space as a possible stamping ground for alien creatures though no evidence of any extra-terrestrial life had ever been found ... then.
My crew was a rough bunch, like all those early crews. I remember them so well. Lean, hungry men with hell in their eyes and a great lust for high pay and hard living. Spinelli, Shelley, Cohn, Marvin, Zaleski. There wasn't a man on board who wouldn't have traded his immortal soul for a few solar dollars, and I don't claim that I was any different. That's the kind of men that opened up the spaceways, too. Don't believe all this talk about the noble pioneering spirit of man. That's tripe. There never has been such a thing as a noble pioneer. Not in space or anywhere else. It is the malcontent and the adventuring mercenary that pushes the frontier outward.
I didn't know, that night as I stood in the valve of the Maid, watching the loading cranes pull away, that I was starting out on my last flight. I don't think any of the others could have guessed, either. It was the sort of night that you only see on Mars. The sort of night that makes a spaceman wonder why in hell he wants to leave the relative security of the Earth-Mars-Venus Triangle to go jetting across the belt into deep space and the drab desolation of the outer System.
I stood there, watching the lights of Canalopolis in the distance. For just a moment I was ... well, touched. It looked beautiful and unreal under the racing moons. The lights of the gin mills and houses made a sparkling filigree pattern on the dark waters of the ancient canal, and the moons cast their shifting shadows across the silted banks. I was too far away to see the space-fevered bums and smell the shanties, and for a little while I felt the wonder of standing on the soil of a world that man had made his own with his rapacity and his sheer guts and gimme.
I thought of our half empty cargo hold and the sweet payload we would pick up on Callisto. And I counted the extra cash my packets of snow would bring from those lonely men up there on the barren moonlets of the outer Systems. There were plenty of cargoes carried on the Maid that the Holcomb Foundation snoopers never heard about, you can be sure of that.
In those days the asteroid belt was the primary danger and menace to astrogation. For a long while it held men back from deep space, but as fuels improved a few ships were sent out over the top. A few million miles up out of the ecliptic plane brings you to a region of space that's pretty thinly strewn with asteroids, and that's the way we used to make the flight between the outer systems and the EMV Triangle. It took a long while for hyperdrives to be developed and of course atomics never panned out because of the weight problem.
So that's the orbit the Maid took on that last trip of mine. High and clear into the supra-solar void. And out there in that primeval blackness is where we found the derelict.
I didn't realize it was a derelict when Spinelli first reported it from the forward scope position. I assumed it was a Foundation ship. The Holcomb Foundation was founded for the purpose of developing spaceflight, and as the years went by it took on the whole responsibility for the building and dispatching of space ships. Never in history had there been any real evidence of extra-terrestrial intelligent life, and when the EMV Triangle proved barren, we all just assumed that the Universe was man's own particular oyster. That kind of unreasoning arrogance is as hard to explain as it is to correct.
There were plenty of ships being lost in space, and immediately that Spinelli's report from up forward got noised about the Maid every one of us started mentally counting up his share of the salvage money. All this before we were within ten thousand miles of the hulk!
All spaceships look pretty much alike, but as I sat at the telescope I saw that there was something different about this one. At such a distance I couldn't get too much detail in our small three inch glass, but I could see that the hulk was big—bigger than any ship I'd ever seen before. I had the radar fixed on her and then I retired with my slide rule to Control. It wasn't long before I discovered that the derelict ship was on a near collision course, but there was something about its orbit that was strange. I called Cohn, the Metering Officer, and showed him my figures.
"Mister Cohn," I said, chart in hand, "do these figures look right to you?"
Cohn's dark eyes lit up as they always did when he worked with figures. It didn't take him long to check me. "The math is quite correct, Captain," he said. I could see that he hadn't missed the inference of those figures on the chart.
"Assemble the ship's company, Mister Cohn," I ordered.
The assembly horn sounded throughout the Maid and I could feel the tug of the automatics taking over as the crew left their stations. Soon they were assembled in Control.
"You have all heard about Mister Spinelli's find," I said, "I have computed the orbit and inspected the object through the glass. It seems to be a spacer ... either abandoned or in distress...." Reaching into the book rack above my desk I took down a copy of the Foundation's Space Regulations and opened it to the section concerning salvage.
"Sections XVIII, Paragraph 8 of the Code Regulating Interplanetary Astrogation and Commerce," I read, "Any vessel or part of vessel found in an abandoned or totally disabled condition in any region of space not subject to the sovereignty of any planet of the Earth-Venus-Mars Triangle shall be considered to be the property of the crew of the vessel locating said abandoned or disabled vessel except in such cases as the ownership of said abandoned or disabled vessel may be readily ascertained...." I looked up and closed the book. "Simply stated, that means that if that thing ahead of us is a derelict we are entitled to claim it as salvage."
"Unless it already belongs to someone?" asked Spinelli.
"That's correct Mister Spinelli, but I don't think there is much danger of that," I replied quietly. "My figures show that hulk out there came in from the direction of Coma Berenices...."
There was a long silence before Zaleski shifted his two hundred pounds uneasily and gave a form to the muted fear inside me. "You think ... you think it came from the stars , Captain?"
"Maybe even from beyond the stars," Cohn said in a low voice.
Looking at that circle of faces I saw the beginnings of greed. The first impact of the Metering Officer's words wore off quickly and soon every man of my crew was thinking that anything from the stars would be worth money ... lots of money.
Spinelli said, "Do we look her over, Captain?"
They all looked at me, waiting for my answer. I knew it would be worth plenty, and money hunger was like a fever inside me.
"Certainly we look it over, Mister Spinelli," I said sharply.
"Certainly!"
The first thing about the derelict that struck us as we drew near was her size. No ship ever built in the Foundation Yards had ever attained such gargantuan proportions. She must have stretched a full thousand feet from bow to stern, a sleek torpedo shape of somehow unspeakable alienness. Against the backdrop of the Milky Way, she gleamed fitfully in the light of the faraway sun, the metal of her flanks grained with something like tiny, glittering whorls. It was as though the stuff were somehow unstable ... seeking balance ... maybe even alive in some strange and alien way.
It was readily apparent to all of us that she had never been built for inter-planetary flight. She was a starship. Origin unknown. An aura of mystery surrounded her like a shroud, protecting the world that gave her birth mutely but effectively. The distance she must have come was unthinkable. And the time it had taken...? Aeons. Millennia. For she was drifting, dead in space, slowly spinning end over end as she swung about Sol in a hyperbolic orbit that would soon take her out and away again into the inter-stellar deeps.
Something had wounded her ... perhaps ten million years ago ... perhaps yesterday. She was gashed deeply from stem to stern with a jagged rip that bared her mangled innards. A wandering asteroid? A meteor? We would never know. It gave me an uncomfortable feeling of things beyond the ken of men as I looked at her through the port. I would never know what killed her, or where she was going, or whence she came. Yet she was mine. It made me feel like an upstart. And it made me afraid ... but of what?
We should have reported her to the nearest EMV base, but that would have meant that we'd lose her. Scientists would be sent out. Men better equipped than we to investigate the first extrasolar artifact found by men. But I didn't report her. She was ours. She was money in the bank. Let the scientists take over after we'd put a prize crew aboard and brought her into Callisto for salvage.... That's the way I had things figured.
The Maid hove to about a hundred yards from her and hung there, dwarfed by the mighty glistening ship. I called for volunteers and we prepared a boarding party. I was thinking that her drives alone would be worth millions. Cohn took charge and he and three of the men suited up and crossed to her.
In an hour they were back, disappointment largely written on their faces.
"There's nothing left of her, Captain," Cohn reported, "Whatever hit her tore up the innards so badly we couldn't even find the drives. She's a mess inside. Nothing left but the hull and a few storage compartments that are still unbroken."
She was never built to carry humanoids he told us, and there was nothing that could give us a hint of where she had come from. The hull alone was left.
He dropped two chunks of metal on my desk. "I brought back some samples of her pressure hull," he said, "The whole thing is made of this stuff...."
"We'll still take her in," I said, hiding my disappointment. "The carcass will be worth money in Callisto. Have Mister Marvin and Zaleski assemble a spare pulse-jet. We'll jury-rig her and bring her down under her own power. You take charge of provisioning her. Check those compartments you found and install oxy-generators aboard. When it's done report to me in my quarters."
I picked up the two samples of gleaming metal and called for a metallurgical testing kit. "I'm going to try and find out if this stuff is worth anything...."
The metal was heavy—too heavy, it seemed to me, for spaceship construction. But then, who was to say what conditions existed on that distant world where this metal was made?
Under the bright fluorescent over my work-table, the chunks of metal torn from a random bulkhead of the starship gleamed like pale silver; those strange little whorls that I had noticed on the outer hull were there too, like tiny magnetic lines of force, making the surface of the metal seem to dance. I held the stuff in my bare hand. It had a yellowish tinge, and it was heavier ....
Even as I watched, the metal grew yellower, and the hand that held it grew bone weary, little tongues of fatigue licking up my forearm. Suddenly terrified, I dropped the chunk as though it were white hot. It struck the table with a dull thud and lay there, a rich yellow lump of metallic lustre.
For a long while I just sat and stared. Then I began testing, trying all the while to quiet the trembling of my hands. I weighed it on a balance. I tested it with acids. It had changed unquestionably. It was no longer the same as when I had carried it into my quarters. The whorls of force were gone. It was no longer alive with a questing vibrancy ... it was inert, stable. From somewhere, somehow, it had drawn the energy necessary for transmutation. The unknown metal—the stuff of which that whole mammoth spaceship from the stars was built—was now....
Gold!
I scarcely dared believe it, but there it was staring at me from my table-top. Gold!
I searched my mind for an explanation. Contra-terrene matter, perhaps, from some distant island universe where matter reacted differently ... drawing energy from somewhere, the energy it needed to find stability in its new environment. Stability as a terrene element—wonderfully, miraculously gold!
And outside, in the void beyond the Maid's ports there were tons of this metal that could be turned into treasure. My laughter must have been a wild sound in those moments of discovery....
A slight sound behind me made me spin around in my chair. Framed in the doorway was the heavy figure of my Third Officer, Spinelli. His black eyes were fastened hungrily on the lump of yellow metal on the table. He needed no explanation to tell him what it was, and it seemed to me that his very soul reached out for the stuff, so sharp and clear was the meaning of the expression on his heavy face.
"Mister Spinelli!" I snapped, "In the future knock before entering my quarters!"
Reluctantly his eyes left the lump of gold and met mine. "From the derelict, Captain?" There was an imperceptible pause between the last two words.
I ignored his question and made a mental note to keep a close hand on the rein with him. Spinelli was big and dangerous.
"Speak your piece, Mister," I ordered sharply.
"Mister Cohn reports the derelict ready to take aboard the prize crew ... sir," he said slowly. "I'd like to volunteer for that detail."
I might have let him go under ordinary circumstances, for he was a first class spaceman and the handling of a jury-rigged hulk would need good men. But the gold-hunger I had seen in his eyes warned me to beware. I shook my head. "You will stay on board the Maid with me, Spinelli. Cohn and Zaleski will handle the starship."
Stark suspicion leaped into his eyes. I could see the wheels turning slowly in his mind. Somehow, he was thinking, I was planning to cheat him of his rightful share of the derelict treasure ship.
"We will say nothing to the rest of the crew about the gold, Mister Spinelli," I said deliberately, "Or you'll go to Callisto in irons. Is that clear?"
"Aye, sir," murmured Spinelli. The black expression had left his face and there was a faintly scornful smile playing about his mouth as he turned away. I began wondering then what he had in mind. It wasn't like him to let it go at that.
Suddenly I became conscious of being very tired. My mind wasn't functioning quite clearly. And my arm and hand ached painfully. I rubbed the fingers to get some life back into them, still wondering about Spinelli.
Spinelli talked. I saw him murmuring something to big Zaleski, and after that there was tension in the air. Distrust.
For a few moments I pondered the advisability of making good my threat to clap Spinelli into irons, but I decided against it. In the first place I couldn't prove he had told Zaleski about the gold and in the second place I needed Spinelli to help run the Maid.
I felt that the Third Officer and Zaleski were planning something, and I was just as sure that Spinelli was watching Zaleski to see to it that there was no double-cross.
I figured that I could handle the Third Officer alone so I assigned the rest, Marvin and Chelly, to accompany Cohn and Zaleski onto the hulk. That way Zaleski would be outnumbered if he tried to skip with the treasure ship. But, of course, I couldn't risk telling them that they were to be handling a vessel practically made of gold.
I was in agony. I didn't want to let anyone get out of my sight with that starship, and at the same time I couldn't leave the Maid. Finally I had to let Cohn take command of the prize crew, but not before I had set the radar finder on the Maid's prow squarely on the derelict.
Together, Spinelli and I watched the Maid's crew vanish into the maw of the alien ship and get her under way. There was a flicker of bluish fire from her jury-rigged tubes astern, and then she was vanishing in a great arc toward the bright gleam of Jupiter, far below us. The Maid followed under a steady one G of acceleration with most of her controls on automatic.
Boats of the Martian Maid's class, you may remember, carried a six inch supersonic projector abaft the astrogation turret. These were nasty weapons for use against organic life only. They would reduce a man to jelly at fifty thousand yards. Let it be said to my credit that it wasn't I who thought of hooking the gun into the radar finder and keeping it aimed dead at the derelict. That was Spinelli's insurance against Zaleski.
When I discovered it I felt the rage mount in me. He was willing to blast every one of his shipmates into pulp should the hulk vary from the orbit we'd laid out for her. He wasn't letting anything come between him and that mountain of gold.
Then I began thinking about it. Suppose now, just suppose, that Zaleski told the rest of the crew about the gold. It wouldn't be too hard for the derelict to break away from the Maid, and there were plenty of places in the EMV Triangle where a renegade crew with a thousand tons of gold would be welcomed with open arms and no questions asked. Suspicion began to eat at me. Could Zaleski and Cohn have dreamed up a little switch to keep the treasure ship for themselves? It hadn't seemed likely before, but now—
The gun-pointer remained as it was.
As the days passed and we reached turn-over with the hulk still well within visual range, I noticed a definite decrease in the number of messages from Cohn. The Aldis Lamps no longer blinked back at the Maid eight or ten times a day, and I began to really regret not having taken the time to equip the starship with UHF radio communicators.
Each night I slept with a hunk of yellow gold under my bunk, and ridiculously I fondled the stuff and dreamed of all the things I would have when the starship was cut up and sold.
My weariness grew. It became almost chronic, and I soon wondered if I hadn't picked up a touch of space-radiation fever. The flesh of my hands seemed paler than it had been. My arms felt heavy. I determined to report myself to the Foundation medics on Callisto. There's no telling what can happen to a man in space....
Two days past turn-over the messages from the derelict came through garbled. Spinelli cursed and said that he couldn't read their signal. Taking the Aldis from him I tried to raise them and failed. Two hours later I was still failing and Spinelli's black eyes glittered with an animal suspicion.
"They're faking!"
"Like hell they are!" I snapped irritably, "Something's gone wrong...."
"Zaleski's gone wrong, that's what!"
I turned to face him, fury snapping inside of me. "Then you did disobey my orders. You told him about the gold!"
"Sure I did," he sneered. "Did you expect me to shut up and let you land the ship yourself and claim Captain's share? I found her, and she's mine!"
I fought to control my temper and said: "Let's see what's going on in her before deciding who gets what, Mister Spinelli."
Spinelli bit his thick lips and did not reply. His eyes were fixed on the image of the starship on the viewplate.
A light blinked erratically within the dark cut of its wounded side.
"Get this down, Spinelli!"
The habit of taking orders was still in him, and he muttered: "Aye ... sir."
The light was winking out a message, but feebly, as though the hand that held the lamp were shaking and the mind conceiving the words were failing.
"CONTROL ... LOST ... CAN'T ... NO ... STRENGTH ... LEFT ... SHIP ... WALLS ... ALL ... ALL GOLD ... GOLD ... SOMETHING ... HAPPENING ... CAN'T ... UNDERSTAND ... WHA...." The light stopped flashing, abruptly, in mid-word.
"What the hell?" demanded Spinelli thickly.
"Order them to heave to, Mister," I ordered.
He clicked the Aldis at them. The only response was a wild swerve in the star-ship's course. She left the orbit we had set for her as though the hands that guided her had fallen away from the control.
Spinelli dropped the Aldis and rushed to the control panel to make the corrections in the Maid's course that were needed to keep the hulk in sight.
"Those skunks! Double crossing rats!" he breathed furiously. "They won't shake loose that easy!" His hands started down for the firing console of the supersonic rifle.
I caught the movement from the corner of my eye.
" Spinelli! "
My shout hung in the still air of the control room as I knocked him away from the panel.
"Get to your quarters!" I cracked.
He didn't say a thing, but his big shoulders hunched angrily and he moved across the deck toward me, his hands opening and closing spasmodically. His eyes were wild with rage and avarice.
"You'll hang for mutiny, Spinelli!" I said.
He spat out a foul name and leaped for me. I side-stepped his charge and brought my joined fists down hard on the back of his neck. He stumbled against the bulkhead and his eyes were glazed. He charged again, roaring. I stepped aside and smashed him in the mouth with my right fist, then crossing with an open-handed left to the throat. He staggered, spun and came for me again. I sank a hard left into his stomach and nailed him on the point of the jaw with a right from my shoe-tops. He straightened up and sprawled heavily to the deck, still trying to get at me. I aimed a hard kick at his temple and let it go. My metal shod boot caught him squarely and he rolled over on his face and lay still.
I nailed him with a right from my shoe-tops.
Breathing heavily, I rolled him back face up. His eyes were open,
glassy with an implacable hate. I knelt at his side and listened for
his breathing. There was none. I knew then that I had killed him. I
felt sick inside, and dizzy.
I wasn't myself as I turned away from Spinelli's body there on the
steel deck. Some of the greed died out of me, and my exertions had
increased my sense of fatigue to an almost numbing weariness. My arms
ached terribly and my hands felt as though they had been sucked dry of
their substance. Like a man in a nightmare, I held them up before my
face and looked at them. They were wrinkled and grey, with the veins
standing out a sickly purple. And I could see that my arms were taking
on that same aged look.
I was suddenly fully aware of my fear. Nothing fought against the
flood of terror that welled through me. I was terrified of that yellow
gold in my cabin, and of that ship of devil's metal out there in space
that held my shipmates. There was something unnatural about that
contra-terrene thing ... something obscene.
I located the hulk in the radar finder and swung the Maid after it,
piling on acceleration until my vision flickered. We caught her, the
Maid and I. But we couldn't stop her short of using the rifle on her,
and I couldn't bring myself to add to my depravity by killing the rest
of my men. It would have been better if I had!
I laid the Maid alongside the thousand foot hull of the derelict and
set the controls on automatic. It was dangerous, but I was beyond
caring. Then I was struggling to get myself into a pressure suit with
my wrinkled, failing hands.... Then I was outside, headed for that dark
hole.
I sank down into the stillness of her interior, my helmet light casting
long, fey shadows across the littered decks. Decks that had a yellowish
cast ... decks that no longer danced with tiny questing force-whorls....
As I approached the airlock of the compartment set aside as living
quarters for the prize crew, the saffron of the walls deepened. Crazy
little thoughts began spinning around in my brain. Words out of the
distant past loomed up with a new and suddenly terrifying
perspective ... alchemy ... transmutation ... energy. I'm a spaceman,
not a scientist. But in those moments I think I was discovering what
had happened to my crew and why the walls were turning into yellow
metal.
The lock was closed, but I swung it open and let the pressure in the
chamber rise. I couldn't wait for it to reach fourteen pounds ...
at eleven, I swung the inner door and stumbled eagerly through. The
brilliant light, reflected from gleaming walls blinded me for a moment.
And then I saw them! They huddled, almost naked in a corner, skeletal
things with skull-like faces that leered at me with the vacuous
obscenity of old age. Even their voices were raw and cracked with the
rusty decay of years. They babbled stupidly, caressing the walls with
claw-like hands. They were old, old!
I understood then. I knew what my wrinkled aged hands meant. That
devil-metal from beyond the stars had drawn the energy it needed
from ... us !
My laughter was a crazy shriek inside my helmet. I looked wildly at the
gleaming walls that had sucked the youth and strength from these men.
The walls were stable, at rest. They were purest gold ... gold ... gold!
I ran from that place still screaming with the horror of it. My hands
burned like fire! Age was in them, creeping like molten lead through my
veins, ghastly and sure....
I reached the Maid and threw every scrap of that alien metal into space
as I streaked madly away from that golden terror in the sky and its
load of ancient evil....
On Callisto I was relieved of my command. The Admiralty Court acquitted
me of the charges of negligence, but the Foundation refused me another
ship. It was my ... illness. It spread from my hands, as you can see.
Slowly, very slowly. So what remains for me? A hospital cot and a
spaceman's pension. Those tons of gold in the sky are cursed, like most
great treasures. Somewhere, out in the deeps between the stars, the
dust of my crew guards that golden derelict. It belongs to them now ...
all of it.
But the price we pay for treasure is this. Look at me. I look eighty!
I'm thirty two. And the bitterest part of the story is that people
laugh at me when I tell what happened. They laugh and call me my
nickname. Have you heard it?
It's ... Captain Midas.
Question:
Who is Captain Midas and what are some of his characteristics?
Answer:
|
[
"Captain Midas is the captain of the spaceship Martian Maid, who unknowingly takes the spaceship on its last flight in this story. He is described to be relatively young at 32 years old, but after interacting with the metal and at the end of the story, has the physical appearance of an eighty year old man with wrinkles and veiny hands. \n\nHe is a greedy man. In the beginning of the story, he honestly admits that he would do quite a few things for a few solar dollars, which we see throughout the story. In addition to his greed, he is a selfish man, as in discovering the gold he threatens Spinelli to secrecy in order to keep the highest gains for himself. It is also this greed that allows Spinelli to get away with initially aiming the gun at the derelict ship and their fellow shipmates on board in case those shipmates try to escape with the gold. \n\nThere are brief moments where he is shown to be an honorable man. For one, he fights Spinelli over blasting their fellow shipmates, and ends up killing Spinelli instead by accident. At the end of the story, he becomes terrified of the derelict ship and its devil metal, and yet still chooses to go aboard it to seek out his shipmates. \n",
"Captain Midas is a spaceman, a skipper of the Martian Maid spaceship. He is confident, experienced, and a natural leader - he can feel how the mood of his crew changes and what they are able to do. He knows how Spinelli and Zaleski can act if they find out about the gold and tries to be cautious. He is greedy - Midas gets blinded by the prospect of getting lots of money for the metal parts of the derelict and initially doesn’t notice the metal’s unique feature. Still, he values his team and finds it disgusting that Spinelli would be ready to kill his own colleagues for some gold. Midas also attempts to learn what happened to them when Spinelli gets out of control and thinks that the other members of the team betrayed him and stole his gold. He doesn’t feel normal after killing Spinelli - Midas doesn’t enjoy violence. ",
"Captain Midas is the captain of the spaceship Martian Maid. He looks bony, wrinkled, and weary. He looks eighty when he is thirty-two. He is greedy for money as he and the whole crew search every possibility in space to find treasure or things that can be traded for money. His greed also makes him not report to the interplanetary base when the crew finds the derelict. He prioritizes his lust for treasure over his duty as a captain, suspecting everyone on the ship to steal the derelict, but he also maintains his reason in the situation where the lust for treasure may surpass his duty as a captain. This can be shown when Mister Spinelli and the captain find it hard to read the message from the crewmembers on the derelict; he senses the danger while Mister Spinelli only thinks about his treasure. He is rational that all his actions have a reason, such as letting Mister Spinelli set the weapon pointing toward the derelict to ensure the rest of the crew members do not steal the treasure and flee. He has the moral that he feels guilty when he kills Mister Spinelli.",
"The captain of the Martian Maid, nicknamed Captain Midas, is the skipper of the boat. He works alongside the rest of the crew, consisting of Spinelli, Shelley, Cohn, Marvin, and Zaleski. The captain is only thirty-two, but he looks eighty by the end of the story. Physically, he is described as having gray hair, flesh hanging off of his bone like a yellow cloth, and face a mask. He is a hard-working man, willing to go to any means to earn his share of money. He is also poor, which is why he was so driven to keep the treasure ship when he found it. Captain Midas, however, is a lot more level-headed than the rest of the crew. He is aware of the dangers of being gold-hungry, which is why he keeps this finding to himself. The captain is also observant, figuring out the ship had come from beyond the stars based on his charts. However, even though he is a lot more level-headed, the captain is also susceptible to the idea of becoming insanely rich off of the golden ship. He is not against taking the ship with them and even sleeps with the gold chunk underneath his bed. Midas is also not afraid to use brute force, considering how he killed Spinelli when the other man attacked. "
] |
63867
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CAPTAIN MIDAS
By ALFRED COPPEL, JR.
The captain of the Martian Maid stared avidly at the torn derelict floating against the velvet void. Here was treasure beyond his wildest dreams! How could he know his dreams should have been nightmares?
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Gold! A magic word, even today, isn't it? Lust and gold ... they go hand in hand. Like the horsemen of the Apocalypse. And, of course, there's another word needed to make up the trilogy. You don't get any thing for nothing. So add this: Cost. Or you might call it pain, sorrow, agony. Call it what you like. It's what you pay for great treasure....
These things were true when fabled Jason sailed the Argo beyond Colchis seeking the Fleece. They were true when men sailed the southern oceans in wooden ships. And the conquest of space hasn't changed us a bit. We're still a greedy lot....
I'm a queer one to be saying these things, but then, who has more right? Look at me. My hair is gray and my face ... my face is a mask. The flesh hangs on my bones like a yellow cloth on a rickety frame. I am old, old. And I wait here on my hospital cot—wait for the weight of years I never lived to drag me under and let me forget the awful things my eyes have seen.
I'm poor, too, or else I wouldn't be here in this place of dying for old spacemen. I haven't a dime except for the pittance the Holcomb Foundation calls a spaceman's pension. Yet I had millions in my hands. Treasure beyond your wildest dreams! Cursed treasure....
You smile. You are thinking that I'm just an old man, beached earthside, spinning tall tales to impress the youngsters. Maybe, thinking about the kind of spacemen my generation produced, you have the idea that if ever we'd so much as laid a hand on anything of value out in space we'd not let go until Hell froze over! Well, you're right about that. We didn't seek the spaceways for the advancement of civilization or any of that Foundation bushwah, you can be certain of that. We did it for us ... for Number One. That's the kind of men we were, and we were proud of it. We hung onto what we found because the risks were high and we were entitled to keep what we could out there. But there are strange things in the sky. Things that don't respond to all of our neat little Laws and Theories. There are things that are no part of the world of men, thick with danger—and horror.
If you doubt that—and I can see you do—just look at me. I suppose you've never heard of the Martian Maid, and so you don't know the story of what happened to her crew or her skipper. I can give you this much of an answer. I was her skipper. And her crew? They ride high in the sky ... dust by this time. And all because they were men, and men are greedy and hasty and full of an unreasoning, unthinking love for gold. They ride a golden ship that they paid for with all the years of their lives. It's all theirs now. Bought and paid for.
It wasn't too long ago that I lifted the Maid off Solis Lacus on that last flight. Not many of you will remember her class of ship, so many advances have been made in the last few years. The Maid was two hundred feet from tip to tail, and as sleek a spacer as ever came out of the Foundation Yards. Chemical fueled, she was nothing at all like the spherical hyperdrives we see today. She was armed, too. The Foundation still thought of space as a possible stamping ground for alien creatures though no evidence of any extra-terrestrial life had ever been found ... then.
My crew was a rough bunch, like all those early crews. I remember them so well. Lean, hungry men with hell in their eyes and a great lust for high pay and hard living. Spinelli, Shelley, Cohn, Marvin, Zaleski. There wasn't a man on board who wouldn't have traded his immortal soul for a few solar dollars, and I don't claim that I was any different. That's the kind of men that opened up the spaceways, too. Don't believe all this talk about the noble pioneering spirit of man. That's tripe. There never has been such a thing as a noble pioneer. Not in space or anywhere else. It is the malcontent and the adventuring mercenary that pushes the frontier outward.
I didn't know, that night as I stood in the valve of the Maid, watching the loading cranes pull away, that I was starting out on my last flight. I don't think any of the others could have guessed, either. It was the sort of night that you only see on Mars. The sort of night that makes a spaceman wonder why in hell he wants to leave the relative security of the Earth-Mars-Venus Triangle to go jetting across the belt into deep space and the drab desolation of the outer System.
I stood there, watching the lights of Canalopolis in the distance. For just a moment I was ... well, touched. It looked beautiful and unreal under the racing moons. The lights of the gin mills and houses made a sparkling filigree pattern on the dark waters of the ancient canal, and the moons cast their shifting shadows across the silted banks. I was too far away to see the space-fevered bums and smell the shanties, and for a little while I felt the wonder of standing on the soil of a world that man had made his own with his rapacity and his sheer guts and gimme.
I thought of our half empty cargo hold and the sweet payload we would pick up on Callisto. And I counted the extra cash my packets of snow would bring from those lonely men up there on the barren moonlets of the outer Systems. There were plenty of cargoes carried on the Maid that the Holcomb Foundation snoopers never heard about, you can be sure of that.
In those days the asteroid belt was the primary danger and menace to astrogation. For a long while it held men back from deep space, but as fuels improved a few ships were sent out over the top. A few million miles up out of the ecliptic plane brings you to a region of space that's pretty thinly strewn with asteroids, and that's the way we used to make the flight between the outer systems and the EMV Triangle. It took a long while for hyperdrives to be developed and of course atomics never panned out because of the weight problem.
So that's the orbit the Maid took on that last trip of mine. High and clear into the supra-solar void. And out there in that primeval blackness is where we found the derelict.
I didn't realize it was a derelict when Spinelli first reported it from the forward scope position. I assumed it was a Foundation ship. The Holcomb Foundation was founded for the purpose of developing spaceflight, and as the years went by it took on the whole responsibility for the building and dispatching of space ships. Never in history had there been any real evidence of extra-terrestrial intelligent life, and when the EMV Triangle proved barren, we all just assumed that the Universe was man's own particular oyster. That kind of unreasoning arrogance is as hard to explain as it is to correct.
There were plenty of ships being lost in space, and immediately that Spinelli's report from up forward got noised about the Maid every one of us started mentally counting up his share of the salvage money. All this before we were within ten thousand miles of the hulk!
All spaceships look pretty much alike, but as I sat at the telescope I saw that there was something different about this one. At such a distance I couldn't get too much detail in our small three inch glass, but I could see that the hulk was big—bigger than any ship I'd ever seen before. I had the radar fixed on her and then I retired with my slide rule to Control. It wasn't long before I discovered that the derelict ship was on a near collision course, but there was something about its orbit that was strange. I called Cohn, the Metering Officer, and showed him my figures.
"Mister Cohn," I said, chart in hand, "do these figures look right to you?"
Cohn's dark eyes lit up as they always did when he worked with figures. It didn't take him long to check me. "The math is quite correct, Captain," he said. I could see that he hadn't missed the inference of those figures on the chart.
"Assemble the ship's company, Mister Cohn," I ordered.
The assembly horn sounded throughout the Maid and I could feel the tug of the automatics taking over as the crew left their stations. Soon they were assembled in Control.
"You have all heard about Mister Spinelli's find," I said, "I have computed the orbit and inspected the object through the glass. It seems to be a spacer ... either abandoned or in distress...." Reaching into the book rack above my desk I took down a copy of the Foundation's Space Regulations and opened it to the section concerning salvage.
"Sections XVIII, Paragraph 8 of the Code Regulating Interplanetary Astrogation and Commerce," I read, "Any vessel or part of vessel found in an abandoned or totally disabled condition in any region of space not subject to the sovereignty of any planet of the Earth-Venus-Mars Triangle shall be considered to be the property of the crew of the vessel locating said abandoned or disabled vessel except in such cases as the ownership of said abandoned or disabled vessel may be readily ascertained...." I looked up and closed the book. "Simply stated, that means that if that thing ahead of us is a derelict we are entitled to claim it as salvage."
"Unless it already belongs to someone?" asked Spinelli.
"That's correct Mister Spinelli, but I don't think there is much danger of that," I replied quietly. "My figures show that hulk out there came in from the direction of Coma Berenices...."
There was a long silence before Zaleski shifted his two hundred pounds uneasily and gave a form to the muted fear inside me. "You think ... you think it came from the stars , Captain?"
"Maybe even from beyond the stars," Cohn said in a low voice.
Looking at that circle of faces I saw the beginnings of greed. The first impact of the Metering Officer's words wore off quickly and soon every man of my crew was thinking that anything from the stars would be worth money ... lots of money.
Spinelli said, "Do we look her over, Captain?"
They all looked at me, waiting for my answer. I knew it would be worth plenty, and money hunger was like a fever inside me.
"Certainly we look it over, Mister Spinelli," I said sharply.
"Certainly!"
The first thing about the derelict that struck us as we drew near was her size. No ship ever built in the Foundation Yards had ever attained such gargantuan proportions. She must have stretched a full thousand feet from bow to stern, a sleek torpedo shape of somehow unspeakable alienness. Against the backdrop of the Milky Way, she gleamed fitfully in the light of the faraway sun, the metal of her flanks grained with something like tiny, glittering whorls. It was as though the stuff were somehow unstable ... seeking balance ... maybe even alive in some strange and alien way.
It was readily apparent to all of us that she had never been built for inter-planetary flight. She was a starship. Origin unknown. An aura of mystery surrounded her like a shroud, protecting the world that gave her birth mutely but effectively. The distance she must have come was unthinkable. And the time it had taken...? Aeons. Millennia. For she was drifting, dead in space, slowly spinning end over end as she swung about Sol in a hyperbolic orbit that would soon take her out and away again into the inter-stellar deeps.
Something had wounded her ... perhaps ten million years ago ... perhaps yesterday. She was gashed deeply from stem to stern with a jagged rip that bared her mangled innards. A wandering asteroid? A meteor? We would never know. It gave me an uncomfortable feeling of things beyond the ken of men as I looked at her through the port. I would never know what killed her, or where she was going, or whence she came. Yet she was mine. It made me feel like an upstart. And it made me afraid ... but of what?
We should have reported her to the nearest EMV base, but that would have meant that we'd lose her. Scientists would be sent out. Men better equipped than we to investigate the first extrasolar artifact found by men. But I didn't report her. She was ours. She was money in the bank. Let the scientists take over after we'd put a prize crew aboard and brought her into Callisto for salvage.... That's the way I had things figured.
The Maid hove to about a hundred yards from her and hung there, dwarfed by the mighty glistening ship. I called for volunteers and we prepared a boarding party. I was thinking that her drives alone would be worth millions. Cohn took charge and he and three of the men suited up and crossed to her.
In an hour they were back, disappointment largely written on their faces.
"There's nothing left of her, Captain," Cohn reported, "Whatever hit her tore up the innards so badly we couldn't even find the drives. She's a mess inside. Nothing left but the hull and a few storage compartments that are still unbroken."
She was never built to carry humanoids he told us, and there was nothing that could give us a hint of where she had come from. The hull alone was left.
He dropped two chunks of metal on my desk. "I brought back some samples of her pressure hull," he said, "The whole thing is made of this stuff...."
"We'll still take her in," I said, hiding my disappointment. "The carcass will be worth money in Callisto. Have Mister Marvin and Zaleski assemble a spare pulse-jet. We'll jury-rig her and bring her down under her own power. You take charge of provisioning her. Check those compartments you found and install oxy-generators aboard. When it's done report to me in my quarters."
I picked up the two samples of gleaming metal and called for a metallurgical testing kit. "I'm going to try and find out if this stuff is worth anything...."
The metal was heavy—too heavy, it seemed to me, for spaceship construction. But then, who was to say what conditions existed on that distant world where this metal was made?
Under the bright fluorescent over my work-table, the chunks of metal torn from a random bulkhead of the starship gleamed like pale silver; those strange little whorls that I had noticed on the outer hull were there too, like tiny magnetic lines of force, making the surface of the metal seem to dance. I held the stuff in my bare hand. It had a yellowish tinge, and it was heavier ....
Even as I watched, the metal grew yellower, and the hand that held it grew bone weary, little tongues of fatigue licking up my forearm. Suddenly terrified, I dropped the chunk as though it were white hot. It struck the table with a dull thud and lay there, a rich yellow lump of metallic lustre.
For a long while I just sat and stared. Then I began testing, trying all the while to quiet the trembling of my hands. I weighed it on a balance. I tested it with acids. It had changed unquestionably. It was no longer the same as when I had carried it into my quarters. The whorls of force were gone. It was no longer alive with a questing vibrancy ... it was inert, stable. From somewhere, somehow, it had drawn the energy necessary for transmutation. The unknown metal—the stuff of which that whole mammoth spaceship from the stars was built—was now....
Gold!
I scarcely dared believe it, but there it was staring at me from my table-top. Gold!
I searched my mind for an explanation. Contra-terrene matter, perhaps, from some distant island universe where matter reacted differently ... drawing energy from somewhere, the energy it needed to find stability in its new environment. Stability as a terrene element—wonderfully, miraculously gold!
And outside, in the void beyond the Maid's ports there were tons of this metal that could be turned into treasure. My laughter must have been a wild sound in those moments of discovery....
A slight sound behind me made me spin around in my chair. Framed in the doorway was the heavy figure of my Third Officer, Spinelli. His black eyes were fastened hungrily on the lump of yellow metal on the table. He needed no explanation to tell him what it was, and it seemed to me that his very soul reached out for the stuff, so sharp and clear was the meaning of the expression on his heavy face.
"Mister Spinelli!" I snapped, "In the future knock before entering my quarters!"
Reluctantly his eyes left the lump of gold and met mine. "From the derelict, Captain?" There was an imperceptible pause between the last two words.
I ignored his question and made a mental note to keep a close hand on the rein with him. Spinelli was big and dangerous.
"Speak your piece, Mister," I ordered sharply.
"Mister Cohn reports the derelict ready to take aboard the prize crew ... sir," he said slowly. "I'd like to volunteer for that detail."
I might have let him go under ordinary circumstances, for he was a first class spaceman and the handling of a jury-rigged hulk would need good men. But the gold-hunger I had seen in his eyes warned me to beware. I shook my head. "You will stay on board the Maid with me, Spinelli. Cohn and Zaleski will handle the starship."
Stark suspicion leaped into his eyes. I could see the wheels turning slowly in his mind. Somehow, he was thinking, I was planning to cheat him of his rightful share of the derelict treasure ship.
"We will say nothing to the rest of the crew about the gold, Mister Spinelli," I said deliberately, "Or you'll go to Callisto in irons. Is that clear?"
"Aye, sir," murmured Spinelli. The black expression had left his face and there was a faintly scornful smile playing about his mouth as he turned away. I began wondering then what he had in mind. It wasn't like him to let it go at that.
Suddenly I became conscious of being very tired. My mind wasn't functioning quite clearly. And my arm and hand ached painfully. I rubbed the fingers to get some life back into them, still wondering about Spinelli.
Spinelli talked. I saw him murmuring something to big Zaleski, and after that there was tension in the air. Distrust.
For a few moments I pondered the advisability of making good my threat to clap Spinelli into irons, but I decided against it. In the first place I couldn't prove he had told Zaleski about the gold and in the second place I needed Spinelli to help run the Maid.
I felt that the Third Officer and Zaleski were planning something, and I was just as sure that Spinelli was watching Zaleski to see to it that there was no double-cross.
I figured that I could handle the Third Officer alone so I assigned the rest, Marvin and Chelly, to accompany Cohn and Zaleski onto the hulk. That way Zaleski would be outnumbered if he tried to skip with the treasure ship. But, of course, I couldn't risk telling them that they were to be handling a vessel practically made of gold.
I was in agony. I didn't want to let anyone get out of my sight with that starship, and at the same time I couldn't leave the Maid. Finally I had to let Cohn take command of the prize crew, but not before I had set the radar finder on the Maid's prow squarely on the derelict.
Together, Spinelli and I watched the Maid's crew vanish into the maw of the alien ship and get her under way. There was a flicker of bluish fire from her jury-rigged tubes astern, and then she was vanishing in a great arc toward the bright gleam of Jupiter, far below us. The Maid followed under a steady one G of acceleration with most of her controls on automatic.
Boats of the Martian Maid's class, you may remember, carried a six inch supersonic projector abaft the astrogation turret. These were nasty weapons for use against organic life only. They would reduce a man to jelly at fifty thousand yards. Let it be said to my credit that it wasn't I who thought of hooking the gun into the radar finder and keeping it aimed dead at the derelict. That was Spinelli's insurance against Zaleski.
When I discovered it I felt the rage mount in me. He was willing to blast every one of his shipmates into pulp should the hulk vary from the orbit we'd laid out for her. He wasn't letting anything come between him and that mountain of gold.
Then I began thinking about it. Suppose now, just suppose, that Zaleski told the rest of the crew about the gold. It wouldn't be too hard for the derelict to break away from the Maid, and there were plenty of places in the EMV Triangle where a renegade crew with a thousand tons of gold would be welcomed with open arms and no questions asked. Suspicion began to eat at me. Could Zaleski and Cohn have dreamed up a little switch to keep the treasure ship for themselves? It hadn't seemed likely before, but now—
The gun-pointer remained as it was.
As the days passed and we reached turn-over with the hulk still well within visual range, I noticed a definite decrease in the number of messages from Cohn. The Aldis Lamps no longer blinked back at the Maid eight or ten times a day, and I began to really regret not having taken the time to equip the starship with UHF radio communicators.
Each night I slept with a hunk of yellow gold under my bunk, and ridiculously I fondled the stuff and dreamed of all the things I would have when the starship was cut up and sold.
My weariness grew. It became almost chronic, and I soon wondered if I hadn't picked up a touch of space-radiation fever. The flesh of my hands seemed paler than it had been. My arms felt heavy. I determined to report myself to the Foundation medics on Callisto. There's no telling what can happen to a man in space....
Two days past turn-over the messages from the derelict came through garbled. Spinelli cursed and said that he couldn't read their signal. Taking the Aldis from him I tried to raise them and failed. Two hours later I was still failing and Spinelli's black eyes glittered with an animal suspicion.
"They're faking!"
"Like hell they are!" I snapped irritably, "Something's gone wrong...."
"Zaleski's gone wrong, that's what!"
I turned to face him, fury snapping inside of me. "Then you did disobey my orders. You told him about the gold!"
"Sure I did," he sneered. "Did you expect me to shut up and let you land the ship yourself and claim Captain's share? I found her, and she's mine!"
I fought to control my temper and said: "Let's see what's going on in her before deciding who gets what, Mister Spinelli."
Spinelli bit his thick lips and did not reply. His eyes were fixed on the image of the starship on the viewplate.
A light blinked erratically within the dark cut of its wounded side.
"Get this down, Spinelli!"
The habit of taking orders was still in him, and he muttered: "Aye ... sir."
The light was winking out a message, but feebly, as though the hand that held the lamp were shaking and the mind conceiving the words were failing.
"CONTROL ... LOST ... CAN'T ... NO ... STRENGTH ... LEFT ... SHIP ... WALLS ... ALL ... ALL GOLD ... GOLD ... SOMETHING ... HAPPENING ... CAN'T ... UNDERSTAND ... WHA...." The light stopped flashing, abruptly, in mid-word.
"What the hell?" demanded Spinelli thickly.
"Order them to heave to, Mister," I ordered.
He clicked the Aldis at them. The only response was a wild swerve in the star-ship's course. She left the orbit we had set for her as though the hands that guided her had fallen away from the control.
Spinelli dropped the Aldis and rushed to the control panel to make the corrections in the Maid's course that were needed to keep the hulk in sight.
"Those skunks! Double crossing rats!" he breathed furiously. "They won't shake loose that easy!" His hands started down for the firing console of the supersonic rifle.
I caught the movement from the corner of my eye.
" Spinelli! "
My shout hung in the still air of the control room as I knocked him away from the panel.
"Get to your quarters!" I cracked.
He didn't say a thing, but his big shoulders hunched angrily and he moved across the deck toward me, his hands opening and closing spasmodically. His eyes were wild with rage and avarice.
"You'll hang for mutiny, Spinelli!" I said.
He spat out a foul name and leaped for me. I side-stepped his charge and brought my joined fists down hard on the back of his neck. He stumbled against the bulkhead and his eyes were glazed. He charged again, roaring. I stepped aside and smashed him in the mouth with my right fist, then crossing with an open-handed left to the throat. He staggered, spun and came for me again. I sank a hard left into his stomach and nailed him on the point of the jaw with a right from my shoe-tops. He straightened up and sprawled heavily to the deck, still trying to get at me. I aimed a hard kick at his temple and let it go. My metal shod boot caught him squarely and he rolled over on his face and lay still.
I nailed him with a right from my shoe-tops.
Breathing heavily, I rolled him back face up. His eyes were open,
glassy with an implacable hate. I knelt at his side and listened for
his breathing. There was none. I knew then that I had killed him. I
felt sick inside, and dizzy.
I wasn't myself as I turned away from Spinelli's body there on the
steel deck. Some of the greed died out of me, and my exertions had
increased my sense of fatigue to an almost numbing weariness. My arms
ached terribly and my hands felt as though they had been sucked dry of
their substance. Like a man in a nightmare, I held them up before my
face and looked at them. They were wrinkled and grey, with the veins
standing out a sickly purple. And I could see that my arms were taking
on that same aged look.
I was suddenly fully aware of my fear. Nothing fought against the
flood of terror that welled through me. I was terrified of that yellow
gold in my cabin, and of that ship of devil's metal out there in space
that held my shipmates. There was something unnatural about that
contra-terrene thing ... something obscene.
I located the hulk in the radar finder and swung the Maid after it,
piling on acceleration until my vision flickered. We caught her, the
Maid and I. But we couldn't stop her short of using the rifle on her,
and I couldn't bring myself to add to my depravity by killing the rest
of my men. It would have been better if I had!
I laid the Maid alongside the thousand foot hull of the derelict and
set the controls on automatic. It was dangerous, but I was beyond
caring. Then I was struggling to get myself into a pressure suit with
my wrinkled, failing hands.... Then I was outside, headed for that dark
hole.
I sank down into the stillness of her interior, my helmet light casting
long, fey shadows across the littered decks. Decks that had a yellowish
cast ... decks that no longer danced with tiny questing force-whorls....
As I approached the airlock of the compartment set aside as living
quarters for the prize crew, the saffron of the walls deepened. Crazy
little thoughts began spinning around in my brain. Words out of the
distant past loomed up with a new and suddenly terrifying
perspective ... alchemy ... transmutation ... energy. I'm a spaceman,
not a scientist. But in those moments I think I was discovering what
had happened to my crew and why the walls were turning into yellow
metal.
The lock was closed, but I swung it open and let the pressure in the
chamber rise. I couldn't wait for it to reach fourteen pounds ...
at eleven, I swung the inner door and stumbled eagerly through. The
brilliant light, reflected from gleaming walls blinded me for a moment.
And then I saw them! They huddled, almost naked in a corner, skeletal
things with skull-like faces that leered at me with the vacuous
obscenity of old age. Even their voices were raw and cracked with the
rusty decay of years. They babbled stupidly, caressing the walls with
claw-like hands. They were old, old!
I understood then. I knew what my wrinkled aged hands meant. That
devil-metal from beyond the stars had drawn the energy it needed
from ... us !
My laughter was a crazy shriek inside my helmet. I looked wildly at the
gleaming walls that had sucked the youth and strength from these men.
The walls were stable, at rest. They were purest gold ... gold ... gold!
I ran from that place still screaming with the horror of it. My hands
burned like fire! Age was in them, creeping like molten lead through my
veins, ghastly and sure....
I reached the Maid and threw every scrap of that alien metal into space
as I streaked madly away from that golden terror in the sky and its
load of ancient evil....
On Callisto I was relieved of my command. The Admiralty Court acquitted
me of the charges of negligence, but the Foundation refused me another
ship. It was my ... illness. It spread from my hands, as you can see.
Slowly, very slowly. So what remains for me? A hospital cot and a
spaceman's pension. Those tons of gold in the sky are cursed, like most
great treasures. Somewhere, out in the deeps between the stars, the
dust of my crew guards that golden derelict. It belongs to them now ...
all of it.
But the price we pay for treasure is this. Look at me. I look eighty!
I'm thirty two. And the bitterest part of the story is that people
laugh at me when I tell what happened. They laugh and call me my
nickname. Have you heard it?
It's ... Captain Midas.
|
Why is it important to Jimmie for John to continue playing with the band?
|
After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about The Holes and John Smith by Edward W. Ludwig.
Relevant chunks:
He was something out of a nightmare but his music was straight from heaven. He was a ragged little man out of a hole but he was money in the bank to Stanley's four-piece combo. He was —whoops!...
The Holes and John Smith
By Edward W. Ludwig
Illustration by Kelly Freas
It all began on a Saturday night at The Space Room . If you've seen any recent Martian travel folders, you know the place:
"A picturesque oasis of old Martian charm, situated on the beauteous Grand Canal in the heart of Marsport. Only half a mile from historic Chandler Field, landing site of the first Martian expedition nearly fifty years ago in 1990. A visitor to the hotel, lunch room or cocktail lounge will thrill at the sight of hardy space pioneers mingling side by side with colorful Martian tribesmen. An evening at The Space Room is an amazing, unforgettable experience."
Of course, the folders neglect to add that the most amazing aspect is the scent of the Canal's stagnant water—and that the most unforgettable experience is seeing the "root-of-all-evil" evaporate from your pocketbook like snow from the Great Red Desert.
We were sitting on the bandstand of the candle-lit cocktail lounge. Me—Jimmie Stanley—and my four-piece combo. Maybe you've seen our motto back on Earth:
"The Hottest Music This Side of Mercury."
But there weren't four of us tonight. Only three. Ziggy, our bass fiddle man, had nearly sliced off two fingers while opening a can of Saturnian ice-fish, thus decreasing the number of our personnel by a tragic twenty-five per cent.
Which was why Ke-teeli, our boss, was descending upon us with all the grace of an enraged Venusian vinosaur.
"Where ees museek?" he shrilled in his nasal tenor. He was almost skeleton thin, like most Martians, and so tall that if he fell down he'd be half way home.
I gulped. "Our bass man can't be here, but we've called the Marsport local for another. He'll be here any minute."
Ke-teeli, sometimes referred to as Goon-Face and The Eye, leered coldly down at me from his eight-foot-three. His eyes were like black needle points set deep in a mask of dry, ancient, reddish leather.
"Ees no feedle man, ees no job," he squeaked.
I sighed. This was the week our contract ended. Goon-Face had displayed little enough enthusiasm for our music as it was. His comments were either, "Ees too loud, too fast," or "Ees too slow, too soft." The real cause of his concern being, I suspected, the infrequency with which his cash register tinkled.
"But," I added, "even if the new man doesn't come, we're still here. We'll play for you." I glanced at the conglomeration of uniformed spacemen, white-suited tourists, and loin-clothed natives who sat at ancient stone tables. "You wouldn't want to disappoint your customers, would you?"
Ke-teeli snorted. "Maybe ees better dey be deesappointed. Ees better no museek den bad museek."
Fat Boy, our clarinetist who doubles on Martian horn-harp, made a feeble attempt at optimism. "Don't worry, Mr. Ke-teeli. That new bass man will be here."
"Sure," said Hammer-Head, our red-haired vibro-drummer. "I think I hear him coming now."
Suspiciously, Ke-teeli eyed the entrance. There was only silence. His naked, parchment-like chest swelled as if it were an expanding balloon.
"Five meenutes!" he shrieked.
"Eef no feedle, den you go!" And he whirled away.
We waited.
Fat Boy's two hundred and eighty-odd pounds were drooped over his chair like the blubber of an exhausted, beach-stranded whale.
"Well," he muttered, "there's always the uranium pits of Neptune. Course, you don't live more than five years there—"
"Maybe we could make it back to Lunar City," suggested Hammer-Head.
"Using what for fare?" I asked.
"Your brains?"
Hammer-Head groaned. "No. I guess it'll have to be the black pits of Neptune. The home of washed-up interplanetary musicians. It's too bad. We're so young, too."
The seconds swept by. Ke-teeli was casting his razor-edged glare in our direction. I brushed the chewed finger nails from the keyboard of my electronic piano.
Then it happened.
From the entrance of The Space Room came a thumping and a grating and a banging. Suddenly, sweeping across the dance floor like a cold wind, was a bass fiddle, an enormous black monstrosity, a refugee from a pawnbroker's attic. It was queerly shaped. It was too tall, too wide. It was more like a monstrous, midnight-black hour-glass than a bass.
The fiddle was not unaccompanied as I'd first imagined. Behind it, streaking over the floor in a waltz of agony, was a little guy, an animated matchstick with a flat, broad face that seemed to have been compressed in a vice. His sandcolored mop of hair reminded me of a field of dry grass, the long strands forming loops that flanked the sides of his face.
His pale blue eyes were watery, like twin pools of fog. His tightfitting suit, as black as the bass, was something off a park bench. It was impossible to guess his age. He could have been anywhere between twenty and forty.
The bass thumped down upon the bandstand.
"Hello," he puffed. "I'm John Smith, from the Marsport union." He spoke shrilly and rapidly, as if anxious to conclude the routine of introductions. "I'm sorry I'm late, but I was working on my plan."
A moment's silence.
"Your plan?" I echoed at last.
"How to get back home," he snapped as if I should have known it already.
Hummm, I thought.
My gaze turned to the dance floor. Goon-Face had his eyes on us, and they were as cold as six Indians going South.
"We'll talk about your plan at intermission," I said, shivering.
"Now, we'd better start playing. John, do you know On An Asteroid With You ?"
"I know everything ," said John Smith.
I turned to my piano with a shudder. I didn't dare look at that horrible fiddle again. I didn't dare think what kind of soul-chilling tones might emerge from its ancient depths.
And I didn't dare look again at the second monstrosity, the one named John Smith. I closed my eyes and plunged into a four-bar intro.
Hammer-Head joined in on vibro-drums and Fat Boy on clarinet, and then—
My eyes burst open. A shiver coursed down my spine like gigantic mice feet.
The tones that surged from that monstrous bass were ecstatic. They were out of a jazzman's Heaven. They were great rolling clouds that seemed to envelop the entire universe with their vibrance. They held a depth and a volume and a richness that were astounding, that were like no others I'd ever heard.
First they went Boom-de-boom-de-boom-de-boom , and then, boom-de-de-boom-de-de-boom-de-de-boom , just like the tones of all bass fiddles.
But there was something else, too. There were overtones, so that John wasn't just playing a single note, but a whole chord with each beat. And the fullness, the depth of those incredible chords actually set my blood tingling. I could feel the tingling just as one can feel the vibration of a plucked guitar string.
I glanced at the cash customers. They looked like weary warriors getting their first glimpse of Valhalla. Gap-jawed and wide-eyed, they seemed in a kind of ecstatic hypnosis. Even the silent, bland-faced Martians stopped sipping their wine-syrup and nodded their dark heads in time with the rhythm.
I looked at The Eye. The transformation of his gaunt features was miraculous. Shadows of gloom dissolved and were replaced by a black-toothed, crescent-shaped smile of delight. His eyes shone like those of a kid seeing Santa Claus.
We finished On An Asteroid With You , modulated into Sweet Sally from Saturn and finished with Tighten Your Lips on Titan .
We waited for the applause of the Earth people and the shrilling of the Martians to die down. Then I turned to John and his fiddle.
"If I didn't hear it," I gasped,
"I wouldn't believe it!"
"And the fiddle's so old, too!" added Hammer-Head who, although sober, seemed quite drunk.
"Old?" said John Smith. "Of course it's old. It's over five thousand years old. I was lucky to find it in a pawnshop. Only it's not a fiddle but a Zloomph . This is the only one in existence." He patted the thing tenderly. "I tried the hole in it but it isn't the right one."
I wondered what the hell he was talking about. I studied the black, mirror-like wood. The aperture in the vesonator was like that of any bass fiddle.
"Isn't right for what?" I had to ask.
He turned his sad eyes to me.
"For going home," he said.
Hummm, I thought.
We played. Tune after tune. John knew them all, from the latest pop melodies to a swing version of the classic Rhapsody of The Stars . He was a quiet guy during the next couple of hours, and getting more than a few words from him seemed as hard as extracting a tooth. He'd stand by his fiddle—I mean, his Zloomph —with a dreamy expression in those watery eyes, staring at nothing.
But after one number he studied Fat Boy's clarinet for a moment.
"Nice clarinet," he mused. "Has an unusual hole in the front."
Fat Boy scratched the back of his head. "You—you mean here? Where the music comes out?"
John Smith nodded. "Unusual."
Hummm, I thought again.
Awhile later I caught him eyeing my piano keyboard. "What's the matter, John?"
He pointed.
"Oh, there," I said. "A cigarette fell out of my ashtray, burnt a hole in the key. If The Eye sees it, he'll swear at me in seven languages."
"Even there," he said softly,
"even there...."
There was no doubt about it. John Smith was peculiar, but he was the best bass man this side of a musician's Nirvana.
It didn't take a genius to figure out our situation. Item one: Goon-Face's countenance had evidenced an excellent imitation of Mephistopheles before John began to play. Item two: Goon-Face had beamed like a kitten with a quart of cream after John began to play.
Conclusion: If we wanted to keep eating, we'd have to persuade John Smith to join our combo.
At intermission I said, "How about a drink, John? Maybe a shot of wine-syrup?"
He shook his head.
"Then maybe a Venusian fizz?"
His grunt was negative.
"Then some old-fashioned beer?"
He smiled. "Yes, I like beer."
I escorted him to the bar and assisted him in his arduous climb onto a stool.
"John," I ventured after he'd taken an experimental sip, "where have you been hiding? A guy like you should be playing every night."
John yawned. "Just got here. Figured I might need some money so I went to the union. Then I worked on my plan."
"Then you need a job. How about playing with us steady? We like your style a lot."
He made a long, low humming sound which I interpreted as an expression of intense concentration.
"I don't know," he finally drawled.
"It'd be a steady job, John." Inspiration struck me. "And listen, I have an apartment. It's got everything, solar shower, automatic chef,
'copter landing—if we ever get a
'copter. Plenty of room there for two people. You can stay with me and it won't cost you a cent. And we'll even pay you over union wages."
His watery gaze wandered lazily to the bar mirror, down to the glittering array of bottles and then out to the dance floor.
He yawned again and spoke slowly, as if each word were a leaden weight cast reluctantly from his tongue:
"No, I don't ... care much ... about playing."
"What do you like to do, John?"
His string-bean of a body stiffened.
"I like to study ancient history ... and I must work on my plan."
Oh Lord, that plan again!
I took a deep breath. "Tell me about it, John. It must be interesting."
He made queer clicking noises with his mouth that reminded me of a mechanical toy being wound into motion. "The whole foundation of this or any other culture is based on the history of all the time dimensions, each interwoven with the other, throughout the ages. And the holes provide a means of studying all of it first hand."
Oh, oh , I thought. But you still have to eat. Remember, you still have to eat.
"Trouble is," he went on, "there are so many holes in this universe."
"Holes?" I kept a straight face.
"Certainly. Look around you. All you see is holes. These beer bottles are just holes surrounded by glass. The doors and windows—they're holes in walls. The mine tunnels make a network of holes under the desert. Caves are holes, animals live in holes, our faces have holes, clothes have holes—millions and millions of holes!"
I winced and thought, humor him because you gotta eat, you gotta eat.
His voice trembled with emotion.
"Why, they're everywhere. They're in pots and pans, in pipes, in rocket jets, in bumpy roads. There are buttonholes and well holes, and shoelace holes. There are doughnut holes and stocking holes and woodpecker holes and cheese holes. Oceans lie in holes in the earth, and rivers and canals and valleys. The craters of the Moon are holes. Everything is—"
"But, John," I said as patiently as possible, "what have these holes got to do with you?"
He glowered at me as if I were unworthy of such a confidence.
"What have they to do with me?" he shrilled. "I can't find the right one—that's what!"
I closed my eyes. "Which particular hole are you looking for, John?"
He was speaking rapidly again now.
"I was hurrying back to the University with the Zloomph to prove a point of ancient history to those fools. They don't believe that instruments which make music actually existed before the tapes! It was dark—and some fool researcher had forgotten to set a force-field over the hole—I fell through."
I closed my eyes. "Now wait a minute. Did you drop something, lose it in the hole—is that why you have to find it?"
"Oh I didn't lose anything important," he snapped, " just my own time dimension. And if I don't get back they will think I couldn't prove my theory, that I'm ashamed to come back, and I'll be discredited."
His chest sagged for an instant. Then he straightened. "But there's still time for my plan to work out—with the relative difference taken into account. Only I get so tired just thinking about it."
"Yes, I can see where thinking about it would tire any one."
He nodded. "But it can't be too far away."
"I'd like to hear more about it," I said. "But if you're not going to play with us—"
"Oh, I'll play with you," he beamed. "I can talk to you . You understand."
Thank heaven!
Heaven lasted for just three days. During those seventy-two golden hours the melodious tinkling of The Eye's cash register was as constant as that of Santa's sleigh bells.
John became the hero of tourists, spacemen, and Martians, but nevertheless he remained stubbornly aloof. He was quiet, moody, playing his Zloomph automatically. He'd reveal definite indications of belonging to Homo Sapiens only when drinking beer and talking about his holes.
Goon-Face was still cautious.
"Contract?" he wheezed. "Maybe. We see. Eef feedleman stay, we have contract. He stay, yes?"
"Oh, sure," I said. "He'll stay—just as long as you want him."
"Den he sign contract, too. No beeg feedle, no contract."
"Sure. We'll get him to sign it." I laughed hollowly. "Don't worry, Mr. Ke-teeli."
Just a few minutes later tragedy struck.
A reporter from the Marsport Times ambled into interview the Man of The Hour. The interview, unfortunately, was conducted over the bar and accompanied by a generous guzzling of beer. Fat Boy, Hammer-Head and I watched from a table. Knowing John as we did, a silent prayer was in our eyes.
"This is the first time he's talked to anybody," Fat Boy breathed.
"I—I'm scared.
"Nothing can happen," I said, optimistically. "This'll be good publicity."
We watched.
John murmured something. The reporter, a paunchy, balding man, scribbled furiously in his notebook.
John yawned, muttered something else. The reporter continued to scribble.
John sipped beer. His eyes brightened, and he began to talk more rapidly.
The reporter frowned, stopped writing, and studied John curiously.
John finished his first beer, started on his second. His eyes were wild, and he was talking more and more rapidly.
"He's doing it," Hammer-Head groaned. "He's telling him!"
I rose swiftly. "We better get over there. We should have known better—"
We were too late. The reporter had already slapped on his hat and was striding to the exit. John turned to us, dazed, his enthusiasm vanishing like air from a punctured balloon.
"He wouldn't listen," he said, weakly. "I tried to tell him, but he said he'd come back when I'm sober. I'm sober now. So I quit. I've got to find my hole."
I patted him on the back. "No, John, we'll help you. Don't quit. We'll—well, we'll help you."
"We're working on a plan, too," said Fat Boy in a burst of inspiration.
"We're going to make a more scientific approach."
"How?" John asked.
Fat Boy gulped.
"Just wait another day," I said.
"We'll have it worked out. Just be patient another day. You can't leave now, not after all your work."
"No, I guess not," he sighed. "I'll stay—until tomorrow."
All night the thought crept through my brain like a teasing spider: What can we do to make him stay? What can we tell him? What, what, what?
Unable to sleep the next morning, I left John to his snoring and went for an aspirin and black coffee. All the possible schemes were drumming through my mind: finding an Earth blonde to capture John's interest, having him electro-hypnotized, breaking his leg, forging a letter from this mythical university telling him his theory was proved valid and for him to take a nice long vacation now. He was a screwball about holes and force fields and dimensional worlds but for that music of his I'd baby him the rest of his life.
It was early afternoon when I trudged back to my apartment.
John was squatting on the living room floor, surrounded by a forest of empty beer bottles. His eyes were bulging, his hair was even wilder than usual, and he was swaying.
"John!" I cried. "You're drunk!"
His watery eyes squinted at me.
"No, not drunk. Just scared. I'm awful scared!"
"But you mustn't be scared. That reporter was just stupid. We'll help you with your theory."
His body trembled. "No, it isn't that. It isn't the reporter."
"Then what is it, John?"
"It's my body. It's—"
"Yes, what about your body? Are you sick?"
His face was white with terror.
"No, my— my body's full of holes . Suppose it's one of those holes! How will I get back if it is?"
He rose and staggered to his Zloomph , clutching it as though it were somehow a source of strength and consolation.
I patted him gingerly on the arm.
"Now John. You've just had too much beer, that's all. Let's go out and get some air and some strong black coffee. C'mon now."
We staggered out into the morning darkness, the three of us. John, the Zloomph , and I.
I was hanging on to him trying to see around and over and even under the Zloomph —steering by a sort of radar-like sixth sense. The street lights on Marsport are pretty dim compared to Earthside. I didn't see the open manhole that the workmen had figured would be all right at that time of night. It gets pretty damned cold around 4: A.M. of a Martian morning, and I guess the men were warming up with a little nip at the bar across the street.
Then—he was gone.
John just slipped out of my grasp— Zloomph and all—and was gone—completely and irrevocably gone. I even risked a broken neck and jumped in the manhole after him. Nothing—nothing but the smell of ozone and an echo bouncing crazily off the walls of the conduit.
"—is it.—is it.—is it.—is it."
John Smith was gone, so utterly and completely and tragically gone it was as if he'd never existed....
Tonight is our last night at The Space Room . Goon-Face is scowling again with the icy fury of a Plutonian monsoon. As Goon-Face has said, "No beeg feedle, no contract."
Without John, we're notes in a lost chord.
We've searched everything, in hospitals, morgues, jails, night clubs, hotels. We've hounded spaceports and 'copter terminals. Nowhere, nowhere is John Smith.
Ziggy, whose two fingers have healed, has already bowed to what seems inevitable. He's signed up for that trip to Neptune's uranium pits. There's plenty of room for more volunteers, he tells us. But I spend my time cussing the guy who forgot to set the force field at the other end of the hole and let John and his Zloomph back into his own time dimension. I cuss harder when I think how we were robbed of the best bass player in the galaxy.
And without a corpus delecti we can't even sue the city.
... THE END
Question:
Why is it important to Jimmie for John to continue playing with the band?
Answer:
|
[
"Jimmie’s friend, Hammer-Head talks about the black puts of Neptune as a place that he and the rest of the band will likely go to if they do not secure a contract with The Goon. The black pits of Neptune is a place for musicians that are past their prime. \n\nThe Goon does not enjoy the band’s music and threatens to not let them play at his establishment anymore. However, The Goon likes the music when John Smith plays with the band and especially the reception of the audience when John Smith is playing with the band. The Goon says that he will give the band a contract as long as John Smith agrees to join with his Zloomph. It is important to Jimmie for John to continue playing with the band so that they can get an employment contract from The Goon. \n",
"It is important for Jimmie to continue playing with the band because the boss was not satisfied with their music before his arrival. Their contract ends this week, but it seems the boss is unlikely to continue it. After he plays his music on the bass fiddle, the boss is surprised by it. He enjoys the music. The audiences also like it. Noticing the change in the boss’ attitude towards the music, Jimmie knows that he has to persuade John to join the band in order to get a contract. Later, the boss explicitly states that there will be a contract if the bass fiddle man stays, else there won’t be any. Thus, Jimmie has to make John stay in the band. ",
"The future of the whole band depends on John. The bass man hurt his fingers and he needs replacement. John is much better that the bass men, his music is extremely unique and even the most indifferent people in the room pay attention to it. Everyone adores him playing, without him the band was never really popular. Their concerts were not payed off well, their music didn't touch people, their boss was discontented. Their contract is ending and to prolong it they need John. Jimmie cares for the future of his band and the contract a lot as they can't do any other job and unsuccessful musicians can only go to the uranium pits of Neptune, where life is short. They don't even have money for fare. ",
"It is important to Jimmie for John to continue playing because the band will be allowed to continue playing in The Space Room and get their contracts renewed with Goon-Face. He considers John to be the best bass player in the galaxy and wants him to continue so the band can continue to earn a living. Jimmie even offers John a place to stay and doesn’t mind babying him for the rest of his life if it means that the other man will continue to play the bass. His plans include breaking John’s leg, finding an Earth blonde to capture his interest, or even forging a letter from the University to tell him that his theory is valid as a means of getting the man to stay. "
] |
32667
|
He was something out of a nightmare but his music was straight from heaven. He was a ragged little man out of a hole but he was money in the bank to Stanley's four-piece combo. He was —whoops!...
The Holes and John Smith
By Edward W. Ludwig
Illustration by Kelly Freas
It all began on a Saturday night at The Space Room . If you've seen any recent Martian travel folders, you know the place:
"A picturesque oasis of old Martian charm, situated on the beauteous Grand Canal in the heart of Marsport. Only half a mile from historic Chandler Field, landing site of the first Martian expedition nearly fifty years ago in 1990. A visitor to the hotel, lunch room or cocktail lounge will thrill at the sight of hardy space pioneers mingling side by side with colorful Martian tribesmen. An evening at The Space Room is an amazing, unforgettable experience."
Of course, the folders neglect to add that the most amazing aspect is the scent of the Canal's stagnant water—and that the most unforgettable experience is seeing the "root-of-all-evil" evaporate from your pocketbook like snow from the Great Red Desert.
We were sitting on the bandstand of the candle-lit cocktail lounge. Me—Jimmie Stanley—and my four-piece combo. Maybe you've seen our motto back on Earth:
"The Hottest Music This Side of Mercury."
But there weren't four of us tonight. Only three. Ziggy, our bass fiddle man, had nearly sliced off two fingers while opening a can of Saturnian ice-fish, thus decreasing the number of our personnel by a tragic twenty-five per cent.
Which was why Ke-teeli, our boss, was descending upon us with all the grace of an enraged Venusian vinosaur.
"Where ees museek?" he shrilled in his nasal tenor. He was almost skeleton thin, like most Martians, and so tall that if he fell down he'd be half way home.
I gulped. "Our bass man can't be here, but we've called the Marsport local for another. He'll be here any minute."
Ke-teeli, sometimes referred to as Goon-Face and The Eye, leered coldly down at me from his eight-foot-three. His eyes were like black needle points set deep in a mask of dry, ancient, reddish leather.
"Ees no feedle man, ees no job," he squeaked.
I sighed. This was the week our contract ended. Goon-Face had displayed little enough enthusiasm for our music as it was. His comments were either, "Ees too loud, too fast," or "Ees too slow, too soft." The real cause of his concern being, I suspected, the infrequency with which his cash register tinkled.
"But," I added, "even if the new man doesn't come, we're still here. We'll play for you." I glanced at the conglomeration of uniformed spacemen, white-suited tourists, and loin-clothed natives who sat at ancient stone tables. "You wouldn't want to disappoint your customers, would you?"
Ke-teeli snorted. "Maybe ees better dey be deesappointed. Ees better no museek den bad museek."
Fat Boy, our clarinetist who doubles on Martian horn-harp, made a feeble attempt at optimism. "Don't worry, Mr. Ke-teeli. That new bass man will be here."
"Sure," said Hammer-Head, our red-haired vibro-drummer. "I think I hear him coming now."
Suspiciously, Ke-teeli eyed the entrance. There was only silence. His naked, parchment-like chest swelled as if it were an expanding balloon.
"Five meenutes!" he shrieked.
"Eef no feedle, den you go!" And he whirled away.
We waited.
Fat Boy's two hundred and eighty-odd pounds were drooped over his chair like the blubber of an exhausted, beach-stranded whale.
"Well," he muttered, "there's always the uranium pits of Neptune. Course, you don't live more than five years there—"
"Maybe we could make it back to Lunar City," suggested Hammer-Head.
"Using what for fare?" I asked.
"Your brains?"
Hammer-Head groaned. "No. I guess it'll have to be the black pits of Neptune. The home of washed-up interplanetary musicians. It's too bad. We're so young, too."
The seconds swept by. Ke-teeli was casting his razor-edged glare in our direction. I brushed the chewed finger nails from the keyboard of my electronic piano.
Then it happened.
From the entrance of The Space Room came a thumping and a grating and a banging. Suddenly, sweeping across the dance floor like a cold wind, was a bass fiddle, an enormous black monstrosity, a refugee from a pawnbroker's attic. It was queerly shaped. It was too tall, too wide. It was more like a monstrous, midnight-black hour-glass than a bass.
The fiddle was not unaccompanied as I'd first imagined. Behind it, streaking over the floor in a waltz of agony, was a little guy, an animated matchstick with a flat, broad face that seemed to have been compressed in a vice. His sandcolored mop of hair reminded me of a field of dry grass, the long strands forming loops that flanked the sides of his face.
His pale blue eyes were watery, like twin pools of fog. His tightfitting suit, as black as the bass, was something off a park bench. It was impossible to guess his age. He could have been anywhere between twenty and forty.
The bass thumped down upon the bandstand.
"Hello," he puffed. "I'm John Smith, from the Marsport union." He spoke shrilly and rapidly, as if anxious to conclude the routine of introductions. "I'm sorry I'm late, but I was working on my plan."
A moment's silence.
"Your plan?" I echoed at last.
"How to get back home," he snapped as if I should have known it already.
Hummm, I thought.
My gaze turned to the dance floor. Goon-Face had his eyes on us, and they were as cold as six Indians going South.
"We'll talk about your plan at intermission," I said, shivering.
"Now, we'd better start playing. John, do you know On An Asteroid With You ?"
"I know everything ," said John Smith.
I turned to my piano with a shudder. I didn't dare look at that horrible fiddle again. I didn't dare think what kind of soul-chilling tones might emerge from its ancient depths.
And I didn't dare look again at the second monstrosity, the one named John Smith. I closed my eyes and plunged into a four-bar intro.
Hammer-Head joined in on vibro-drums and Fat Boy on clarinet, and then—
My eyes burst open. A shiver coursed down my spine like gigantic mice feet.
The tones that surged from that monstrous bass were ecstatic. They were out of a jazzman's Heaven. They were great rolling clouds that seemed to envelop the entire universe with their vibrance. They held a depth and a volume and a richness that were astounding, that were like no others I'd ever heard.
First they went Boom-de-boom-de-boom-de-boom , and then, boom-de-de-boom-de-de-boom-de-de-boom , just like the tones of all bass fiddles.
But there was something else, too. There were overtones, so that John wasn't just playing a single note, but a whole chord with each beat. And the fullness, the depth of those incredible chords actually set my blood tingling. I could feel the tingling just as one can feel the vibration of a plucked guitar string.
I glanced at the cash customers. They looked like weary warriors getting their first glimpse of Valhalla. Gap-jawed and wide-eyed, they seemed in a kind of ecstatic hypnosis. Even the silent, bland-faced Martians stopped sipping their wine-syrup and nodded their dark heads in time with the rhythm.
I looked at The Eye. The transformation of his gaunt features was miraculous. Shadows of gloom dissolved and were replaced by a black-toothed, crescent-shaped smile of delight. His eyes shone like those of a kid seeing Santa Claus.
We finished On An Asteroid With You , modulated into Sweet Sally from Saturn and finished with Tighten Your Lips on Titan .
We waited for the applause of the Earth people and the shrilling of the Martians to die down. Then I turned to John and his fiddle.
"If I didn't hear it," I gasped,
"I wouldn't believe it!"
"And the fiddle's so old, too!" added Hammer-Head who, although sober, seemed quite drunk.
"Old?" said John Smith. "Of course it's old. It's over five thousand years old. I was lucky to find it in a pawnshop. Only it's not a fiddle but a Zloomph . This is the only one in existence." He patted the thing tenderly. "I tried the hole in it but it isn't the right one."
I wondered what the hell he was talking about. I studied the black, mirror-like wood. The aperture in the vesonator was like that of any bass fiddle.
"Isn't right for what?" I had to ask.
He turned his sad eyes to me.
"For going home," he said.
Hummm, I thought.
We played. Tune after tune. John knew them all, from the latest pop melodies to a swing version of the classic Rhapsody of The Stars . He was a quiet guy during the next couple of hours, and getting more than a few words from him seemed as hard as extracting a tooth. He'd stand by his fiddle—I mean, his Zloomph —with a dreamy expression in those watery eyes, staring at nothing.
But after one number he studied Fat Boy's clarinet for a moment.
"Nice clarinet," he mused. "Has an unusual hole in the front."
Fat Boy scratched the back of his head. "You—you mean here? Where the music comes out?"
John Smith nodded. "Unusual."
Hummm, I thought again.
Awhile later I caught him eyeing my piano keyboard. "What's the matter, John?"
He pointed.
"Oh, there," I said. "A cigarette fell out of my ashtray, burnt a hole in the key. If The Eye sees it, he'll swear at me in seven languages."
"Even there," he said softly,
"even there...."
There was no doubt about it. John Smith was peculiar, but he was the best bass man this side of a musician's Nirvana.
It didn't take a genius to figure out our situation. Item one: Goon-Face's countenance had evidenced an excellent imitation of Mephistopheles before John began to play. Item two: Goon-Face had beamed like a kitten with a quart of cream after John began to play.
Conclusion: If we wanted to keep eating, we'd have to persuade John Smith to join our combo.
At intermission I said, "How about a drink, John? Maybe a shot of wine-syrup?"
He shook his head.
"Then maybe a Venusian fizz?"
His grunt was negative.
"Then some old-fashioned beer?"
He smiled. "Yes, I like beer."
I escorted him to the bar and assisted him in his arduous climb onto a stool.
"John," I ventured after he'd taken an experimental sip, "where have you been hiding? A guy like you should be playing every night."
John yawned. "Just got here. Figured I might need some money so I went to the union. Then I worked on my plan."
"Then you need a job. How about playing with us steady? We like your style a lot."
He made a long, low humming sound which I interpreted as an expression of intense concentration.
"I don't know," he finally drawled.
"It'd be a steady job, John." Inspiration struck me. "And listen, I have an apartment. It's got everything, solar shower, automatic chef,
'copter landing—if we ever get a
'copter. Plenty of room there for two people. You can stay with me and it won't cost you a cent. And we'll even pay you over union wages."
His watery gaze wandered lazily to the bar mirror, down to the glittering array of bottles and then out to the dance floor.
He yawned again and spoke slowly, as if each word were a leaden weight cast reluctantly from his tongue:
"No, I don't ... care much ... about playing."
"What do you like to do, John?"
His string-bean of a body stiffened.
"I like to study ancient history ... and I must work on my plan."
Oh Lord, that plan again!
I took a deep breath. "Tell me about it, John. It must be interesting."
He made queer clicking noises with his mouth that reminded me of a mechanical toy being wound into motion. "The whole foundation of this or any other culture is based on the history of all the time dimensions, each interwoven with the other, throughout the ages. And the holes provide a means of studying all of it first hand."
Oh, oh , I thought. But you still have to eat. Remember, you still have to eat.
"Trouble is," he went on, "there are so many holes in this universe."
"Holes?" I kept a straight face.
"Certainly. Look around you. All you see is holes. These beer bottles are just holes surrounded by glass. The doors and windows—they're holes in walls. The mine tunnels make a network of holes under the desert. Caves are holes, animals live in holes, our faces have holes, clothes have holes—millions and millions of holes!"
I winced and thought, humor him because you gotta eat, you gotta eat.
His voice trembled with emotion.
"Why, they're everywhere. They're in pots and pans, in pipes, in rocket jets, in bumpy roads. There are buttonholes and well holes, and shoelace holes. There are doughnut holes and stocking holes and woodpecker holes and cheese holes. Oceans lie in holes in the earth, and rivers and canals and valleys. The craters of the Moon are holes. Everything is—"
"But, John," I said as patiently as possible, "what have these holes got to do with you?"
He glowered at me as if I were unworthy of such a confidence.
"What have they to do with me?" he shrilled. "I can't find the right one—that's what!"
I closed my eyes. "Which particular hole are you looking for, John?"
He was speaking rapidly again now.
"I was hurrying back to the University with the Zloomph to prove a point of ancient history to those fools. They don't believe that instruments which make music actually existed before the tapes! It was dark—and some fool researcher had forgotten to set a force-field over the hole—I fell through."
I closed my eyes. "Now wait a minute. Did you drop something, lose it in the hole—is that why you have to find it?"
"Oh I didn't lose anything important," he snapped, " just my own time dimension. And if I don't get back they will think I couldn't prove my theory, that I'm ashamed to come back, and I'll be discredited."
His chest sagged for an instant. Then he straightened. "But there's still time for my plan to work out—with the relative difference taken into account. Only I get so tired just thinking about it."
"Yes, I can see where thinking about it would tire any one."
He nodded. "But it can't be too far away."
"I'd like to hear more about it," I said. "But if you're not going to play with us—"
"Oh, I'll play with you," he beamed. "I can talk to you . You understand."
Thank heaven!
Heaven lasted for just three days. During those seventy-two golden hours the melodious tinkling of The Eye's cash register was as constant as that of Santa's sleigh bells.
John became the hero of tourists, spacemen, and Martians, but nevertheless he remained stubbornly aloof. He was quiet, moody, playing his Zloomph automatically. He'd reveal definite indications of belonging to Homo Sapiens only when drinking beer and talking about his holes.
Goon-Face was still cautious.
"Contract?" he wheezed. "Maybe. We see. Eef feedleman stay, we have contract. He stay, yes?"
"Oh, sure," I said. "He'll stay—just as long as you want him."
"Den he sign contract, too. No beeg feedle, no contract."
"Sure. We'll get him to sign it." I laughed hollowly. "Don't worry, Mr. Ke-teeli."
Just a few minutes later tragedy struck.
A reporter from the Marsport Times ambled into interview the Man of The Hour. The interview, unfortunately, was conducted over the bar and accompanied by a generous guzzling of beer. Fat Boy, Hammer-Head and I watched from a table. Knowing John as we did, a silent prayer was in our eyes.
"This is the first time he's talked to anybody," Fat Boy breathed.
"I—I'm scared.
"Nothing can happen," I said, optimistically. "This'll be good publicity."
We watched.
John murmured something. The reporter, a paunchy, balding man, scribbled furiously in his notebook.
John yawned, muttered something else. The reporter continued to scribble.
John sipped beer. His eyes brightened, and he began to talk more rapidly.
The reporter frowned, stopped writing, and studied John curiously.
John finished his first beer, started on his second. His eyes were wild, and he was talking more and more rapidly.
"He's doing it," Hammer-Head groaned. "He's telling him!"
I rose swiftly. "We better get over there. We should have known better—"
We were too late. The reporter had already slapped on his hat and was striding to the exit. John turned to us, dazed, his enthusiasm vanishing like air from a punctured balloon.
"He wouldn't listen," he said, weakly. "I tried to tell him, but he said he'd come back when I'm sober. I'm sober now. So I quit. I've got to find my hole."
I patted him on the back. "No, John, we'll help you. Don't quit. We'll—well, we'll help you."
"We're working on a plan, too," said Fat Boy in a burst of inspiration.
"We're going to make a more scientific approach."
"How?" John asked.
Fat Boy gulped.
"Just wait another day," I said.
"We'll have it worked out. Just be patient another day. You can't leave now, not after all your work."
"No, I guess not," he sighed. "I'll stay—until tomorrow."
All night the thought crept through my brain like a teasing spider: What can we do to make him stay? What can we tell him? What, what, what?
Unable to sleep the next morning, I left John to his snoring and went for an aspirin and black coffee. All the possible schemes were drumming through my mind: finding an Earth blonde to capture John's interest, having him electro-hypnotized, breaking his leg, forging a letter from this mythical university telling him his theory was proved valid and for him to take a nice long vacation now. He was a screwball about holes and force fields and dimensional worlds but for that music of his I'd baby him the rest of his life.
It was early afternoon when I trudged back to my apartment.
John was squatting on the living room floor, surrounded by a forest of empty beer bottles. His eyes were bulging, his hair was even wilder than usual, and he was swaying.
"John!" I cried. "You're drunk!"
His watery eyes squinted at me.
"No, not drunk. Just scared. I'm awful scared!"
"But you mustn't be scared. That reporter was just stupid. We'll help you with your theory."
His body trembled. "No, it isn't that. It isn't the reporter."
"Then what is it, John?"
"It's my body. It's—"
"Yes, what about your body? Are you sick?"
His face was white with terror.
"No, my— my body's full of holes . Suppose it's one of those holes! How will I get back if it is?"
He rose and staggered to his Zloomph , clutching it as though it were somehow a source of strength and consolation.
I patted him gingerly on the arm.
"Now John. You've just had too much beer, that's all. Let's go out and get some air and some strong black coffee. C'mon now."
We staggered out into the morning darkness, the three of us. John, the Zloomph , and I.
I was hanging on to him trying to see around and over and even under the Zloomph —steering by a sort of radar-like sixth sense. The street lights on Marsport are pretty dim compared to Earthside. I didn't see the open manhole that the workmen had figured would be all right at that time of night. It gets pretty damned cold around 4: A.M. of a Martian morning, and I guess the men were warming up with a little nip at the bar across the street.
Then—he was gone.
John just slipped out of my grasp— Zloomph and all—and was gone—completely and irrevocably gone. I even risked a broken neck and jumped in the manhole after him. Nothing—nothing but the smell of ozone and an echo bouncing crazily off the walls of the conduit.
"—is it.—is it.—is it.—is it."
John Smith was gone, so utterly and completely and tragically gone it was as if he'd never existed....
Tonight is our last night at The Space Room . Goon-Face is scowling again with the icy fury of a Plutonian monsoon. As Goon-Face has said, "No beeg feedle, no contract."
Without John, we're notes in a lost chord.
We've searched everything, in hospitals, morgues, jails, night clubs, hotels. We've hounded spaceports and 'copter terminals. Nowhere, nowhere is John Smith.
Ziggy, whose two fingers have healed, has already bowed to what seems inevitable. He's signed up for that trip to Neptune's uranium pits. There's plenty of room for more volunteers, he tells us. But I spend my time cussing the guy who forgot to set the force field at the other end of the hole and let John and his Zloomph back into his own time dimension. I cuss harder when I think how we were robbed of the best bass player in the galaxy.
And without a corpus delecti we can't even sue the city.
... THE END
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What is the plot of the story?
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After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about Butterfly 9 by Donald Keith.
Relevant chunks:
Butterfly 9
By DONALD KEITH
Illustrated by GAUGHAN
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction January 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Jeff needed a job and this man had a job to offer—one where giant economy-size trouble had labels like fakemake, bumsy and peekage!
I
At first, Jeff scarcely noticed the bold-looking man at the next table. Nor did Ann. Their minds were busy with Jeff's troubles.
"You're still the smartest color engineer in television," Ann told Jeff as they dallied with their food. "You'll bounce back. Now eat your supper."
"This beanery is too noisy and hot," he grumbled. "I can't eat. Can't talk. Can't think." He took a silver pillbox from his pocket and fumbled for a black one. Those were vitamin pills; the big red and yellow ones were sleeping capsules. He gulped the pill.
Ann looked disapproving in a wifely way. "Lately you chew pills like popcorn," she said. "Do you really need so many?"
"I need something. I'm sure losing my grip."
Ann stared at him. "Baby! How silly! Nothing happened, except you lost your lease. You'll build up a better company in a new spot. We're young yet."
Jeff sighed and glanced around the crowded little restaurant. He wished he could fly away somewhere. At that moment, he met the gaze of the mustachioed man at the next table.
The fellow seemed to be watching him and Ann. Something in his confident gaze made Jeff uneasy. Had they met before?
Ann whispered, "So you noticed him, too. Maybe he's following us. I think I saw him on the parking lot where we left the car."
Jeff shrugged his big shoulders. "If he's following us, he's nuts. We've got no secrets and no money."
"It must be my maddening beauty," said Ann.
"I'll kick him cross-eyed if he starts anything," Jeff said. "I'm just in the mood."
Ann giggled. "Honey, what big veins you have! Forget him. Let's talk about the engineering lab you're going to start. And let's eat."
He groaned. "I lose my appetite every time I think about the building being sold. It isn't worth the twelve grand. I wouldn't buy it for that if I could. What burns me is that, five years ago, I could have bought it for two thousand."
"If only we could go back five years." She shrugged fatalistically.
"But since we can't—"
The character at the next table leaned over and spoke to them, grinning. "You like to get away? You wish to go back?"
Jeff glanced across in annoyance. The man was evidently a salesman, with extra gall.
"Not now, thanks," Jeff said. "Haven't time."
The man waved his thick hand at the clock, as if to abolish time.
"Time? That is nothing. Your little lady. She spoke of go back five years. Maybe I help you."
He spoke in an odd clipped way, obviously a foreigner. His shirt was yellow. His suit had a silky sheen. Its peculiar tailoring emphasized the bulges in his stubby, muscular torso.
Ann smiled back at him. "You talk as if you could take us back to 1952. Is that what you really mean?"
"Why not? You think this silly. But I can show you."
Jeff rose to go. "Mister, you better get to a doctor. Ann, it's time we started home."
Ann laid a hand on his sleeve. "I haven't finished eating. Let's chat with the gent." She added in an undertone to Jeff, "Must be a psycho—but sort of an inspired one."
The man said to Ann, "You are kind lady, I think. Good to crazy people. I join you."
He did not wait for consent, but slid into a seat at their table with an easy grace that was almost arrogant.
"You are unhappy in 1957," he went on. "Discouraged. Restless. Why not take trip to another time?"
"Why not?" Ann said gaily. "How much does it cost?"
"Free trial trip. Cost nothing. See whether you like. Then maybe we talk money." He handed Jeff a card made of a stiff plastic substance.
Jeff glanced at it, then handed it to Ann with a half-smile. It read:
4-D TRAVEL BEURO Greet Snader, Traffic Ajent
"Mr. Snader's bureau is different," Jeff said to his wife. "He even spells it different."
Snader chuckled. "I come from other time. We spell otherwise."
"You mean you come from the future?"
"Just different time. I show you. You come with me?"
"Come where?" Jeff asked, studying Snader's mocking eyes. The man didn't seem a mere eccentric. He had a peculiar suggestion of humor and force.
"Come on little trip to different time," invited Snader. He added persuasively, "Could be back here in hour."
"It would be painless, I suppose?" Jeff gave it a touch of derision.
"Maybe not. That is risk you take. But look at me. I make trips every day. I look damaged?"
As a matter of fact, he did. His thick-fleshed face bore a scar and his nose was broad and flat, as if it had been broken. But Jeff politely agreed that he did not look damaged.
Ann was enjoying this. "Tell me more, Mr. Snader. How does your time travel work?"
"Cannot explain. Same if you are asked how subway train works. Too complicated." He flashed his white teeth. "You think time travel not possible. Just like television not possible to your grandfather."
Ann said, "Why invite us? We're not rich enough for expensive trips."
"Invite many people," Snader said quickly. "Not expensive. You know Missing Persons lists, from police? Dozens people disappear. They go with me to other time. Many stay."
"Oh, sure," Jeff said. "But how do you select the ones to invite?"
"Find ones like you, Mr. Elliott. Ones who want change, escape."
Jeff was slightly startled. How did this fellow know his name was Elliott?
Before he could ask, Ann popped another question. "Mr. Snader, you heard us talking. You know we're in trouble because Jeff missed a good chance five years ago. Do you claim people can really go back into the past and correct mistakes they've made?"
"They can go back. What they do when arrive? Depends on them."
"Don't you wish it were true?" she sighed to Jeff.
"You afraid to believe," said Snader, a glimmer of amusement in his restless eyes. "Why not try? What you lose? Come on, look at station. Very near here."
Ann jumped up. "It might be fun, Jeff. Let's see what he means, if anything."
Jeff's pulse quickened. He too felt a sort of midsummer night's madness—a yearning to forget his troubles. "Okay, just for kicks. But we go in my car."
Snader moved ahead to the cashier's stand. Jeff watched the weasel-like grace of his short, broad body.
"This is no ordinary oddball," Jeff told Ann. "He's tricky. He's got some gimmick."
"First I just played him along, to see how loony he was," Ann said.
"Now I wonder who's kidding whom." She concluded thoughtfully, "He's kind of handsome, in a tough way."
II
Snader's "station" proved to be a middle-sized, middle-cost home in a good neighborhood. Lights glowed in the windows. Jeff could hear the whisper of traffic on a boulevard a few blocks away. Through the warm dusk, he could dimly see the mountains on the horizon. All was peaceful.
Snader unlocked the front door with a key which he drew from a fine metal chain around his neck. He swept open the front door with a flourish and beamed at them, but Ann drew back.
"'Walk into my parlor, said the spider to the fly,'" she murmured to Jeff. "This could be a gambling hell. Or a dope den."
"No matter what kind of clip joint, it can't clip us much," he said.
"There's only four bucks in my wallet. My guess is it's a 'temple' for some daffy religious sect."
They went in. A fat man smiled at them from a desk in the hall. Snader said, "Meet Peter Powers. Local agent of our bureau."
The man didn't get up, but nodded comfortably and waved them toward the next room, after a glance at Snader's key.
The key opened this room's door, too. Its spring lock snapped shut after them.
The room was like a doctor's waiting room, with easy chairs along the walls. Its only peculiar aspects were a sign hanging from the middle of the ceiling and two movie screens—or were they giant television screens?—occupying a whole wall at either end of the room.
The sign bore the number 701 in bright yellow on black. Beneath it, an arrow pointed to the screen on the left with the word Ante , and to the right with the word Post .
Jeff studied the big screens. On each, a picture was in motion. One appeared to be moving through a long corridor, lined with seats like a railroad club car. The picture seemed to rush at them from the left wall. When he turned to the right, a similar endless chair-lined corridor moved toward him from that direction.
"Somebody worked hard on this layout," he said to Snader. "What's it for?"
"Time travel," said Snader. "You like?"
"Almost as good as Disneyland. These movies represent the stream of time, I suppose?"
Instead of answering, Snader pointed to the screen. The picture showed a group of people chatting in a fast-moving corridor. As it hurtled toward them, Snader flipped his hand in a genial salute. Two people in the picture waved back.
Ann gasped. "It was just as if they saw us."
"They did," Snader said. "No movie. Time travelers. In fourth dimension. To you, they look like flat picture. To them, we look flat."
"What's he supposed to be?" Jeff asked as the onrushing picture showed them briefly a figure bound hand and foot, huddled in one of the chairs. He stared at them piteously for an instant before the picture surged past.
Snader showed his teeth. "That was convict from my time. We have criminals, like in your time. But we do not kill. We make them work. Where he going? To end of line. To earliest year this time groove reach. About 600 A.D., your calendar. Authorities pick up when he get there. Put him to work."
"What kind of work?" Jeff asked.
"Building the groove further back."
"Sounds like interesting work."
Snader chortled and slapped him on the back. "Maybe you see it some day, but forget that now. You come with me. Little trip."
Jeff was perspiring. This was odder than he expected. Whatever the fakery, it was clever. His curiosity as a technician made him want to know about it. He asked Snader, "Where do you propose to go? And how?"
Snader said, "Watch me. Then look at other wall."
He moved gracefully to the screen on the left wall, stepped into it and disappeared. It was as if he had slid into opaque water.
Jeff and Ann blinked in mystification. Then they remembered his instruction to watch the other screen. They turned. After a moment, in the far distance down the long moving corridor, they could see a stocky figure. The motion of the picture brought him nearer. In a few seconds, he was recognizable as Snader—and as the picture brought him forward, he stepped down out of it and was with them again.
"Simple," Snader said. "I rode to next station. Then crossed over. Took other carrier back here."
"Brother, that's the best trick I've seen in years," Jeff said. "How did you do it? Can I do it, too?"
"I show you." Grinning like a wildcat, Snader linked his arms with Ann and Jeff, and walked them toward the screen. "Now," he said. "Step in."
Jeff submitted to Snader's pressure and stepped cautiously into the screen. Amazingly, he felt no resistance at all, no sense of change or motion. It was like stepping through a fog-bank into another room.
In fact, that was what they seemed to have done. They were in the chair-lined corridor. As Snader turned them around and seated them, they faced another moving picture screen. It seemed to rush through a dark tunnel toward a lighted square in the far distance.
The square grew on the screen. Soon they saw it was another room like the waiting room they had left, except that the number hanging from the ceiling was 702. They seemed to glide through it. Then they were in the dark tunnel again.
Ann was clutching Jeff's arm. He patted her hand. "Fun, hey? Like Alice through the looking-glass."
"You really think we're going back in time?" she whispered.
"Hardly! But we're seeing a million-dollar trick. I can't even begin to figure it out yet."
Another lighted room grew out of the tunnel on the screen, and when they had flickered through it, another and then another.
"Mr. Snader," Ann said unsteadily, "how long—how many years back are you taking us?"
Snader was humming to himself. "Six years. Station 725 fine place to stop."
For a little while, Jeff let himself think it might be true. "Six years ago, your dad was alive," he mused to Ann. "If this should somehow be real, we could see him again."
"We could if we went to our house. He lived with us then, remember? Would we see ourselves, six years younger? Or would—"
Snader took Jeff's arm and pulled him to his feet. The screen was moving through a room numbered 724.
"Soon now," Snader grunted happily. "Then no more questions."
He took an arm of each as he had before. When the screen was filled by a room with the number 725, he propelled them forward into it.
Again there was no sense of motion. They had simply stepped through a bright wall they could not feel. They found themselves in a replica of the room they had left at 701. On the wall, a picture of the continuous club-car corridor rolled toward them in a silent, endless stream.
"The same room," Ann said in disappointment. "They just changed the number. We haven't been anywhere."
Snader was fishing under his shirt for the key. He gave Ann a glance that was almost a leer. Then he carefully unlocked the door.
In the hall, a motherly old lady bustled up, but Snader brushed past her. "Official," he said, showing her the key. "No lodging."
He unlocked the front door without another word and carefully shut it behind them as Jeff and Ann followed him out of the house.
"Hey, where's my car?" Jeff demanded, looking up and down the street.
The whole street looked different. Where he had parked his roadster, there was now a long black limousine.
"Your car is in future," Snader said briskly. "Where it belong. Get in." He opened the door of the limousine.
Jeff felt a little flame of excitement licking inside him. Something was happening, he felt. Something exciting and dangerous.
"Snader," he said, "if you're kidnaping us, you made a mistake. Nobody on Earth will pay ransom for us."
Snader seemed amused. "You are foolish fellow. Silly talk about ransom. You in different time now."
"When does this gag stop?" Jeff demanded irritably. "You haven't fooled us. We're still in 1957."
"You are? Look around."
Jeff looked at the street again. He secretly admitted to himself that these were different trees and houses than he remembered. Even the telephone poles and street lights seemed peculiar, vaguely foreign-looking. It must be an elaborate practical joke. Snader had probably ushered them into one house, then through a tunnel and out another house.
"Get in," Snader said curtly.
Jeff decided to go along with the hoax or whatever it was. He could see no serious risk. He helped Ann into the back seat and sat beside her. Snader slammed the door and slid into the driver's seat. He started the engine with a roar and they rocketed away from the curb, narrowly missing another car.
Jeff yelled, "Easy, man! Look where you're going!"
Snader guffawed. "Tonight, you look where you are going."
Ann clung to Jeff. "Did you notice the house we came out of?"
"What about it?"
"It looked as though they were afraid people might try to break in. There were bars at the windows."
"Lots of houses are built that way, honey. Let's see, where are we?" He glanced at house numbers. "This is the 800 block. Remember that. And the street—" He peered up at a sign as they whirled around a corner.
"The street is Green Thru-Way. I never heard of a street like that."
III
They were headed back toward what should have been the boulevard. The car zoomed through a cloverleaf turn and up onto a broad freeway. Jeff knew for certain there was no freeway there in 1957—nor in any earlier year. But on the horizon, he could see the familiar dark bulk of the mountains. The whole line of moonlit ridges was the same as always.
"Ann," he said slowly, "I think this is for real. Somehow I guess we escaped from 1957. We've been transported in time."
She squeezed his arm. "If I'm dreaming, don't wake me! I was scared a minute ago. But now, oh, boy!"
"Likewise. But I still wonder what Snader's angle is." He leaned forward and tapped the driver on his meaty shoulder. "You brought us into the future instead of the past, didn't you?"
It was hard to know whether Snader was sleepy or just bored, but he shrugged briefly to show there was no reply coming. Then he yawned.
Jeff smiled tightly. "I guess we'll find out in good time. Let's sit back and enjoy the strangest ride of our lives."
As the limousine swept along through the traffic, there were plenty of big signs for turn-offs, but none gave any hint where they were. The names were unfamiliar. Even the language seemed grotesque. "Rite Channel for Creepers," he read. "Yaw for Torrey Rushway" flared at him from a fork in the freeway.
"This can't be the future," Ann said. "This limousine is almost new, but it doesn't even have an automatic gear shift—"
She broke off as the car shot down a ramp off the freeway and pulled up in front of an apartment house. Just beyond was a big shopping center, ablaze with lights and swarming with shoppers. Jeff did not recognize it, in spite of his familiarity with the city.
Snader bounded out, pulled open the rear door and jerked his head in a commanding gesture. But Jeff did not get out. He told Snader, "Let's have some answers before we go any further."
Snader gave him a hard grin. "You hear everything upstairs."
The building appeared harmless enough. Jeff looked thoughtfully at Ann.
She said, "It's just an apartment house. We've come this far. Might as well go in and see what's there."
Snader led them in, up to the sixth floor in an elevator and along a corridor with heavy carpets and soft gold lights. He knocked on a door.
A tall, silver-haired, important-looking man opened it and greeted them heartily.
"Solid man, Greet!" he exclaimed. "You're a real scratcher! And is this our sharp?" He gave Jeff a friendly but appraising look.
"Just what you order," Snader said proudly. "His name—Jeff Elliott. Fine sharp. Best in his circuit. He brings his lifemate, too. Ann Elliott."
The old man rubbed his smooth hands together. "Prime! I wish joy," he said to Ann and Jeff. "I'm Septo Kersey. Come in. Bullen's waiting."
He led them into a spacious drawing room with great windows looking out on the lights of the city. There was a leather chair in a corner, and in it sat a heavy man with a grim mouth. He made no move, but grunted a perfunctory "Wish joy" when Kersey introduced them. His cold eyes studied Jeff while Kersey seated them in big chairs.
Snader did not sit down, however. "No need for me now," he said, and moved toward the door with a mocking wave at Ann.
Bullen nodded. "You get the rest of your pay when Elliott proves out."
"Here, wait a minute!" Jeff called. But Snader was gone.
"Sit still," Bullen growled to Jeff. "You understand radioptics?"
The blood went to Jeff's head. "My business is television, if that's what you mean. What's this about?"
"Tell him, Kersey," the big man said, and stared out the window.
Kersey began, "You understand, I think, that you have come back in time. About six years back."
"That's a matter of opinion, but go on."
"I am general manager of Continental Radioptic Combine, owned by Mr. Dumont Bullen." He nodded toward the big man. "Chromatics have not yet been developed here in connection with radioptics. They are well understood in your time, are they not?"
"What's chromatics? Color television?"
"Exactly. You are an expert in—ah—colored television, I think."
Jeff nodded. "So what?"
The old man beamed at him. "You are here to work for our company. You will enable us to be first with chromatics in this time wave."
Jeff stood up. "Don't tell me who I'll work for."
Bullen slapped a big fist on the arm of his chair. "No fog about this! You're bought and paid for, Elliott! You'll get a fair labor contract, but you do what I say!"
"Why, the man thinks he owns you." Ann laughed shakily.
"You'll find my barmen know their law," Bullen said. "This isn't the way I like to recruit. But it was only way to get a man with your knowledge."
Kersey said politely, "You are here illegally, with no immigrate permit or citizen file. Therefore you cannot get work. But Mr. Bullen has taken an interest in your trouble. Through his influence, you can make a living. We even set aside an apartment in this building for you to live in. You are really very luxe, do you see?"
Jeff's legs felt weak. These highbinders seemed brutally confident. He wondered how he and Ann would find their way home through the strange streets. But he put on a bold front.
"I don't believe your line about time travel and I don't plan to work for you," he said. "My wife and I are walking out right now. Try and stop us, legally or any other way."
Kersey's smooth old face turned hard. But, unexpectedly, Bullen chuckled deep in his throat. "Good pop and bang. Like to see it. Go on, walk out. You hang in trouble, call up here—Butterfly 9, ask for Bullen. Whole exchange us. I'll meet you here about eleven tomorrow pre-noon."
"Don't hold your breath. Let's go, Ann."
When they were on the sidewalk, Ann took a deep breath. "We made it. For a minute, I thought there'd be a brawl. Why did they let us go?"
"No telling. Maybe they're harmless lunatics—or practical jokers." He looked over his shoulder as they walked down the street, but there was no sign of pursuit. "It's a long time since supper."
Her hand was cold in his and her face was white. To take her mind off their problem, he ambled toward the lighted shop windows.
"Look at that sign," he said, pointing to a poster over a display of neckties. "'Sleek neck-sashes, only a Dick and a dollop!' How do they expect to sell stuff with that crazy lingo?"
"It's jive talk. They must cater to the high-school crowd." Ann glanced nervously at the strolling people around them. "Jeff, where are we? This isn't any part of the city I've ever seen. It doesn't even look much like America." Her voice rose. "The way the women are dressed—it's not old-fashioned, just different."
"Baby, don't be scared. This is an adventure. Let's have fun." He pressed her hand soothingly and pulled her toward a lunch counter.
If the haberdasher's sign was jive, the restaurant spoke the same jargon. The signs on the wall and the bill of fare were baffling. Jeff pondered the list of beef shingles, scorchers, smack sticks and fruit chills, until he noticed that a couple at the counter were eating what clearly were hamburgers—though the "buns" looked more like tortillas.
Jeff jerked his thumb at them and told the waitress, "Two, please."
When the sandwiches arrived, they were ordinary enough. He and Ann ate in silence. A feeling of foreboding hung over them.
When they finished, the clerk gave him a check marked 1/20. Jeff looked at it thoughtfully, shrugged and handed it to the cashier with two dollar bills.
The man at the desk glanced at them and laughed. "Stage money, eh?"
"No, that's good money," Jeff assured him with a rather hollow smile.
"They're just new bills, that's all."
The cashier picked one up and looked at it curiously. "I'm afraid it's no good here," he said, and pushed it back.
The bottom dropped out of Jeff's stomach. "What kind of money do you want? This is all I have."
The cashier's smile faded. He caught the eye of a man in uniform on one of the stools. The uniform was dark green, but the man acted like a policeman. He loomed up beside Jeff.
"What's the rasper?" he demanded. Other customers, waiting to pay their checks, eyed Jeff curiously.
"I guess I'm in trouble," Jeff told him. "I'm a stranger here and I got something to eat under the impression that my money was legal tender. Do you know where I can exchange it?"
The officer picked up the dollar bill and fingered it with evident interest. He turned it over and studied the printing. "United States of America," he read aloud. "What are those?"
"It's the name of the country I come from," Jeff said carefully.
"I—uh—got on the wrong train, apparently, and must have come further than I thought. What's the name of this place?"
"This is Costa, West Goodland, in the Continental Federation. Say, you must come from an umpty remote part of the world if you don't know about this country." His eyes narrowed. "Where'd you learn to speak Federal, if you come from so far?"
Jeff said helplessly, "I can't explain, if you don't know about the United States. Listen, can you take me to a bank, or some place where they know about foreign exchange?"
The policeman scowled. "How'd you get into this country, anyway? You got immigrate clearance?"
An angry muttering started among the bystanders.
The policeman made up his mind. "You come with me."
At the police station, Jeff put his elbows dejectedly on the high counter while the policeman talked to an officer in charge. Some men whom Jeff took for reporters got up from a table and eased over to listen.
"I don't know whether to charge them with fakemake, bumsy, peekage or lunate," the policeman said as he finished.
His superior gave Jeff a long puzzled stare.
Jeff sighed. "I know it sounds impossible, but a man brought me in something he claimed was a time traveler. You speak the same language I do—more or less—but everything else is kind of unfamiliar. I belong in the United States, a country in North America. I can't believe I'm so far in the future that the United States has been forgotten."
There ensued a long, confused, inconclusive interrogation.
The man behind the desk asked questions which seemed stupid to Jeff and got answers which probably seemed stupid to him.
The reporters quizzed Jeff gleefully. "Come out, what are you advertising?" they kept asking. "Who got you up to this?"
The police puzzled over his driver's license and the other cards in his wallet. They asked repeatedly about the lack of a "Work License," which Jeff took to be some sort of union card. Evidently there was grave doubt that he had any legal right to be in the country.
In the end, Jeff and Ann were locked in separate cells for the night. Jeff groaned and pounded the bars as he thought of his wife, imprisoned and alone in a smelly jail. After hours of pacing the cell, he lay down in the cot and reached automatically for his silver pillbox. Then he hesitated.
In past weeks, his insomnia had grown worse and worse, so that lately he had begun taking stronger pills. After a longing glance at the big red and yellow capsules, he put the box away. Whatever tomorrow brought, it wouldn't find him slow and drowsy.
IV
He passed a wakeful night. In the early morning, he looked up to see a little man with a briefcase at his cell door.
"Wish joy, Mr. Elliott," the man said coolly. "I am one of Mr. Bullen's barmen. You know, represent at law? He sent me to arrange your release, if you are ready to be reasonable."
Jeff lay there and put his hands behind his head. "I doubt if I'm ready. I'm comfortable here. By the way, how did you know where I was?"
"No problem. When we read in this morning's newspapers about a man claiming to be a time traveler, we knew."
"All right. Now start explaining. Until I understand where I am, Bullen isn't getting me out of here."
The lawyer smiled and sat down. "Mr. Kersey told you yesterday—you've gone back six years. But you'll need some mental gymnastics to understand. Time is a dimension, not a stream of events like a movie film. A film never changes. Space does—and time does. For example, if a movie showed a burning house at Sixth and Main, would you expect to find a house burning whenever you returned to that corner?"
"You mean to say that if I went back to 1865, I wouldn't find the Civil War was over and Lincoln had been assassinated?"
"If you go back to the time you call 1865—which is most easily done—you will find that the people there know nothing of a Lincoln or that war."
Jeff looked blank. "What are they doing then?"
The little man spread his hands. "What are the people doing now at Sixth and Main? Certainly not the same things they were doing the day of the fire. We're talking about a dimension, not an event. Don't you grasp the difference between the two?"
"Nope. To me, 1865 means the end of the Civil War. How else can you speak of a point in time except by the events that happened then?"
"Well, if you go to a place in three-dimensional space—say, a lake in the mountains—how do you identify that place? By looking for landmarks. It doesn't matter that an eagle is soaring over a mountain peak. That's only an event. The peak is the landmark. You follow me?"
"So far. Keep talking."
Question:
What is the plot of the story?
Answer:
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"Jeff Elliott and his wife Ann meet a peculiar stranger, Mr. Snader, at a restaurant in the year 1957 as they are discussing Jeff’s desire to go 5 years into the past to buy a building for $2000 that would’ve changed his luck entirely. The stranger had been listening to their conversation and was seeking someone with Jeff’s credentials (color television engineer) to complete an illegal job he’d been hired for. Jeff and Ann have no idea that Mr. Snader is on such a job, but entertain his quirky conversation.\n\nMr. Snader has a friendly and persuasive personality, narrowly convincing Jeff and Ann to follow him to his time travel station and take a free trip to see if they like it. The Elliots do not perceive the situation as dangerous, and continue choosing to trust him at each step. Ultimately, the Elliots are escorted six years back in time through a time travelling process that appears like stepping through a screen, but their past is nothing like they remember. It is a different place entirely, and though they are frightened, their excitement and perhaps also their complete reliance on Mr. Snader to get them back home, causes them to keep following him even though he has become mean with them. \n\nMr. Snader takes the Elliotts to an apartment house to meet Septo Kersey and Dumont Bullen, the general manager of Continental Radioptic Combine. It’s revealed that Mr. Snader tricked the Elliots, and brought them to Mr. Bullen who had illegally sought Jeff’s services as a color engineer to profit his own interests by creating color television that did not yet exist in their time. Jeff was furious, and totally helpless.\n\nJeff and Ann were allowed to leave, because their captors were certain that they could not actually escape them. They had no idea how to leave this timeline, and had no way of finding justice being illegally present with no work permits. When Jeff and Ann stop for lunch and try to pay with the money in their pockets (which appears as illegal tender), they are approached by an officer and find out they are in a place called Costa, West Goodland, in the Continental Federation. Everyone in the interaction is deeply confused, because time travel is not understood to be possible by the public - Jeff and Ann look crazy. Both are escorted to separate jail cells in a prison.\n\nOne of Mr. Bullen's barmen, a lawyer, was sent to arrange Jeff’s release, if he was willing to cooperate and go work for Mr. Bullen. The lawyer has to explain to Jeff the concept of time travelling before he can get any cooperation, and so says that time travel is entering a different dimension, not moving along a linear timeline. Things look so different to Jeff in the past because he didn’t travel back a linear path to exactly the way things were when he experienced these things six years ago. The story ends during their discussion.\n",
"The year is 1957. Jeff and Ann sit at a restaurant and discuss Jeff’s business troubles. He is concerned that he made a bad business choice five years ago. Ann tries to reassure him that that he has plenty of time to make it all back again. Greet Snader, a foreign man with a mustache, sits nearby, and overhears their conversation. He asks if they would like to go back in time. Jeff tries to leave, but Ann insists that they listen to what he has to say. Snader hands them his card and offers them a free trial. He calls Jeff Mr. Elliot although Jeff has not given the stranger his name. This gives Jeff the slightest sense of hesitation, but Ann is eager to go with Snader.\n\nAnn and Jeff follow Snader to the station, which turns out to be a reasonably-sized home in a residential neighborhood. Inside, there are two screens hanging from the ceiling. One is labeled “Ante” while the other is labeled “Post.” Each screen shows a movie, and when Snader salutes the people that appear on one screen, the strangers wave back. Ann and Jeff are both shocked because the entire thing seems impossible. Ann and Jeff watch Snader step into one of the screens, and when they look at the other screen, he steps out. \n \nSnader tells them they are going back six years. They step into a screen and jump out a few moments later. When they walk through the same door they entered, the surroundings are different, and Jeff’s car has been replaced by a limousine. Snader drives, and they do not recognize anything around them. Snader stops the car outside of a building and tells them to follow him inside. \n\nAnn and Jeff meet Mr. Bullen. He explains that he is the general manager of Continental Radioptic Combine, and he needs Jeff, someone from the future, to make sure that he gets colored television before anyone else. Jeff refuses to work for him, but Bullen says that Jeff is there illegally without a permit or a file. Jeff and Ann call his bluff and leave, but Bullen reminds them to call Butterfly 9 if they get in trouble. The couple goes to a restaurant, and when Jeff tries to pay, the cashier says it’s counterfeit. They find out that they’re in a country called Continental Federation, and these people have never heard of the U.S. Jeff and Ann are taken to jail. One of Mr. Bullen’s henchmen shows up to talk to Jeff, and he explains that Jeff and Ann went back in time six years, but time isn’t like a movie. Events don’t stay consistent in the past because dimensions change. Technically, Snader didn’t lie, but he manipulated Jeff into believing that time traveling is something that it’s not. \n",
"\n\tJeff and Ann Elliott are having dinner in a restaurant after Jeff has learned he’ll need to start his business over again after his building is sold. They are approached by a man at the next table who has been watching and listening to them and who offers them a chance to get away. At first, they think he means a trip, but he is referring to time travel. Jeff says he wishes he could go back five years and buy the building. The man offers them time travel for free and gives Jeff his business card, identifying him as Greet Snader, Traffic Ajent for the 4-D Travel Beuro. Snader invites them to come with him and indicates they can be back in one hour. Jeff and Ann ask many questions but ultimately decide to go with Snader to see what he is about.\nHe takes them to his station, a mid-sized home in a middle-class neighborhood, and shows them a room labeled 701 with two screens, indicating that they are showing people who are time traveling right now in the fourth dimension. He waves at some of them, and they wave back at him. Snader demonstrates how the screens work, walking into one and then exiting from the other. Jeff wants to try this, and he and Ann enter. Snader says they will exit at Station 725 which is six years in the past. When they exit the screen, they are in another house; Snader escorts them to a limousine outside, explaining to Jeff that his car isn’t there because it’s in the future. Jeff and Ann notice that the street seems somehow different than it did when they arrived. \nSnader drives them across town, using a freeway where Jeff knows there was only a boulevard in the past. He accuses Snader of taking them to the future rather than the past, but Snader doesn’t respond. He pulls up in front of an apartment building and tells Jeff that he’ll learn everything upstairs when Jeff demands answers before getting out of the car. In a luxurious apartment, they are introduced to Septo Kersey, who congratulates Snader for bringing Jeff and then takes the couple to meet Mr. Bullen. Bullen confirms that Jeff understands radioptics and chromatics and then tells him that he will develop these features for his company. Angered, Jeff tells Bullen he won’t be told who he works for and that he and Ann are leaving. Bullen allows them to go but warns that they will be in serious legal trouble since they have no immigrate permit or citizen file. \nJeff and Ann walk to a restaurant at a nearby shopping center to eat, and all the food on the menu is unfamiliar. They eat a meal, but when Jeff tries to pay with his money, the clerk calls the police over because his money is no good. Jeff and Ann are locked in jail overnight until Bullen’s lawyer comes the next day to get them out.\n",
"Over dinner, Ann tells her husband Jeff (a TV color specialist) that he will be able to make a comeback after his building's lease has expired. Snader, a man at the next table who had been listening, suggested that they go back in time to get a better deal on the sale. Jeff dismisses him but the man joins them at their table, explaining that he’s from a different time and offering them a free trial time-travel trip at the “4-D Travel Beuro”, Ann asks for more details: Snader invites people who want change, but he knows more about Jeff than expected. Despite these concerns, his wife agrees to give time travel a try. They head to an average home in a good neighborhood that serves as Snader’s office, where they meet Peter Powers, a bureau agent. They enter a room labeled \"701\" with two large screens with moving pictures; the people on these screens are explained to be time travelers in the fourth dimension. This time groove can reach as early as 600AD, with convicts from Snader's time working to build the groove further back. Snader walked into one of the screens, and Jeff and Ann saw him in the other screen shortly after. Jeff is convinced this is a visual trick and wants to be shown how it works, and hesitantly steps into one of the screens. Snader leads them six years prior but tells them they can’t ask any more questions, and they get out at station 725, a room that looks identical to the one they left from. Nothing else is the same: Powers is gone, and the street outside looks different; Snader insists it’s because they have traveled through time. Ann is over her fear and feels excited, figuring that they were in the future instead of the past because of a freeway they did not recognize, but Snader doesn’t confirm anything. They explore and eventually meet an older man named Septo Kersey, who has asked for Snader to retrieve Jeff to work for him, as a sort of informant in color television technology. Kersey and Bullen (another man who works for the company) threaten the couple, saying they were illegal immigrants in this particular time stream. Jeff and Ann insist on leaving, and are given instructions of how to return if they get into trouble. It’s now Ann who’s concerned, and Jeff tries to calm her as they look for food. After they eat, they learn that their money isn’t recognized in this society; they are in the Continental Federation, not the United States, even though their languages are mutually intelligible. Jeff is convinced he’s so far in the future that the US has been forgotten, the police think he’s trying to fool them. One of Bullen’s lawyers was there for them when they woke up, and tried to explain that time is a dimension, not a series of events, so that nobody would have experienced the same history that Jeff had. "
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51167
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Butterfly 9
By DONALD KEITH
Illustrated by GAUGHAN
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction January 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Jeff needed a job and this man had a job to offer—one where giant economy-size trouble had labels like fakemake, bumsy and peekage!
I
At first, Jeff scarcely noticed the bold-looking man at the next table. Nor did Ann. Their minds were busy with Jeff's troubles.
"You're still the smartest color engineer in television," Ann told Jeff as they dallied with their food. "You'll bounce back. Now eat your supper."
"This beanery is too noisy and hot," he grumbled. "I can't eat. Can't talk. Can't think." He took a silver pillbox from his pocket and fumbled for a black one. Those were vitamin pills; the big red and yellow ones were sleeping capsules. He gulped the pill.
Ann looked disapproving in a wifely way. "Lately you chew pills like popcorn," she said. "Do you really need so many?"
"I need something. I'm sure losing my grip."
Ann stared at him. "Baby! How silly! Nothing happened, except you lost your lease. You'll build up a better company in a new spot. We're young yet."
Jeff sighed and glanced around the crowded little restaurant. He wished he could fly away somewhere. At that moment, he met the gaze of the mustachioed man at the next table.
The fellow seemed to be watching him and Ann. Something in his confident gaze made Jeff uneasy. Had they met before?
Ann whispered, "So you noticed him, too. Maybe he's following us. I think I saw him on the parking lot where we left the car."
Jeff shrugged his big shoulders. "If he's following us, he's nuts. We've got no secrets and no money."
"It must be my maddening beauty," said Ann.
"I'll kick him cross-eyed if he starts anything," Jeff said. "I'm just in the mood."
Ann giggled. "Honey, what big veins you have! Forget him. Let's talk about the engineering lab you're going to start. And let's eat."
He groaned. "I lose my appetite every time I think about the building being sold. It isn't worth the twelve grand. I wouldn't buy it for that if I could. What burns me is that, five years ago, I could have bought it for two thousand."
"If only we could go back five years." She shrugged fatalistically.
"But since we can't—"
The character at the next table leaned over and spoke to them, grinning. "You like to get away? You wish to go back?"
Jeff glanced across in annoyance. The man was evidently a salesman, with extra gall.
"Not now, thanks," Jeff said. "Haven't time."
The man waved his thick hand at the clock, as if to abolish time.
"Time? That is nothing. Your little lady. She spoke of go back five years. Maybe I help you."
He spoke in an odd clipped way, obviously a foreigner. His shirt was yellow. His suit had a silky sheen. Its peculiar tailoring emphasized the bulges in his stubby, muscular torso.
Ann smiled back at him. "You talk as if you could take us back to 1952. Is that what you really mean?"
"Why not? You think this silly. But I can show you."
Jeff rose to go. "Mister, you better get to a doctor. Ann, it's time we started home."
Ann laid a hand on his sleeve. "I haven't finished eating. Let's chat with the gent." She added in an undertone to Jeff, "Must be a psycho—but sort of an inspired one."
The man said to Ann, "You are kind lady, I think. Good to crazy people. I join you."
He did not wait for consent, but slid into a seat at their table with an easy grace that was almost arrogant.
"You are unhappy in 1957," he went on. "Discouraged. Restless. Why not take trip to another time?"
"Why not?" Ann said gaily. "How much does it cost?"
"Free trial trip. Cost nothing. See whether you like. Then maybe we talk money." He handed Jeff a card made of a stiff plastic substance.
Jeff glanced at it, then handed it to Ann with a half-smile. It read:
4-D TRAVEL BEURO Greet Snader, Traffic Ajent
"Mr. Snader's bureau is different," Jeff said to his wife. "He even spells it different."
Snader chuckled. "I come from other time. We spell otherwise."
"You mean you come from the future?"
"Just different time. I show you. You come with me?"
"Come where?" Jeff asked, studying Snader's mocking eyes. The man didn't seem a mere eccentric. He had a peculiar suggestion of humor and force.
"Come on little trip to different time," invited Snader. He added persuasively, "Could be back here in hour."
"It would be painless, I suppose?" Jeff gave it a touch of derision.
"Maybe not. That is risk you take. But look at me. I make trips every day. I look damaged?"
As a matter of fact, he did. His thick-fleshed face bore a scar and his nose was broad and flat, as if it had been broken. But Jeff politely agreed that he did not look damaged.
Ann was enjoying this. "Tell me more, Mr. Snader. How does your time travel work?"
"Cannot explain. Same if you are asked how subway train works. Too complicated." He flashed his white teeth. "You think time travel not possible. Just like television not possible to your grandfather."
Ann said, "Why invite us? We're not rich enough for expensive trips."
"Invite many people," Snader said quickly. "Not expensive. You know Missing Persons lists, from police? Dozens people disappear. They go with me to other time. Many stay."
"Oh, sure," Jeff said. "But how do you select the ones to invite?"
"Find ones like you, Mr. Elliott. Ones who want change, escape."
Jeff was slightly startled. How did this fellow know his name was Elliott?
Before he could ask, Ann popped another question. "Mr. Snader, you heard us talking. You know we're in trouble because Jeff missed a good chance five years ago. Do you claim people can really go back into the past and correct mistakes they've made?"
"They can go back. What they do when arrive? Depends on them."
"Don't you wish it were true?" she sighed to Jeff.
"You afraid to believe," said Snader, a glimmer of amusement in his restless eyes. "Why not try? What you lose? Come on, look at station. Very near here."
Ann jumped up. "It might be fun, Jeff. Let's see what he means, if anything."
Jeff's pulse quickened. He too felt a sort of midsummer night's madness—a yearning to forget his troubles. "Okay, just for kicks. But we go in my car."
Snader moved ahead to the cashier's stand. Jeff watched the weasel-like grace of his short, broad body.
"This is no ordinary oddball," Jeff told Ann. "He's tricky. He's got some gimmick."
"First I just played him along, to see how loony he was," Ann said.
"Now I wonder who's kidding whom." She concluded thoughtfully, "He's kind of handsome, in a tough way."
II
Snader's "station" proved to be a middle-sized, middle-cost home in a good neighborhood. Lights glowed in the windows. Jeff could hear the whisper of traffic on a boulevard a few blocks away. Through the warm dusk, he could dimly see the mountains on the horizon. All was peaceful.
Snader unlocked the front door with a key which he drew from a fine metal chain around his neck. He swept open the front door with a flourish and beamed at them, but Ann drew back.
"'Walk into my parlor, said the spider to the fly,'" she murmured to Jeff. "This could be a gambling hell. Or a dope den."
"No matter what kind of clip joint, it can't clip us much," he said.
"There's only four bucks in my wallet. My guess is it's a 'temple' for some daffy religious sect."
They went in. A fat man smiled at them from a desk in the hall. Snader said, "Meet Peter Powers. Local agent of our bureau."
The man didn't get up, but nodded comfortably and waved them toward the next room, after a glance at Snader's key.
The key opened this room's door, too. Its spring lock snapped shut after them.
The room was like a doctor's waiting room, with easy chairs along the walls. Its only peculiar aspects were a sign hanging from the middle of the ceiling and two movie screens—or were they giant television screens?—occupying a whole wall at either end of the room.
The sign bore the number 701 in bright yellow on black. Beneath it, an arrow pointed to the screen on the left with the word Ante , and to the right with the word Post .
Jeff studied the big screens. On each, a picture was in motion. One appeared to be moving through a long corridor, lined with seats like a railroad club car. The picture seemed to rush at them from the left wall. When he turned to the right, a similar endless chair-lined corridor moved toward him from that direction.
"Somebody worked hard on this layout," he said to Snader. "What's it for?"
"Time travel," said Snader. "You like?"
"Almost as good as Disneyland. These movies represent the stream of time, I suppose?"
Instead of answering, Snader pointed to the screen. The picture showed a group of people chatting in a fast-moving corridor. As it hurtled toward them, Snader flipped his hand in a genial salute. Two people in the picture waved back.
Ann gasped. "It was just as if they saw us."
"They did," Snader said. "No movie. Time travelers. In fourth dimension. To you, they look like flat picture. To them, we look flat."
"What's he supposed to be?" Jeff asked as the onrushing picture showed them briefly a figure bound hand and foot, huddled in one of the chairs. He stared at them piteously for an instant before the picture surged past.
Snader showed his teeth. "That was convict from my time. We have criminals, like in your time. But we do not kill. We make them work. Where he going? To end of line. To earliest year this time groove reach. About 600 A.D., your calendar. Authorities pick up when he get there. Put him to work."
"What kind of work?" Jeff asked.
"Building the groove further back."
"Sounds like interesting work."
Snader chortled and slapped him on the back. "Maybe you see it some day, but forget that now. You come with me. Little trip."
Jeff was perspiring. This was odder than he expected. Whatever the fakery, it was clever. His curiosity as a technician made him want to know about it. He asked Snader, "Where do you propose to go? And how?"
Snader said, "Watch me. Then look at other wall."
He moved gracefully to the screen on the left wall, stepped into it and disappeared. It was as if he had slid into opaque water.
Jeff and Ann blinked in mystification. Then they remembered his instruction to watch the other screen. They turned. After a moment, in the far distance down the long moving corridor, they could see a stocky figure. The motion of the picture brought him nearer. In a few seconds, he was recognizable as Snader—and as the picture brought him forward, he stepped down out of it and was with them again.
"Simple," Snader said. "I rode to next station. Then crossed over. Took other carrier back here."
"Brother, that's the best trick I've seen in years," Jeff said. "How did you do it? Can I do it, too?"
"I show you." Grinning like a wildcat, Snader linked his arms with Ann and Jeff, and walked them toward the screen. "Now," he said. "Step in."
Jeff submitted to Snader's pressure and stepped cautiously into the screen. Amazingly, he felt no resistance at all, no sense of change or motion. It was like stepping through a fog-bank into another room.
In fact, that was what they seemed to have done. They were in the chair-lined corridor. As Snader turned them around and seated them, they faced another moving picture screen. It seemed to rush through a dark tunnel toward a lighted square in the far distance.
The square grew on the screen. Soon they saw it was another room like the waiting room they had left, except that the number hanging from the ceiling was 702. They seemed to glide through it. Then they were in the dark tunnel again.
Ann was clutching Jeff's arm. He patted her hand. "Fun, hey? Like Alice through the looking-glass."
"You really think we're going back in time?" she whispered.
"Hardly! But we're seeing a million-dollar trick. I can't even begin to figure it out yet."
Another lighted room grew out of the tunnel on the screen, and when they had flickered through it, another and then another.
"Mr. Snader," Ann said unsteadily, "how long—how many years back are you taking us?"
Snader was humming to himself. "Six years. Station 725 fine place to stop."
For a little while, Jeff let himself think it might be true. "Six years ago, your dad was alive," he mused to Ann. "If this should somehow be real, we could see him again."
"We could if we went to our house. He lived with us then, remember? Would we see ourselves, six years younger? Or would—"
Snader took Jeff's arm and pulled him to his feet. The screen was moving through a room numbered 724.
"Soon now," Snader grunted happily. "Then no more questions."
He took an arm of each as he had before. When the screen was filled by a room with the number 725, he propelled them forward into it.
Again there was no sense of motion. They had simply stepped through a bright wall they could not feel. They found themselves in a replica of the room they had left at 701. On the wall, a picture of the continuous club-car corridor rolled toward them in a silent, endless stream.
"The same room," Ann said in disappointment. "They just changed the number. We haven't been anywhere."
Snader was fishing under his shirt for the key. He gave Ann a glance that was almost a leer. Then he carefully unlocked the door.
In the hall, a motherly old lady bustled up, but Snader brushed past her. "Official," he said, showing her the key. "No lodging."
He unlocked the front door without another word and carefully shut it behind them as Jeff and Ann followed him out of the house.
"Hey, where's my car?" Jeff demanded, looking up and down the street.
The whole street looked different. Where he had parked his roadster, there was now a long black limousine.
"Your car is in future," Snader said briskly. "Where it belong. Get in." He opened the door of the limousine.
Jeff felt a little flame of excitement licking inside him. Something was happening, he felt. Something exciting and dangerous.
"Snader," he said, "if you're kidnaping us, you made a mistake. Nobody on Earth will pay ransom for us."
Snader seemed amused. "You are foolish fellow. Silly talk about ransom. You in different time now."
"When does this gag stop?" Jeff demanded irritably. "You haven't fooled us. We're still in 1957."
"You are? Look around."
Jeff looked at the street again. He secretly admitted to himself that these were different trees and houses than he remembered. Even the telephone poles and street lights seemed peculiar, vaguely foreign-looking. It must be an elaborate practical joke. Snader had probably ushered them into one house, then through a tunnel and out another house.
"Get in," Snader said curtly.
Jeff decided to go along with the hoax or whatever it was. He could see no serious risk. He helped Ann into the back seat and sat beside her. Snader slammed the door and slid into the driver's seat. He started the engine with a roar and they rocketed away from the curb, narrowly missing another car.
Jeff yelled, "Easy, man! Look where you're going!"
Snader guffawed. "Tonight, you look where you are going."
Ann clung to Jeff. "Did you notice the house we came out of?"
"What about it?"
"It looked as though they were afraid people might try to break in. There were bars at the windows."
"Lots of houses are built that way, honey. Let's see, where are we?" He glanced at house numbers. "This is the 800 block. Remember that. And the street—" He peered up at a sign as they whirled around a corner.
"The street is Green Thru-Way. I never heard of a street like that."
III
They were headed back toward what should have been the boulevard. The car zoomed through a cloverleaf turn and up onto a broad freeway. Jeff knew for certain there was no freeway there in 1957—nor in any earlier year. But on the horizon, he could see the familiar dark bulk of the mountains. The whole line of moonlit ridges was the same as always.
"Ann," he said slowly, "I think this is for real. Somehow I guess we escaped from 1957. We've been transported in time."
She squeezed his arm. "If I'm dreaming, don't wake me! I was scared a minute ago. But now, oh, boy!"
"Likewise. But I still wonder what Snader's angle is." He leaned forward and tapped the driver on his meaty shoulder. "You brought us into the future instead of the past, didn't you?"
It was hard to know whether Snader was sleepy or just bored, but he shrugged briefly to show there was no reply coming. Then he yawned.
Jeff smiled tightly. "I guess we'll find out in good time. Let's sit back and enjoy the strangest ride of our lives."
As the limousine swept along through the traffic, there were plenty of big signs for turn-offs, but none gave any hint where they were. The names were unfamiliar. Even the language seemed grotesque. "Rite Channel for Creepers," he read. "Yaw for Torrey Rushway" flared at him from a fork in the freeway.
"This can't be the future," Ann said. "This limousine is almost new, but it doesn't even have an automatic gear shift—"
She broke off as the car shot down a ramp off the freeway and pulled up in front of an apartment house. Just beyond was a big shopping center, ablaze with lights and swarming with shoppers. Jeff did not recognize it, in spite of his familiarity with the city.
Snader bounded out, pulled open the rear door and jerked his head in a commanding gesture. But Jeff did not get out. He told Snader, "Let's have some answers before we go any further."
Snader gave him a hard grin. "You hear everything upstairs."
The building appeared harmless enough. Jeff looked thoughtfully at Ann.
She said, "It's just an apartment house. We've come this far. Might as well go in and see what's there."
Snader led them in, up to the sixth floor in an elevator and along a corridor with heavy carpets and soft gold lights. He knocked on a door.
A tall, silver-haired, important-looking man opened it and greeted them heartily.
"Solid man, Greet!" he exclaimed. "You're a real scratcher! And is this our sharp?" He gave Jeff a friendly but appraising look.
"Just what you order," Snader said proudly. "His name—Jeff Elliott. Fine sharp. Best in his circuit. He brings his lifemate, too. Ann Elliott."
The old man rubbed his smooth hands together. "Prime! I wish joy," he said to Ann and Jeff. "I'm Septo Kersey. Come in. Bullen's waiting."
He led them into a spacious drawing room with great windows looking out on the lights of the city. There was a leather chair in a corner, and in it sat a heavy man with a grim mouth. He made no move, but grunted a perfunctory "Wish joy" when Kersey introduced them. His cold eyes studied Jeff while Kersey seated them in big chairs.
Snader did not sit down, however. "No need for me now," he said, and moved toward the door with a mocking wave at Ann.
Bullen nodded. "You get the rest of your pay when Elliott proves out."
"Here, wait a minute!" Jeff called. But Snader was gone.
"Sit still," Bullen growled to Jeff. "You understand radioptics?"
The blood went to Jeff's head. "My business is television, if that's what you mean. What's this about?"
"Tell him, Kersey," the big man said, and stared out the window.
Kersey began, "You understand, I think, that you have come back in time. About six years back."
"That's a matter of opinion, but go on."
"I am general manager of Continental Radioptic Combine, owned by Mr. Dumont Bullen." He nodded toward the big man. "Chromatics have not yet been developed here in connection with radioptics. They are well understood in your time, are they not?"
"What's chromatics? Color television?"
"Exactly. You are an expert in—ah—colored television, I think."
Jeff nodded. "So what?"
The old man beamed at him. "You are here to work for our company. You will enable us to be first with chromatics in this time wave."
Jeff stood up. "Don't tell me who I'll work for."
Bullen slapped a big fist on the arm of his chair. "No fog about this! You're bought and paid for, Elliott! You'll get a fair labor contract, but you do what I say!"
"Why, the man thinks he owns you." Ann laughed shakily.
"You'll find my barmen know their law," Bullen said. "This isn't the way I like to recruit. But it was only way to get a man with your knowledge."
Kersey said politely, "You are here illegally, with no immigrate permit or citizen file. Therefore you cannot get work. But Mr. Bullen has taken an interest in your trouble. Through his influence, you can make a living. We even set aside an apartment in this building for you to live in. You are really very luxe, do you see?"
Jeff's legs felt weak. These highbinders seemed brutally confident. He wondered how he and Ann would find their way home through the strange streets. But he put on a bold front.
"I don't believe your line about time travel and I don't plan to work for you," he said. "My wife and I are walking out right now. Try and stop us, legally or any other way."
Kersey's smooth old face turned hard. But, unexpectedly, Bullen chuckled deep in his throat. "Good pop and bang. Like to see it. Go on, walk out. You hang in trouble, call up here—Butterfly 9, ask for Bullen. Whole exchange us. I'll meet you here about eleven tomorrow pre-noon."
"Don't hold your breath. Let's go, Ann."
When they were on the sidewalk, Ann took a deep breath. "We made it. For a minute, I thought there'd be a brawl. Why did they let us go?"
"No telling. Maybe they're harmless lunatics—or practical jokers." He looked over his shoulder as they walked down the street, but there was no sign of pursuit. "It's a long time since supper."
Her hand was cold in his and her face was white. To take her mind off their problem, he ambled toward the lighted shop windows.
"Look at that sign," he said, pointing to a poster over a display of neckties. "'Sleek neck-sashes, only a Dick and a dollop!' How do they expect to sell stuff with that crazy lingo?"
"It's jive talk. They must cater to the high-school crowd." Ann glanced nervously at the strolling people around them. "Jeff, where are we? This isn't any part of the city I've ever seen. It doesn't even look much like America." Her voice rose. "The way the women are dressed—it's not old-fashioned, just different."
"Baby, don't be scared. This is an adventure. Let's have fun." He pressed her hand soothingly and pulled her toward a lunch counter.
If the haberdasher's sign was jive, the restaurant spoke the same jargon. The signs on the wall and the bill of fare were baffling. Jeff pondered the list of beef shingles, scorchers, smack sticks and fruit chills, until he noticed that a couple at the counter were eating what clearly were hamburgers—though the "buns" looked more like tortillas.
Jeff jerked his thumb at them and told the waitress, "Two, please."
When the sandwiches arrived, they were ordinary enough. He and Ann ate in silence. A feeling of foreboding hung over them.
When they finished, the clerk gave him a check marked 1/20. Jeff looked at it thoughtfully, shrugged and handed it to the cashier with two dollar bills.
The man at the desk glanced at them and laughed. "Stage money, eh?"
"No, that's good money," Jeff assured him with a rather hollow smile.
"They're just new bills, that's all."
The cashier picked one up and looked at it curiously. "I'm afraid it's no good here," he said, and pushed it back.
The bottom dropped out of Jeff's stomach. "What kind of money do you want? This is all I have."
The cashier's smile faded. He caught the eye of a man in uniform on one of the stools. The uniform was dark green, but the man acted like a policeman. He loomed up beside Jeff.
"What's the rasper?" he demanded. Other customers, waiting to pay their checks, eyed Jeff curiously.
"I guess I'm in trouble," Jeff told him. "I'm a stranger here and I got something to eat under the impression that my money was legal tender. Do you know where I can exchange it?"
The officer picked up the dollar bill and fingered it with evident interest. He turned it over and studied the printing. "United States of America," he read aloud. "What are those?"
"It's the name of the country I come from," Jeff said carefully.
"I—uh—got on the wrong train, apparently, and must have come further than I thought. What's the name of this place?"
"This is Costa, West Goodland, in the Continental Federation. Say, you must come from an umpty remote part of the world if you don't know about this country." His eyes narrowed. "Where'd you learn to speak Federal, if you come from so far?"
Jeff said helplessly, "I can't explain, if you don't know about the United States. Listen, can you take me to a bank, or some place where they know about foreign exchange?"
The policeman scowled. "How'd you get into this country, anyway? You got immigrate clearance?"
An angry muttering started among the bystanders.
The policeman made up his mind. "You come with me."
At the police station, Jeff put his elbows dejectedly on the high counter while the policeman talked to an officer in charge. Some men whom Jeff took for reporters got up from a table and eased over to listen.
"I don't know whether to charge them with fakemake, bumsy, peekage or lunate," the policeman said as he finished.
His superior gave Jeff a long puzzled stare.
Jeff sighed. "I know it sounds impossible, but a man brought me in something he claimed was a time traveler. You speak the same language I do—more or less—but everything else is kind of unfamiliar. I belong in the United States, a country in North America. I can't believe I'm so far in the future that the United States has been forgotten."
There ensued a long, confused, inconclusive interrogation.
The man behind the desk asked questions which seemed stupid to Jeff and got answers which probably seemed stupid to him.
The reporters quizzed Jeff gleefully. "Come out, what are you advertising?" they kept asking. "Who got you up to this?"
The police puzzled over his driver's license and the other cards in his wallet. They asked repeatedly about the lack of a "Work License," which Jeff took to be some sort of union card. Evidently there was grave doubt that he had any legal right to be in the country.
In the end, Jeff and Ann were locked in separate cells for the night. Jeff groaned and pounded the bars as he thought of his wife, imprisoned and alone in a smelly jail. After hours of pacing the cell, he lay down in the cot and reached automatically for his silver pillbox. Then he hesitated.
In past weeks, his insomnia had grown worse and worse, so that lately he had begun taking stronger pills. After a longing glance at the big red and yellow capsules, he put the box away. Whatever tomorrow brought, it wouldn't find him slow and drowsy.
IV
He passed a wakeful night. In the early morning, he looked up to see a little man with a briefcase at his cell door.
"Wish joy, Mr. Elliott," the man said coolly. "I am one of Mr. Bullen's barmen. You know, represent at law? He sent me to arrange your release, if you are ready to be reasonable."
Jeff lay there and put his hands behind his head. "I doubt if I'm ready. I'm comfortable here. By the way, how did you know where I was?"
"No problem. When we read in this morning's newspapers about a man claiming to be a time traveler, we knew."
"All right. Now start explaining. Until I understand where I am, Bullen isn't getting me out of here."
The lawyer smiled and sat down. "Mr. Kersey told you yesterday—you've gone back six years. But you'll need some mental gymnastics to understand. Time is a dimension, not a stream of events like a movie film. A film never changes. Space does—and time does. For example, if a movie showed a burning house at Sixth and Main, would you expect to find a house burning whenever you returned to that corner?"
"You mean to say that if I went back to 1865, I wouldn't find the Civil War was over and Lincoln had been assassinated?"
"If you go back to the time you call 1865—which is most easily done—you will find that the people there know nothing of a Lincoln or that war."
Jeff looked blank. "What are they doing then?"
The little man spread his hands. "What are the people doing now at Sixth and Main? Certainly not the same things they were doing the day of the fire. We're talking about a dimension, not an event. Don't you grasp the difference between the two?"
"Nope. To me, 1865 means the end of the Civil War. How else can you speak of a point in time except by the events that happened then?"
"Well, if you go to a place in three-dimensional space—say, a lake in the mountains—how do you identify that place? By looking for landmarks. It doesn't matter that an eagle is soaring over a mountain peak. That's only an event. The peak is the landmark. You follow me?"
"So far. Keep talking."
|
Describe the difference between a tumbler and a hoofer.
|
After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about The Hoofer by Walter M. Miller.
Relevant chunks:
A wayfarer's return from a far country to his wife and family may be a
shining experience, a kind of second honeymoon. Or it may be so shadowed
by Time's relentless tyranny that the changes which have occurred in his
absence can lead only to tragedy and despair. This rarely discerning, warmly
human story by a brilliant newcomer to the science fantasy field is told
with no pulling of punches, and its adroit unfolding will astound you.
the hoofer
by ... Walter M. Miller, Jr.
A space rover has no business with a family. But what can a man
in the full vigor of youth do—if his heart cries out for a home?
They all
knew he was a spacer
because of the white goggle marks
on his sun-scorched face, and so
they tolerated him and helped him.
They even made allowances for him
when he staggered and fell in the
aisle of the bus while pursuing the
harassed little housewife from seat
to seat and cajoling her to sit and
talk with him.
Having fallen, he decided to
sleep in the aisle. Two men helped
him to the back of the bus, dumped
him on the rear seat, and tucked his
gin bottle safely out of sight. After
all, he had not seen Earth for nine
months, and judging by the crusted
matter about his eyelids, he couldn't
have seen it too well now, even if
he had been sober. Glare-blindness,
gravity-legs, and agoraphobia were
excuses for a lot of things, when a
man was just back from Big Bottomless.
And who could blame a
man for acting strangely?
Minutes later, he was back up the
aisle and swaying giddily over the
little housewife. "How!" he said.
"Me Chief Broken Wing. You
wanta Indian wrestle?"
The girl, who sat nervously staring
at him, smiled wanly, and
shook her head.
"Quiet li'l pigeon, aren'tcha?" he
burbled affectionately, crashing into
the seat beside her.
The two men slid out of their
seats, and a hand clamped his shoulder.
"Come on, Broken Wing, let's
go back to bed."
"My name's Hogey," he said.
"Big Hogey Parker. I was just kidding
about being a Indian."
"Yeah. Come on, let's go have a
drink." They got him on his feet,
and led him stumbling back down
the aisle.
"My ma was half Cherokee, see?
That's how come I said it. You
wanta hear a war whoop? Real
stuff."
"Never mind."
He cupped his hands to his
mouth and favored them with a
blood-curdling proof of his ancestry,
while the female passengers
stirred restlessly and hunched in
their seats. The driver stopped the
bus and went back to warn him
against any further display. The
driver flashed a deputy's badge and
threatened to turn him over to a
constable.
"I gotta get home," Big Hogey
told him. "I got me a son now,
that's why. You know? A little
baby pigeon of a son. Haven't seen
him yet."
"Will you just sit still and be
quiet then, eh?"
Big Hogey nodded emphatically.
"Shorry, officer, I didn't mean to
make any trouble."
When the bus started again, he
fell on his side and lay still. He
made retching sounds for a time,
then rested, snoring softly. The bus
driver woke him again at Caine's
junction, retrieved his gin bottle
from behind the seat, and helped
him down the aisle and out of the
bus.
Big Hogey stumbled about for a
moment, then sat down hard in the
gravel at the shoulder of the road.
The driver paused with one foot on
the step, looking around. There was
not even a store at the road junction,
but only a freight building
next to the railroad track, a couple
of farmhouses at the edge of a side-road,
and, just across the way, a deserted
filling station with a sagging
roof. The land was Great Plains
country, treeless, barren, and rolling.
Big Hogey got up and staggered
around in front of the bus, clutching
at it for support, losing his
duffle bag.
"Hey, watch the traffic!" The
driver warned. With a surge of unwelcome
compassion he trotted
around after his troublesome passenger,
taking his arm as he sagged
again. "You crossing?"
"Yah," Hogey muttered. "Lemme
alone, I'm okay."
The driver started across the
highway with him. The traffic was
sparse, but fast and dangerous in
the central ninety-mile lane.
"I'm okay," Hogey kept protesting.
"I'm a tumbler, ya know?
Gravity's got me. Damn gravity.
I'm not used to gravity, ya know? I
used to be a tumbler— huk! —only
now I gotta be a hoofer. 'Count
of li'l Hogey. You know about li'l
Hogey?"
"Yeah. Your son. Come on."
"Say, you gotta son? I bet you
gotta son."
"Two kids," said the driver,
catching Hogey's bag as it slipped
from his shoulder. "Both girls."
"Say, you oughta be home with
them kids. Man oughta stick with
his family. You oughta get another
job." Hogey eyed him owlishly,
waggled a moralistic finger, skidded
on the gravel as they stepped
onto the opposite shoulder, and
sprawled again.
The driver blew a weary breath,
looked down at him, and shook his
head. Maybe it'd be kinder to find
a constable after all. This guy could
get himself killed, wandering
around loose.
"Somebody supposed to meet
you?" he asked, squinting around
at the dusty hills.
" Huk! —who, me?" Hogey giggled,
belched, and shook his head.
"Nope. Nobody knows I'm coming.
S'prise. I'm supposed to be here a
week ago." He looked up at the
driver with a pained expression.
"Week late, ya know? Marie's
gonna be sore—woo- hoo !—is she
gonna be sore!" He waggled his
head severely at the ground.
"Which way are you going?" the
driver grunted impatiently.
Hogey pointed down the side-road
that led back into the hills.
"Marie's pop's place. You know
where? 'Bout three miles from
here. Gotta walk, I guess."
"Don't," the driver warned.
"You sit there by the culvert till
you get a ride. Okay?"
Hogey nodded forlornly.
"Now stay out of the road," the
driver warned, then hurried back
across the highway. Moments later,
the atomic battery-driven motors
droned mournfully, and the bus
pulled away.
Big Hogey blinked after it, rubbing
the back of his neck. "Nice
people," he said. "Nice buncha people.
All hoofers."
With a grunt and a lurch, he got
to his feet, but his legs wouldn't
work right. With his tumbler's reflexes,
he fought to right himself
with frantic arm motions, but gravity
claimed him, and he went stumbling
into the ditch.
"Damn legs, damn crazy legs!"
he cried.
The bottom of the ditch was wet,
and he crawled up the embankment
with mud-soaked knees, and sat on
the shoulder again. The gin bottle
was still intact. He had himself a
long fiery drink, and it warmed him
deep down. He blinked around at
the gaunt and treeless land.
The sun was almost down, forge-red
on a dusty horizon. The blood-streaked
sky faded into sulphurous
yellow toward the zenith, and the
very air that hung over the land
seemed full of yellow smoke, the
omnipresent dust of the plains.
A farm truck turned onto the
side-road and moaned away, its
driver hardly glancing at the dark
young man who sat swaying on his
duffle bag near the culvert. Hogey
scarcely noticed the vehicle. He just
kept staring at the crazy sun.
He shook his head. It wasn't really
the sun. The sun, the real sun,
was a hateful eye-sizzling horror in
the dead black pit. It painted everything
with pure white pain, and you
saw things by the reflected pain-light.
The fat red sun was strictly a
phoney, and it didn't fool him any.
He hated it for what he knew it was
behind the gory mask, and for what
it had done to his eyes.
With a grunt, he got to his feet,
managed to shoulder the duffle bag,
and started off down the middle of
the farm road, lurching from side
to side, and keeping his eyes on the
rolling distances. Another car turned
onto the side-road, honking angrily.
Hogey tried to turn around to
look at it, but he forgot to shift his
footing. He staggered and went
down on the pavement. The car's
tires screeched on the hot asphalt.
Hogey lay there for a moment,
groaning. That one had hurt his
hip. A car door slammed and a big
man with a florid face got out and
stalked toward him, looking angry.
"What the hell's the matter with
you, fella?" he drawled. "You
soused? Man, you've really got a
load."
Hogey got up doggedly, shaking
his head to clear it. "Space legs," he
prevaricated. "Got space legs. Can't
stand the gravity."
The burly farmer retrieved his
gin bottle for him, still miraculously
unbroken. "Here's your gravity,"
he grunted. "Listen, fella, you better
get home pronto."
"Pronto? Hey, I'm no Mex. Honest,
I'm just space burned. You
know?"
"Yeah. Say, who are you, anyway?
Do you live around here?"
It was obvious that the big man
had taken him for a hobo or a
tramp. Hogey pulled himself together.
"Goin' to the Hauptman's
place. Marie. You know Marie?"
The farmer's eyebrows went up.
"Marie Hauptman? Sure I know
her. Only she's Marie Parker now.
Has been, nigh on six years. Say—"
He paused, then gaped. "You ain't
her husband by any chance?"
"Hogey, that's me. Big Hogey
Parker."
"Well, I'll be—! Get in the car.
I'm going right past John Hauptman's
place. Boy, you're in no
shape to walk it."
He grinned wryly, waggled his
head, and helped Hogey and his
bag into the back seat. A woman
with a sun-wrinkled neck sat rigidly
beside the farmer in the front,
and she neither greeted the passenger
nor looked around.
"They don't make cars like this
anymore," the farmer called over
the growl of the ancient gasoline
engine and the grind of gears.
"You can have them new atomics
with their loads of hot isotopes
under the seat. Ain't safe, I say—eh,
Martha?"
The woman with the sun-baked
neck quivered her head slightly.
"A car like this was good enough
for Pa, an' I reckon it's good
enough for us," she drawled mournfully.
Five minutes later the car drew
in to the side of the road. "Reckon
you can walk it from here," the
farmer said. "That's Hauptman's
road just up ahead."
He helped Hogey out of the car
and drove away without looking
back to see if Hogey stayed on his
feet. The woman with the sun-baked
neck was suddenly talking
garrulously in his direction.
It was twilight. The sun had set,
and the yellow sky was turning
gray. Hogey was too tired to go on,
and his legs would no longer hold
him. He blinked around at the land,
got his eyes focused, and found
what looked like Hauptman's place
on a distant hillside. It was a big
frame house surrounded by a wheatfield,
and a few scrawny trees. Having
located it, he stretched out in
the tall grass beyond the ditch to
take a little rest.
Somewhere dogs were barking,
and a cricket sang creaking monotony
in the grass. Once there was the
distant thunder of a rocket blast
from the launching station six miles
to the west, but it faded quickly. An
A-motored convertible whined past
on the road, but Hogey went unseen.
When he awoke, it was night,
and he was shivering. His stomach
was screeching, and his nerves dancing
with high voltages. He sat up
and groped for his watch, then remembered
he had pawned it after
the poker game. Remembering the
game and the results of the game
made him wince and bite his lip
and grope for the bottle again.
He sat breathing heavily for a
moment after the stiff drink. Equating
time to position had become
second nature with him, but he had
to think for a moment because his
defective vision prevented him from
seeing the Earth-crescent.
Vega was almost straight above
him in the late August sky, so he
knew it wasn't much after sundown—probably
about eight o'clock. He
braced himself with another swallow
of gin, picked himself up and
got back to the road, feeling a little
sobered after the nap.
He limped on up the pavement
and turned left at the narrow drive
that led between barbed-wire fences
toward the Hauptman farmhouse,
five hundred yards or so from the
farm road. The fields on his left
belonged to Marie's father, he
knew. He was getting close—close
to home and woman and child.
He dropped the bag suddenly
and leaned against a fence post,
rolling his head on his forearms
and choking in spasms of air. He
was shaking all over, and his belly
writhed. He wanted to turn and
run. He wanted to crawl out in the
grass and hide.
What were they going to say?
And Marie, Marie most of all.
How was he going to tell her about
the money?
Six hitches in space, and every
time the promise had been the
same: One more tour, baby, and
we'll have enough dough, and then
I'll quit for good. One more time,
and we'll have our stake—enough
to open a little business, or buy a
house with a mortgage and get a
job.
And she had waited, but the
money had never been quite enough
until this time. This time the tour
had lasted nine months, and he had
signed on for every run from station
to moon-base to pick up the
bonuses. And this time he'd made
it. Two weeks ago, there had been
forty-eight hundred in the bank.
And now ...
" Why? " he groaned, striking his
forehead against his forearms. His
arm slipped, and his head hit the
top of the fencepost, and the pain
blinded him for a moment. He staggered
back into the road with a
low roar, wiped blood from his
forehead, and savagely kicked his
bag.
It rolled a couple of yards up the
road. He leaped after it and kicked
it again. When he had finished
with it, he stood panting and angry,
but feeling better. He shouldered
the bag and hiked on toward the
farmhouse.
They're hoofers, that's all—just
an Earth-chained bunch of hoofers,
even Marie. And I'm a tumbler. A
born tumbler. Know what that
means? It means—God, what does
it mean? It means out in Big Bottomless,
where Earth's like a fat
moon with fuzzy mold growing on
it. Mold, that's all you are, just
mold.
A dog barked, and he wondered
if he had been muttering aloud. He
came to a fence-gap and paused in
the darkness. The road wound
around and came up the hill in
front of the house. Maybe they were
sitting on the porch. Maybe they'd
already heard him coming. Maybe ...
He was trembling again. He
fished the fifth of gin out of his
coat pocket and sloshed it. Still over
half a pint. He decided to kill it. It
wouldn't do to go home with a
bottle sticking out of his pocket.
He stood there in the night wind,
sipping at it, and watching the reddish
moon come up in the east. The
moon looked as phoney as the
setting sun.
He straightened in sudden determination.
It had to be sometime.
Get it over with, get it over with
now. He opened the fence-gap, slipped
through, and closed it firmly
behind him. He retrieved his bag,
and waded quietly through the tall
grass until he reached the hedge
which divided an area of sickly
peach trees from the field. He got
over the hedge somehow, and started
through the trees toward the
house. He stumbled over some old
boards, and they clattered.
" Shhh! " he hissed, and moved
on.
The dogs were barking angrily,
and he heard a screen door slam.
He stopped.
"Ho there!" a male voice called
experimentally from the house.
One of Marie's brothers. Hogey
stood frozen in the shadow of a
peach tree, waiting.
"Anybody out there?" the man
called again.
Hogey waited, then heard the
man muttering, "Sic 'im, boy, sic
'im."
The hound's bark became eager.
The animal came chasing down the
slope, and stopped ten feet away to
crouch and bark frantically at the
shadow in the gloom. He knew the
dog.
"Hooky!" he whispered. "Hooky
boy—here!"
The dog stopped barking, sniffed,
trotted closer, and went
" Rrrooff! " Then he started sniffing
suspiciously again.
"Easy, Hooky, here boy!" he
whispered.
The dog came forward silently,
sniffed his hand, and whined in
recognition. Then he trotted around
Hogey, panting doggy affection and
dancing an invitation to romp. The
man whistled from the porch. The
dog froze, then trotted quickly back
up the slope.
"Nothing, eh, Hooky?" the
man on the porch said. "Chasin'
armadillos again, eh?"
The screen door slammed again,
and the porch light went out.
Hogey stood there staring, unable
to think. Somewhere beyond the
window lights were—his woman,
his son.
What the hell was a tumbler doing
with a woman and a son?
After perhaps a minute, he stepped
forward again. He tripped over
a shovel, and his foot plunged into
something that went squelch and
swallowed the foot past the ankle.
He fell forward into a heap of
sand, and his foot went deeper into
the sloppy wetness.
He lay there with his stinging
forehead on his arms, cursing softly
and crying. Finally he rolled
over, pulled his foot out of the
mess, and took off his shoes. They
were full of mud—sticky sandy
mud.
The dark world was reeling
about him, and the wind was dragging
at his breath. He fell back
against the sand pile and let his
feet sink in the mud hole and wriggled
his toes. He was laughing
soundlessly, and his face was wet
in the wind. He couldn't think. He
couldn't remember where he was
and why, and he stopped caring,
and after a while he felt better.
The stars were swimming over
him, dancing crazily, and the mud
cooled his feet, and the sand was
soft behind him. He saw a rocket
go up on a tail of flame from the
station, and waited for the sound of
its blast, but he was already asleep
when it came.
It was far past midnight when he
became conscious of the dog licking
wetly at his ear and cheek. He
pushed the animal away with a low
curse and mopped at the side of his
face. He stirred, and groaned. His
feet were burning up! He tried to
pull them toward him, but they
wouldn't budge. There was something
wrong with his legs.
For an instant he stared wildly
around in the night. Then he remembered
where he was, closed his
eyes and shuddered. When he
opened them again, the moon had
emerged from behind a cloud, and
he could see clearly the cruel trap
into which he had accidentally
stumbled. A pile of old boards, a
careful stack of new lumber, a
pick and shovel, a sand-pile, heaps
of fresh-turned earth, and a concrete
mixer—well, it added up.
He gripped his ankles and pulled,
but his feet wouldn't budge. In
sudden terror, he tried to stand up,
but his ankles were clutched by the
concrete too, and he fell back in
the sand with a low moan. He lay
still for several minutes, considering
carefully.
He pulled at his left foot. It was
locked in a vise. He tugged even
more desperately at his right foot.
It was equally immovable.
He sat up with a whimper and
clawed at the rough concrete until
his nails tore and his fingertips
bled. The surface still felt damp,
but it had hardened while he slept.
He sat there stunned until Hooky
began licking at his scuffed fingers.
He shouldered the dog away, and
dug his hands into the sand-pile to
stop the bleeding. Hooky licked at
his face, panting love.
"Get away!" he croaked savagely.
The dog whined softly, trotted
a short distance away, circled, and
came back to crouch down in the
sand directly before Hogey, inching
forward experimentally.
Hogey gripped fistfuls of the dry
sand and cursed between his teeth,
while his eyes wandered over the
sky. They came to rest on the sliver
of light—the space station—rising
in the west, floating out in Big Bottomless
where the gang was—Nichols
and Guerrera and Lavrenti
and Fats. And he wasn't forgetting
Keesey, the rookie who'd replaced
him.
Keesey would have a rough time
for a while—rough as a cob. The pit
was no playground. The first time
you went out of the station in a
suit, the pit got you. Everything
was falling, and you fell, with it.
Everything. The skeletons of steel,
the tire-shaped station, the spheres
and docks and nightmare shapes—all
tied together by umbilical cables
and flexible tubes. Like some crazy
sea-thing they seemed, floating in a
black ocean with its tentacles bound
together by drifting strands in the
dark tide that bore it.
Everything was pain-bright or
dead black, and it wheeled around
you, and you went nuts trying to
figure which way was down. In fact,
it took you months to teach your
body that all ways were down and
that the pit was bottomless.
He became conscious of a plaintive
sound in the wind, and froze to
listen.
It was a baby crying.
It was nearly a minute before he
got the significance of it. It hit him
where he lived, and he began jerking
frantically at his encased feet
and sobbing low in his throat.
They'd hear him if he kept that up.
He stopped and covered his ears to
close out the cry of his firstborn. A
light went on in the house, and
when it went off again, the infant's
cry had ceased.
Another rocket went up from the
station, and he cursed it. Space was
a disease, and he had it.
"Help!" he cried out suddenly.
"I'm stuck! Help me, help me!"
He knew he was yelling hysterically
at the sky and fighting the relentless
concrete that clutched his
feet, and after a moment he stopped.
The light was on in the house
again, and he heard faint sounds.
The stirring-about woke the baby
again, and once more the infant's
wail came on the breeze.
Make the kid shut up, make the
kid shut up ...
But that was no good. It wasn't
the kid's fault. It wasn't Marie's
fault. No fathers allowed in space,
they said, but it wasn't their fault
either. They were right, and he had
only himself to blame. The kid was
an accident, but that didn't change
anything. Not a thing in the world.
It remained a tragedy.
A tumbler had no business with a
family, but what was a man going
to do? Take a skinning knife, boy,
and make yourself a eunuch. But
that was no good either. They needed
bulls out there in the pit, not
steers. And when a man came down
from a year's hitch, what was he
going to do? Live in a lonely shack
and read books for kicks? Because
you were a man, you sought out a
woman. And because she was a
woman, she got a kid, and that was
the end of it. It was nobody's fault,
nobody's at all.
He stared at the red eye of Mars
low in the southwest. They were
running out there now, and next
year he would have been on the
long long run ...
But there was no use thinking
about it. Next year and the years
after belonged to little Hogey.
He sat there with his feet locked
in the solid concrete of the footing,
staring out into Big Bottomless
while his son's cry came from the
house and the Hauptman menfolk
came wading through the tall grass
in search of someone who had cried
out. His feet were stuck tight, and
he wouldn't ever get them out. He
was sobbing softly when they found
him.
Question:
Describe the difference between a tumbler and a hoofer.
Answer:
|
[
"A tumbler and a hoofer are considered to be two types of people, as described by Hogey’s drunken ramblings. A tumbler is someone who lives in space and never interacts with gravity. As such, a tumbler is often clumsy and has limbs that flail about. In addition, a tumbler is not meant to be a family man, and should neither have a wife nor children. \n\nTherefore, a hoofer is a person who lives on Earth and is rooted to the ground by gravity, as they have never traveled to space. By contrast, they would have a family, like Marie Parker does with her son. In addition, the hoofers in this story are stable and kind, like the farmer and the bus driver, who all help Hogey when his limbs and center of gravity fail him. \n",
"A tumbler is a person who lives in space, where there is no gravity. They may fear to be in an open space as a result of staying in the outer space too long. Their legs are not used to the gravity, which makes them hard to walk properly on Earth. They can naturally equate time to position. They have bad visions because their eyes are harmed by the direct contact to the sun. Their faces are harmed by the direct exposure to the sun in the space. Sun looks brightly pain and white to them as they see it in the bottomless dark space where sun is the largest source of light. A hoofer is a person who lives on Earth where there is gravity. They are used to walk with gravity, unlike a tumbler. Sun looks red to them when it sets. Their visions are not harmed by the direct exposure to the sun, neither are their faces.",
"Hoofers are humans that have stayed on Earth all their life. They are everyday humans that live their lives without ever going to space. The bus driver, and Hogey’s wife are examples of Hoofers. Tumblers on the other hand are people that have traveled to space, and worked there. Hogey is an example of a tumbler, and is an example of all the problems that tumblers face when they go back to Earth. Tumbler’s aren’t allowed to have children, a rule that Hogey broke. Hogey also struggles a lot with Earth’s gravity, because tumblers spend a lot of time in space in which there is no gravity. ",
"A hoofer is an ordinary human who lives on Earth. They do not go to space at all, and they spend their lives on the planet. Everybody who Big Hogey meets on his way home is considered to be a hoofer because they have never been to space before. Compared to being a hoofer, a tumbler is somebody who has spent most of their time in space. People, like Big Hogey, find it difficult to adjust to gravity after having spent so much time away from Earth. The tumblers are also not meant to have a family, as fathers are not supposed to be allowed into space. The hoofers, on the other hand, can have regular families and go about their daily lives because they do not have to abide by the same requirements as the tumblers have to for their line of work. The tumblers also go on multiple space hitches, despite the promise of money. "
] |
29170
|
A wayfarer's return from a far country to his wife and family may be a
shining experience, a kind of second honeymoon. Or it may be so shadowed
by Time's relentless tyranny that the changes which have occurred in his
absence can lead only to tragedy and despair. This rarely discerning, warmly
human story by a brilliant newcomer to the science fantasy field is told
with no pulling of punches, and its adroit unfolding will astound you.
the hoofer
by ... Walter M. Miller, Jr.
A space rover has no business with a family. But what can a man
in the full vigor of youth do—if his heart cries out for a home?
They all
knew he was a spacer
because of the white goggle marks
on his sun-scorched face, and so
they tolerated him and helped him.
They even made allowances for him
when he staggered and fell in the
aisle of the bus while pursuing the
harassed little housewife from seat
to seat and cajoling her to sit and
talk with him.
Having fallen, he decided to
sleep in the aisle. Two men helped
him to the back of the bus, dumped
him on the rear seat, and tucked his
gin bottle safely out of sight. After
all, he had not seen Earth for nine
months, and judging by the crusted
matter about his eyelids, he couldn't
have seen it too well now, even if
he had been sober. Glare-blindness,
gravity-legs, and agoraphobia were
excuses for a lot of things, when a
man was just back from Big Bottomless.
And who could blame a
man for acting strangely?
Minutes later, he was back up the
aisle and swaying giddily over the
little housewife. "How!" he said.
"Me Chief Broken Wing. You
wanta Indian wrestle?"
The girl, who sat nervously staring
at him, smiled wanly, and
shook her head.
"Quiet li'l pigeon, aren'tcha?" he
burbled affectionately, crashing into
the seat beside her.
The two men slid out of their
seats, and a hand clamped his shoulder.
"Come on, Broken Wing, let's
go back to bed."
"My name's Hogey," he said.
"Big Hogey Parker. I was just kidding
about being a Indian."
"Yeah. Come on, let's go have a
drink." They got him on his feet,
and led him stumbling back down
the aisle.
"My ma was half Cherokee, see?
That's how come I said it. You
wanta hear a war whoop? Real
stuff."
"Never mind."
He cupped his hands to his
mouth and favored them with a
blood-curdling proof of his ancestry,
while the female passengers
stirred restlessly and hunched in
their seats. The driver stopped the
bus and went back to warn him
against any further display. The
driver flashed a deputy's badge and
threatened to turn him over to a
constable.
"I gotta get home," Big Hogey
told him. "I got me a son now,
that's why. You know? A little
baby pigeon of a son. Haven't seen
him yet."
"Will you just sit still and be
quiet then, eh?"
Big Hogey nodded emphatically.
"Shorry, officer, I didn't mean to
make any trouble."
When the bus started again, he
fell on his side and lay still. He
made retching sounds for a time,
then rested, snoring softly. The bus
driver woke him again at Caine's
junction, retrieved his gin bottle
from behind the seat, and helped
him down the aisle and out of the
bus.
Big Hogey stumbled about for a
moment, then sat down hard in the
gravel at the shoulder of the road.
The driver paused with one foot on
the step, looking around. There was
not even a store at the road junction,
but only a freight building
next to the railroad track, a couple
of farmhouses at the edge of a side-road,
and, just across the way, a deserted
filling station with a sagging
roof. The land was Great Plains
country, treeless, barren, and rolling.
Big Hogey got up and staggered
around in front of the bus, clutching
at it for support, losing his
duffle bag.
"Hey, watch the traffic!" The
driver warned. With a surge of unwelcome
compassion he trotted
around after his troublesome passenger,
taking his arm as he sagged
again. "You crossing?"
"Yah," Hogey muttered. "Lemme
alone, I'm okay."
The driver started across the
highway with him. The traffic was
sparse, but fast and dangerous in
the central ninety-mile lane.
"I'm okay," Hogey kept protesting.
"I'm a tumbler, ya know?
Gravity's got me. Damn gravity.
I'm not used to gravity, ya know? I
used to be a tumbler— huk! —only
now I gotta be a hoofer. 'Count
of li'l Hogey. You know about li'l
Hogey?"
"Yeah. Your son. Come on."
"Say, you gotta son? I bet you
gotta son."
"Two kids," said the driver,
catching Hogey's bag as it slipped
from his shoulder. "Both girls."
"Say, you oughta be home with
them kids. Man oughta stick with
his family. You oughta get another
job." Hogey eyed him owlishly,
waggled a moralistic finger, skidded
on the gravel as they stepped
onto the opposite shoulder, and
sprawled again.
The driver blew a weary breath,
looked down at him, and shook his
head. Maybe it'd be kinder to find
a constable after all. This guy could
get himself killed, wandering
around loose.
"Somebody supposed to meet
you?" he asked, squinting around
at the dusty hills.
" Huk! —who, me?" Hogey giggled,
belched, and shook his head.
"Nope. Nobody knows I'm coming.
S'prise. I'm supposed to be here a
week ago." He looked up at the
driver with a pained expression.
"Week late, ya know? Marie's
gonna be sore—woo- hoo !—is she
gonna be sore!" He waggled his
head severely at the ground.
"Which way are you going?" the
driver grunted impatiently.
Hogey pointed down the side-road
that led back into the hills.
"Marie's pop's place. You know
where? 'Bout three miles from
here. Gotta walk, I guess."
"Don't," the driver warned.
"You sit there by the culvert till
you get a ride. Okay?"
Hogey nodded forlornly.
"Now stay out of the road," the
driver warned, then hurried back
across the highway. Moments later,
the atomic battery-driven motors
droned mournfully, and the bus
pulled away.
Big Hogey blinked after it, rubbing
the back of his neck. "Nice
people," he said. "Nice buncha people.
All hoofers."
With a grunt and a lurch, he got
to his feet, but his legs wouldn't
work right. With his tumbler's reflexes,
he fought to right himself
with frantic arm motions, but gravity
claimed him, and he went stumbling
into the ditch.
"Damn legs, damn crazy legs!"
he cried.
The bottom of the ditch was wet,
and he crawled up the embankment
with mud-soaked knees, and sat on
the shoulder again. The gin bottle
was still intact. He had himself a
long fiery drink, and it warmed him
deep down. He blinked around at
the gaunt and treeless land.
The sun was almost down, forge-red
on a dusty horizon. The blood-streaked
sky faded into sulphurous
yellow toward the zenith, and the
very air that hung over the land
seemed full of yellow smoke, the
omnipresent dust of the plains.
A farm truck turned onto the
side-road and moaned away, its
driver hardly glancing at the dark
young man who sat swaying on his
duffle bag near the culvert. Hogey
scarcely noticed the vehicle. He just
kept staring at the crazy sun.
He shook his head. It wasn't really
the sun. The sun, the real sun,
was a hateful eye-sizzling horror in
the dead black pit. It painted everything
with pure white pain, and you
saw things by the reflected pain-light.
The fat red sun was strictly a
phoney, and it didn't fool him any.
He hated it for what he knew it was
behind the gory mask, and for what
it had done to his eyes.
With a grunt, he got to his feet,
managed to shoulder the duffle bag,
and started off down the middle of
the farm road, lurching from side
to side, and keeping his eyes on the
rolling distances. Another car turned
onto the side-road, honking angrily.
Hogey tried to turn around to
look at it, but he forgot to shift his
footing. He staggered and went
down on the pavement. The car's
tires screeched on the hot asphalt.
Hogey lay there for a moment,
groaning. That one had hurt his
hip. A car door slammed and a big
man with a florid face got out and
stalked toward him, looking angry.
"What the hell's the matter with
you, fella?" he drawled. "You
soused? Man, you've really got a
load."
Hogey got up doggedly, shaking
his head to clear it. "Space legs," he
prevaricated. "Got space legs. Can't
stand the gravity."
The burly farmer retrieved his
gin bottle for him, still miraculously
unbroken. "Here's your gravity,"
he grunted. "Listen, fella, you better
get home pronto."
"Pronto? Hey, I'm no Mex. Honest,
I'm just space burned. You
know?"
"Yeah. Say, who are you, anyway?
Do you live around here?"
It was obvious that the big man
had taken him for a hobo or a
tramp. Hogey pulled himself together.
"Goin' to the Hauptman's
place. Marie. You know Marie?"
The farmer's eyebrows went up.
"Marie Hauptman? Sure I know
her. Only she's Marie Parker now.
Has been, nigh on six years. Say—"
He paused, then gaped. "You ain't
her husband by any chance?"
"Hogey, that's me. Big Hogey
Parker."
"Well, I'll be—! Get in the car.
I'm going right past John Hauptman's
place. Boy, you're in no
shape to walk it."
He grinned wryly, waggled his
head, and helped Hogey and his
bag into the back seat. A woman
with a sun-wrinkled neck sat rigidly
beside the farmer in the front,
and she neither greeted the passenger
nor looked around.
"They don't make cars like this
anymore," the farmer called over
the growl of the ancient gasoline
engine and the grind of gears.
"You can have them new atomics
with their loads of hot isotopes
under the seat. Ain't safe, I say—eh,
Martha?"
The woman with the sun-baked
neck quivered her head slightly.
"A car like this was good enough
for Pa, an' I reckon it's good
enough for us," she drawled mournfully.
Five minutes later the car drew
in to the side of the road. "Reckon
you can walk it from here," the
farmer said. "That's Hauptman's
road just up ahead."
He helped Hogey out of the car
and drove away without looking
back to see if Hogey stayed on his
feet. The woman with the sun-baked
neck was suddenly talking
garrulously in his direction.
It was twilight. The sun had set,
and the yellow sky was turning
gray. Hogey was too tired to go on,
and his legs would no longer hold
him. He blinked around at the land,
got his eyes focused, and found
what looked like Hauptman's place
on a distant hillside. It was a big
frame house surrounded by a wheatfield,
and a few scrawny trees. Having
located it, he stretched out in
the tall grass beyond the ditch to
take a little rest.
Somewhere dogs were barking,
and a cricket sang creaking monotony
in the grass. Once there was the
distant thunder of a rocket blast
from the launching station six miles
to the west, but it faded quickly. An
A-motored convertible whined past
on the road, but Hogey went unseen.
When he awoke, it was night,
and he was shivering. His stomach
was screeching, and his nerves dancing
with high voltages. He sat up
and groped for his watch, then remembered
he had pawned it after
the poker game. Remembering the
game and the results of the game
made him wince and bite his lip
and grope for the bottle again.
He sat breathing heavily for a
moment after the stiff drink. Equating
time to position had become
second nature with him, but he had
to think for a moment because his
defective vision prevented him from
seeing the Earth-crescent.
Vega was almost straight above
him in the late August sky, so he
knew it wasn't much after sundown—probably
about eight o'clock. He
braced himself with another swallow
of gin, picked himself up and
got back to the road, feeling a little
sobered after the nap.
He limped on up the pavement
and turned left at the narrow drive
that led between barbed-wire fences
toward the Hauptman farmhouse,
five hundred yards or so from the
farm road. The fields on his left
belonged to Marie's father, he
knew. He was getting close—close
to home and woman and child.
He dropped the bag suddenly
and leaned against a fence post,
rolling his head on his forearms
and choking in spasms of air. He
was shaking all over, and his belly
writhed. He wanted to turn and
run. He wanted to crawl out in the
grass and hide.
What were they going to say?
And Marie, Marie most of all.
How was he going to tell her about
the money?
Six hitches in space, and every
time the promise had been the
same: One more tour, baby, and
we'll have enough dough, and then
I'll quit for good. One more time,
and we'll have our stake—enough
to open a little business, or buy a
house with a mortgage and get a
job.
And she had waited, but the
money had never been quite enough
until this time. This time the tour
had lasted nine months, and he had
signed on for every run from station
to moon-base to pick up the
bonuses. And this time he'd made
it. Two weeks ago, there had been
forty-eight hundred in the bank.
And now ...
" Why? " he groaned, striking his
forehead against his forearms. His
arm slipped, and his head hit the
top of the fencepost, and the pain
blinded him for a moment. He staggered
back into the road with a
low roar, wiped blood from his
forehead, and savagely kicked his
bag.
It rolled a couple of yards up the
road. He leaped after it and kicked
it again. When he had finished
with it, he stood panting and angry,
but feeling better. He shouldered
the bag and hiked on toward the
farmhouse.
They're hoofers, that's all—just
an Earth-chained bunch of hoofers,
even Marie. And I'm a tumbler. A
born tumbler. Know what that
means? It means—God, what does
it mean? It means out in Big Bottomless,
where Earth's like a fat
moon with fuzzy mold growing on
it. Mold, that's all you are, just
mold.
A dog barked, and he wondered
if he had been muttering aloud. He
came to a fence-gap and paused in
the darkness. The road wound
around and came up the hill in
front of the house. Maybe they were
sitting on the porch. Maybe they'd
already heard him coming. Maybe ...
He was trembling again. He
fished the fifth of gin out of his
coat pocket and sloshed it. Still over
half a pint. He decided to kill it. It
wouldn't do to go home with a
bottle sticking out of his pocket.
He stood there in the night wind,
sipping at it, and watching the reddish
moon come up in the east. The
moon looked as phoney as the
setting sun.
He straightened in sudden determination.
It had to be sometime.
Get it over with, get it over with
now. He opened the fence-gap, slipped
through, and closed it firmly
behind him. He retrieved his bag,
and waded quietly through the tall
grass until he reached the hedge
which divided an area of sickly
peach trees from the field. He got
over the hedge somehow, and started
through the trees toward the
house. He stumbled over some old
boards, and they clattered.
" Shhh! " he hissed, and moved
on.
The dogs were barking angrily,
and he heard a screen door slam.
He stopped.
"Ho there!" a male voice called
experimentally from the house.
One of Marie's brothers. Hogey
stood frozen in the shadow of a
peach tree, waiting.
"Anybody out there?" the man
called again.
Hogey waited, then heard the
man muttering, "Sic 'im, boy, sic
'im."
The hound's bark became eager.
The animal came chasing down the
slope, and stopped ten feet away to
crouch and bark frantically at the
shadow in the gloom. He knew the
dog.
"Hooky!" he whispered. "Hooky
boy—here!"
The dog stopped barking, sniffed,
trotted closer, and went
" Rrrooff! " Then he started sniffing
suspiciously again.
"Easy, Hooky, here boy!" he
whispered.
The dog came forward silently,
sniffed his hand, and whined in
recognition. Then he trotted around
Hogey, panting doggy affection and
dancing an invitation to romp. The
man whistled from the porch. The
dog froze, then trotted quickly back
up the slope.
"Nothing, eh, Hooky?" the
man on the porch said. "Chasin'
armadillos again, eh?"
The screen door slammed again,
and the porch light went out.
Hogey stood there staring, unable
to think. Somewhere beyond the
window lights were—his woman,
his son.
What the hell was a tumbler doing
with a woman and a son?
After perhaps a minute, he stepped
forward again. He tripped over
a shovel, and his foot plunged into
something that went squelch and
swallowed the foot past the ankle.
He fell forward into a heap of
sand, and his foot went deeper into
the sloppy wetness.
He lay there with his stinging
forehead on his arms, cursing softly
and crying. Finally he rolled
over, pulled his foot out of the
mess, and took off his shoes. They
were full of mud—sticky sandy
mud.
The dark world was reeling
about him, and the wind was dragging
at his breath. He fell back
against the sand pile and let his
feet sink in the mud hole and wriggled
his toes. He was laughing
soundlessly, and his face was wet
in the wind. He couldn't think. He
couldn't remember where he was
and why, and he stopped caring,
and after a while he felt better.
The stars were swimming over
him, dancing crazily, and the mud
cooled his feet, and the sand was
soft behind him. He saw a rocket
go up on a tail of flame from the
station, and waited for the sound of
its blast, but he was already asleep
when it came.
It was far past midnight when he
became conscious of the dog licking
wetly at his ear and cheek. He
pushed the animal away with a low
curse and mopped at the side of his
face. He stirred, and groaned. His
feet were burning up! He tried to
pull them toward him, but they
wouldn't budge. There was something
wrong with his legs.
For an instant he stared wildly
around in the night. Then he remembered
where he was, closed his
eyes and shuddered. When he
opened them again, the moon had
emerged from behind a cloud, and
he could see clearly the cruel trap
into which he had accidentally
stumbled. A pile of old boards, a
careful stack of new lumber, a
pick and shovel, a sand-pile, heaps
of fresh-turned earth, and a concrete
mixer—well, it added up.
He gripped his ankles and pulled,
but his feet wouldn't budge. In
sudden terror, he tried to stand up,
but his ankles were clutched by the
concrete too, and he fell back in
the sand with a low moan. He lay
still for several minutes, considering
carefully.
He pulled at his left foot. It was
locked in a vise. He tugged even
more desperately at his right foot.
It was equally immovable.
He sat up with a whimper and
clawed at the rough concrete until
his nails tore and his fingertips
bled. The surface still felt damp,
but it had hardened while he slept.
He sat there stunned until Hooky
began licking at his scuffed fingers.
He shouldered the dog away, and
dug his hands into the sand-pile to
stop the bleeding. Hooky licked at
his face, panting love.
"Get away!" he croaked savagely.
The dog whined softly, trotted
a short distance away, circled, and
came back to crouch down in the
sand directly before Hogey, inching
forward experimentally.
Hogey gripped fistfuls of the dry
sand and cursed between his teeth,
while his eyes wandered over the
sky. They came to rest on the sliver
of light—the space station—rising
in the west, floating out in Big Bottomless
where the gang was—Nichols
and Guerrera and Lavrenti
and Fats. And he wasn't forgetting
Keesey, the rookie who'd replaced
him.
Keesey would have a rough time
for a while—rough as a cob. The pit
was no playground. The first time
you went out of the station in a
suit, the pit got you. Everything
was falling, and you fell, with it.
Everything. The skeletons of steel,
the tire-shaped station, the spheres
and docks and nightmare shapes—all
tied together by umbilical cables
and flexible tubes. Like some crazy
sea-thing they seemed, floating in a
black ocean with its tentacles bound
together by drifting strands in the
dark tide that bore it.
Everything was pain-bright or
dead black, and it wheeled around
you, and you went nuts trying to
figure which way was down. In fact,
it took you months to teach your
body that all ways were down and
that the pit was bottomless.
He became conscious of a plaintive
sound in the wind, and froze to
listen.
It was a baby crying.
It was nearly a minute before he
got the significance of it. It hit him
where he lived, and he began jerking
frantically at his encased feet
and sobbing low in his throat.
They'd hear him if he kept that up.
He stopped and covered his ears to
close out the cry of his firstborn. A
light went on in the house, and
when it went off again, the infant's
cry had ceased.
Another rocket went up from the
station, and he cursed it. Space was
a disease, and he had it.
"Help!" he cried out suddenly.
"I'm stuck! Help me, help me!"
He knew he was yelling hysterically
at the sky and fighting the relentless
concrete that clutched his
feet, and after a moment he stopped.
The light was on in the house
again, and he heard faint sounds.
The stirring-about woke the baby
again, and once more the infant's
wail came on the breeze.
Make the kid shut up, make the
kid shut up ...
But that was no good. It wasn't
the kid's fault. It wasn't Marie's
fault. No fathers allowed in space,
they said, but it wasn't their fault
either. They were right, and he had
only himself to blame. The kid was
an accident, but that didn't change
anything. Not a thing in the world.
It remained a tragedy.
A tumbler had no business with a
family, but what was a man going
to do? Take a skinning knife, boy,
and make yourself a eunuch. But
that was no good either. They needed
bulls out there in the pit, not
steers. And when a man came down
from a year's hitch, what was he
going to do? Live in a lonely shack
and read books for kicks? Because
you were a man, you sought out a
woman. And because she was a
woman, she got a kid, and that was
the end of it. It was nobody's fault,
nobody's at all.
He stared at the red eye of Mars
low in the southwest. They were
running out there now, and next
year he would have been on the
long long run ...
But there was no use thinking
about it. Next year and the years
after belonged to little Hogey.
He sat there with his feet locked
in the solid concrete of the footing,
staring out into Big Bottomless
while his son's cry came from the
house and the Hauptman menfolk
came wading through the tall grass
in search of someone who had cried
out. His feet were stuck tight, and
he wouldn't ever get them out. He
was sobbing softly when they found
him.
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What is the plot of the story?
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After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about DEATH STAR by TOM PACE.
Relevant chunks:
DEATH STAR
By TOM PACE
Trapped by the most feared of space pirates Devil Garrett, Starrett Blade was fighting for his life. Weaponless, his ship gone, he was pinning his hopes on a girl—who wanted him dead.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1945. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Starrett Blade crouched in the rocks by the tiny Centaurian lake. It was only about two or three hundred feet across, but probably thousands of feet deep. This lake, and hundreds of others like it, were the only things to break the monotony of the flat, rocky surface of Alpha Centauri III—called the most barren planet in space.
Ten minutes ago, Star Blade's ship had spun into the stagnant waters before him. An emergency release had flung the air-lock doors open, and the air pressure had flung Star out. And now he was waiting for Devil Garrett to come down to the water's edge to search for him.
For eight years, Devil Garrett had been the top space pirate in the void. For a year, Star himself had personally been hunting him. And on a tour over Alpha III, a Barden energy-beam had stabbed up at Blade's ship, and Star Blade had crashed into the lake.
That Barden Beam had Star worried and puzzled. It took a million volts of power for a split-second flash of the beam. Garrett didn't have an atomics plant on Alpha III—if he had, escaping rays would point it out, no matter how well it was camouflaged. There was no water power, for there was no running water. There were only the lakes ... and tidal power was out, for Alpha III had no moon.
However, that could wait. Star slid the electron knife from his water-proof sheath, gripped it firmly. He could hear quick footsteps as a man came down the trail that led directly past his hiding place.
It wasn't Garrett, which was disappointing. But it was one of his men, and he was heavily armed. That didn't worry Star.
His fighting had earned Starrett Blade the nickname of "Death Star."
The man walked to the water's edge, and peered out over the pool. He saw the bubbles that were coming up from the sinking ship, and he nodded, grunted in satisfaction, and started to turn back.
Star landed on him, knocking him sprawling on the rock. The pirate jerked up an arm, holding the jet-gun.
The stabbing lance of blue fire cracked from the electron knife, dug into the man's heart.
Star tossed the dead pirate's cloak over his shoulders, and thrust both electron blade and jet-gun into his belt. He straightened, and saw the leveled gun from the corner of his eye.
He got the jet in his right hand, the knife in his left, and went into a dive that flipped him behind a rock. The three actions took only a split-second, and the blast from the jet-gun flaked rock where he had been standing.
While a jet-gun is the most deadly weapon known, you have to press a loading stud to slide another blast-capsule into place. Death Star knew this very well. So he knew he was safe in coming up from behind the spur of stone to fire his own gun.
If his reflexes hadn't been as quick as they were, he would have blasted the girl.
He stopped, and stood for a second, staring at the girl. She was something to invite stares, too. In the moment that lasted between her next move, he had time to register that she was about five feet five tall, black-haired—the kind of black hair that looks like silken spun darkness—dark-eyed, and possessing both a face and a form that would make anyone stop and gulp.
Then the moment of half-awed survey was over, and she leveled the jet on him, and said in a trembling voice, "Drop those weapons, or I'll blast you ... pirate !"
Death Star said, "That jet-gun is empty. I can see the register on the magazine. And I'm not a pirate. I'm Starrett Blade."
The useless jet-gun slid out of the girl's hand, and she gave a half-gasp. "Starrett Blade! I—I don't believe ..." she broke off abruptly. "So you're Death Star! A fine story for a hired killer, a pirate."
Star reddened. "Look," he snapped, "I don't know who's been talking to you, but ..." he whirled, and his hand whipped the jet-gun from his belt. As he did so, the girl jerked up the jet-gun she had dropped, and flung it with all her strength. The blow landed on his arm and side, and paralyzed him long enough for the man who had leaped out behind him to land a stunning blow against his head. As Star went down, he dizzily cursed himself for becoming interested in the argument with the girl, so that he did not heed his reflexes in time ... and dimly, he wondered why it had seemed so important to convince the lovely dark-haired girl.
Then a bit of the cosmos seemed to fall on Star's head, and he was hurled into blackness.
An eternity seemed to pass.
Deep in the blackness, a light was born. It leaped toward him, a far-away comet rocketing along, coming from some far, unknown corner of the galaxy. It became a flaming sun in a gray-green space, and strangely, there seemed to be several odd planets circling about the sun. Some of them were vast pieces of queer electronic machinery. Some were vague, villainous-looking men. One was the dark-haired girl, and there was lovely contempt in her dark-star pools of eyes.
Then into the midst of this queer universe, there swam a new planet. It was the face of a man, and the man was Devil Garrett.
That brought Star up, out of his daze, onto his feet as though he had been doused with cold water. He stood there, not staring, just looking at Garrett.
The most famous killer in the void was big. He was six feet three, and twice as strong as he looked. He wore a huge high-velocity jet-gun, and a set of electron knives, all of the finest workmanship. He was sitting on a laboratory chair of steel, and the chair bent slightly under his great weight.
He smiled at Star, and there was a touch of hell in the smile. He said,
"Ah, Mr. Garrett."
Star's jaw dropped. "Garrett? What do you—" he broke off. A glance at the girl told him what the purpose was.
"Look, Mr. Devil Garrett," said the pirate, still smiling softly, "Miss Hinton is aware of your identity. There is no need to attempt to fool us.... I've known it was you ever since I flashed that beam at your ship. And you needn't flatter yourself that the Devil's luck is going to hold out as far as you are concerned. For in a very short while, I'm going to have you executed ... before a stellar vision screen, connected with Section Void Headquarters! I wish the authorities to see Devil Garrett die, so that I might collect the reward that is offered on you!"
Star stood quiet, and looked straight into Garrett's eyes. After a minute of silence, Garrett's lips twisted into a smile, and he said mockingly, "Well, pirate? What are you thinking of?"
Star said, in a low, cold voice, "I'm thinking of putting an electron fire-blade into your face, Devil Garrett!"
Garrett laughed ... huge, rather evil, bluff laughter. The mirth of a person who is both powerful and dangerous. And then the girl leaped forward, shaking with rage.
"You beast! Murderer! To accuse this man ... you fool, you might have been able to complete any scheme of escape you had, if you hadn't called yourself Starrett Blade! Mr. Blade...." She gestured toward Garrett, who made a mocking, sardonic bow. "... has given me ample proof that he is who he says! And this long before you came. He's shown me papers giving a description and showing a tri-dimension picture of you...."
Fire leaped in Star's eyes. "Listen ..." he snapped furiously, as he started to step forward. Then Garrett made a signal with his hand, and someone drove a fist against the base of Star's skull.
When Star came to, he was in a cell of sorts. A man standing by the door told him that he was to be executed, "... after Mr. Blade and the lady have eaten." Starrett swore at him, and the man went out, with a mocking "Goodbye, Mr. Garrett!"
Star got up. His head spun, and he almost fell at first, but the daze left in his head from the two blows quickly cleared away. He felt for various weapons which he had hidden about him ... and found them gone. Garrett's men had searched carefully.
Star sat down, his head spinning more now from mystery than from physical pain. He had to keep himself in a whole skin, of course. That was most important right now. But other things were bothering him, tugging at his mind like waves slapping around a swamped ship, each trying to shove it in a different direction.
There was the girl. Star wondered why she always leaped into his mind first. And there was the way Garrett was trying to leave the impression that he was Blade, so that he could kill Blade as Garrett.
Obviously, the reason for that was the girl, Miss Hinton, Garrett had called her. She had been shown faked papers by Garrett, papers proving that the two were ... were whatever Garrett had twisted the story into!
Star clutched at his head. He was in a mess. He was going to be killed, and he was going to die without knowing the score. And he didn't like that. Nor did he like dying as Star Blade shouldn't die; executed as a "wolf's-head" pirate. The girl would be watching, and he felt as if that would make it far worse.
His head came up, and he smiled flintily. He still had an ace card! One hand felt for it, and he shook his head slowly. It was a gamble ... but all the others had been found.
Blade looked up quickly, as the door opened. Two men came into the cell, carrying jet-guns. They motioned Blade to his feet. "Come on, Blade." One began, when the other hit him across the mouth.
"You fool!" he hissed. "You better not call him that; suppose that girl was to hear it? Until the boss gets what he wants on Earth, that girl has got to think that he's Blade! We're killing this guy as Devil Garrett! And a loud-mouthed fool like you ... look out!"
Blade had landed on the bickering men, and was grappling with the one who had called him by name. As the other leaped forward, swinging a clubbing blow with a jet-gun, Star tripped one man into the corner, and ducked under the gun. He hit the man in the stomach, drove a shoulder up under his arms, and smashed the man's face in with a series of sharp blows. The man went reeling backward across the room, and Star's hand leaped toward that "ace card" which he still held.
Devil Garrett stepped in the door, and made a mock out of a courteous bow. As he did so, Star snarled in rage, but stood very still, for the electron knife in Garrett's hand did not waver.
Garrett gestured silently toward the door, and Star, equally silent, walked over and out, at the point of the weapon.
Star Blade stood before a transmitter, and thought about death.
He was very close to it. Garrett stood five yards away, a gun in his hand, and the muzzle trained on Blade's chest. The gun was the universally used weapon of execution, an old projectile-firing weapon.
Star did not doubt that Devil Garrett was an excellent shot with it.
The girl, very round-eyed and nervous, sat by Garrett. He had explained to her that Garrett was the type of pirate that it is law to kill, or have executed, by anyone. Which was very true.
A man stepped away from the transmitter, and nodded to Garrett. Star felt a surge of hope, as he saw that it was a two-way transmitter. If the image of an Interstellar Command headquarters was tuned in—Garrett would undoubtedly do it, if only to show the police that he had killed Starrett Blade—then Garrett could not kill him and cut the beam in time to prevent one of the police from giving a cry that would echo over the sub-space beam arriving almost instantly in this room, and let the girl know that she had been tricked. And Garrett would not want that. Not that it would matter to Starrett Blade.
Then Star saw what kind of a transmitter it was, and he groaned. It was not a Hineson Sub-space beamer ... it was an old-style transmitter which had different wave speeds, because of the different space-bridger units in it.
The visual image would arrive many seconds before the sound did. Thus the girl would not hear Garrett revealed, but would see only Blade's death. And then ... whatever Garrett had planned, Blade wished heartily that he could have the chance to interfere.
The beam was coming in. Star saw the mists swimming on the screen change, solidify into a figure ... the figure of District Commander Weddel seated at a desk. He saw Weddel's eyebrows rise, saw his lips move—then Garrett stepped over a pace, and Weddel saw him, saw the gun in his hand....
The police officer yelled, silently, and came to his feet, an expression of shocked surprise on his face—surprise, Blade thought desperately, that the girl might interpret as shock at seeing Devil Garrett.
Which was right, in a way.
Then, as Commander Weddel leapt to his feet, as Devil Garrett's finger tightened on the trigger, as the girl sucked in her breath involuntarily, Star Blade scooped up a bit of metal—a fork—and flung it at the vision transmitter.
Not at the screen. But at the equipment behind the dial-board. At a certain small unit, which was almost covered by wires and braces for the large tubes. And the fork struck it, bit deep, and caused result.
Result in the form of a burned-out set. If television equipment can curse, that set cursed them. Its spitting of sparks and blue electric flame mingled with a strange, high-pitched whine.
It was the diversion that caused Garrett to miss Star, which gave him time to pull three or four of Garrett's men onto the floor with him. One of the men drove the butt of a jet-gun into the side of Star's head, and for the third time, he went very limp. The last thing he saw was the girl.
Somehow, the expression on her face was different from what it had been. He was searching for the difference, when the blow struck him. Somewhere in the space that lies between consciousness and unconsciousness, he reflected bitterly that if he kept staring at the girl when he should be fighting, he might not recover some day. This was the third time that he had been knocked out that way. It was not getting monotonous. He still felt it a novelty.
Star awoke in the same prison cell, facing the wall away from the door. He wondered if he were still alive, tried to move his head, and decided that he wasn't. He didn't even get up or look around when he dimly heard the door being opened.
But when he heard the girl's voice, he came up and around very swiftly, despite his head.
It was the girl all right. Even through the tumbled mists of his brain, he could see that she was not a dream. And as he reeled and fell against the wall, she was beside him in a flash, her arm supporting him.
At first he tried to push himself erect, his head whirling with sick dizziness, and bewilderment. Through a twisting haze, he peered up at the girl's face. It reflected a look that, amazingly, was one of—with no other phrase to do—compassion. Star half-sighed, and laid his head on the girl's breast, and closed his eyes.
In a minute or two, she said tensely, "Are you all right?" Star looked up at her.
"I guess so. Here—give a hand while I get my balance." She held him as he tried a step or two, and then he straightened. "I guess I'll be all right, now," he smiled. "My head feels like—say! How come you're doing this? What made you change your mind? And who are you?"
She said quickly, breathlessly, "I know you're Star Blade, now. That transmission set.... I can read lips! I knew what that officer was saying! It was just as if I had heard him say that ... that you were Starrett Blade and that man out there is Devil Garrett!" she made a choking sound. "And I've been here, alone, for a month! For a month!"
"A month? Huh—please—you...?"
Star took a breath, and started over. "You.... Who are you? What are you doing here?"
She said, "I'm Anne Hinton. My father is Old John Hinton. Have you heard of him?"
"Of course!" said Star. "He manufactures most of the equipment ' Blade Cosmian ' uses. Weapons, Hineson Sub-Spacers, Star-Traveler craft ... the ship I was in when Garrett brought me down was a Hinton craft. I should have recognized the name. But go on. What—"
"Garrett communicated with dad, secretly. He posed as Starrett Blade, as you, and told dad that he was developing certain new power processes. And he is! He has a new—or maybe it isn't so new—way of electrolyzing water to liberate hydrogen and oxygen."
"I think I understand," said Star quickly. "When the oxygen and hydrogen are allowed to combine, and produce an explosion which drive a turbine-generator. Then that could be hitched up to a cyclotron, and even the most barren of Alpha's lake-rock planets could be...."
"No," she shook her head puzzledly. "It's just electric power. He said that atomics would release stray rays that would attract pirates."
"I know," Star nodded, abstractedly. "I was thinking of another application of it ... hmm. But say! What was Garrett after? I know that he wouldn't do this just to get a secret process sold. He must have had another plan behind it. Got any idea?"
Anne shook her head slowly. "I don't know. I can't see...."
"Perhaps I could help you?" Devil Garrett asked smoothly from the door.
Star whirled, thrust Anne behind him, but there was no way out. Garrett stood in the door, and there were men behind him. The jet in his hand could kill both of the two at one shot. And they had no weapons to resist with.
Devil Garrett stepped them out of the room, and down the corridor, through a large door Star had noticed at the end of the passage, and into a huge room.
It must have been a thousand feet long, and half that wide. It was at least a hundred yards deep. And it was almost filled with gigantic machines.
Between the machinery, the spaces were almost filled with steel ladders and cat-walks. Crews of men swarmed over them. It was the largest mass of equipment Starrett had ever seen.
His eyes began to pick out details. Those huge vat-like things down at the far end, with the large cables running into them, and the mighty pumps connected to them ... they were probably the electrolysis chambers.
And those great pipes, they must carry the hydrogen and oxygen from the electro chambers to the large replicas of engines, which could be nothing else but the explosion chambers, where the gases were allowed to re-unite, and explode. And there by the giant engines, those must be turbines, which in turn connected with the vast-sized generators just under the platforms on which they stood.
Star Blade whistled softly through his teeth. A huge enterprise! It could be ... but for a moment he had forgotten Devil Garrett.
The girl standing by his side, Star turned toward Garrett. "Well?"
Garrett smiled his mocking grin. "You grasp the principle, of course. But let me show you ... you see those pipes that run from the turbines after the wheels?"
"Yes. They carry the gases off. Where do they lead?"
"Into giant subterranean caverns beneath the surface!" Garrett said.
"Now look over there, on the platforms across from us. Can you recognize a Barden energy-beamer, Blade? Run by power from my little plant here, which is run by water from a thousand lakes!
"Just imagine, if you can, hundreds of those plants all over Alpha III. And each one with dozens of high-powered Barden beams to protect it! And Hinton ray screens to protect us from radio-controlled rocket shells from space, or Barden Rays, or any other weapon of offence, or to warn if anyone lands on this planet!" Garrett leaned forward, his eyes aglow.
"Blade, I'll take over the few governing posts on this little planet, and I'll rule an entire world, a whole planet to myself! It'll be the first time in history! And it won't be the last. With the Hinton secret patents, the plans of all John Hinton's inventions and processes...."
Star twisted, and got his "ace card" out of its hiding place.
It was a jet weapon, little more than a jet-blast capsule for a jet-gun. The sides were thicker and stronger, and there was a device fixed on it so it could be fired. Altogether, it was somewhat smaller than an old-style fountain pen.
He twisted up from the floor, and moved faster than he had moved ever before. Star was famous for his speed and the quickness and alertness of his reflexes. He earned his fame a score of times over in that one instant.
And Devil Garrett died.
There was perhaps an eighth of a second between the staff of blue white fire from the tiny jet in Star's hand and the huge broadsword of fire from Garrett's gun. But in the split-second Star's fire knifed into Garrett's vitals, and Garrett gave a convulsive jerk, and fired even as his muscles started the jerking movement.
And the flame went over Star's head, singeing his scalp.
Of the four men with Garrett, one let go of the struggling Anne, and swore as he snatched at an electron knife in his belt. Anne's hand had already whipped the knife out, and without bothering to press the electron stud, she buried the knife in his back.
Two of the remaining men whirled, and went for the door as though a devil was after them. The other tried to get a jet-gun out. It was his final mistake. A blue lance from Anne's knife whipped close enough to him to make him dodge, and then Star got his hand on Garrett's jet.
The other two men had, in their flight, taken a door which led, not into the large corridor, but into a small room at one side, a room filled with instruments and recording devices for the machinery in the room below. Star leaped to the side of the door, and called, "Are you going to come out, or am I coming in to get you?"
There was a short silence, in which Anne heard one say hoarsely, "He can't get us ... we could get him if he came in the door."
"Oh, yes?" was the answer. "Do you know who that guy is? He's the one they call 'Death Star.' I'm not facing Starrett Blade in a gun fight. You can do what you like, but I'm leaving." Then he lifted his voice.
"Hey, Blade! I'm coming out. Don't shoot."
"Okay," threw back Star and the man appeared in the doorway, empty hands held high. After a second, the other joined him.
Anne turned to Star. "Now I know why they call you 'Death Star' Blade," she said, and gestured toward the men who had surrendered, and the two whom Starrett had shot down.
He mused there for a minute. Then Anne broke the silence with, "Star, what are we going to do now? Garrett's men will be up here in a little while. We can't get to a sub-space beam. What are we going to do when they come up to investigate?"
Starrett Blade laughed. "Do? Well, we could turn them over to Commander Weddel!"
" What? "
Grinning broadly, Star pointed, with a flourish, at the door. Anne spun about, and found Commander Weddel grinning in the door from the corridor.
"Very simple," said Star across the lounge to Anne. "When I smashed the vision set with that dinner fork, I broke a small unit which is included in all sets. You know, a direction finder doesn't work, except in the liner-beam principle, in space, because of the diffusing effect of unrestricted cosmic rays."
"Yes, I knew that," said Anne. "But how—"
Starrett grinned again. "A type of beam has been found which it is impossible for cosmics to disturb. But you can't send messages on it, so it is made in a little unit on every set. If that unit is broken, the set automatically releases a signal beam. This is a distress signal, and the location of the set that sent out the signal is recorded at the Section Headquarters. When Commander Weddel saw me throw something at the set, and it went dead, he looked at the automatic record, and found out that a signal had been sent in from a location on Alpha Cen's third planet. Then he had a high-velocity cruiser brought out and dropped in, in time to pick up some pieces." He stopped, and idly toyed with a sheaf of papers, then held them up. "See these papers?"
"Uh-huh. What are they, Star?"
"They are the main plans of Devil Garrett's power plant, and they're the one good thing he's ever done. These plans are going to bring the barren, rocky Centauri planets to life!"
He got up, and paced to the window, and stood there, looking out, and up through the plastic port. "The planets of Centauri!" he murmured softly. "Seven circling Alpha alone. And all seven are barren, rocky, level except for the thousands of lakes ... lakes that are going to be the life of Centauri!"
He turned back to the window. "And all because a pirate named Devil Garrett built a vast power plant to use to garner more power!"
"You know, Anne, as a mockery, and a warning, I think I'll propose that this planet be officially named ... 'Garrett'!"
She looked up at him, and there was laughter bright in her eyes, and tugging at her mouth. "Yes, there ought to be a reason," she murmured. Star wavered. She was so darn close.
After a minute, she turned her head, and looked up at him. "Star, how soon will there be those gardens and woods you described? I mean, how long before Garrett can be turned into that kind of world you described?"
"Why ... under pressure, we can do it in six months. Why?"
"Not half quick enough," she murmured happily, "but it'll have to do, Star." Laughing, she turned her face up to his. "Have you ever thought that planet Garrett will be wonderful for a honeymoon?"
Question:
What is the plot of the story?
Answer:
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[
"The story starts with Starrett (Star) Blade’s ship falling into one of the lakes on Alpha Centauri III. We then learns that Currently Star is trying to hunt Devil Garrett down, but his ship was hit by an energy-beam shot by Garrett, who is the top space pirate for years. After he fell, he hopes that Garrett himself will come here to look for him, but only one of Garrett’s men appears and he is killed by Star. He also notices a person with another gun right after he murders that man. He almost kills this person as well, but is able to stop in time due to his strong reflex skills. The reason that he stopped is because she is a girl. She has beautiful dark colored hair and eyes. But she does not stop trying to capture him. Before he can explain himself, he is knocked out. \n\nWhen Star has finally waken up, he is already in a lab chair with Garrett is right in front of him. To his surprise, Garrett calls him Garrett, instead of Star. The girl clearly believes Garrett that Star is actually Garrett. However, again, before he can explain his situation to the girl, he is knocked out. Right after he wakes up, he learns that he will be executed. Then, he starts thinking of the girl again, but he does not really understand why he is thinking of her. Before he can do anything, he is taken from his cell. Standing 5 yards away from the gun that Garrett is holding, he tries to find a way that he could escape. He is glad to see that it is a two way transmitter, but loses his hope again when he realizes that it is an old-style transmitter. Then as the visual image started to form, Garrett is ready to perform the execution. Star cunningly kicks the metal fork onto the vision transmitter, which diverts Garrett’s attention, and causes him to miss the shot. But because he is outnumbered by Garrett’s men, he is caught and knocked out again. After he wake up, the girl finds him and tells him that she is capable of reading lips. Even though the visual images has no sound, she knows what the Section Void Headquarters said, and that he is the actual Star. \n\nGarrett enters the cell after he finds out that the girl knows the real identity of him and Star. So he brings them to a room filled with machines. He imagines to have hundreds of those on Alpha III and he will be able to rule an entire world. Then suddenly the girl takes Garrett’s weapon and Star is able to kill him very quickly. And Commander Weddel, getting the signal that Star tried to send using the metal fork, gets here just on time to capture Garrett’s men. ",
"Starrett Blade’s ship has crashed into one of the deep stagnant lakes on the surface of Alpha Centauri III, struck down by a Barden energy beam fired by Devil Garrett, a space pirate. Star Blade, ejected to safety and now hiding by the lake, waits for Garrett to come for him. Meanwhile, he wonders about the source of the energy for the Barden Beam, as Garrett doesn’t have power plants on the planet, nor is there running water to generate hydroelectric power. Suddenly, Star notices one of Garrett’s soldiers and ambushes him. \nStar Blade, who has earned the nickname Death Star for his fighting prowess, dispatches his fist adversary, and soon after notices another: a beautiful, dark-haired woman. She confronts him, calling him a pirate. He dismisses this accusation, and asserts his identity, but she does not believe him. A brief fight ensues, but is quickly settled when Star is struck by another combatant.\nAs Star wakes in a cell, he is confronted by Devil Garrett’s face, Garrett’s underlings, and the dark-haired woman. Garrett, who has assumed Star Blade’s identity in order to trick the woman whom he calls Miss Hinton, announces that he will shortly execute Blade, whom he has tricked Hinton into believing is himself. \nStar is brought before a transmitter which only transmits images. As the live image of Commander Weddel, a police officer, appears on the screen, Garrett quickly throws a piece of metal at the transmitter’s dial board and disrupts the transmission. One of Garrett’s men renders Star unconscious. \nStar regains consciousness and finds Hinton in his cell. She reveals that, during the transmission, she was able to read Weddel’s lips and now believes that he is who he claims to be. She introduces herself to be Anne Hinton, daughter of a weapons manufacturer whom Garrett had secretly contacted while posing as Star. Anne tells Star that Garrett has discovered a method of electrolyzing water into its elemental constituents, which Star speculates to be a potential source of energy. \nSuddenly, Garrett enters the room and leads Anne and Star to a cavernous room at gunpoint. The room is full of vats and machinery, which Star concludes are the reaction vessels in which water is electrolyzed and the energy generated. Garrett reveals that his plan is to use his technology to construct many Barden Beams in order to take over the planet. \nStar removes an obscured weapon, and dispatches Devil Garrett. He quickly takes out two more pirates, before two more surrender. Commander Weddel appears, and Star reveals that his damaging the transmitter resulted in a distress signal being sent out.\nThe story concludes with Anna asking how soon the technology discovered by Garrett can be used to bring life to Alpha Centauri III, and her asking him if it would be a good place to honeymoon. \n",
"Starrett Blade, a fighter nicknamed \"Death Star\", has been on the hunt for Devil Garrett, the most dangerous and well-known space pirate. While flying over Alpha Centauri III, a barren and lifeless planet, Star's ship is shot down by a Barden beam, causing him to crash into a lake. Confused as to how such a powerful beam could have been shot on this planet, Star is met with one of Garrett's armed men. Star attacks the man and sees a girl, who he is perplexed by. The girl threatens him, and Star replies by explaining that he's not a pirate, but Death Star. The girl immediately attacks him, knocking him out. Star awakes in a room with the girl, some more men, and face to face with Devil Garrett. To his surprise, Garrett addresses him as the deadly pirate, and calls himself Starrett Blade. Star realizes that Garrett has attempted to swap identities with him, convincing the girl that Garrett was actually the one being captured. Garrett tells Star that he is to be executed, broadcasted to the authorities. Star is knocked out again, this time waking up in a cell and rid of all weapons except for his ace card. Two of Garrett's men enter the cell, and Star attempts to fight them both, which is successful, but his plan is cut short when Garrett steps into the room. Star is led to the execution site, where he stands by a transmitter with Garrett in front of him bearing a gun, the girl next to him. Star inspects the transmitter and realizes that there is a chance the authorities will be able to identify him as the true Star, hopeful that the girl will realize her mistake; however, he concludes that the transmitter's sound wave speed would not be fast enough for the message to come through. As Star faces execution, he flings a fork at the transmitter, damaging a unit of the machine and burning it out. This causes a distraction, and Star is attacked by Garrett's men and falls unconscious again, yet this time accompanied by the girl, who knows now of his true identity due to her ability to read lips on the transmitter. The girl reveals she is Anne Hinton, daughter of John Hinton, who manufactures space equipment. Garrett contacted John, disguising himself as Star to gain his support in crafting hundreds of power plants with Barden beams in order to gain control of the entire planet of Alpha III. Once Garrett reveals his plan, Star uses his ace card, which is a jet weapon, to kill him. Together, Anne and Star fight off Garrett's men, and Star reveals that when he flung the fork at the transmitter, it set off a signal attracting the authorities to their location. With that, Commander Weddel arrives and Garrett's men are turned over to him. Garrett's power plants are then used not for the objective to gain dangerous power, but to supply energy and life to the planet.",
"The story begins with Starrett’s Blade being destroyed and sinking in a body of water. He was able to save himself because of an emergency release that allowed him to be ejected from the air-locked doors. Star is attacked by a man but successfully kills the man with his electron knife. After he kills the man, he sees a girl that distracts him. While he is distracted, he is struck and beaten. When he wakes up after being beaten, he is standing in front of Garrett. Garrett pretends that he is actually Star, for the benefit of the girl, and pretends that Star is actually Garrett. Garret tells Star that he is going to be executed and puts Star into a prison cell.\n\nStar wakes up in his prison cell and is still concerned about what the girl thinks of him. Star fights against the two guards that come to get him from his cell. He stops fighting them when Garrett appears holding an electron knife, as Star sees that as a dangerous weapon. Star is guided towards the transmitter for his planned executive. However, Star thwarts the execution plans by throwing a metal fork at the transmitter which damages it. Again, he gets distracted because of the girl and is beaten. \n\nLater, the girl appears in his cell trying to help him. She tells him that she is Anne Hinton, the daughter of Old John Hinton. Start mentions that he is familiar with her father. Garrett finds the two trying to escape. He leads them down a long corridor and into an incredibly expansive room. Garrett tells them his plan to control the world. Star remembers that he has another weapon at his disposal and uses it to kill Garrett. Anne and Star then go on to kill some of the guards. Commander Weddel shows up to Star’s delight after the Commander received a distress signal from the transmitter. Star is excited about Garrett’s power plant as he exclaims that it will bring life to the barren Centauri planets. \n"
] |
63419
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DEATH STAR
By TOM PACE
Trapped by the most feared of space pirates Devil Garrett, Starrett Blade was fighting for his life. Weaponless, his ship gone, he was pinning his hopes on a girl—who wanted him dead.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1945. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Starrett Blade crouched in the rocks by the tiny Centaurian lake. It was only about two or three hundred feet across, but probably thousands of feet deep. This lake, and hundreds of others like it, were the only things to break the monotony of the flat, rocky surface of Alpha Centauri III—called the most barren planet in space.
Ten minutes ago, Star Blade's ship had spun into the stagnant waters before him. An emergency release had flung the air-lock doors open, and the air pressure had flung Star out. And now he was waiting for Devil Garrett to come down to the water's edge to search for him.
For eight years, Devil Garrett had been the top space pirate in the void. For a year, Star himself had personally been hunting him. And on a tour over Alpha III, a Barden energy-beam had stabbed up at Blade's ship, and Star Blade had crashed into the lake.
That Barden Beam had Star worried and puzzled. It took a million volts of power for a split-second flash of the beam. Garrett didn't have an atomics plant on Alpha III—if he had, escaping rays would point it out, no matter how well it was camouflaged. There was no water power, for there was no running water. There were only the lakes ... and tidal power was out, for Alpha III had no moon.
However, that could wait. Star slid the electron knife from his water-proof sheath, gripped it firmly. He could hear quick footsteps as a man came down the trail that led directly past his hiding place.
It wasn't Garrett, which was disappointing. But it was one of his men, and he was heavily armed. That didn't worry Star.
His fighting had earned Starrett Blade the nickname of "Death Star."
The man walked to the water's edge, and peered out over the pool. He saw the bubbles that were coming up from the sinking ship, and he nodded, grunted in satisfaction, and started to turn back.
Star landed on him, knocking him sprawling on the rock. The pirate jerked up an arm, holding the jet-gun.
The stabbing lance of blue fire cracked from the electron knife, dug into the man's heart.
Star tossed the dead pirate's cloak over his shoulders, and thrust both electron blade and jet-gun into his belt. He straightened, and saw the leveled gun from the corner of his eye.
He got the jet in his right hand, the knife in his left, and went into a dive that flipped him behind a rock. The three actions took only a split-second, and the blast from the jet-gun flaked rock where he had been standing.
While a jet-gun is the most deadly weapon known, you have to press a loading stud to slide another blast-capsule into place. Death Star knew this very well. So he knew he was safe in coming up from behind the spur of stone to fire his own gun.
If his reflexes hadn't been as quick as they were, he would have blasted the girl.
He stopped, and stood for a second, staring at the girl. She was something to invite stares, too. In the moment that lasted between her next move, he had time to register that she was about five feet five tall, black-haired—the kind of black hair that looks like silken spun darkness—dark-eyed, and possessing both a face and a form that would make anyone stop and gulp.
Then the moment of half-awed survey was over, and she leveled the jet on him, and said in a trembling voice, "Drop those weapons, or I'll blast you ... pirate !"
Death Star said, "That jet-gun is empty. I can see the register on the magazine. And I'm not a pirate. I'm Starrett Blade."
The useless jet-gun slid out of the girl's hand, and she gave a half-gasp. "Starrett Blade! I—I don't believe ..." she broke off abruptly. "So you're Death Star! A fine story for a hired killer, a pirate."
Star reddened. "Look," he snapped, "I don't know who's been talking to you, but ..." he whirled, and his hand whipped the jet-gun from his belt. As he did so, the girl jerked up the jet-gun she had dropped, and flung it with all her strength. The blow landed on his arm and side, and paralyzed him long enough for the man who had leaped out behind him to land a stunning blow against his head. As Star went down, he dizzily cursed himself for becoming interested in the argument with the girl, so that he did not heed his reflexes in time ... and dimly, he wondered why it had seemed so important to convince the lovely dark-haired girl.
Then a bit of the cosmos seemed to fall on Star's head, and he was hurled into blackness.
An eternity seemed to pass.
Deep in the blackness, a light was born. It leaped toward him, a far-away comet rocketing along, coming from some far, unknown corner of the galaxy. It became a flaming sun in a gray-green space, and strangely, there seemed to be several odd planets circling about the sun. Some of them were vast pieces of queer electronic machinery. Some were vague, villainous-looking men. One was the dark-haired girl, and there was lovely contempt in her dark-star pools of eyes.
Then into the midst of this queer universe, there swam a new planet. It was the face of a man, and the man was Devil Garrett.
That brought Star up, out of his daze, onto his feet as though he had been doused with cold water. He stood there, not staring, just looking at Garrett.
The most famous killer in the void was big. He was six feet three, and twice as strong as he looked. He wore a huge high-velocity jet-gun, and a set of electron knives, all of the finest workmanship. He was sitting on a laboratory chair of steel, and the chair bent slightly under his great weight.
He smiled at Star, and there was a touch of hell in the smile. He said,
"Ah, Mr. Garrett."
Star's jaw dropped. "Garrett? What do you—" he broke off. A glance at the girl told him what the purpose was.
"Look, Mr. Devil Garrett," said the pirate, still smiling softly, "Miss Hinton is aware of your identity. There is no need to attempt to fool us.... I've known it was you ever since I flashed that beam at your ship. And you needn't flatter yourself that the Devil's luck is going to hold out as far as you are concerned. For in a very short while, I'm going to have you executed ... before a stellar vision screen, connected with Section Void Headquarters! I wish the authorities to see Devil Garrett die, so that I might collect the reward that is offered on you!"
Star stood quiet, and looked straight into Garrett's eyes. After a minute of silence, Garrett's lips twisted into a smile, and he said mockingly, "Well, pirate? What are you thinking of?"
Star said, in a low, cold voice, "I'm thinking of putting an electron fire-blade into your face, Devil Garrett!"
Garrett laughed ... huge, rather evil, bluff laughter. The mirth of a person who is both powerful and dangerous. And then the girl leaped forward, shaking with rage.
"You beast! Murderer! To accuse this man ... you fool, you might have been able to complete any scheme of escape you had, if you hadn't called yourself Starrett Blade! Mr. Blade...." She gestured toward Garrett, who made a mocking, sardonic bow. "... has given me ample proof that he is who he says! And this long before you came. He's shown me papers giving a description and showing a tri-dimension picture of you...."
Fire leaped in Star's eyes. "Listen ..." he snapped furiously, as he started to step forward. Then Garrett made a signal with his hand, and someone drove a fist against the base of Star's skull.
When Star came to, he was in a cell of sorts. A man standing by the door told him that he was to be executed, "... after Mr. Blade and the lady have eaten." Starrett swore at him, and the man went out, with a mocking "Goodbye, Mr. Garrett!"
Star got up. His head spun, and he almost fell at first, but the daze left in his head from the two blows quickly cleared away. He felt for various weapons which he had hidden about him ... and found them gone. Garrett's men had searched carefully.
Star sat down, his head spinning more now from mystery than from physical pain. He had to keep himself in a whole skin, of course. That was most important right now. But other things were bothering him, tugging at his mind like waves slapping around a swamped ship, each trying to shove it in a different direction.
There was the girl. Star wondered why she always leaped into his mind first. And there was the way Garrett was trying to leave the impression that he was Blade, so that he could kill Blade as Garrett.
Obviously, the reason for that was the girl, Miss Hinton, Garrett had called her. She had been shown faked papers by Garrett, papers proving that the two were ... were whatever Garrett had twisted the story into!
Star clutched at his head. He was in a mess. He was going to be killed, and he was going to die without knowing the score. And he didn't like that. Nor did he like dying as Star Blade shouldn't die; executed as a "wolf's-head" pirate. The girl would be watching, and he felt as if that would make it far worse.
His head came up, and he smiled flintily. He still had an ace card! One hand felt for it, and he shook his head slowly. It was a gamble ... but all the others had been found.
Blade looked up quickly, as the door opened. Two men came into the cell, carrying jet-guns. They motioned Blade to his feet. "Come on, Blade." One began, when the other hit him across the mouth.
"You fool!" he hissed. "You better not call him that; suppose that girl was to hear it? Until the boss gets what he wants on Earth, that girl has got to think that he's Blade! We're killing this guy as Devil Garrett! And a loud-mouthed fool like you ... look out!"
Blade had landed on the bickering men, and was grappling with the one who had called him by name. As the other leaped forward, swinging a clubbing blow with a jet-gun, Star tripped one man into the corner, and ducked under the gun. He hit the man in the stomach, drove a shoulder up under his arms, and smashed the man's face in with a series of sharp blows. The man went reeling backward across the room, and Star's hand leaped toward that "ace card" which he still held.
Devil Garrett stepped in the door, and made a mock out of a courteous bow. As he did so, Star snarled in rage, but stood very still, for the electron knife in Garrett's hand did not waver.
Garrett gestured silently toward the door, and Star, equally silent, walked over and out, at the point of the weapon.
Star Blade stood before a transmitter, and thought about death.
He was very close to it. Garrett stood five yards away, a gun in his hand, and the muzzle trained on Blade's chest. The gun was the universally used weapon of execution, an old projectile-firing weapon.
Star did not doubt that Devil Garrett was an excellent shot with it.
The girl, very round-eyed and nervous, sat by Garrett. He had explained to her that Garrett was the type of pirate that it is law to kill, or have executed, by anyone. Which was very true.
A man stepped away from the transmitter, and nodded to Garrett. Star felt a surge of hope, as he saw that it was a two-way transmitter. If the image of an Interstellar Command headquarters was tuned in—Garrett would undoubtedly do it, if only to show the police that he had killed Starrett Blade—then Garrett could not kill him and cut the beam in time to prevent one of the police from giving a cry that would echo over the sub-space beam arriving almost instantly in this room, and let the girl know that she had been tricked. And Garrett would not want that. Not that it would matter to Starrett Blade.
Then Star saw what kind of a transmitter it was, and he groaned. It was not a Hineson Sub-space beamer ... it was an old-style transmitter which had different wave speeds, because of the different space-bridger units in it.
The visual image would arrive many seconds before the sound did. Thus the girl would not hear Garrett revealed, but would see only Blade's death. And then ... whatever Garrett had planned, Blade wished heartily that he could have the chance to interfere.
The beam was coming in. Star saw the mists swimming on the screen change, solidify into a figure ... the figure of District Commander Weddel seated at a desk. He saw Weddel's eyebrows rise, saw his lips move—then Garrett stepped over a pace, and Weddel saw him, saw the gun in his hand....
The police officer yelled, silently, and came to his feet, an expression of shocked surprise on his face—surprise, Blade thought desperately, that the girl might interpret as shock at seeing Devil Garrett.
Which was right, in a way.
Then, as Commander Weddel leapt to his feet, as Devil Garrett's finger tightened on the trigger, as the girl sucked in her breath involuntarily, Star Blade scooped up a bit of metal—a fork—and flung it at the vision transmitter.
Not at the screen. But at the equipment behind the dial-board. At a certain small unit, which was almost covered by wires and braces for the large tubes. And the fork struck it, bit deep, and caused result.
Result in the form of a burned-out set. If television equipment can curse, that set cursed them. Its spitting of sparks and blue electric flame mingled with a strange, high-pitched whine.
It was the diversion that caused Garrett to miss Star, which gave him time to pull three or four of Garrett's men onto the floor with him. One of the men drove the butt of a jet-gun into the side of Star's head, and for the third time, he went very limp. The last thing he saw was the girl.
Somehow, the expression on her face was different from what it had been. He was searching for the difference, when the blow struck him. Somewhere in the space that lies between consciousness and unconsciousness, he reflected bitterly that if he kept staring at the girl when he should be fighting, he might not recover some day. This was the third time that he had been knocked out that way. It was not getting monotonous. He still felt it a novelty.
Star awoke in the same prison cell, facing the wall away from the door. He wondered if he were still alive, tried to move his head, and decided that he wasn't. He didn't even get up or look around when he dimly heard the door being opened.
But when he heard the girl's voice, he came up and around very swiftly, despite his head.
It was the girl all right. Even through the tumbled mists of his brain, he could see that she was not a dream. And as he reeled and fell against the wall, she was beside him in a flash, her arm supporting him.
At first he tried to push himself erect, his head whirling with sick dizziness, and bewilderment. Through a twisting haze, he peered up at the girl's face. It reflected a look that, amazingly, was one of—with no other phrase to do—compassion. Star half-sighed, and laid his head on the girl's breast, and closed his eyes.
In a minute or two, she said tensely, "Are you all right?" Star looked up at her.
"I guess so. Here—give a hand while I get my balance." She held him as he tried a step or two, and then he straightened. "I guess I'll be all right, now," he smiled. "My head feels like—say! How come you're doing this? What made you change your mind? And who are you?"
She said quickly, breathlessly, "I know you're Star Blade, now. That transmission set.... I can read lips! I knew what that officer was saying! It was just as if I had heard him say that ... that you were Starrett Blade and that man out there is Devil Garrett!" she made a choking sound. "And I've been here, alone, for a month! For a month!"
"A month? Huh—please—you...?"
Star took a breath, and started over. "You.... Who are you? What are you doing here?"
She said, "I'm Anne Hinton. My father is Old John Hinton. Have you heard of him?"
"Of course!" said Star. "He manufactures most of the equipment ' Blade Cosmian ' uses. Weapons, Hineson Sub-Spacers, Star-Traveler craft ... the ship I was in when Garrett brought me down was a Hinton craft. I should have recognized the name. But go on. What—"
"Garrett communicated with dad, secretly. He posed as Starrett Blade, as you, and told dad that he was developing certain new power processes. And he is! He has a new—or maybe it isn't so new—way of electrolyzing water to liberate hydrogen and oxygen."
"I think I understand," said Star quickly. "When the oxygen and hydrogen are allowed to combine, and produce an explosion which drive a turbine-generator. Then that could be hitched up to a cyclotron, and even the most barren of Alpha's lake-rock planets could be...."
"No," she shook her head puzzledly. "It's just electric power. He said that atomics would release stray rays that would attract pirates."
"I know," Star nodded, abstractedly. "I was thinking of another application of it ... hmm. But say! What was Garrett after? I know that he wouldn't do this just to get a secret process sold. He must have had another plan behind it. Got any idea?"
Anne shook her head slowly. "I don't know. I can't see...."
"Perhaps I could help you?" Devil Garrett asked smoothly from the door.
Star whirled, thrust Anne behind him, but there was no way out. Garrett stood in the door, and there were men behind him. The jet in his hand could kill both of the two at one shot. And they had no weapons to resist with.
Devil Garrett stepped them out of the room, and down the corridor, through a large door Star had noticed at the end of the passage, and into a huge room.
It must have been a thousand feet long, and half that wide. It was at least a hundred yards deep. And it was almost filled with gigantic machines.
Between the machinery, the spaces were almost filled with steel ladders and cat-walks. Crews of men swarmed over them. It was the largest mass of equipment Starrett had ever seen.
His eyes began to pick out details. Those huge vat-like things down at the far end, with the large cables running into them, and the mighty pumps connected to them ... they were probably the electrolysis chambers.
And those great pipes, they must carry the hydrogen and oxygen from the electro chambers to the large replicas of engines, which could be nothing else but the explosion chambers, where the gases were allowed to re-unite, and explode. And there by the giant engines, those must be turbines, which in turn connected with the vast-sized generators just under the platforms on which they stood.
Star Blade whistled softly through his teeth. A huge enterprise! It could be ... but for a moment he had forgotten Devil Garrett.
The girl standing by his side, Star turned toward Garrett. "Well?"
Garrett smiled his mocking grin. "You grasp the principle, of course. But let me show you ... you see those pipes that run from the turbines after the wheels?"
"Yes. They carry the gases off. Where do they lead?"
"Into giant subterranean caverns beneath the surface!" Garrett said.
"Now look over there, on the platforms across from us. Can you recognize a Barden energy-beamer, Blade? Run by power from my little plant here, which is run by water from a thousand lakes!
"Just imagine, if you can, hundreds of those plants all over Alpha III. And each one with dozens of high-powered Barden beams to protect it! And Hinton ray screens to protect us from radio-controlled rocket shells from space, or Barden Rays, or any other weapon of offence, or to warn if anyone lands on this planet!" Garrett leaned forward, his eyes aglow.
"Blade, I'll take over the few governing posts on this little planet, and I'll rule an entire world, a whole planet to myself! It'll be the first time in history! And it won't be the last. With the Hinton secret patents, the plans of all John Hinton's inventions and processes...."
Star twisted, and got his "ace card" out of its hiding place.
It was a jet weapon, little more than a jet-blast capsule for a jet-gun. The sides were thicker and stronger, and there was a device fixed on it so it could be fired. Altogether, it was somewhat smaller than an old-style fountain pen.
He twisted up from the floor, and moved faster than he had moved ever before. Star was famous for his speed and the quickness and alertness of his reflexes. He earned his fame a score of times over in that one instant.
And Devil Garrett died.
There was perhaps an eighth of a second between the staff of blue white fire from the tiny jet in Star's hand and the huge broadsword of fire from Garrett's gun. But in the split-second Star's fire knifed into Garrett's vitals, and Garrett gave a convulsive jerk, and fired even as his muscles started the jerking movement.
And the flame went over Star's head, singeing his scalp.
Of the four men with Garrett, one let go of the struggling Anne, and swore as he snatched at an electron knife in his belt. Anne's hand had already whipped the knife out, and without bothering to press the electron stud, she buried the knife in his back.
Two of the remaining men whirled, and went for the door as though a devil was after them. The other tried to get a jet-gun out. It was his final mistake. A blue lance from Anne's knife whipped close enough to him to make him dodge, and then Star got his hand on Garrett's jet.
The other two men had, in their flight, taken a door which led, not into the large corridor, but into a small room at one side, a room filled with instruments and recording devices for the machinery in the room below. Star leaped to the side of the door, and called, "Are you going to come out, or am I coming in to get you?"
There was a short silence, in which Anne heard one say hoarsely, "He can't get us ... we could get him if he came in the door."
"Oh, yes?" was the answer. "Do you know who that guy is? He's the one they call 'Death Star.' I'm not facing Starrett Blade in a gun fight. You can do what you like, but I'm leaving." Then he lifted his voice.
"Hey, Blade! I'm coming out. Don't shoot."
"Okay," threw back Star and the man appeared in the doorway, empty hands held high. After a second, the other joined him.
Anne turned to Star. "Now I know why they call you 'Death Star' Blade," she said, and gestured toward the men who had surrendered, and the two whom Starrett had shot down.
He mused there for a minute. Then Anne broke the silence with, "Star, what are we going to do now? Garrett's men will be up here in a little while. We can't get to a sub-space beam. What are we going to do when they come up to investigate?"
Starrett Blade laughed. "Do? Well, we could turn them over to Commander Weddel!"
" What? "
Grinning broadly, Star pointed, with a flourish, at the door. Anne spun about, and found Commander Weddel grinning in the door from the corridor.
"Very simple," said Star across the lounge to Anne. "When I smashed the vision set with that dinner fork, I broke a small unit which is included in all sets. You know, a direction finder doesn't work, except in the liner-beam principle, in space, because of the diffusing effect of unrestricted cosmic rays."
"Yes, I knew that," said Anne. "But how—"
Starrett grinned again. "A type of beam has been found which it is impossible for cosmics to disturb. But you can't send messages on it, so it is made in a little unit on every set. If that unit is broken, the set automatically releases a signal beam. This is a distress signal, and the location of the set that sent out the signal is recorded at the Section Headquarters. When Commander Weddel saw me throw something at the set, and it went dead, he looked at the automatic record, and found out that a signal had been sent in from a location on Alpha Cen's third planet. Then he had a high-velocity cruiser brought out and dropped in, in time to pick up some pieces." He stopped, and idly toyed with a sheaf of papers, then held them up. "See these papers?"
"Uh-huh. What are they, Star?"
"They are the main plans of Devil Garrett's power plant, and they're the one good thing he's ever done. These plans are going to bring the barren, rocky Centauri planets to life!"
He got up, and paced to the window, and stood there, looking out, and up through the plastic port. "The planets of Centauri!" he murmured softly. "Seven circling Alpha alone. And all seven are barren, rocky, level except for the thousands of lakes ... lakes that are going to be the life of Centauri!"
He turned back to the window. "And all because a pirate named Devil Garrett built a vast power plant to use to garner more power!"
"You know, Anne, as a mockery, and a warning, I think I'll propose that this planet be officially named ... 'Garrett'!"
She looked up at him, and there was laughter bright in her eyes, and tugging at her mouth. "Yes, there ought to be a reason," she murmured. Star wavered. She was so darn close.
After a minute, she turned her head, and looked up at him. "Star, how soon will there be those gardens and woods you described? I mean, how long before Garrett can be turned into that kind of world you described?"
"Why ... under pressure, we can do it in six months. Why?"
"Not half quick enough," she murmured happily, "but it'll have to do, Star." Laughing, she turned her face up to his. "Have you ever thought that planet Garrett will be wonderful for a honeymoon?"
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How does Mury handle himself throughout the story?
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After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about Saboteur of Space by Robert Abernathy.
Relevant chunks:
Saboteur of Space
By ROBERT ABERNATHY
Fresh power was coming to Earth, energy which would bring life to a dying planet. Only two men stood in its way, one a cowardly rat, the other a murderous martyr; both pawns in a cosmic game where death moved his chessmen of fate—and even the winner would lose.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Ryd Randl stood, slouching a little, in the darkened footway, and watched the sky over Dynamopolis come alive with searchlights. The shuttered glow of Burshis' Stumble Inn was only a few yards off to his right, but even that lodestone failed before the novel interest of a ship about to ground in the one-time Port of Ten Thousand Ships.
Now he made out the flicker of the braking drive a mile or so overhead, and presently soft motor thunder came down to blanket the almost lightless city with sound. A beam swayed through the throbbing darkness, caught the descending ship and held it, a small gleaming minnow slipping through the dark heavens. A faint glow rose from Pi Mesa, where the spaceport lay above the city, as a runway lighted up—draining the last reserves of the city's stored power, but draining them gladly now that, in those autumn days of the historic year 819, relief was in sight.
Ryd shrugged limply; the play was meaningless to him. He turned to shuffle down the inviting ramp into the glowing interior of Burshis' dive.
The place was crowded with men and smoke. Perhaps half the former were asleep, on tables or on the floor; but for the few places like Burshis' which were still open under the power shortage, many would have frozen, these days, in the chilly nights at fourteen thousand feet. For Dynamopolis sprawled atop the world, now as in the old days when it had been built to be the power center of North America.
The rocket blasts crescendoed and died up on Pi Mesa as Ryd wedged himself with difficulty into the group along the bar. If anyone recognized him, they showed it only by looking fixedly at something else. Only Burshis Yuns kept his static smile and nodded with surprising friendliness at Ryd's pinched, old-young face.
Ryd was startled by the nod. Burshis finished serving another customer and maneuvered down the stained chrome-and-synthyl bar. Ryd was heartened.
"Say, Burshis," he started nervously, as the bulky man halted with his back to him. But Burshis turned, still smiling, shaking his head so that his jowls quivered.
"No loans," he said flatly. "But just one on the house, Ryd."
The drink almost spilled itself in Ryd's hand. Clutching it convulsively, he made his eyes narrow and said suspiciously, "What you setting 'em up for, Burshis? It's the first time since—"
Burshis' smile stayed put. He said affably, "Didn't you hear that ship that just came down on the Mesa? That was the ship from Mars—the escort they were sending with the power cylinder. The power's coming in again." He turned to greet a coin-tapping newcomer, added over his shoulder: "You know what that means, Ryd. Some life around here again. Jobs for all the bums in this town—even for you."
He left Ryd frowning, thinking fuzzily. A warming gulp seemed to clear his head. Jobs. So they thought they could put that over on him again, huh? Well, he'd show them. He was smart; he was a damn good helio man—no, that had been ten years ago. But now he was out of the habit of working, anyway. No job for Ryd Randl. They gave him one once and then took it away. He drank still more deeply.
The man on Ryd's immediate right leaned toward him. He laid a hand on his arm, gripping it hard, and said quietly: "So you're Ryd Randl."
Ryd had a bad moment before he saw that the face wasn't that of any plain-clothes man he knew. For that matter, it didn't belong to anybody he had ever known—an odd, big-boned face, strikingly ugly, with a beak-nose that was yet not too large for the hard jaw or too bleak for the thin mouth below it. An expensive transparent hat slanted over the face, and from its iridescent shadows gleamed eyes that were alert and almost frighteningly black. Ryd noted that the man wore a dark-gray cellotex of a sort rarely seen in joints like Burshis'.
"Suppose we step outside, Ryd. I'd like to talk to you."
"What's the idea?" demanded Ryd, his small store of natural courage floated to the top by alcohol.
The other seemed to realize that he was getting ahead of himself. He leaned back slightly, drew a deep breath, and said slowly and distinctly. "Would you care to make some money, my friend?"
" Huh? Why, yeh—I guess so—"
"Then come with me." The hand still on his arm was insistent. In his daze, Ryd let himself be drawn away from the bar into the sluggish crowd; then he suddenly remembered his unfinished drink, and made frantic gestures. Deliberately misunderstanding, the tall stranger fumbled briefly, tossed a coin on the counter-top, and hustled Ryd out, past the blue-and-gold-lit meloderge that was softly pouring out its endlessly changing music, through the swinging doors into the dark.
Outside, between lightless buildings, the still cold closed in on them. They kept walking—so fast that Ryd began to lose his breath, long-accustomed though his lungs were to the high, thin air.
"So you're Ryd Randl," repeated the stranger after a moment's silence.
"I might have known you. But I'd almost given up finding you tonight."
Ryd tried feebly to wrench free, stumbled. "Look," he gasped. "If you're a cop, say so!"
The other laughed shortly. "No. I'm just a man about to offer you a chance. For a come-back, Ryd—a chance to live again.... My name—you can call me Mury."
Ryd was voiceless. Something seemed increasingly ominous about the tall, spare man at his side. He wished himself back in Burshis' with his first free drink in a month. The thought of it brought tears to his eyes.
"How long have you been out of a job, Ryd?"
"Nine ... ten years. Say, what's it to you?"
"And why, Ryd?"
"Why...? Look, mister, I was a helio operator." He hunched his narrow shoulders and spread his hands in an habitual gesture of defeat. "Damn good one, too—I was a foreman ten years ago. But I don't have the physique for Mars—I might just have made it then , but I thought the plant was going to open again and—"
And that was it. The almost airless Martian sky, with its burning actinic rays, is so favorable for the use of the helio-dynamic engine. And after the middle of the eighth century, robot labor gave Mars its full economic independence—and domination. For power is—power; and there is the Restriction Act to keep men on Earth even if more than two in ten could live healthily on the outer world.
"Ten years ago," Mury nodded as if satisfied. "That must have been the Power Company of North America—the main plant by Dynamopolis itself, that shut down in December, 809. They were the last to close down outside the military bases in the Kun Lun."
Ryd was pacing beside him now. He felt a queer upsurge of confidence in this strange man; for too long he had met no sympathy and all too few men who talked his language. He burst out: "They wouldn't take me, damn them! Said my record wasn't good enough for them. That is, I didn't have a drag with any of the Poligerents."
"I know all about your record," said Mury softly.
Ryd's suspicions came back abruptly, and he reverted to his old kicked-dog manner. "How do you know? And what's it to you?"
All at once, Mury came to a stop, and swung around to face him squarely, hard eyes compelling. They were on an overpass, not far from where the vast, almost wholly deserted offices of the Triplanet Freighting Company sprawled over a square mile of city. A half-smile twisted Mury's thin lips.
"Don't misunderstand me, Ryd—you mean nothing at all to me as an individual. But you're one of a vast mass of men for whom I am working—the billions caught in the net of a corrupt government and sold as an economic prey to the ruthless masters of Mars. This, after they've borne all the hardships of a year of embargo, have offered their hands willingly to the rebuilding of decadent Earth, only to be refused by the weak leaders who can neither defy the enemy nor capitulate frankly to him."
Ryd was dazed. His mind had never been constructed to cope with such ideas and the past few years had not improved its capabilities. "Are you talking about the power cylinder?" he demanded blurrily.
Mury cast a glance toward the Milky Way as if to descry the Martian cargo projectile somewhere up among its countless lights. He said simply, "Yes."
"I don't get it," mumbled Ryd, frowning. He found words that he had heard somewhere a day or so before, in some bar or flophouse: "The power cylinder is going to be the salvation of Earth. It's a shot in the arm—no, right in the heart of Earth industry, here in Dynamopolis. It will turn the wheels and light the cities and—"
"To hell with that!" snapped Mury, suddenly savage. His hands came up slightly, the fingers flexing; then dropped back to his sides. "Don't you know you're repeating damnable lies?"
Ryd could only stare, cringing and bewildered. Mury went on with a passion shocking after his smooth calm:
"The power shell is aid, yes—but with what a price! It's the thirty pieces of silver for which the venal fools who rule our nations have sold the whole planet to Mars. Because they lack the courage and vision to retool Earth's plants and factories for the inescapable conflict, they're selling us out—making Earth, the first home of man, a colony of the Red Planet. Do you know what Earth is to the great Martian land-owners? Do you? " He paused out of breath; then finished venomously, "Earth is a great pool of labor ready to be tapped, cheaper than robots—cheap as slaves !"
"What about it?" gulped Ryd, drawing away from the fanatic. "What you want me to do about it?"
Mury took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. His face was once more bleakly impassive; only the mouth was an ugly line. "We're going to do something about it, you and I. Tonight. Now."
Ryd was nearly sober. And wholly terrified. He got out chokingly,
"What's that mean?"
"The power shell—isn't coming in as planned."
"You can't do that."
" We can," said Mury with a heavy accent on the first word. "And there are fifty thousand credits in it for you, Ryd. Are you with us?"
Suspicion was chill reality now in Ryd's mind. And he knew one thing certainly—if he refused now to accompany Mury, he would be killed, by this man or another of his kind. For the secret power known only as We never took chances. Whispered-of, terrible, and world-embracing, desperate upshot of the times in its principles of dynamitism, war, and panclasm—that was We .
The question hung in the air for a long moment. Then Ryd, with an effort, said, "Sure." A moment later it struck him that the monosyllabic assent was suspicious; he added quickly, "I got nothing to lose, see?" It was, he realized, the cold truth.
"You won't lose," said Mury. He seemed to relax. But the menace with which he had clothed himself clung, as he turned back on the way they had come.
Ryd followed dog-like, his feet in their worn shoes moving without his volition. He was frightened. Out of his very fright came a longing to placate Mury, assure him that he, Ryd, was on the same side whatever happened....
After some steps he stole a sidelong glance at his tall companion, and whined, "Where ... where we going now?"
Mury paused in his long stride, removed a hand from a pocket of the gray topcoat that wrapped him as in somber thoughts. Wordlessly, he pointed as Ryd had known he would—toward where a pale man-made dawn seemed breaking over Pi Mesa.
II
"One blow for freedom!" said Mury with caught breath. His voice fell upon air scarcely stilled since the sodden thump of the blow that had killed the guard.
The body lay between them, face down on the graveled way in the inky moon-shadow. On one side Pi Mesa stretched away two hundred yards to drop sharply into the night; on the other was the unlighted mass of the long, continuous, low buildings that housed now unused fuel pumps and servicing equipment. Looking down at the dead huddle at his feet, a little stunned by the reality of this, Ryd knew that he was in it now. He was caught in the machinery.
Mury hefted the length of steel in his hand once more, as if testing the weight that had crushed a man's skull so easily. Then, with a short wrist-flip, he sent it flying into the dried weeds which had over-grown the aero field on the mesa's rim during the summer months after State order had grounded all fliers in America.
"All right, Ryd," he said coolly. "Trade clothes with this fellow. I've brought you this far—you're taking me the rest of the way."
The rest of the way.
Ryd was still panting, and his side was paining from the strenuous exertion of the long climb up the side of the mountain, far from the guarded highway. His fingers, numbed by the cold of the high, thin air, shook as he knelt and fumbled with the zippers of the dead guard's uniform. The belted gun, however, was heavy and oddly comforting as he clumsily buckled it about his hips. He knew enough of weapons to recognize this as, not the usual paralyzer, but a flame pistol, powerful and deadly. He let his hand linger on its butt; then strong fingers tightened on his bony wrist, and he looked up with a start into the sardonic black eyes of the Panclast.
"No use now for firearms," said Mury. "All the guns we could carry wouldn't help us if we were caught out there. That gun is just a stage property for the little play we're going to give in about three minutes—when you'll act a guardsman escorting me, a Poligerent of Dynamopolis, aboard the towship Shahrazad ."
For a moment Ryd felt relief—he had hazily imagined that Mury's hatred of Mars and all things Martian might have led him to try to sabotage the Martian warship which lay somewhere on the runways beyond the long, low buildings, and which would be closely guarded. But the towship would also be guarded ... he shivered in the cold, dry night air.
Mury had melted into the shadow a few yards away. There was a light scraping, then a green flame sputtered, briefly lighting up his hands and face, and narrowing at once to a thin, singing needle of light. He had turned a pocket electron torch against the lock-mechanism of a small, disused metal door.
Ryd watched in painful suspense. There was no sound in his ears save for the hard, dry shrilling of the ray as it bit into the steel. It seemed to be crying: run, run —but he remembered the power that knew how to punish better than the law, and stood still, shivering.
The lock gave way and the door slipped aside. A light went on inside, and Ryd's heart stopped, backfired, and started again, raggedly. The same automatic mechanism that had turned the lights on had started the air-fresher, which picked up speed with a soft whine, sweeping out the long-stale atmosphere. Mury motioned to Ryd to follow him in.
It was still musty in the narrow passage, between the closely-pressing walls, beneath the great tubes and cable sheathings that fluted the ceiling overhead. A stairway spiraled up on the right to the control cupola somewhere overhead; even in the airtight gallery a thin film of dust lay on every step. Up there were the meters and switches of the disused terminal facilities of the spaceport; beyond the metal door marked CAUTION, just beyond the stairwell, lay the long runway down which the ships of space had glided to be serviced, refueled, and launched into the sky once more by now dormant machines.
"Wait," said Mury succinctly; he vanished up the spiral stair, his long legs taking two steps at a time. After an aching minute's silence, he was back. All was clear as seen from the turret-windows overhead.
They emerged in shadow, hugging the wall. Almost a quarter of a mile to the right the megalith of the Communications Tower, crowned with many lights where the signal-men sat godlike in its summit. Its floodlights shed a vast oval of light out over the mesa, where the mile-long runways—no longer polished mirror-like as in the days of Dynamopolis' glory—stretched away into the darkness of the table land. A handful of odd ships—mere remnant of the hundreds that Pi Mesa port had berthed—huddled under the solenoid wickets, as if driven together by the chill of the thin, knife-like wind that blew across the mesa.
As the two paced slowly across the runways, Ryd had a sense of protective isolation in the vast impersonality of the spaceport. Surely, in this Titanic desolation of metal slabs and flat-roofed buildings, dominated by the one great tower, total insignificance must mean safety for them.
And indeed no guard challenged them. There were armed men watching for all intruders out on the desert beyond the runways, but once inside, Ryd's borrowed blue seemed to serve as passport enough. Nonetheless, the passport's knees were shaking when they stood at last, inconspicuous still, at the shadowed base of the Communications Tower.
Not far off, a half-dozen dignitaries, huddled close together in the midst of these Cyclopean man-made things that dwarfed their policies, their principles and ambitions, stood talking rather nervously with two officers, aristocratically gaudy in the scarlet of the Martian Fleet. Blue-clad guardsmen of Earth watched from a distance—watched boredly enough.
And out on the steel-stripped tarmac, under the solenoid of Number Two Runway, lay a towship, backed like a stegosaur with its massive magnets—the Shahrazad , panting like a dragon amid rolling clouds of steam. She was plainly ready to go into space. The bottom dropped out of Ryd's stomach before he realized that a warning at least must be sounded before the ship could lift. But that might come any moment now.
"Relax," said Mury in a low voice. "Nothing's gone wrong. We'll be aboard the Shahrazad when she lifts." For a moment his black eyes shifted, hardening, toward Runway Four. The Martian warship lay there beyond the solenoid, a spiteful hundred-foot swordfish of steel, with blind gunvalves, row on row, along its sleek sides and turret-blisters. It had not yet been tugged onto the turntable; it could not be leaving again very soon, though Earth weight was undoubtedly incommoding its crew. About it a few figures stood that were stiffly erect and immobile, as tall as tall men. From head to toe they were scarlet.
"Robots!" gasped Ryd, clutching his companion's arm convulsively.
"Martian soldier robots!"
"They're unarmed, harmless. They aren't your police with built-in weapons. Only the humans are dangerous. But we've got to move. For God's sake, take it easy."
Ryd licked dry lips. "Are we going—out into space?"
"Where else?" said Mury.
The official-looking individual in the expensive topcoat and sport hat had reached the starboard airlock of the towship before anyone thought to question his authorization, escorted as he was by a blue-uniformed guardsman. When another sentry, pacing between runways a hundred yards from the squat space vessel, paused to wonder, it was—as it came about—just a little too late.
The guard turned and swung briskly off to intercept the oddly-behaving pair, hand crowding the butt of his pistol, for he was growing uneasy. His alarm mounted rapidly, till he nearly sprained an ankle in sprinting across the last of the two intervening runways, between the solenoid wickets. Those metal arches, crowding one on the other in perspective, formed a tunnel that effectively shielded the Shahrazad's airlocks from more distant view; the gang of notables attracted by the occasion was already being shepherded back to safety by the Communications guards, whose attention was thus well taken up.
The slight man in guardsman's blue glanced over his shoulder and vanished abruptly into the circular lock. His companion wheeled on the topmost step, looking down with some irritation on his unhandsome face, but with no apparent doubt of his command of the situation.
"Yes?" he inquired frostily.
"What goes on here?" snapped the guard, frowning at the tall figure silhouetted against the glow in the airlock. "The crew's signaled all aboard and the ship lifts in two minutes. You ought to be—"
"I am Semul Mury, Poligerent for the City of Dynamopolis," interrupted the tall man with asperity. "The City is naturally interested in the delivery of the power which will revivify our industries." He paused, sighed, shifting his weight to the next lower step of the gangway. "I suppose you'll want to re-check my credentials?"
The guard was somewhat confused; a Poligerent, in ninth-century bureaucracy, was a force to be reckoned with. But he contrived to nod with an appearance of brusqueness.
Fully expecting official papers, signed and garnished with all the pompous seals of a chartered metropolis, the guard was dazed to receive instead a terrific left-handed foul to the pit of the stomach, and as he reeled dizzily, retching and clawing for his gun, to find that gun no longer holstered but in the hand of the self-styled Poligerent, pointing at its licensed owner.
"I think," Mury said quietly, flexing his left wrist with care the while his right held the gun steady, "that you'd better come aboard with us."
The guard was not more cowardly than the run of politically-appointed civic guardsmen. But a flame gun kills more frightfully than the ancient electric chair. He complied, grasping the railing with both hands as he stumbled before Mury up the gangway—for he was still very sick indeed, wholly apart from his bewilderment, which was enormous.
Above, Ryd Randl waited in the lock, flattened against the curved wall, white and jittering. The inner door was shut, an impenetrable countersunk mirror of metal.
"Cover him, Ryd," ordered Mury flatly. In obedience Ryd lugged out the heavy flame pistol and pointed it; his finger was dangerously tremulous on the firing lever. He moistened his lips to voice his fears; but Mury, pocketing the other gun, threw the three-way switch on the side panel, the switch that should have controlled the inner lock.
Nothing happened.
"Oh, God. We're caught. We're trapped!" The outer gangway had slid up, the lock wheezed shut, forming an impenetrable crypt of niosteel.
Mury smiled with supernal calm. "We won't be here long," he said. Then, to quiet Ryd's fears, he went on: "The central control panel and the three local switches inside, between, and outside the locks are on the circuit in that order. Unless the locks were closed from the switch just beyond the inner lock, that lock will open when the central control panel is cut out in preparation for lifting."
Almost as he paused and drew breath, a light sprang out over the switch he had closed and the inner lock swung silently free of its gaskets. Ryd felt a trembling relief; but Mury's voice lashed out like a whip as he slipped cat-like into the passage.
"Keep him covered. Back out of the lock."
Ryd backed—the white, tense face of the prisoner holding his own nervous gaze—and, almost out of the lock, stumbled over the metal pressure rings. And the gun was out of his unsure grip, clattering somewhere near his slithering feet, as he started to fall.
He saw the guardsman hurl himself forward; then he was flung spinning, back against the engine-room door. In a flash, even as he struggled to keep on his feet, he saw the man in the airlock coming up from a crouch, shifting the pistol in his right hand to reach its firing lever; he saw Mury sidestep swiftly and throw the master control switch outside.
The inner lock whooshed shut, barely missing Ryd. At the same instant, the flame gun lighted locks and passage with one terrific flash, and a scorched, discolored spot appeared on the beveled metal of the opposite lock a foot from Mury's right shoulder.
"You damned clumsy little fool—" said Mury with soft intensity. Then, while the air around the metal walls still buzzed and snapped with blue sparks, he whirled and went up the control-room gangway in two quick bounds. Even as he went the flame gun thundered again in the starboard airlock.
Mury was just in time, for the pilot had been about to flash "Ready" to the Communications Tower when the explosions had given him pause. But the latter and his two companions were neither ready nor armed; clamped in their seats at the controls, already marked, they were helpless in an instant before the leveled menace of the gun. And the imprisoned guardsman, having wasted most of his charges, was helpless, too, in his little cell of steel.
"It's been tried before," said one of the masked men. He had a blond, youthful thatch and a smooth healthy face below the mask, together with an astrogator's triangled stars which made him ex officio the brains of the vessel. "Stealing a ship—it can't be done any more."
"It's been done again," said Mury grimly. "And you don't know the half of it. But—you will. I'll need you. As for your friends—" The gun muzzle shifted slightly to indicate the pilot and the engineer. "Out of those clamps. You're going to ride this out in the portside airlock."
He had to repeat the command, in tones that snapped with menace, before they started with fumbling, rebellious hands to strip their armor from themselves. The burly engineer was muttering phrases of obscene fervor; the weedy young pilot was wild-eyed. The blond astrogator, sitting still masked and apparently unmoved, demanded:
"What do you think you're trying to do?"
"What do you think?" demanded Mury in return. "I'm taking the ship into space. On schedule and on course—to meet the power shell." The flame gun moved with a jerk. "And as for you—what's your name?"
"Yet Arliess."
"You want to make the trip alive, don't you, Yet Arliess?"
The young astrogator stared at him and at the gun through masking goggles; then he sank into his seat with a slow shudder. "Why, yes," he said as if in wonder, "I do."
III
Shahrazad drove steadily forward into deep space, vibrating slightly to the tremendous thrust of her powerful engines. The small, cramped cabin was stiflingly hot to the three armored men who sat before its banked dials, watching their steady needles.
Ryd had blacked out, darkness washing into his eyes and consciousness draining from his head, as the space ship had pitched out into emptiness over the end of the runway on Pi Mesa and Mury had cut in the maindrive. Pressure greater than anything he had ever felt had crushed him; his voice had been snatched from his lips by those terrible forces and lost beneath the opening thunder of the three-inch tubes. Up and up, while the acceleration climbed to seven gravities—and Ryd had lost every sensation, not to regain them until Earth was dropping away under the towship's keel.
A single gravity held them back and down in the tilted seats, and the control panels seemed to curve half above them, their banks of lights confused with the stars coldly through the great nose window. In the control room all sounds impinged on a background made up of the insect hum of air-purifiers, the almost supersonic whine of the fast-spinning gyroscopes somewhere behind them, the deep continuous growl of the engines.
Mury's voice broke through that steady murmur, coming from Ryd's right.
"You can unfasten your anticlamps, Ryd," he said dryly. "That doesn't mean you," to the young navigator, on his other hand as he sat in the pilot's seat with his pressure-clamps thrown back and his gloved hands free to caress the multiplex controls before him. Clipped to the sloping dash at his left elbow was a loaded flame gun.
Ryd emerged, with much bungling, from his padded clamps, and shook his head groggily as he ran a hand through his slightly thinning hair. He ventured shakily, "Where are we?"
Mury smiled slightly. "Only our astrogator," he indicated Arliess, still masked and fettered, "can tell you that with precision. I understand only enough of astrogational practice to make sure that he is holding to the course outlined on the log. For that matter ... he is an intelligent young man and if he were not blinded by notions of duty to an outworn system.... We are now somewhere near the orbit of the Moon. Isn't that right, Arliess?"
The other did not seem to hear; he sat staring blindly before him through his goggles at the slowly-changing chart, where cryptic lights burned, some moving like glowing paramecia along fine-traced luminous tracks.
Mury too sat silent and immobile for a minute or more. Then, abruptly, he inclined his universal chair far to the right, and his long frame seemed to tense oddly. His finger stabbed out one of the sparks of light.
"What's that, Arliess?"
The astrogator broke his silence. "A ship."
"I know that well enough. What ship?"
"I supposed you had examined the log. It would have told you that that's the liner Alborak , out of Aeropolis with a diplomatic mission for Mars."
Mury shook his head regretfully. "That won't wash, Arliess. Even if you suppose her off course, no liner aspace ever carried a tenth of that drive."
"I don't know what you're talking about," said Arliess. But his voice was raw and unsteady.
"I'm talking about this. That ship is a warship, and it's looking for us—will intercept us inside of twenty minutes at the most!"
Question:
How does Mury handle himself throughout the story?
Answer:
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[
"Mury is a tall and ugly man with a great deal of confidence. When he finds Ryd in the bar, he immediately asks him to step outside and confronts him with a proposition. He is not overly concerned about getting caught talking about rebellion, and he is resolute about his decision to try and take over the spaceship that is about to take off. \nMury immediately gains Ryd’s trust when he sympathizes with him about losing his job ten years ago. They are on the same team, angry about the way the Terrestrials have been treated since all of the jobs moved to Mars. He is forceful with Ryd, and he stares at him intensely whenever he is questioned. Mury claims to work for all the men who have been disadvantaged by the corrupt government. He coldly tells Ryd that he means nothing to Mury as an individual, and he is only interested in saving the Terrestrials from becoming the Martians’ slaves. He believes that Earth is about to become a colony of Mars, and he is willing to risk his life to see that plan foiled. \n\nMury’s tough attitude and willingness to act is demonstrated when he kills a guard by crushing his skull. He is unbothered by the incident and sees it as his only choice. Later, he pretends to be Poligerent for the City of Dynamopolis for a moment, only so that he can punch another guard in the stomach, take his firearm, and shoot him. \n\nMury is able to stay calm when Ryd loses his cool. Even when Ryd accidentally fires his weapon inside the central control panel room, Mury focuses on the mission at hand. When he finally takes control of the three men on board the Shahrazad and demands that they takeoff for Mars immediately, he is unfazed by their refusal. He snaps at the pilot and the other two workers and points his gun at them to indicate that he is dead serious about killing them if they do not comply. \n\nMury is so sure of himself that it comes as a big surprise when the pilot tells him that he must not have looked at the log for the day. The Alborak is on a diplomatic mission to Mars, and it is something that Mury overlooked. He does not realize that the ship is fully aware that the Shahrazad has been hijacked, and it’s coming right for them. \n",
"Mury conducts himself with confidence and the assurance that he is right and on the right side. When he meets Ryd in the bar, he immediately recognizes him and asks to speak with him. Mury is on a mission and believes it is one that will vindicate many Earthmen. Mury also understands Ryd, and when Ryd is reluctant to work with him, Mury offers him money which Ryd can hardly refuse after so many years of unemployment. Mury is sure that he is right and does not hesitate to use violent means to meet his ends. He believes the governments of the Earth’s nations have sold out to the Martians and that the Martians will use the Earthmen as cheap slave labor. Mury often comes across as angry and upset at the agreement the government leaders made with Mars. Mury convinces the blond astrogator of the township to help him return the ship to space. When it becomes evident there is a warship moving toward them, he maintains his calm even though he estimates the ship will reach them in twenty minutes or less. ",
"Mury takes a certain level of control over Ryd at the beginning of the story by coaxing him to leave the bar and forcing him to perform his bidding by maintaining a fear that he will have Ryd killed if he does not obey.\n\nMury is not forthcoming with his plan, preferring to play a controlling mastermind role - only telling Ryd details as they are necessary for him to know. Mury is willing to kill to accomplish his plan which he does to obtain a guards uniform to carry out his plan.\n\nMury maintains a sense of control through the whole story until the very end when he unexpectedly sees a Martian warship which clearly startles him.\n",
"Mury, which may not be his real name, is a revolutionary man. He makes himself clear at the beginning; he doesn’t care about individuals, but Earthmen as a whole. With a bony face, large nose, and expensive clothing, Mury makes an impression. He’s confident and sure of himself, until the last moment of the story when he is thwarted by the young pilot. \nWhen he picks up Ryd, he uses intimidation tactics and more to influence his decision. He killed one guard along the way up the mountain and possibly another one on the ship. He pretends to be a higher-up of society to sneak onto the ship and succeeds. He believes in Earthmen and revivifying Dynamopolis. He’s driven by halting this power deal between Dynamopolis and Mars to prevent any Earthmen from becoming nothing more than cheap labor. \n"
] |
62997
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Saboteur of Space
By ROBERT ABERNATHY
Fresh power was coming to Earth, energy which would bring life to a dying planet. Only two men stood in its way, one a cowardly rat, the other a murderous martyr; both pawns in a cosmic game where death moved his chessmen of fate—and even the winner would lose.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Ryd Randl stood, slouching a little, in the darkened footway, and watched the sky over Dynamopolis come alive with searchlights. The shuttered glow of Burshis' Stumble Inn was only a few yards off to his right, but even that lodestone failed before the novel interest of a ship about to ground in the one-time Port of Ten Thousand Ships.
Now he made out the flicker of the braking drive a mile or so overhead, and presently soft motor thunder came down to blanket the almost lightless city with sound. A beam swayed through the throbbing darkness, caught the descending ship and held it, a small gleaming minnow slipping through the dark heavens. A faint glow rose from Pi Mesa, where the spaceport lay above the city, as a runway lighted up—draining the last reserves of the city's stored power, but draining them gladly now that, in those autumn days of the historic year 819, relief was in sight.
Ryd shrugged limply; the play was meaningless to him. He turned to shuffle down the inviting ramp into the glowing interior of Burshis' dive.
The place was crowded with men and smoke. Perhaps half the former were asleep, on tables or on the floor; but for the few places like Burshis' which were still open under the power shortage, many would have frozen, these days, in the chilly nights at fourteen thousand feet. For Dynamopolis sprawled atop the world, now as in the old days when it had been built to be the power center of North America.
The rocket blasts crescendoed and died up on Pi Mesa as Ryd wedged himself with difficulty into the group along the bar. If anyone recognized him, they showed it only by looking fixedly at something else. Only Burshis Yuns kept his static smile and nodded with surprising friendliness at Ryd's pinched, old-young face.
Ryd was startled by the nod. Burshis finished serving another customer and maneuvered down the stained chrome-and-synthyl bar. Ryd was heartened.
"Say, Burshis," he started nervously, as the bulky man halted with his back to him. But Burshis turned, still smiling, shaking his head so that his jowls quivered.
"No loans," he said flatly. "But just one on the house, Ryd."
The drink almost spilled itself in Ryd's hand. Clutching it convulsively, he made his eyes narrow and said suspiciously, "What you setting 'em up for, Burshis? It's the first time since—"
Burshis' smile stayed put. He said affably, "Didn't you hear that ship that just came down on the Mesa? That was the ship from Mars—the escort they were sending with the power cylinder. The power's coming in again." He turned to greet a coin-tapping newcomer, added over his shoulder: "You know what that means, Ryd. Some life around here again. Jobs for all the bums in this town—even for you."
He left Ryd frowning, thinking fuzzily. A warming gulp seemed to clear his head. Jobs. So they thought they could put that over on him again, huh? Well, he'd show them. He was smart; he was a damn good helio man—no, that had been ten years ago. But now he was out of the habit of working, anyway. No job for Ryd Randl. They gave him one once and then took it away. He drank still more deeply.
The man on Ryd's immediate right leaned toward him. He laid a hand on his arm, gripping it hard, and said quietly: "So you're Ryd Randl."
Ryd had a bad moment before he saw that the face wasn't that of any plain-clothes man he knew. For that matter, it didn't belong to anybody he had ever known—an odd, big-boned face, strikingly ugly, with a beak-nose that was yet not too large for the hard jaw or too bleak for the thin mouth below it. An expensive transparent hat slanted over the face, and from its iridescent shadows gleamed eyes that were alert and almost frighteningly black. Ryd noted that the man wore a dark-gray cellotex of a sort rarely seen in joints like Burshis'.
"Suppose we step outside, Ryd. I'd like to talk to you."
"What's the idea?" demanded Ryd, his small store of natural courage floated to the top by alcohol.
The other seemed to realize that he was getting ahead of himself. He leaned back slightly, drew a deep breath, and said slowly and distinctly. "Would you care to make some money, my friend?"
" Huh? Why, yeh—I guess so—"
"Then come with me." The hand still on his arm was insistent. In his daze, Ryd let himself be drawn away from the bar into the sluggish crowd; then he suddenly remembered his unfinished drink, and made frantic gestures. Deliberately misunderstanding, the tall stranger fumbled briefly, tossed a coin on the counter-top, and hustled Ryd out, past the blue-and-gold-lit meloderge that was softly pouring out its endlessly changing music, through the swinging doors into the dark.
Outside, between lightless buildings, the still cold closed in on them. They kept walking—so fast that Ryd began to lose his breath, long-accustomed though his lungs were to the high, thin air.
"So you're Ryd Randl," repeated the stranger after a moment's silence.
"I might have known you. But I'd almost given up finding you tonight."
Ryd tried feebly to wrench free, stumbled. "Look," he gasped. "If you're a cop, say so!"
The other laughed shortly. "No. I'm just a man about to offer you a chance. For a come-back, Ryd—a chance to live again.... My name—you can call me Mury."
Ryd was voiceless. Something seemed increasingly ominous about the tall, spare man at his side. He wished himself back in Burshis' with his first free drink in a month. The thought of it brought tears to his eyes.
"How long have you been out of a job, Ryd?"
"Nine ... ten years. Say, what's it to you?"
"And why, Ryd?"
"Why...? Look, mister, I was a helio operator." He hunched his narrow shoulders and spread his hands in an habitual gesture of defeat. "Damn good one, too—I was a foreman ten years ago. But I don't have the physique for Mars—I might just have made it then , but I thought the plant was going to open again and—"
And that was it. The almost airless Martian sky, with its burning actinic rays, is so favorable for the use of the helio-dynamic engine. And after the middle of the eighth century, robot labor gave Mars its full economic independence—and domination. For power is—power; and there is the Restriction Act to keep men on Earth even if more than two in ten could live healthily on the outer world.
"Ten years ago," Mury nodded as if satisfied. "That must have been the Power Company of North America—the main plant by Dynamopolis itself, that shut down in December, 809. They were the last to close down outside the military bases in the Kun Lun."
Ryd was pacing beside him now. He felt a queer upsurge of confidence in this strange man; for too long he had met no sympathy and all too few men who talked his language. He burst out: "They wouldn't take me, damn them! Said my record wasn't good enough for them. That is, I didn't have a drag with any of the Poligerents."
"I know all about your record," said Mury softly.
Ryd's suspicions came back abruptly, and he reverted to his old kicked-dog manner. "How do you know? And what's it to you?"
All at once, Mury came to a stop, and swung around to face him squarely, hard eyes compelling. They were on an overpass, not far from where the vast, almost wholly deserted offices of the Triplanet Freighting Company sprawled over a square mile of city. A half-smile twisted Mury's thin lips.
"Don't misunderstand me, Ryd—you mean nothing at all to me as an individual. But you're one of a vast mass of men for whom I am working—the billions caught in the net of a corrupt government and sold as an economic prey to the ruthless masters of Mars. This, after they've borne all the hardships of a year of embargo, have offered their hands willingly to the rebuilding of decadent Earth, only to be refused by the weak leaders who can neither defy the enemy nor capitulate frankly to him."
Ryd was dazed. His mind had never been constructed to cope with such ideas and the past few years had not improved its capabilities. "Are you talking about the power cylinder?" he demanded blurrily.
Mury cast a glance toward the Milky Way as if to descry the Martian cargo projectile somewhere up among its countless lights. He said simply, "Yes."
"I don't get it," mumbled Ryd, frowning. He found words that he had heard somewhere a day or so before, in some bar or flophouse: "The power cylinder is going to be the salvation of Earth. It's a shot in the arm—no, right in the heart of Earth industry, here in Dynamopolis. It will turn the wheels and light the cities and—"
"To hell with that!" snapped Mury, suddenly savage. His hands came up slightly, the fingers flexing; then dropped back to his sides. "Don't you know you're repeating damnable lies?"
Ryd could only stare, cringing and bewildered. Mury went on with a passion shocking after his smooth calm:
"The power shell is aid, yes—but with what a price! It's the thirty pieces of silver for which the venal fools who rule our nations have sold the whole planet to Mars. Because they lack the courage and vision to retool Earth's plants and factories for the inescapable conflict, they're selling us out—making Earth, the first home of man, a colony of the Red Planet. Do you know what Earth is to the great Martian land-owners? Do you? " He paused out of breath; then finished venomously, "Earth is a great pool of labor ready to be tapped, cheaper than robots—cheap as slaves !"
"What about it?" gulped Ryd, drawing away from the fanatic. "What you want me to do about it?"
Mury took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. His face was once more bleakly impassive; only the mouth was an ugly line. "We're going to do something about it, you and I. Tonight. Now."
Ryd was nearly sober. And wholly terrified. He got out chokingly,
"What's that mean?"
"The power shell—isn't coming in as planned."
"You can't do that."
" We can," said Mury with a heavy accent on the first word. "And there are fifty thousand credits in it for you, Ryd. Are you with us?"
Suspicion was chill reality now in Ryd's mind. And he knew one thing certainly—if he refused now to accompany Mury, he would be killed, by this man or another of his kind. For the secret power known only as We never took chances. Whispered-of, terrible, and world-embracing, desperate upshot of the times in its principles of dynamitism, war, and panclasm—that was We .
The question hung in the air for a long moment. Then Ryd, with an effort, said, "Sure." A moment later it struck him that the monosyllabic assent was suspicious; he added quickly, "I got nothing to lose, see?" It was, he realized, the cold truth.
"You won't lose," said Mury. He seemed to relax. But the menace with which he had clothed himself clung, as he turned back on the way they had come.
Ryd followed dog-like, his feet in their worn shoes moving without his volition. He was frightened. Out of his very fright came a longing to placate Mury, assure him that he, Ryd, was on the same side whatever happened....
After some steps he stole a sidelong glance at his tall companion, and whined, "Where ... where we going now?"
Mury paused in his long stride, removed a hand from a pocket of the gray topcoat that wrapped him as in somber thoughts. Wordlessly, he pointed as Ryd had known he would—toward where a pale man-made dawn seemed breaking over Pi Mesa.
II
"One blow for freedom!" said Mury with caught breath. His voice fell upon air scarcely stilled since the sodden thump of the blow that had killed the guard.
The body lay between them, face down on the graveled way in the inky moon-shadow. On one side Pi Mesa stretched away two hundred yards to drop sharply into the night; on the other was the unlighted mass of the long, continuous, low buildings that housed now unused fuel pumps and servicing equipment. Looking down at the dead huddle at his feet, a little stunned by the reality of this, Ryd knew that he was in it now. He was caught in the machinery.
Mury hefted the length of steel in his hand once more, as if testing the weight that had crushed a man's skull so easily. Then, with a short wrist-flip, he sent it flying into the dried weeds which had over-grown the aero field on the mesa's rim during the summer months after State order had grounded all fliers in America.
"All right, Ryd," he said coolly. "Trade clothes with this fellow. I've brought you this far—you're taking me the rest of the way."
The rest of the way.
Ryd was still panting, and his side was paining from the strenuous exertion of the long climb up the side of the mountain, far from the guarded highway. His fingers, numbed by the cold of the high, thin air, shook as he knelt and fumbled with the zippers of the dead guard's uniform. The belted gun, however, was heavy and oddly comforting as he clumsily buckled it about his hips. He knew enough of weapons to recognize this as, not the usual paralyzer, but a flame pistol, powerful and deadly. He let his hand linger on its butt; then strong fingers tightened on his bony wrist, and he looked up with a start into the sardonic black eyes of the Panclast.
"No use now for firearms," said Mury. "All the guns we could carry wouldn't help us if we were caught out there. That gun is just a stage property for the little play we're going to give in about three minutes—when you'll act a guardsman escorting me, a Poligerent of Dynamopolis, aboard the towship Shahrazad ."
For a moment Ryd felt relief—he had hazily imagined that Mury's hatred of Mars and all things Martian might have led him to try to sabotage the Martian warship which lay somewhere on the runways beyond the long, low buildings, and which would be closely guarded. But the towship would also be guarded ... he shivered in the cold, dry night air.
Mury had melted into the shadow a few yards away. There was a light scraping, then a green flame sputtered, briefly lighting up his hands and face, and narrowing at once to a thin, singing needle of light. He had turned a pocket electron torch against the lock-mechanism of a small, disused metal door.
Ryd watched in painful suspense. There was no sound in his ears save for the hard, dry shrilling of the ray as it bit into the steel. It seemed to be crying: run, run —but he remembered the power that knew how to punish better than the law, and stood still, shivering.
The lock gave way and the door slipped aside. A light went on inside, and Ryd's heart stopped, backfired, and started again, raggedly. The same automatic mechanism that had turned the lights on had started the air-fresher, which picked up speed with a soft whine, sweeping out the long-stale atmosphere. Mury motioned to Ryd to follow him in.
It was still musty in the narrow passage, between the closely-pressing walls, beneath the great tubes and cable sheathings that fluted the ceiling overhead. A stairway spiraled up on the right to the control cupola somewhere overhead; even in the airtight gallery a thin film of dust lay on every step. Up there were the meters and switches of the disused terminal facilities of the spaceport; beyond the metal door marked CAUTION, just beyond the stairwell, lay the long runway down which the ships of space had glided to be serviced, refueled, and launched into the sky once more by now dormant machines.
"Wait," said Mury succinctly; he vanished up the spiral stair, his long legs taking two steps at a time. After an aching minute's silence, he was back. All was clear as seen from the turret-windows overhead.
They emerged in shadow, hugging the wall. Almost a quarter of a mile to the right the megalith of the Communications Tower, crowned with many lights where the signal-men sat godlike in its summit. Its floodlights shed a vast oval of light out over the mesa, where the mile-long runways—no longer polished mirror-like as in the days of Dynamopolis' glory—stretched away into the darkness of the table land. A handful of odd ships—mere remnant of the hundreds that Pi Mesa port had berthed—huddled under the solenoid wickets, as if driven together by the chill of the thin, knife-like wind that blew across the mesa.
As the two paced slowly across the runways, Ryd had a sense of protective isolation in the vast impersonality of the spaceport. Surely, in this Titanic desolation of metal slabs and flat-roofed buildings, dominated by the one great tower, total insignificance must mean safety for them.
And indeed no guard challenged them. There were armed men watching for all intruders out on the desert beyond the runways, but once inside, Ryd's borrowed blue seemed to serve as passport enough. Nonetheless, the passport's knees were shaking when they stood at last, inconspicuous still, at the shadowed base of the Communications Tower.
Not far off, a half-dozen dignitaries, huddled close together in the midst of these Cyclopean man-made things that dwarfed their policies, their principles and ambitions, stood talking rather nervously with two officers, aristocratically gaudy in the scarlet of the Martian Fleet. Blue-clad guardsmen of Earth watched from a distance—watched boredly enough.
And out on the steel-stripped tarmac, under the solenoid of Number Two Runway, lay a towship, backed like a stegosaur with its massive magnets—the Shahrazad , panting like a dragon amid rolling clouds of steam. She was plainly ready to go into space. The bottom dropped out of Ryd's stomach before he realized that a warning at least must be sounded before the ship could lift. But that might come any moment now.
"Relax," said Mury in a low voice. "Nothing's gone wrong. We'll be aboard the Shahrazad when she lifts." For a moment his black eyes shifted, hardening, toward Runway Four. The Martian warship lay there beyond the solenoid, a spiteful hundred-foot swordfish of steel, with blind gunvalves, row on row, along its sleek sides and turret-blisters. It had not yet been tugged onto the turntable; it could not be leaving again very soon, though Earth weight was undoubtedly incommoding its crew. About it a few figures stood that were stiffly erect and immobile, as tall as tall men. From head to toe they were scarlet.
"Robots!" gasped Ryd, clutching his companion's arm convulsively.
"Martian soldier robots!"
"They're unarmed, harmless. They aren't your police with built-in weapons. Only the humans are dangerous. But we've got to move. For God's sake, take it easy."
Ryd licked dry lips. "Are we going—out into space?"
"Where else?" said Mury.
The official-looking individual in the expensive topcoat and sport hat had reached the starboard airlock of the towship before anyone thought to question his authorization, escorted as he was by a blue-uniformed guardsman. When another sentry, pacing between runways a hundred yards from the squat space vessel, paused to wonder, it was—as it came about—just a little too late.
The guard turned and swung briskly off to intercept the oddly-behaving pair, hand crowding the butt of his pistol, for he was growing uneasy. His alarm mounted rapidly, till he nearly sprained an ankle in sprinting across the last of the two intervening runways, between the solenoid wickets. Those metal arches, crowding one on the other in perspective, formed a tunnel that effectively shielded the Shahrazad's airlocks from more distant view; the gang of notables attracted by the occasion was already being shepherded back to safety by the Communications guards, whose attention was thus well taken up.
The slight man in guardsman's blue glanced over his shoulder and vanished abruptly into the circular lock. His companion wheeled on the topmost step, looking down with some irritation on his unhandsome face, but with no apparent doubt of his command of the situation.
"Yes?" he inquired frostily.
"What goes on here?" snapped the guard, frowning at the tall figure silhouetted against the glow in the airlock. "The crew's signaled all aboard and the ship lifts in two minutes. You ought to be—"
"I am Semul Mury, Poligerent for the City of Dynamopolis," interrupted the tall man with asperity. "The City is naturally interested in the delivery of the power which will revivify our industries." He paused, sighed, shifting his weight to the next lower step of the gangway. "I suppose you'll want to re-check my credentials?"
The guard was somewhat confused; a Poligerent, in ninth-century bureaucracy, was a force to be reckoned with. But he contrived to nod with an appearance of brusqueness.
Fully expecting official papers, signed and garnished with all the pompous seals of a chartered metropolis, the guard was dazed to receive instead a terrific left-handed foul to the pit of the stomach, and as he reeled dizzily, retching and clawing for his gun, to find that gun no longer holstered but in the hand of the self-styled Poligerent, pointing at its licensed owner.
"I think," Mury said quietly, flexing his left wrist with care the while his right held the gun steady, "that you'd better come aboard with us."
The guard was not more cowardly than the run of politically-appointed civic guardsmen. But a flame gun kills more frightfully than the ancient electric chair. He complied, grasping the railing with both hands as he stumbled before Mury up the gangway—for he was still very sick indeed, wholly apart from his bewilderment, which was enormous.
Above, Ryd Randl waited in the lock, flattened against the curved wall, white and jittering. The inner door was shut, an impenetrable countersunk mirror of metal.
"Cover him, Ryd," ordered Mury flatly. In obedience Ryd lugged out the heavy flame pistol and pointed it; his finger was dangerously tremulous on the firing lever. He moistened his lips to voice his fears; but Mury, pocketing the other gun, threw the three-way switch on the side panel, the switch that should have controlled the inner lock.
Nothing happened.
"Oh, God. We're caught. We're trapped!" The outer gangway had slid up, the lock wheezed shut, forming an impenetrable crypt of niosteel.
Mury smiled with supernal calm. "We won't be here long," he said. Then, to quiet Ryd's fears, he went on: "The central control panel and the three local switches inside, between, and outside the locks are on the circuit in that order. Unless the locks were closed from the switch just beyond the inner lock, that lock will open when the central control panel is cut out in preparation for lifting."
Almost as he paused and drew breath, a light sprang out over the switch he had closed and the inner lock swung silently free of its gaskets. Ryd felt a trembling relief; but Mury's voice lashed out like a whip as he slipped cat-like into the passage.
"Keep him covered. Back out of the lock."
Ryd backed—the white, tense face of the prisoner holding his own nervous gaze—and, almost out of the lock, stumbled over the metal pressure rings. And the gun was out of his unsure grip, clattering somewhere near his slithering feet, as he started to fall.
He saw the guardsman hurl himself forward; then he was flung spinning, back against the engine-room door. In a flash, even as he struggled to keep on his feet, he saw the man in the airlock coming up from a crouch, shifting the pistol in his right hand to reach its firing lever; he saw Mury sidestep swiftly and throw the master control switch outside.
The inner lock whooshed shut, barely missing Ryd. At the same instant, the flame gun lighted locks and passage with one terrific flash, and a scorched, discolored spot appeared on the beveled metal of the opposite lock a foot from Mury's right shoulder.
"You damned clumsy little fool—" said Mury with soft intensity. Then, while the air around the metal walls still buzzed and snapped with blue sparks, he whirled and went up the control-room gangway in two quick bounds. Even as he went the flame gun thundered again in the starboard airlock.
Mury was just in time, for the pilot had been about to flash "Ready" to the Communications Tower when the explosions had given him pause. But the latter and his two companions were neither ready nor armed; clamped in their seats at the controls, already marked, they were helpless in an instant before the leveled menace of the gun. And the imprisoned guardsman, having wasted most of his charges, was helpless, too, in his little cell of steel.
"It's been tried before," said one of the masked men. He had a blond, youthful thatch and a smooth healthy face below the mask, together with an astrogator's triangled stars which made him ex officio the brains of the vessel. "Stealing a ship—it can't be done any more."
"It's been done again," said Mury grimly. "And you don't know the half of it. But—you will. I'll need you. As for your friends—" The gun muzzle shifted slightly to indicate the pilot and the engineer. "Out of those clamps. You're going to ride this out in the portside airlock."
He had to repeat the command, in tones that snapped with menace, before they started with fumbling, rebellious hands to strip their armor from themselves. The burly engineer was muttering phrases of obscene fervor; the weedy young pilot was wild-eyed. The blond astrogator, sitting still masked and apparently unmoved, demanded:
"What do you think you're trying to do?"
"What do you think?" demanded Mury in return. "I'm taking the ship into space. On schedule and on course—to meet the power shell." The flame gun moved with a jerk. "And as for you—what's your name?"
"Yet Arliess."
"You want to make the trip alive, don't you, Yet Arliess?"
The young astrogator stared at him and at the gun through masking goggles; then he sank into his seat with a slow shudder. "Why, yes," he said as if in wonder, "I do."
III
Shahrazad drove steadily forward into deep space, vibrating slightly to the tremendous thrust of her powerful engines. The small, cramped cabin was stiflingly hot to the three armored men who sat before its banked dials, watching their steady needles.
Ryd had blacked out, darkness washing into his eyes and consciousness draining from his head, as the space ship had pitched out into emptiness over the end of the runway on Pi Mesa and Mury had cut in the maindrive. Pressure greater than anything he had ever felt had crushed him; his voice had been snatched from his lips by those terrible forces and lost beneath the opening thunder of the three-inch tubes. Up and up, while the acceleration climbed to seven gravities—and Ryd had lost every sensation, not to regain them until Earth was dropping away under the towship's keel.
A single gravity held them back and down in the tilted seats, and the control panels seemed to curve half above them, their banks of lights confused with the stars coldly through the great nose window. In the control room all sounds impinged on a background made up of the insect hum of air-purifiers, the almost supersonic whine of the fast-spinning gyroscopes somewhere behind them, the deep continuous growl of the engines.
Mury's voice broke through that steady murmur, coming from Ryd's right.
"You can unfasten your anticlamps, Ryd," he said dryly. "That doesn't mean you," to the young navigator, on his other hand as he sat in the pilot's seat with his pressure-clamps thrown back and his gloved hands free to caress the multiplex controls before him. Clipped to the sloping dash at his left elbow was a loaded flame gun.
Ryd emerged, with much bungling, from his padded clamps, and shook his head groggily as he ran a hand through his slightly thinning hair. He ventured shakily, "Where are we?"
Mury smiled slightly. "Only our astrogator," he indicated Arliess, still masked and fettered, "can tell you that with precision. I understand only enough of astrogational practice to make sure that he is holding to the course outlined on the log. For that matter ... he is an intelligent young man and if he were not blinded by notions of duty to an outworn system.... We are now somewhere near the orbit of the Moon. Isn't that right, Arliess?"
The other did not seem to hear; he sat staring blindly before him through his goggles at the slowly-changing chart, where cryptic lights burned, some moving like glowing paramecia along fine-traced luminous tracks.
Mury too sat silent and immobile for a minute or more. Then, abruptly, he inclined his universal chair far to the right, and his long frame seemed to tense oddly. His finger stabbed out one of the sparks of light.
"What's that, Arliess?"
The astrogator broke his silence. "A ship."
"I know that well enough. What ship?"
"I supposed you had examined the log. It would have told you that that's the liner Alborak , out of Aeropolis with a diplomatic mission for Mars."
Mury shook his head regretfully. "That won't wash, Arliess. Even if you suppose her off course, no liner aspace ever carried a tenth of that drive."
"I don't know what you're talking about," said Arliess. But his voice was raw and unsteady.
"I'm talking about this. That ship is a warship, and it's looking for us—will intercept us inside of twenty minutes at the most!"
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Who is Philip Prior, and what happens to him throughout the story?
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After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about Master of Life and Death by Robert Silverberg.
Relevant chunks:
MASTER of Life and Death
by ROBERT SILVERBERG
ACE BOOKS A Division of A. A. Wyn, Inc. 23 West 47th Street, New York 36, N. Y.
MASTER OF LIFE AND DEATH
Copyright 1957, by A. A. Wyn, Inc. All Rights Reserved
For Antigone— Who Thinks We're Property
Printed in U.S.A.
[Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
THE MAN WHO RATIONED BABIES
By the 23rd century Earth's population had reached seven billion. Mankind was in danger of perishing for lack of elbow room—unless prompt measures were taken. Roy Walton had the power to enforce those measures. But though his job was in the service of humanity, he soon found himself the most hated man in the world.
For it was his job to tell parents their children were unfit to live; he had to uproot people from their homes and send them to remote areas of the world. Now, threatened by mobs of outraged citizens, denounced and blackened by the press, Roy Walton had to make a decision: resign his post, or use his power to destroy his enemies, become a dictator in the hopes of saving humanity from its own folly. In other words, should he become the MASTER OF LIFE AND DEATH?
CAST OF CHARACTERS
ROY WALTON
He had to adopt the motto— the ends justify the means .
FITZMAUGHAM
His reward for devoted service was—an assassin's bullet.
FRED WALTON
His ambition was to fill his brother's shoes—but he underestimated their size.
LEE PERCY
His specialty was sugarcoating bitter pills.
PRIOR
With the pen as his only weapon, could he save his son?
DR. LAMARRE
He died for discovering the secret of immortality.
Contents
I
The offices of the Bureau of Population Equalization, vulgarly known as Popeek, were located on the twentieth through twenty-ninth floors of the Cullen Building, a hundred-story monstrosity typical of twenty-second-century neo-Victorian at its overdecorated worst. Roy Walton, Popeek's assistant administrator, had to apologize to himself each morning as he entered the hideous place.
Since taking the job, he had managed to redecorate his own office—on the twenty-eighth floor, immediately below Director FitzMaugham's—but that had created only one minor oasis in the esthetically repugnant building. It couldn't be helped, though; Popeek was unpopular, though necessary; and, like the public hangman of some centuries earlier, the Bureau did not rate attractive quarters.
So Walton had removed some of the iridescent chrome scalloping that trimmed the walls, replaced the sash windows with opaquers, and changed the massive ceiling fixture to more subtle electroluminescents. But the mark of the last century was stamped irrevocably on both building and office.
Which was as it should be, Walton had finally realized. It was the last century's foolishness that had made Popeek necessary, after all.
His desk was piled high with reports, and more kept arriving via pneumochute every minute. The job of assistant administrator was a thankless one, he thought; as much responsibility as Director FitzMaugham, and half the pay.
He lifted a report from one eyebrow-high stack, smoothed the crinkly paper carefully, and read it.
It was a despatch from Horrocks, the Popeek agent currently on duty in Patagonia. It was dated 4 June 2232 , six days before, and after a long and rambling prologue in the usual Horrocks manner it went on to say, Population density remains low here: 17.3 per square mile, far below optimum. Looks like a prime candidate for equalization.
Walton agreed. He reached for his voicewrite and said sharply, "Memo from Assistant Administrator Walton, re equalization of ..." He paused, picking a trouble-spot at random, "... central Belgium. Will the section chief in charge of this area please consider the advisability of transferring population excess to fertile areas in Patagonia? Recommendation: establishment of industries in latter region, to ease transition."
He shut his eyes, dug his thumbs into them until bright flares of light shot across his eyeballs, and refused to let himself be bothered by the multiple problems involved in dumping several hundred thousand Belgians into Patagonia. He forced himself to cling to one of Director FitzMaugham's oft-repeated maxims, If you want to stay sane, think of these people as pawns in a chess game—not as human beings.
Walton sighed. This was the biggest chess problem in the history of humanity, and the way it looked now, all the solutions led to checkmate in a century or less. They could keep equalizing population only so long, shifting like loggers riding logs in a rushing river, before trouble came.
There was another matter to be attended to now. He picked up the voicewrite again. "Memo from the assistant administrator, re establishment of new policy on reports from local agents: hire a staff of three clever girls to make a précis of each report, eliminating irrelevant data."
It was a basic step, one that should have been taken long ago. Now, with three feet of reports stacked on his desk, it was mandatory. One of the troubles with Popeek was its newness; it had been established so suddenly that most of its procedures were still in the formative stage.
He took another report from the heap. This one was the data sheet of the Zurich Euthanasia Center, and he gave it a cursory scanning. During the past week, eleven substandard children and twenty-three substandard adults had been sent on to Happysleep.
That was the grimmest form of population equalization. Walton initialed the report, earmarked it for files, and dumped it in the pneumochute.
The annunciator chimed.
"I'm busy," Walton said immediately.
"There's a Mr. Prior to see you," the annunciator's calm voice said.
"He insists it's an emergency."
"Tell Mr. Prior I can't see anyone for at least three hours." Walton stared gloomily at the growing pile of paper on his desk. "Tell him he can have ten minutes with me at—oh, say, 1300."
Walton heard an angry male voice muttering something in the outer office, and then the annunciator said, "He insists he must see you immediately in reference to a Happysleep commitment."
"Commitments are irrevocable," Walton said heavily. The last thing in the world he wanted was to see a man whose child or parent had just been committed. "Tell Mr. Prior I can't see him at all."
Walton found his fingers trembling; he clamped them tight to the edge of his desk to steady himself. It was all right sitting up here in this ugly building and initialing commitment papers, but actually to see one of those people and try to convince him of the need—
The door burst open.
A tall, dark-haired man in an open jacket came rushing through and paused dramatically just over the threshold. Immediately behind him came three unsmiling men in the gray silk-sheen uniforms of security. They carried drawn needlers.
"Are you Administrator Walton?" the big man asked, in an astonishingly deep, rich voice. "I have to see you. I'm Lyle Prior."
The three security men caught up and swarmed all over Prior. One of them turned apologetically to Walton. "We're terribly sorry about this, sir. He just broke away and ran. We can't understand how he got in here, but he did."
"Ah—yes. So I noticed," Walton remarked drily. "See if he's planning to assassinate anybody, will you?"
"Administrator Walton!" Prior protested. "I'm a man of peace! How can you accuse me of—"
One of the security men hit him. Walton stiffened and resisted the urge to reprimand the man. He was only doing his job, after all.
"Search him," Walton said.
They gave Prior an efficient going-over. "He's clean, Mr. Walton. Should we take him to security, or downstairs to health?"
"Neither. Leave him here with me."
"Are you sure you—"
"Get out of here," Walton snapped. As the three security men slinked away, he added, "And figure out some more efficient system for protecting me. Some day an assassin is going to sneak through here and get me. Not that I give a damn about myself, you understand; it's simply that I'm indispensable. There isn't another lunatic in the world who'd take this job. Now get out !"
They wasted no time in leaving. Walton waited until the door closed and jammed down hard on the lockstud. His tirade, he knew, was wholly unjustified; if he had remembered to lock his door as regulations prescribed, Prior would never have broken in. But he couldn't admit that to the guards.
"Take a seat, Mr. Prior."
"I have to thank you for granting me this audience," Prior said, without a hint of sarcasm in his booming voice. "I realize you're a terribly busy man."
"I am." Another three inches of paper had deposited itself on Walton's desk since Prior had entered. "You're very lucky to have hit the psychological moment for your entrance. At any other time I'd have had you brigged for a month, but just now I'm in need of a little diversion. Besides, I very much admire your work, Mr. Prior."
"Thank you." Again that humility, startling in so big and commanding a man. "I hadn't expected to find—I mean that you—"
"That a bureaucrat should admire poetry? Is that what you're groping for?"
Prior reddened. "Yes," he admitted.
Grinning, Walton said, "I have to do something when I go home at night. I don't really read Popeek reports twenty-four hours a day. No more than twenty; that's my rule. I thought your last book was quite remarkable."
"The critics didn't," Prior said diffidently.
"Critics! What do they know?" Walton demanded. "They swing in cycles. Ten years ago it was form and technique, and you got the Melling Prize. Now it's message, political content that counts. That's not poetry, Mr. Prior—and there are still a few of us who recognize what poetry is. Take Yeats, for instance—"
Walton was ready to launch into a discussion of every poet from Prior back to Surrey and Wyatt; anything to keep from the job at hand, anything to keep his mind from Popeek. But Prior interrupted him.
"Mr. Walton...."
"Yes?"
"My son Philip ... he's two weeks old now...."
Walton understood. "No, Prior. Please don't ask." Walton's skin felt cold; his hands, tightly clenched, were clammy.
"He was committed to Happysleep this morning—potentially tubercular. The boy's perfectly sound, Mr. Walton. Couldn't you—"
Walton rose. " No ," he said, half-commanding, half-pleading. "Don't ask me to do it. I can't make any exceptions, not even for you. You're an intelligent man; you understand our program."
"I voted for Popeek. I know all about Weeding the Garden and the Euthanasia Plan. But I hadn't expected—"
"You thought euthanasia was a fine thing for other people. So did everyone else," Walton said. "That's how the act was passed." Tenderly he said, "I can't do it. I can't spare your son. Our doctors give a baby every chance to live."
" I was tubercular. They cured me. What if they had practiced euthanasia a generation ago? Where would my poems be now?"
It was an unanswerable question; Walton tried to ignore it.
"Tuberculosis is an extremely rare disease, Mr. Prior. We can wipe it out completely if we strike at those with TB-susceptible genetic traits."
"Meaning you'll kill any children I have?" Prior asked.
"Those who inherit your condition," Walton said gently. "Go home, Mr. Prior. Burn me in effigy. Write a poem about me. But don't ask me to do the impossible. I can't catch any falling stars for you."
Prior rose. He was immense, a hulking tragic figure staring broodingly at Walton. For the first time since the poet's abrupt entry, Walton feared violence. His fingers groped for the needle gun he kept in his upper left desk drawer.
But Prior had no violence in him. "I'll leave you," he said somberly.
"I'm sorry, sir. Deeply sorry. For both of us."
Walton pressed the doorlock to let him out, then locked it again and slipped heavily into his chair. Three more reports slid out of the chute and landed on his desk. He stared at them as if they were three basilisks.
In the six weeks of Popeek's existence, three thousand babies had been ticketed for Happysleep, and three thousand sets of degenerate genes had been wiped from the race. Ten thousand subnormal males had been sterilized. Eight thousand dying oldsters had reached their graves ahead of time.
It was a tough-minded program. But why transmit palsy to unborn generations? Why let an adult idiot litter the world with subnormal progeny? Why force a man hopelessly cancerous to linger on in pain, consuming precious food?
Unpleasant? Sure. But the world had voted for it. Until Lang and his team succeeded in terraforming Venus, or until the faster-than-light outfit opened the stars to mankind, something had to be done about Earth's overpopulation. There were seven billion now and the figure was still growing.
Prior's words haunted him. I was tubercular ... where would my poems be now?
The big humble man was one of the great poets. Keats had been tubercular too.
What good are poets? he asked himself savagely.
The reply came swiftly: What good is anything, then? Keats, Shakespeare, Eliot, Yeats, Donne, Pound, Matthews ... and Prior. How much duller life would be without them, Walton thought, picturing his bookshelf—his one bookshelf, in his crowded little cubicle of a one-room home.
Sweat poured down his back as he groped toward his decision.
The step he was considering would disqualify him from his job if he admitted it, though he wouldn't do that. Under the Equalization Law, it would be a criminal act.
But just one baby wouldn't matter. Just one.
Prior's baby.
With nervous fingers he switched on the annunciator and said, "If there are any calls for me, take the message. I'll be out of my office for the next half-hour."
II
He stepped out of the office, glancing around furtively. The outer office was busy: half a dozen girls were answering calls, opening letters, coordinating activities. Walton slipped quickly past them into the hallway.
There was a knot of fear in his stomach as he turned toward the lift tube. Six weeks of pressure, six weeks of tension since Popeek was organized and old man FitzMaugham had tapped him for the second-in-command post ... and now, a rebellion. The sparing of a single child was a small rebellion, true, but he knew he was striking as effectively at the base of Popeek this way as if he had brought about repeal of the entire Equalization Law.
Well, just one lapse, he promised himself. I'll spare Prior's child, and after that I'll keep within the law.
He jabbed the lift tube indicator and the tube rose in its shaft. The clinic was on the twentieth floor.
"Roy."
At the sound of the quiet voice behind him, Walton jumped in surprise. He steadied himself, forcing himself to turn slowly. The director stood there.
"Good morning, Mr. FitzMaugham."
The old man was smiling serenely, his unlined face warm and friendly, his mop of white hair bright and full. "You look preoccupied, boy. Something the matter?"
Walton shook his head quickly. "Just a little tired, sir. There's been a lot of work lately."
As he said it, he knew how foolish it sounded. If anyone in Popeek worked harder than he did, it was the elderly director. FitzMaugham had striven for equalization legislature for fifty years, and now, at the age of eighty, he put in a sixteen-hour day at the task of saving mankind from itself.
The director smiled. "You never did learn how to budget your strength, Roy. You'll be a worn-out wreck before you're half my age. I'm glad you're adopting my habit of taking a coffee break in the morning, though. Mind if I join you?"
"I'm—not taking a break, sir. I have some work to do downstairs."
"Oh? Can't you take care of it by phone?"
"No, Mr. FitzMaugham." Walton felt as though he'd already been tried, drawn, and quartered. "It requires personal attention."
"I see." The deep, warm eyes bored into his. "You ought to slow down a little, I think."
"Yes, sir. As soon as the work eases up a little."
FitzMaugham chuckled. "In another century or two, you mean. I'm afraid you'll never learn how to relax, my boy."
The lift tube arrived. Walton stepped to one side, allowed the Director to enter, and got in himself. FitzMaugham pushed Fourteen ; there was a coffee shop down there. Hesitantly, Walton pushed twenty , covering the panel with his arm so the old man would be unable to see his destination.
As the tube began to descend, FitzMaugham said, "Did Mr. Prior come to see you this morning?"
"Yes," Walton said.
"He's the poet, isn't he? The one you say is so good?"
"That's right, sir," Walton said tightly.
"He came to see me first, but I had him referred down to you. What was on his mind?"
Walton hesitated. "He—he wanted his son spared from Happysleep. Naturally, I had to turn him down."
"Naturally," FitzMaugham agreed solemnly. "Once we make even one exception, the whole framework crumbles."
"Of course, sir."
The lift tube halted and rocked on its suspension. The door slid back, revealing a neat, gleaming sign:
FLOOR 20 Euthanasia Clinic and Files
Walton had forgotten the accursed sign. He began to wish he had avoided traveling down with the director. He felt that his purpose must seem nakedly obvious now.
The old man's eyes were twinkling amusedly. "I guess you get off here," he said. "I hope you catch up with your work soon, Roy. You really should take some time off for relaxation each day."
"I'll try, sir."
Walton stepped out of the tube and returned FitzMaugham's smile as the door closed again. Bitter thoughts assailed him as soon as he was alone.
Some fine criminal you are. You've given the show away already! And damn that smooth paternal smile. FitzMaugham knows! He must know!
Walton wavered, then abruptly made his decision. He sucked in a deep breath and walked briskly toward the big room where the euthanasia files were kept.
The room was large, as rooms went nowadays—thirty by twenty, with deck upon deck of Donnerson micro-memory-tubes racked along one wall and a bank of microfilm records along the other. In six weeks of life Popeek had piled up an impressive collection of data.
While he stood there, the computer chattered, lights flashed. New facts poured into the memory banks. It probably went on day and night.
"Can I help—oh, it's you, Mr. Walton," a white-smocked technician said. Popeek employed a small army of technicians, each one faceless and without personality, but always ready to serve. "Is there anything I can do?"
"I'm simply running a routine checkup. Mind if I use the machine?"
"Not at all, sir. Go right ahead."
Walton grinned lightly and stepped forward. The technician practically backed out of his presence.
No doubt I must radiate charisma , he thought. Within the building he wore a sort of luminous halo, by virtue of being Director FitzMaugham's protégé and second-in-command. Outside, in the colder reality of the crowded metropolis, he kept his identity and Popeek rank quietly to himself.
Frowning, he tried to remember the Prior boy's name. Ah ... Philip, wasn't it? He punched out a request for the card on Philip Prior.
A moment's pause followed, while the millions of tiny cryotronic circuits raced with information pulses, searching the Donnerson tubes for Philip Prior's record. Then, a brief squeaking sound and a yellow-brown card dropped out of the slot:
3216847AB1
PRIOR, Philip Hugh. Born 31 May 2232, New York General Hospital, New York. First son of Prior, Lyle Martin and Prior, Ava Leonard. Wgt. at birth 5lb. 3oz.
An elaborate description of the boy in great detail followed, ending with blood type, agglutinating characteristic, and gene-pattern, codified. Walton skipped impatiently through that and came to the notification typed in curt, impersonal green capital letters at the bottom of the card:
EXAMINED AT N Y EUTH CLINIC 10 JUNE 2332 EUTHANASIA RECOMMENDED
He glanced at his watch: the time was 1026. The boy was probably still somewhere in the clinic lab, waiting for the figurative axe to descend.
Walton had set up the schedule himself: the gas chamber delivered Happysleep each day at 1100 and 1500. He had about half an hour to save Philip Prior.
He peered covertly over his shoulder; no one was in sight. He slipped the baby's card into his breast pocket.
That done, he typed out a requisition for explanation of the gene-sorting code the clinic used. Symbols began pouring forth, and Walton puzzledly correlated them with the line of gibberish on Phillip Prior's record card. Finally he found the one he wanted: 3f2, tubercular-prone .
He scrapped the guide sheet he had and typed out a message to the machine. Revision of card number 3216847AB1 follows. Please alter in all circuits.
He proceeded to retype the child's card, omitting both the fatal symbol 3f2 and the notation recommending euthanasia from the new version. The machine beeped an acknowledgement. Walton smiled. So far, so good.
Then, he requested the boy's file all over again. After the customary pause, a card numbered 3216847AB1 dropped out of the slot. He read it.
The deletions had been made. As far as the machine was concerned, Philip Prior was a normal, healthy baby.
He glanced at his watch. 1037. Still twenty-three minutes before this morning's haul of unfortunates was put away.
Now came the real test: could he pry the baby away from the doctors without attracting too much attention to himself in the process?
Five doctors were bustling back and forth as Walton entered the main section of the clinic. There must have been a hundred babies there, each in a little pen of its own, and the doctors were humming from one to the next, while anxious parents watched from screens above.
The Equalization Law provided that every child be presented at its local clinic within two weeks of birth, for an examination and a certificate. Perhaps one in ten thousand would be denied a certificate ... and life.
"Hello, Mr. Walton. What brings you down here?"
Walton smiled affably. "Just a routine investigation, Doctor. I try to keep in touch with every department we have, you know."
"Mr. FitzMaugham was down here to look around a little while ago. We're really getting a going-over today, Mr. Walton!"
"Umm. Yes." Walton didn't like that, but there was nothing he could do about it. He'd have to rely on the old man's abiding faith in his protégé to pull him out of any possible stickiness that arose.
"Seen my brother around?" he asked.
"Fred? He's working in room seven, running analyses. Want me to get him for you, Mr. Walton?"
"No—no, don't bother him, thanks. I'll find him later." Inwardly, Walton felt relieved. Fred Walton, his younger brother, was a doctor in the employ of Popeek. Little love was lost between the brothers, and Roy did not care to have Fred know he was down there.
Strolling casually through the clinic, he peered at a few plump, squalling babies, and said, "Find many sour ones today?"
"Seven so far. They're scheduled for the 1100 chamber. Three tuberc, two blind, one congenital syph."
"That only makes six," Walton said.
"Oh, and a spastic," the doctor said. "Biggest haul we've had yet. Seven in one morning."
"Have any trouble with the parents?"
"What do you think?" the doctor asked. "But some of them seemed to understand. One of the tuberculars nearly raised the roof, though."
Walton shuddered. "You remember his name?" he asked, with feigned calm.
Silence for a moment. "No. Darned if I can think of it. I can look it up for you if you like."
"Don't bother," Walton said hurriedly.
He moved on, down the winding corridor that led to the execution chamber. Falbrough, the executioner, was studying a list of names at his desk when Walton appeared.
Falbrough didn't look like the sort of man who would enjoy his work. He was short and plump, with a high-domed bald head and glittering contact lenses in his weak blue eyes. "Morning, Mr. Walton."
"Good morning, Doctor Falbrough. You'll be operating soon, won't you?"
"Eleven hundred, as usual."
"Good. There's a new regulation in effect from now on," Walton said.
"To keep public opinion on our side."
"Sir?"
"Henceforth, until further notice, you're to check each baby that comes to you against the main file, just to make sure there's been no mistake. Got that?"
" Mistake? But how—"
"Never mind that, Falbrough. There was quite a tragic slip-up at one of the European centers yesterday. We may all hang for it if news gets out." How glibly I reel this stuff off , Walton thought in amazement.
Falbrough looked grave. "I see, sir. Of course. We'll double-check everything from now on."
"Good. Begin with the 1100 batch."
Walton couldn't bear to remain down in the clinic any longer. He left via a side exit, and signaled for a lift tube.
Minutes later he was back in his office, behind the security of a towering stack of work. His pulse was racing; his throat was dry. He remembered what FitzMaugham had said: Once we make even one exception, the whole framework crumbles.
Well, the framework had begun crumbling, then. And there was little doubt in Walton's mind that FitzMaugham knew or would soon know what he had done. He would have to cover his traces, somehow.
The annunciator chimed and said, "Dr. Falbrough of Happysleep calling you, sir."
"Put him on."
The screen lit and Falbrough's face appeared; its normal blandness had given way to wild-eyed tenseness.
"What is it, Doctor?"
"It's a good thing you issued that order when you did, sir! You'll never guess what just happened—"
"No guessing games, Falbrough. Speak up."
"I—well, sir, I ran checks on the seven babies they sent me this morning. And guess—I mean—well, one of them shouldn't have been sent to me!"
"No!"
"It's the truth, sir. A cute little baby indeed. I've got his card right here. The boy's name is Philip Prior, and his gene-pattern is fine."
"Any recommendation for euthanasia on the card?" Walton asked.
"No, sir."
Walton chewed at a ragged cuticle for a moment, counterfeiting great anxiety. "Falbrough, we're going to have to keep this very quiet. Someone slipped up in the examining room, and if word gets out that there's been as much as one mistake, we'll have a mob swarming over us in half an hour."
"Yes, sir." Falbrough looked terribly grave. "What should I do, sir?"
"Don't say a word about this to anyone , not even the men in the examining room. Fill out a certificate for the boy, find his parents, apologize and return him to them. And make sure you keep checking for any future cases of this sort."
"Certainly, sir. Is that all?"
"It is," Walton said crisply, and broke the contact. He took a deep breath and stared bleakly at the far wall.
The Prior boy was safe. And in the eyes of the law—the Equalization Law—Roy Walton was now a criminal. He was every bit as much a criminal as the man who tried to hide his dying father from the investigators, or the anxious parents who attempted to bribe an examining doctor.
He felt curiously dirty. And, now that he had betrayed FitzMaugham and the Cause, now that it was done, he had little idea why he had done it, why he had jeopardized the Popeek program, his position—his life, even—for the sake of one potentially tubercular baby.
Well, the thing was done.
No. Not quite. Later, when things had quieted down, he would have to finish the job by transferring all the men in the clinic to distant places and by obliterating the computer's memories of this morning's activities.
The annunciator chimed again. "Your brother is on the wire, sir."
Walton trembled imperceptibly as he said, "Put him on." Somehow, Fred never called unless he could say or do something unpleasant. And Walton was very much afraid that his brother meant no good by this call. No good at all.
III
Roy Walton watched his brother's head and shoulders take form out of the swirl of colors on the screen. Fred Walton was more compact, built closer to the ground than his rangy brother; he was a squat five-seven, next to Roy's lean six-two. Fred had always threatened to "get even" with his older brother as soon as they were the same size, but to Fred's great dismay he had never managed to catch up with Roy in height.
Even on the screen, Fred's neck and shoulders gave an impression of tremendous solidity and force. Walton waited for his brother's image to take shape, and when the time lag was over he said, "Well, Fred? What goes?"
His brother's eyes flickered sleepily. "They tell me you were down here a little while ago, Roy. How come I didn't rate a visit?"
"I wasn't in your section. It was official business, anyway. I didn't have time."
Walton fixed his eyes sharply on the caduceus emblem gleaming on Fred's lapel, and refused to look anywhere else.
Fred said slowly, "You had time to tinker with our computer, though."
"Official business!"
"Really, Roy?" His brother's tone was venomous. "I happened to be using the computer shortly after you this morning. I was curious—unpardonably so, dear brother. I requested a transcript of your conversation with the machine."
Sparks seemed to flow from the screen. Walton sat back, feeling numb. He managed to pull his sagging mouth back into a stiff hard line and say, "That's a criminal offense, Fred. Any use I make of a Popeek computer outlet is confidential."
"Criminal offence? Maybe so ... but that makes two of us, then. Eh, Roy?"
"How much do you know?"
"You wouldn't want me to recite it over a public communications system, would you? Your friend FitzMaugham might be listening to every word of this, and I have too much fraternal feeling for that. Ole Doc Walton doesn't want to get his bigwig big brother in trouble—oh, no!"
"Thanks for small blessings," Roy said acidly.
"You got me this job. You can take it away. Let's call it even for now, shall we?"
"Anything you like," Walton said. He was drenched in sweat, though the ingenious executive filter in the sending apparatus of the screen cloaked that fact and presented him as neat and fresh. "I have some work to do now." His voice was barely audible.
"I won't keep you any longer, then," Fred said.
The screen went dead.
Walton killed the contact at his end, got up, walked to the window. He nudged the opaquer control and the frosty white haze over the glass cleared away, revealing the fantastic beehive of the city outside.
Idiot! he thought. Fool!
He had risked everything to save one baby, one child probably doomed to an early death anyway. And FitzMaugham knew—the old man could see through Walton with ease—and Fred knew, too. His brother, and his father-substitute.
FitzMaugham might well choose to conceal Roy's defection this time, but would surely place less trust in him in the future. And as for Fred....
There was no telling what Fred might do. They had never been particularly close as brothers; they had lived with their parents (now almost totally forgotten) until Roy was nine and Fred seven. Their parents had gone down off Maracaibo in a jet crash; Roy and Fred had been sent to the public crèche.
After that it had been separate paths for the brothers. For Roy, an education in the law, a short spell as Senator FitzMaugham's private secretary, followed last month by his sudden elevation to assistant administrator of the newly-created Popeek Bureau. For Fred, medicine, unsuccessful private practice, finally a job in the Happysleep section of Popeek, thanks to Roy.
Question:
Who is Philip Prior, and what happens to him throughout the story?
Answer:
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[
"Philip Prior is the son of Lyle Prior and Ava Leonard Prior. He was born small, a little over 5 pounds, and carries the gene for tuberculosis. Within this new society, this genetic mutation means that Philip Prior has to be euthanized and sent to Happysleep. At only two weeks old, he has been sentenced to death. His father, Lyle Prior the poet, comes to the office of Roy Walton to try and save his son’s life. Although he is unsuccessful at first, his words about what his son could become stuck with Roy and caused him to save Philip’s life. Philip Prior is incredibly significant because his life and sentencing caused Roy Walton to make the first crack in the framework, commit a felony by saving his life, and potentially sentence himself to a failed career and life. ",
"Philip Prior is the two-week-old son of the famous poet Lyle Prior and his wife, Ava. With the Equalization Laws, all children have to be examined and tested at a clinic within two weeks of birth to determine whether they are healthy enough and genetically suited to live. If they are, they are given a certificate; if not, the certificate is denied, and the child is euthanized (sent to Happysleep) that day. Philip’s test shows that he is 3f2, tubercular-prone. The child’s father goes to see Mr. Fitzmaugham and then Roy Walton to plead for an exception for his son; Prior explains that he was tubercular when he was a child but that he was subsequently cured. He also reminds Roy to think about what would have happened to his poems if such a law existed when he was born and he had been sent to Happysleep. This thought haunts Roy after Prior leaves his office, and he decides to save Philip Prior, rewriting the child’s medical records card and deleting his condition. The baby is minutes away from death when Roy takes the next step and visits the euthanasia doctor, telling him a fictitious story of a tragic mistake at a European center yesterday and implementing a new policy in effect immediately for checking each baby’s file before operating on it. The doctor calls Roy shortly afterward and exclaims that one of the babies scheduled for Happysleep that morning was, indeed, perfectly healthy and should not be euthanized. Thus, Philip Prior’s life is saved.\n\n\n",
"Philip Prioir is a two-week-old boy, the son of Lyle Prior, the poet who bursts into Roy Walton's office at the beginning of the story. The morning Lyle entered the Bureau, Philip had been committed to Happysleep. Lyle seems to think his son is in perfectly good health, but he has been labeled as potentially tubercular. This is especially shocking to Lyle because he had been tubercular when he was young, but was cured and not euthanized (because the euthanasia laws had not yet been passed). Roy Walton decides he needs to help save Philip, and goes on a secretive mission to do so. Walton changes Philip's record and then has the executioner in the clinic double-check all of the files, which prompts the executioner to think Philip is there by mistake. This lets Roy order him to send Philip back to his parents near the end of the story. ",
"Philip was born May 31, 2232 at New York General Hospital in New York weighing 5lb. 3oz. He is the two-week-old son of Ava and her husband, Melling Prize-winning poet Lyle Prior. Lyle had voted for the creation of Popeek and understood the concept of Weeding the Garden as well as the Euthansia Plan, but he hadn't expected his son would be selected for Happysleep. Therefore, when his son is selected because of a case of tuberculosis, he visits Roy Walton's office to request an audience with him. Lyle implores Roy to spare his son's life and reminds him that had the euthanasia program been around when he was a child, then his poems never would have been written for Roy to enjoy. Although Roy is empathic to Lyle's situation, he refuses to grant his request, knowing that it would cost him his job and perhaps the entire future of Popeek. However, after Lyle leaves, Roy is tortured by Lyle's argument, and he decides to grant Lyle's request. He makes his way to the Euthanasia Clinic & Files floor and accesses Philip Prior's record. After reading the denotations on the record, Roy removes the fatal symbol as well as the euthanasia recommendation from his record. Next, he visits Dr. Falbrough, whose jobs is to administer the euthanasia procedure. He tells Falbrough there is a new procedure designed to keep public opinion positive--prior to starting each procedure, the baby's file must be checked to make sure there is no mistake. In this way, he ensures baby Philip will not be killed. Roy ultimately risks his own career to save Philip's life."
] |
50441
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MASTER of Life and Death
by ROBERT SILVERBERG
ACE BOOKS A Division of A. A. Wyn, Inc. 23 West 47th Street, New York 36, N. Y.
MASTER OF LIFE AND DEATH
Copyright 1957, by A. A. Wyn, Inc. All Rights Reserved
For Antigone— Who Thinks We're Property
Printed in U.S.A.
[Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
THE MAN WHO RATIONED BABIES
By the 23rd century Earth's population had reached seven billion. Mankind was in danger of perishing for lack of elbow room—unless prompt measures were taken. Roy Walton had the power to enforce those measures. But though his job was in the service of humanity, he soon found himself the most hated man in the world.
For it was his job to tell parents their children were unfit to live; he had to uproot people from their homes and send them to remote areas of the world. Now, threatened by mobs of outraged citizens, denounced and blackened by the press, Roy Walton had to make a decision: resign his post, or use his power to destroy his enemies, become a dictator in the hopes of saving humanity from its own folly. In other words, should he become the MASTER OF LIFE AND DEATH?
CAST OF CHARACTERS
ROY WALTON
He had to adopt the motto— the ends justify the means .
FITZMAUGHAM
His reward for devoted service was—an assassin's bullet.
FRED WALTON
His ambition was to fill his brother's shoes—but he underestimated their size.
LEE PERCY
His specialty was sugarcoating bitter pills.
PRIOR
With the pen as his only weapon, could he save his son?
DR. LAMARRE
He died for discovering the secret of immortality.
Contents
I
The offices of the Bureau of Population Equalization, vulgarly known as Popeek, were located on the twentieth through twenty-ninth floors of the Cullen Building, a hundred-story monstrosity typical of twenty-second-century neo-Victorian at its overdecorated worst. Roy Walton, Popeek's assistant administrator, had to apologize to himself each morning as he entered the hideous place.
Since taking the job, he had managed to redecorate his own office—on the twenty-eighth floor, immediately below Director FitzMaugham's—but that had created only one minor oasis in the esthetically repugnant building. It couldn't be helped, though; Popeek was unpopular, though necessary; and, like the public hangman of some centuries earlier, the Bureau did not rate attractive quarters.
So Walton had removed some of the iridescent chrome scalloping that trimmed the walls, replaced the sash windows with opaquers, and changed the massive ceiling fixture to more subtle electroluminescents. But the mark of the last century was stamped irrevocably on both building and office.
Which was as it should be, Walton had finally realized. It was the last century's foolishness that had made Popeek necessary, after all.
His desk was piled high with reports, and more kept arriving via pneumochute every minute. The job of assistant administrator was a thankless one, he thought; as much responsibility as Director FitzMaugham, and half the pay.
He lifted a report from one eyebrow-high stack, smoothed the crinkly paper carefully, and read it.
It was a despatch from Horrocks, the Popeek agent currently on duty in Patagonia. It was dated 4 June 2232 , six days before, and after a long and rambling prologue in the usual Horrocks manner it went on to say, Population density remains low here: 17.3 per square mile, far below optimum. Looks like a prime candidate for equalization.
Walton agreed. He reached for his voicewrite and said sharply, "Memo from Assistant Administrator Walton, re equalization of ..." He paused, picking a trouble-spot at random, "... central Belgium. Will the section chief in charge of this area please consider the advisability of transferring population excess to fertile areas in Patagonia? Recommendation: establishment of industries in latter region, to ease transition."
He shut his eyes, dug his thumbs into them until bright flares of light shot across his eyeballs, and refused to let himself be bothered by the multiple problems involved in dumping several hundred thousand Belgians into Patagonia. He forced himself to cling to one of Director FitzMaugham's oft-repeated maxims, If you want to stay sane, think of these people as pawns in a chess game—not as human beings.
Walton sighed. This was the biggest chess problem in the history of humanity, and the way it looked now, all the solutions led to checkmate in a century or less. They could keep equalizing population only so long, shifting like loggers riding logs in a rushing river, before trouble came.
There was another matter to be attended to now. He picked up the voicewrite again. "Memo from the assistant administrator, re establishment of new policy on reports from local agents: hire a staff of three clever girls to make a précis of each report, eliminating irrelevant data."
It was a basic step, one that should have been taken long ago. Now, with three feet of reports stacked on his desk, it was mandatory. One of the troubles with Popeek was its newness; it had been established so suddenly that most of its procedures were still in the formative stage.
He took another report from the heap. This one was the data sheet of the Zurich Euthanasia Center, and he gave it a cursory scanning. During the past week, eleven substandard children and twenty-three substandard adults had been sent on to Happysleep.
That was the grimmest form of population equalization. Walton initialed the report, earmarked it for files, and dumped it in the pneumochute.
The annunciator chimed.
"I'm busy," Walton said immediately.
"There's a Mr. Prior to see you," the annunciator's calm voice said.
"He insists it's an emergency."
"Tell Mr. Prior I can't see anyone for at least three hours." Walton stared gloomily at the growing pile of paper on his desk. "Tell him he can have ten minutes with me at—oh, say, 1300."
Walton heard an angry male voice muttering something in the outer office, and then the annunciator said, "He insists he must see you immediately in reference to a Happysleep commitment."
"Commitments are irrevocable," Walton said heavily. The last thing in the world he wanted was to see a man whose child or parent had just been committed. "Tell Mr. Prior I can't see him at all."
Walton found his fingers trembling; he clamped them tight to the edge of his desk to steady himself. It was all right sitting up here in this ugly building and initialing commitment papers, but actually to see one of those people and try to convince him of the need—
The door burst open.
A tall, dark-haired man in an open jacket came rushing through and paused dramatically just over the threshold. Immediately behind him came three unsmiling men in the gray silk-sheen uniforms of security. They carried drawn needlers.
"Are you Administrator Walton?" the big man asked, in an astonishingly deep, rich voice. "I have to see you. I'm Lyle Prior."
The three security men caught up and swarmed all over Prior. One of them turned apologetically to Walton. "We're terribly sorry about this, sir. He just broke away and ran. We can't understand how he got in here, but he did."
"Ah—yes. So I noticed," Walton remarked drily. "See if he's planning to assassinate anybody, will you?"
"Administrator Walton!" Prior protested. "I'm a man of peace! How can you accuse me of—"
One of the security men hit him. Walton stiffened and resisted the urge to reprimand the man. He was only doing his job, after all.
"Search him," Walton said.
They gave Prior an efficient going-over. "He's clean, Mr. Walton. Should we take him to security, or downstairs to health?"
"Neither. Leave him here with me."
"Are you sure you—"
"Get out of here," Walton snapped. As the three security men slinked away, he added, "And figure out some more efficient system for protecting me. Some day an assassin is going to sneak through here and get me. Not that I give a damn about myself, you understand; it's simply that I'm indispensable. There isn't another lunatic in the world who'd take this job. Now get out !"
They wasted no time in leaving. Walton waited until the door closed and jammed down hard on the lockstud. His tirade, he knew, was wholly unjustified; if he had remembered to lock his door as regulations prescribed, Prior would never have broken in. But he couldn't admit that to the guards.
"Take a seat, Mr. Prior."
"I have to thank you for granting me this audience," Prior said, without a hint of sarcasm in his booming voice. "I realize you're a terribly busy man."
"I am." Another three inches of paper had deposited itself on Walton's desk since Prior had entered. "You're very lucky to have hit the psychological moment for your entrance. At any other time I'd have had you brigged for a month, but just now I'm in need of a little diversion. Besides, I very much admire your work, Mr. Prior."
"Thank you." Again that humility, startling in so big and commanding a man. "I hadn't expected to find—I mean that you—"
"That a bureaucrat should admire poetry? Is that what you're groping for?"
Prior reddened. "Yes," he admitted.
Grinning, Walton said, "I have to do something when I go home at night. I don't really read Popeek reports twenty-four hours a day. No more than twenty; that's my rule. I thought your last book was quite remarkable."
"The critics didn't," Prior said diffidently.
"Critics! What do they know?" Walton demanded. "They swing in cycles. Ten years ago it was form and technique, and you got the Melling Prize. Now it's message, political content that counts. That's not poetry, Mr. Prior—and there are still a few of us who recognize what poetry is. Take Yeats, for instance—"
Walton was ready to launch into a discussion of every poet from Prior back to Surrey and Wyatt; anything to keep from the job at hand, anything to keep his mind from Popeek. But Prior interrupted him.
"Mr. Walton...."
"Yes?"
"My son Philip ... he's two weeks old now...."
Walton understood. "No, Prior. Please don't ask." Walton's skin felt cold; his hands, tightly clenched, were clammy.
"He was committed to Happysleep this morning—potentially tubercular. The boy's perfectly sound, Mr. Walton. Couldn't you—"
Walton rose. " No ," he said, half-commanding, half-pleading. "Don't ask me to do it. I can't make any exceptions, not even for you. You're an intelligent man; you understand our program."
"I voted for Popeek. I know all about Weeding the Garden and the Euthanasia Plan. But I hadn't expected—"
"You thought euthanasia was a fine thing for other people. So did everyone else," Walton said. "That's how the act was passed." Tenderly he said, "I can't do it. I can't spare your son. Our doctors give a baby every chance to live."
" I was tubercular. They cured me. What if they had practiced euthanasia a generation ago? Where would my poems be now?"
It was an unanswerable question; Walton tried to ignore it.
"Tuberculosis is an extremely rare disease, Mr. Prior. We can wipe it out completely if we strike at those with TB-susceptible genetic traits."
"Meaning you'll kill any children I have?" Prior asked.
"Those who inherit your condition," Walton said gently. "Go home, Mr. Prior. Burn me in effigy. Write a poem about me. But don't ask me to do the impossible. I can't catch any falling stars for you."
Prior rose. He was immense, a hulking tragic figure staring broodingly at Walton. For the first time since the poet's abrupt entry, Walton feared violence. His fingers groped for the needle gun he kept in his upper left desk drawer.
But Prior had no violence in him. "I'll leave you," he said somberly.
"I'm sorry, sir. Deeply sorry. For both of us."
Walton pressed the doorlock to let him out, then locked it again and slipped heavily into his chair. Three more reports slid out of the chute and landed on his desk. He stared at them as if they were three basilisks.
In the six weeks of Popeek's existence, three thousand babies had been ticketed for Happysleep, and three thousand sets of degenerate genes had been wiped from the race. Ten thousand subnormal males had been sterilized. Eight thousand dying oldsters had reached their graves ahead of time.
It was a tough-minded program. But why transmit palsy to unborn generations? Why let an adult idiot litter the world with subnormal progeny? Why force a man hopelessly cancerous to linger on in pain, consuming precious food?
Unpleasant? Sure. But the world had voted for it. Until Lang and his team succeeded in terraforming Venus, or until the faster-than-light outfit opened the stars to mankind, something had to be done about Earth's overpopulation. There were seven billion now and the figure was still growing.
Prior's words haunted him. I was tubercular ... where would my poems be now?
The big humble man was one of the great poets. Keats had been tubercular too.
What good are poets? he asked himself savagely.
The reply came swiftly: What good is anything, then? Keats, Shakespeare, Eliot, Yeats, Donne, Pound, Matthews ... and Prior. How much duller life would be without them, Walton thought, picturing his bookshelf—his one bookshelf, in his crowded little cubicle of a one-room home.
Sweat poured down his back as he groped toward his decision.
The step he was considering would disqualify him from his job if he admitted it, though he wouldn't do that. Under the Equalization Law, it would be a criminal act.
But just one baby wouldn't matter. Just one.
Prior's baby.
With nervous fingers he switched on the annunciator and said, "If there are any calls for me, take the message. I'll be out of my office for the next half-hour."
II
He stepped out of the office, glancing around furtively. The outer office was busy: half a dozen girls were answering calls, opening letters, coordinating activities. Walton slipped quickly past them into the hallway.
There was a knot of fear in his stomach as he turned toward the lift tube. Six weeks of pressure, six weeks of tension since Popeek was organized and old man FitzMaugham had tapped him for the second-in-command post ... and now, a rebellion. The sparing of a single child was a small rebellion, true, but he knew he was striking as effectively at the base of Popeek this way as if he had brought about repeal of the entire Equalization Law.
Well, just one lapse, he promised himself. I'll spare Prior's child, and after that I'll keep within the law.
He jabbed the lift tube indicator and the tube rose in its shaft. The clinic was on the twentieth floor.
"Roy."
At the sound of the quiet voice behind him, Walton jumped in surprise. He steadied himself, forcing himself to turn slowly. The director stood there.
"Good morning, Mr. FitzMaugham."
The old man was smiling serenely, his unlined face warm and friendly, his mop of white hair bright and full. "You look preoccupied, boy. Something the matter?"
Walton shook his head quickly. "Just a little tired, sir. There's been a lot of work lately."
As he said it, he knew how foolish it sounded. If anyone in Popeek worked harder than he did, it was the elderly director. FitzMaugham had striven for equalization legislature for fifty years, and now, at the age of eighty, he put in a sixteen-hour day at the task of saving mankind from itself.
The director smiled. "You never did learn how to budget your strength, Roy. You'll be a worn-out wreck before you're half my age. I'm glad you're adopting my habit of taking a coffee break in the morning, though. Mind if I join you?"
"I'm—not taking a break, sir. I have some work to do downstairs."
"Oh? Can't you take care of it by phone?"
"No, Mr. FitzMaugham." Walton felt as though he'd already been tried, drawn, and quartered. "It requires personal attention."
"I see." The deep, warm eyes bored into his. "You ought to slow down a little, I think."
"Yes, sir. As soon as the work eases up a little."
FitzMaugham chuckled. "In another century or two, you mean. I'm afraid you'll never learn how to relax, my boy."
The lift tube arrived. Walton stepped to one side, allowed the Director to enter, and got in himself. FitzMaugham pushed Fourteen ; there was a coffee shop down there. Hesitantly, Walton pushed twenty , covering the panel with his arm so the old man would be unable to see his destination.
As the tube began to descend, FitzMaugham said, "Did Mr. Prior come to see you this morning?"
"Yes," Walton said.
"He's the poet, isn't he? The one you say is so good?"
"That's right, sir," Walton said tightly.
"He came to see me first, but I had him referred down to you. What was on his mind?"
Walton hesitated. "He—he wanted his son spared from Happysleep. Naturally, I had to turn him down."
"Naturally," FitzMaugham agreed solemnly. "Once we make even one exception, the whole framework crumbles."
"Of course, sir."
The lift tube halted and rocked on its suspension. The door slid back, revealing a neat, gleaming sign:
FLOOR 20 Euthanasia Clinic and Files
Walton had forgotten the accursed sign. He began to wish he had avoided traveling down with the director. He felt that his purpose must seem nakedly obvious now.
The old man's eyes were twinkling amusedly. "I guess you get off here," he said. "I hope you catch up with your work soon, Roy. You really should take some time off for relaxation each day."
"I'll try, sir."
Walton stepped out of the tube and returned FitzMaugham's smile as the door closed again. Bitter thoughts assailed him as soon as he was alone.
Some fine criminal you are. You've given the show away already! And damn that smooth paternal smile. FitzMaugham knows! He must know!
Walton wavered, then abruptly made his decision. He sucked in a deep breath and walked briskly toward the big room where the euthanasia files were kept.
The room was large, as rooms went nowadays—thirty by twenty, with deck upon deck of Donnerson micro-memory-tubes racked along one wall and a bank of microfilm records along the other. In six weeks of life Popeek had piled up an impressive collection of data.
While he stood there, the computer chattered, lights flashed. New facts poured into the memory banks. It probably went on day and night.
"Can I help—oh, it's you, Mr. Walton," a white-smocked technician said. Popeek employed a small army of technicians, each one faceless and without personality, but always ready to serve. "Is there anything I can do?"
"I'm simply running a routine checkup. Mind if I use the machine?"
"Not at all, sir. Go right ahead."
Walton grinned lightly and stepped forward. The technician practically backed out of his presence.
No doubt I must radiate charisma , he thought. Within the building he wore a sort of luminous halo, by virtue of being Director FitzMaugham's protégé and second-in-command. Outside, in the colder reality of the crowded metropolis, he kept his identity and Popeek rank quietly to himself.
Frowning, he tried to remember the Prior boy's name. Ah ... Philip, wasn't it? He punched out a request for the card on Philip Prior.
A moment's pause followed, while the millions of tiny cryotronic circuits raced with information pulses, searching the Donnerson tubes for Philip Prior's record. Then, a brief squeaking sound and a yellow-brown card dropped out of the slot:
3216847AB1
PRIOR, Philip Hugh. Born 31 May 2232, New York General Hospital, New York. First son of Prior, Lyle Martin and Prior, Ava Leonard. Wgt. at birth 5lb. 3oz.
An elaborate description of the boy in great detail followed, ending with blood type, agglutinating characteristic, and gene-pattern, codified. Walton skipped impatiently through that and came to the notification typed in curt, impersonal green capital letters at the bottom of the card:
EXAMINED AT N Y EUTH CLINIC 10 JUNE 2332 EUTHANASIA RECOMMENDED
He glanced at his watch: the time was 1026. The boy was probably still somewhere in the clinic lab, waiting for the figurative axe to descend.
Walton had set up the schedule himself: the gas chamber delivered Happysleep each day at 1100 and 1500. He had about half an hour to save Philip Prior.
He peered covertly over his shoulder; no one was in sight. He slipped the baby's card into his breast pocket.
That done, he typed out a requisition for explanation of the gene-sorting code the clinic used. Symbols began pouring forth, and Walton puzzledly correlated them with the line of gibberish on Phillip Prior's record card. Finally he found the one he wanted: 3f2, tubercular-prone .
He scrapped the guide sheet he had and typed out a message to the machine. Revision of card number 3216847AB1 follows. Please alter in all circuits.
He proceeded to retype the child's card, omitting both the fatal symbol 3f2 and the notation recommending euthanasia from the new version. The machine beeped an acknowledgement. Walton smiled. So far, so good.
Then, he requested the boy's file all over again. After the customary pause, a card numbered 3216847AB1 dropped out of the slot. He read it.
The deletions had been made. As far as the machine was concerned, Philip Prior was a normal, healthy baby.
He glanced at his watch. 1037. Still twenty-three minutes before this morning's haul of unfortunates was put away.
Now came the real test: could he pry the baby away from the doctors without attracting too much attention to himself in the process?
Five doctors were bustling back and forth as Walton entered the main section of the clinic. There must have been a hundred babies there, each in a little pen of its own, and the doctors were humming from one to the next, while anxious parents watched from screens above.
The Equalization Law provided that every child be presented at its local clinic within two weeks of birth, for an examination and a certificate. Perhaps one in ten thousand would be denied a certificate ... and life.
"Hello, Mr. Walton. What brings you down here?"
Walton smiled affably. "Just a routine investigation, Doctor. I try to keep in touch with every department we have, you know."
"Mr. FitzMaugham was down here to look around a little while ago. We're really getting a going-over today, Mr. Walton!"
"Umm. Yes." Walton didn't like that, but there was nothing he could do about it. He'd have to rely on the old man's abiding faith in his protégé to pull him out of any possible stickiness that arose.
"Seen my brother around?" he asked.
"Fred? He's working in room seven, running analyses. Want me to get him for you, Mr. Walton?"
"No—no, don't bother him, thanks. I'll find him later." Inwardly, Walton felt relieved. Fred Walton, his younger brother, was a doctor in the employ of Popeek. Little love was lost between the brothers, and Roy did not care to have Fred know he was down there.
Strolling casually through the clinic, he peered at a few plump, squalling babies, and said, "Find many sour ones today?"
"Seven so far. They're scheduled for the 1100 chamber. Three tuberc, two blind, one congenital syph."
"That only makes six," Walton said.
"Oh, and a spastic," the doctor said. "Biggest haul we've had yet. Seven in one morning."
"Have any trouble with the parents?"
"What do you think?" the doctor asked. "But some of them seemed to understand. One of the tuberculars nearly raised the roof, though."
Walton shuddered. "You remember his name?" he asked, with feigned calm.
Silence for a moment. "No. Darned if I can think of it. I can look it up for you if you like."
"Don't bother," Walton said hurriedly.
He moved on, down the winding corridor that led to the execution chamber. Falbrough, the executioner, was studying a list of names at his desk when Walton appeared.
Falbrough didn't look like the sort of man who would enjoy his work. He was short and plump, with a high-domed bald head and glittering contact lenses in his weak blue eyes. "Morning, Mr. Walton."
"Good morning, Doctor Falbrough. You'll be operating soon, won't you?"
"Eleven hundred, as usual."
"Good. There's a new regulation in effect from now on," Walton said.
"To keep public opinion on our side."
"Sir?"
"Henceforth, until further notice, you're to check each baby that comes to you against the main file, just to make sure there's been no mistake. Got that?"
" Mistake? But how—"
"Never mind that, Falbrough. There was quite a tragic slip-up at one of the European centers yesterday. We may all hang for it if news gets out." How glibly I reel this stuff off , Walton thought in amazement.
Falbrough looked grave. "I see, sir. Of course. We'll double-check everything from now on."
"Good. Begin with the 1100 batch."
Walton couldn't bear to remain down in the clinic any longer. He left via a side exit, and signaled for a lift tube.
Minutes later he was back in his office, behind the security of a towering stack of work. His pulse was racing; his throat was dry. He remembered what FitzMaugham had said: Once we make even one exception, the whole framework crumbles.
Well, the framework had begun crumbling, then. And there was little doubt in Walton's mind that FitzMaugham knew or would soon know what he had done. He would have to cover his traces, somehow.
The annunciator chimed and said, "Dr. Falbrough of Happysleep calling you, sir."
"Put him on."
The screen lit and Falbrough's face appeared; its normal blandness had given way to wild-eyed tenseness.
"What is it, Doctor?"
"It's a good thing you issued that order when you did, sir! You'll never guess what just happened—"
"No guessing games, Falbrough. Speak up."
"I—well, sir, I ran checks on the seven babies they sent me this morning. And guess—I mean—well, one of them shouldn't have been sent to me!"
"No!"
"It's the truth, sir. A cute little baby indeed. I've got his card right here. The boy's name is Philip Prior, and his gene-pattern is fine."
"Any recommendation for euthanasia on the card?" Walton asked.
"No, sir."
Walton chewed at a ragged cuticle for a moment, counterfeiting great anxiety. "Falbrough, we're going to have to keep this very quiet. Someone slipped up in the examining room, and if word gets out that there's been as much as one mistake, we'll have a mob swarming over us in half an hour."
"Yes, sir." Falbrough looked terribly grave. "What should I do, sir?"
"Don't say a word about this to anyone , not even the men in the examining room. Fill out a certificate for the boy, find his parents, apologize and return him to them. And make sure you keep checking for any future cases of this sort."
"Certainly, sir. Is that all?"
"It is," Walton said crisply, and broke the contact. He took a deep breath and stared bleakly at the far wall.
The Prior boy was safe. And in the eyes of the law—the Equalization Law—Roy Walton was now a criminal. He was every bit as much a criminal as the man who tried to hide his dying father from the investigators, or the anxious parents who attempted to bribe an examining doctor.
He felt curiously dirty. And, now that he had betrayed FitzMaugham and the Cause, now that it was done, he had little idea why he had done it, why he had jeopardized the Popeek program, his position—his life, even—for the sake of one potentially tubercular baby.
Well, the thing was done.
No. Not quite. Later, when things had quieted down, he would have to finish the job by transferring all the men in the clinic to distant places and by obliterating the computer's memories of this morning's activities.
The annunciator chimed again. "Your brother is on the wire, sir."
Walton trembled imperceptibly as he said, "Put him on." Somehow, Fred never called unless he could say or do something unpleasant. And Walton was very much afraid that his brother meant no good by this call. No good at all.
III
Roy Walton watched his brother's head and shoulders take form out of the swirl of colors on the screen. Fred Walton was more compact, built closer to the ground than his rangy brother; he was a squat five-seven, next to Roy's lean six-two. Fred had always threatened to "get even" with his older brother as soon as they were the same size, but to Fred's great dismay he had never managed to catch up with Roy in height.
Even on the screen, Fred's neck and shoulders gave an impression of tremendous solidity and force. Walton waited for his brother's image to take shape, and when the time lag was over he said, "Well, Fred? What goes?"
His brother's eyes flickered sleepily. "They tell me you were down here a little while ago, Roy. How come I didn't rate a visit?"
"I wasn't in your section. It was official business, anyway. I didn't have time."
Walton fixed his eyes sharply on the caduceus emblem gleaming on Fred's lapel, and refused to look anywhere else.
Fred said slowly, "You had time to tinker with our computer, though."
"Official business!"
"Really, Roy?" His brother's tone was venomous. "I happened to be using the computer shortly after you this morning. I was curious—unpardonably so, dear brother. I requested a transcript of your conversation with the machine."
Sparks seemed to flow from the screen. Walton sat back, feeling numb. He managed to pull his sagging mouth back into a stiff hard line and say, "That's a criminal offense, Fred. Any use I make of a Popeek computer outlet is confidential."
"Criminal offence? Maybe so ... but that makes two of us, then. Eh, Roy?"
"How much do you know?"
"You wouldn't want me to recite it over a public communications system, would you? Your friend FitzMaugham might be listening to every word of this, and I have too much fraternal feeling for that. Ole Doc Walton doesn't want to get his bigwig big brother in trouble—oh, no!"
"Thanks for small blessings," Roy said acidly.
"You got me this job. You can take it away. Let's call it even for now, shall we?"
"Anything you like," Walton said. He was drenched in sweat, though the ingenious executive filter in the sending apparatus of the screen cloaked that fact and presented him as neat and fresh. "I have some work to do now." His voice was barely audible.
"I won't keep you any longer, then," Fred said.
The screen went dead.
Walton killed the contact at his end, got up, walked to the window. He nudged the opaquer control and the frosty white haze over the glass cleared away, revealing the fantastic beehive of the city outside.
Idiot! he thought. Fool!
He had risked everything to save one baby, one child probably doomed to an early death anyway. And FitzMaugham knew—the old man could see through Walton with ease—and Fred knew, too. His brother, and his father-substitute.
FitzMaugham might well choose to conceal Roy's defection this time, but would surely place less trust in him in the future. And as for Fred....
There was no telling what Fred might do. They had never been particularly close as brothers; they had lived with their parents (now almost totally forgotten) until Roy was nine and Fred seven. Their parents had gone down off Maracaibo in a jet crash; Roy and Fred had been sent to the public crèche.
After that it had been separate paths for the brothers. For Roy, an education in the law, a short spell as Senator FitzMaugham's private secretary, followed last month by his sudden elevation to assistant administrator of the newly-created Popeek Bureau. For Fred, medicine, unsuccessful private practice, finally a job in the Happysleep section of Popeek, thanks to Roy.
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Describe the Setting of the story.
|
After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about Home is Where You Left It by Stephen Marlowe.
Relevant chunks:
HOME IS WHERE YOU LEFT IT
By ADAM CHASE
[Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Amazing Stories February
1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The chance of mass slaughter was their eternal nightmare.
How black is the blackest treachery? Is the most callous
traitor entitled to mercy? Steve pondered these questions. His decision?
That at times the villain should possibly be spoken of as a hero.
Only the shells of deserted mud-brick houses greeted Steve Cantwell when
he reached the village.
He poked around in them for a while. The desert heat was searing,
parching, and the Sirian sun gleamed balefully off the blades of Steve's
unicopter, which had brought him from Oasis City, almost five hundred
miles away. He had remembered heat from his childhood here on Sirius'
second planet with the Earth colony, but not heat like this. It was like
a magnet drawing all the moisture out of his body.
He walked among the buildings, surprise and perhaps sadness etched on
his gaunt, weather-beaten face. Childhood memories flooded back: the
single well from which all the families drew their water, the mud-brick
house, hardly different from the others and just four walls and a roof
now, in which he'd lived with his aunt after his parents had been killed
in a Kumaji raid, the community center where he'd spent his happiest
time as a boy.
He went to the well and hoisted up a pailful of water. The winch creaked
as he remembered. He ladled out the water, suddenly very thirsty, and
brought the ladle to his lips.
He hurled the ladle away. The water was bitter. Not brackish.
Poisoned.
He spat with fury, then kneeled and stuffed his mouth with sand, almost
gagging. After a while he spat out the sand too and opened his canteen
and rinsed his mouth. His lips and mouth were paralyzed by contact with
the poison. He walked quickly across the well-square to his aunt's
house. Inside, it was dim but hardly cooler. Steve was sweating, the
saline sweat making him blink. He scowled, not understanding. The table
was set in his aunt's house. A coffeepot was on the stove and last
night's partially-consumed dinner still on the table.
The well had been poisoned, the town had been deserted on the spur of
the moment, and Steve had returned to his boyhood home from Earth—too
late for anything.
He went outside into the square. A lizard was sunning itself and staring
at him with lidless eyes. When he moved across the square, the lizard
scurried away.
"Earthman!" a quavering voice called.
Steve ran toward the sound. In the scant shadow of the community center,
a Kumaji was resting. He was a withered old man, all skin and bones and
sweat-stiffened tunic, with enormous red-rimmed eyes. His purple skin,
which had been blasted by the merciless sun, was almost black.
Steve held the canteen to his lips and watched his throat working almost
spasmodically to get the water down. After a while Steve withdrew the
canteen and said:
"What happened here?"
"They're gone. All gone."
"Yes, but what happened?"
"The Kumaji—"
"You're Kumaji."
"This is my town," the old man said. "I lived with the Earthmen. Now
they're gone."
"But you stayed here—"
"To die," the old man said, without self-pity. "I'm too old to flee, too
old to fight, too old for anything but death. More water."
Steve gave him another drink. "You still haven't told me what happened."
Actually, though, Steve could guess. With the twenty-second century
Earth population hovering at the eleven billion mark, colonies were
sought everywhere. Even on a parched desert wasteland like this. The
Kumaji tribesmen had never accepted the colony as a fact of their life
on the desert, and in a way Steve could not blame them. It meant one
oasis less for their own nomadic sustenance. When Steve was a boy,
Kumaji raids were frequent. At school on Earth and Luna he'd read about
the raids, how they'd increased in violence, how the Earth government,
so far away and utterly unable to protect its distant colony, had
suggested withdrawal from the Kumaji desert settlement, especially since
a colony could exist there under only the most primitive conditions,
almost like the purple-skinned Kumaji natives themselves.
"When did it happen?" Steve demanded.
"Last night." It was now midafternoon. "Three folks died," the Kumaji
said in his almost perfect English, "from the poisoning of the well. The
well was the last straw. The colonists had no choice. They had to go,
and go fast, taking what little water they had left in the houses."
"Will they try to walk all the way through to Oasis City?" Oasis City,
built at the confluence of two underground rivers which came to the
surface there and flowed the rest of the way to the sea above ground,
was almost five hundred miles from the colony. Five hundred miles of
trackless sands and hundred-and-thirty-degree heat....
"They have to," the old man said. "And they have to hurry. Men, women
and children. The Kumaji are after them."
Steve felt irrational hatred then. He thought it would help if he could
find some of the nomadic tribesmen and kill them. It might help the way
he felt, he knew, but it certainly wouldn't help the fleeing colonists,
trekking across a parched wilderness—to the safety of Oasis City—or
death.
"Come on," Steve said, making up his mind. "The unicopter can hold two
in a pinch."
"You're going after them?"
"I've got to. They're my people. I've been away too long."
"Say, you're young Cantwell, aren't you? Now I remember."
"Yes, I'm Steve Cantwell."
"I'm not going anyplace, young fellow."
"But you can't stay here, without any good water to drink, without—"
"I'm staying," the old man said, still without self-pity, just
matter-of-factly. "The Earth folks have no room for me and I can't blame
'em. The Kumaji'll kill me for a renegade, I figure. I lived a good,
long life. I've no regrets. Go after your people, young fellow. They'll
need every extra strong right arm they can get. You got any weapons?"
"No," Steve said.
"Too bad. Well, good-bye and good luck."
"But you can't—"
"Oh, I'm staying. I want to stay. This is my home. It's the only home
I'll ever have. Good luck, young fellow."
Slowly, Steve walked to his unicopter. It was nothing more than a small
metal disk on which to stand, and a shaft with four turbo-blades. It
could do sixty miles an hour at an elevation of two thousand feet.
Steve turned the little turbo-jet engine over, then on impulse ran back
to the old man and gave him his canteen, turning away before it could be
refused and striding quickly back to the unicopter and getting himself
airborne without looking at the deserted village or the old man again.
The old man's voice called after him: "Tell the people ... hurry ...
Kumaji looking for them to kill ... desert wind ought to wipe out their
trail ... but hurry...."
The voice faded into the faint rushing sound of the hot desert wind.
Steve gazed down on bare sun-blasted rock, on rippled dunes, on
hate-haze. He circled wider and wider, seeking his people.
Hours later he spotted the caravan in the immensity of sand and
wasteland. He brought the unicopter down quickly, with a rush of air and
a whine of turbojets. He alighted in the sand in front of the
slow-moving column. It was like something out of Earth's Middle
East—and Middle Ages. They had even imported camels for their life here
on the Sirian desert, deciding the Earth camel was a better beast of
burden than anything the Sirius II wastelands had to offer. They walked
beside the great-humped beasts of burden, the animals piled high with
the swaying baggage of their belongings. They moved through the sands
with agonizing slowness. Already, after only one day's travel, Steve
could see that some of the people were spent and exhausted and had to
ride on camelback. They had gone perhaps fifteen miles, with almost five
hundred to go across searing desert, the Kumaji seeking them....
"Hullo!" Steve shouted, and a man armed with an atorifle came striding
clumsily through the sand toward him. "Cantwell's the name," Steve said.
"I'm one of you."
Bleak hostility in his face, the man approached. "Cantwell. Yeah, I
remember you. Colony wasn't good enough for young Steve Cantwell. Oh,
no. Had to go off to Earth to get himself educated. What are you doing
here now on that fancy aircraft of yours, coming to crow at our wake?"
The bitterness surprised Steve. He recognized the man now as Tobias
Whiting, who had been the Colony's most successful man when Steve was a
boy. Except for his bitterness and for the bleak self-pity and defeat in
his eyes, the years had been good to Tobias Whiting. He was probably in
his mid-forties now, twenty years Steve's senior, but he was
well-muscled, his flesh was solid, his step bold and strong. He was a
big muscular man with a craggy, handsome face. In ten years he had
hardly changed at all, while Steve Cantwell, the boy, had become Steve
Cantwell the man. He had been the Colony's official trader with the
Kumajis, and had grown rich—by colony standards—at his business. Now,
Steve realized, all that was behind him, and he could only flee with the
others—either back to the terribly crowded Earth or on in search of a
new colony on some other outworld, if they could get the transportation.
Perhaps that explained his bitterness.
"So you've come back, eh? You sure picked a time, Cantwell."
The refugees were still about a quarter of a mile off, coming up slowly.
They hardly seemed to be moving at all. "Is my aunt all right?" Steve
said. She was the only family he remembered.
Tobias Whiting shook his head slowly. "I hate to be the one to tell you
this. Brace yourself for a shock. Your aunt was one of those who died
from the poisoned water last night."
For a long moment, Steve said nothing. The only emotion he felt was
pity—pity for the hard life his aunt had lived, and the hard death.
Sadness would come later, if there was to be a time for sadness.
The caravan reached them then. The first person Steve saw was a girl.
She wore the shroud-like desert garment and her face—it would be a
pretty face under other circumstances, Steve realized—was etched with
lines of fatigue. Steve did not recognize her. "Who is he, Dad?" the
girl said.
"Young Cantwell. Remember?"
So this was Mary Whiting, Steve thought. Why, she'd been a moppet ten
years ago! How old? Ten years old maybe. The years crowded him suddenly.
She was a woman now....
"Steve Cantwell?" Mary said. "Of course I remember. Hello, Steve. I—I'm
sorry you had to come back at a time like this. I'm sorry about your
aunt. If there's anything I can do...."
Steve shook his head, then shook the hand she offered him. She was a
slim, strong girl with a firm handshake. Her concern for him at a time
like this was little short of amazing, especially since it was
completely genuine.
He appreciated it.
Tobias Whiting said: "Shame of it is, Cantwell, some of us could get
along with the Kumaji. I had a pretty good business here, you know
that." He looked with bitterness at the dusty file of refugees. "But I
never got a credit out of it. Wherever we wind up, my girl and I will be
poor again. We could have been rich."
Steve asked, "What happened to all your profits?"
"Tied up with a Kumaji moneylender, but thanks to what happened I'll
never see it again."
Mary winced, as if her father's words and his self-pity were painful to
her. Then others came up and a few minutes were spent in back-pounding
and hand-shaking as some of the men who had been boys with Steve came up
to recognize and be recognized. Their greeting was warm, as Tobias
Whiting's had been cool. Despite the knowledge of what lay behind all of
them, and what still lay ahead, it was a little like homecoming.
But Steve liked Mary Whiting's warm, friendly smile best of all. It was
comforting and reassuring.
Three days later, Tobias Whiting disappeared.
The caravan had been making no more than ten or fifteen miles a day.
Their water supply was almost gone but on the fourth day they hoped to
reach an oasis in the desert. Two of the older folks had died of
fatigue. A third was critically ill and there was little that could be
done for him. The food supply was running short, but they could always
slaughter their camels for food and make their way to Oasis City, still
four hundred and some miles away, with nothing but the clothes on their
backs.
And then, during the fourth night, Tobias Whiting disappeared, taking
Steve's unicopter. A sentry had heard the low muffled whine of the
turbojets during the night and had seen the small craft take off, but
had assumed Steve had taken it up for some reason. Each day Steve had
done so, reconnoitering for signs of the Kumaji.
"But why?" someone asked. "Why?"
At first there was no answer. Then a woman whose husband had died the
day before said: "It's no secret Whiting has plenty of money—with the
Kumaji."
None of them looked at Mary. She stood there defiantly, not saying
anything, and Steve squeezed her hand.
"Now, wait a minute," one of Whiting's friends said.
"Wait, nothing." This was Jeremy Gort, who twice had been mayor of the
colony. "I know how Whiting's mind works. He slaved all his life for
that money, that's the way he'll see it. Cantwell, didn't you say the
Kumaji were looking for us, to kill us?"
"That's what I was told," Steve said.
"All right," Gort went on relentlessly. "Then this is what I figure must
have happened. Whiting got to brooding over his lost fortune and finally
decided he had to have it. So, he went off at night in Cantwell's
'copter, determined to get it. Only catch is, folks, if I know the
Kumaji, they won't just give it to him—not by a long sight."
"No?" someone asked.
"No sir. They'll trade. For our location. And if Whiting went off like
that without even saying good-bye to his girl here, my guess is he'll
make the trade." His voice reflected some bitterness.
Mary went to Gort and slapped his face. The elderly man did not even
blink. "Well," he asked her gently, "did your pa tell you he was going?"
"N-no," Mary said. There were tears in her eyes, but she did not cry.
Gort turned to Steve. "Cantwell, can he get far in that 'copter?"
Steve shook his head. "Ten or fifteen miles is all. Almost out of fuel,
Mr. Gort. You saw how I took her up for only a quick mile swing each
day. He won't get far."
"He'll crash in the desert?"
"Crash or crash-land," Steve said.
Mary sobbed, and bit her lip, and was silent.
"We've got to stop him," Gort said. "And fast. If he gets to the Kumaji,
they'll send down a raiding party and we'll be finished. We could never
fight them off without the protection of our village. Near as I can
figure, there's a Kumaji base fifty miles due north of here. Whiting
knows it too, so that's where he'll be going, I figure. Can't spare more
than a couple of men to look for him, though, in case the Kumaji find
us—or are led to us—and attack."
Steve said, "I should have taken something out of the 'copter every
night, so it couldn't start. I'll go."
Mary came forward boldly. "I have to go. He's my father. If he crashed
out there, he may be hurt. He may be—dying."
Gort looked at her. "And if he's trying to sell us out to the Kumajis?"
"Then—then I'll do whatever Steve asks me to. I promise."
"That's good enough for me," Steve said.
A few minutes later, armed with atorifles and their share of the food
and water that was left, Steve and Mary set out northward across the
sand while the caravan continued east. Fear of what they might find
mounted.
The first night, they camped in the lee of low sandhills. The second
night they found a small spring with brackish but drinkable water. On
the third day, having covered half the distance to the Kumaji
settlement, they began to encounter Kumaji patrols, on foot or thlotback , the six-legged desert animals running so swiftly over the
sands and so low to the ground that they almost seemed to be gliding.
Steve and Mary hardly spoke. Talk was unnecessary. But slowly a bond
grew between them. Steve liked this slim silent girl who had come out
here with him risking her life although she must have known deep in her
heart that her father had almost certainly decided to turn traitor in
order to regain his fortune.
On the fourth day, they spotted the unicopter from a long way off and
made their way toward it. It had come much further than Steve had
expected. With sinking heart he realized that Tobias Whiting, if he
escaped the crash-landing without injury, must surely have reached the
Kumaji encampment by now.
"It doesn't seem badly damaged," Mary said.
The platform had buckled slightly, the 'copter was tilted over, one of
the rotors twisted, its end buried in sand. Tobias Whiting wasn't there.
"No," Steve said. "It's hardly damaged at all. Your father got out of it
all right."
"To go—to them?"
"I think so, Mary. I don't want to pass judgment until we're sure. I'm
sorry."
"Oh, Steve! Steve! What will we do? What can we do?"
"Find him, if it isn't too late. Come on."
"North?"
"North."
"And if by some miracle we find him?"
Steve said nothing. The answer—capture or death—was obvious. But you
couldn't tell that to a traitor's daughter, could you?
As it turned out, they did not find Tobias Whiting through their own
efforts. Half an hour after setting out from the unicopter, they were
spotted by a roving band of Kumajis, who came streaking toward them on
their thlots . Mary raised her atorifle, but Steve struck the barrel
aside. "They'd kill us," he said. "We can only surrender."
They were hobbled and led painfully across the sand. They were taken
that way to a small Kumaji encampment, and thrust within a circular
tent.
Tobias Whiting was in there.
"Mary!" he cried. "My God! Mary...."
"We came for you, Dad," she said coldly. "To stop you. To ... to kill
you if necessary."
"Mary...."
"Oh, Dad, why did you do it? Why?"
"We couldn't start all over again, could we? You have a right to live
the sort of life I planned for you. You...."
"Whiting," Steve said, "did you tell them yet?"
"No. No, I haven't. I have information to trade, sure. But I want to
make sure it's going to the right people. I want to get our...."
"Dad! Our money, and all those deaths?"
"It doesn't matter now. I—I had changed my mind, Mary. Truly. But now,
now that you're a prisoner, what if I don't talk? Don't you see, they'll
torture you. They'll make you talk. And that way—we get nothing. I
couldn't stand to see them hurt you."
"They can do—what they think they have to do. I'll tell them nothing."
"You won't have to," Whiting said. "I'll tell them when we reach the
larger settlement. They're taking us there tomorrow, they told me."
"Then we've got to get out of here tonight," Steve said.
The low sun cast the shadow of their guard against the thlot skin wall
of their tent. He was a single man, armed with a long, pike-like weapon.
When darkness came, if the guard were not increased....
They were brought a pasty gruel for their supper, and ate in silence and
distaste, ate because they needed the strength. Mary said, "Dad, I don't
want you to tell them anything. Dad, please. If you thought you were
doing it for me...."
"I've made up my mind," Tobias Whiting said.
Mary turned to Steve, in despair. "Steve," she said. "Steve.
Do—whatever you have to do. I—I'll understand."
Steve didn't answer her. Wasn't Whiting right now? he thought. If Steve
silenced him, wouldn't the Kumaji torture them for the information?
Steve could stand up to it perhaps—but he couldn't stand to see them
hurt Mary. He'd talk if they did that....
Then silencing Whiting wasn't the answer. But the Kumajis had one
willing prisoner and two unwilling ones. They knew that. If the willing
one yelled for help but the yelling was kept to a minimum so only one
guard, the man outside, came....
Darkness in the Kumaji encampment.
Far off, a lone tribesman singing a chant old as the desert.
"Are you asleep?" Mary asked.
"No," Steve said.
"Dad is. Listen to the way he's breathing—like a baby. As if—as if he
wasn't going to betray all our people. Oh, I hate him, I hate him!"
Steve crawled to where the older man was sleeping. Tobias Whiting's
voice surprised him. "I'm not asleep. I was thinking. I—"
"I'm going to kill you," Steve said very softly, and sprang at Whiting.
He paused, though. It was a calculated pause, and Whiting cried out as
Steve had hoped he would. Then his hands found the older man's throat
and closed there—not to kill him but to keep him from crying out again.
Sand stirred, the tentflap lifted, and a bulky figure rushed inside.
Steve got up, met him halfway, felt the jarring contact of their bodies.
The pike came up dimly in the darkness, the point scraping against
Steve's ribs as the guard lunged awkwardly. Steve's fingers sought the
thick-muscled neck, clamped there—squeezing.
The guard writhed. His feet drummed the sand. With one hand he stabbed
out wildly with the unwieldy pike. There was a cry from Mary and the
guard managed a low squawking noise. Outside, the rest of the camp
seemed undisturbed. There was death in Steve's strong tightening
fingers. There had to be death there. Death for the Kumaji guard—or
death for the fleeing Earthmen, who had lost one colony and must seek
another.
They fell together on the sand, the guard still struggling. Steve
couldn't release his throat to grab the pike. The guard stabbed out
awkwardly, blindly with it, kicking up sand. Then Tobias Whiting moaned,
but Steve hardly heard him.
When the guard's legs stopped drumming, Steve released him. The man was
either dead or so close to death that he would be out for hours. Steve
had never killed a man before, had never in violence and with intent to
kill attacked a man....
"Steve!"
It was Mary, calling his name and crying.
"It's Dad. Dad was—hit. The pike, a wild stab. He's hit bad—"
Steve crawled over to them. It was very dark. He could barely make out
Tobias Whiting's pain-contorted face.
"My stomach," Whiting said, gasping for breath. "The pain...."
Steve probed with his hands, found the wound. Blood was rushing out. He
couldn't stop it and he knew it and he thought Whiting knew it too. He
touched Mary's hand, and held it. Mary sobbed against him, crying
softly.
"You two ..." Whiting gasped. "You two ... Mary, Mary girl. Is—he—what
you want?"
"Yes, Dad. Oh, yes!"
"You can get her out of here, Cantwell?"
"I think so," Steve said.
"Then go. Go while you can. I'll tell them—due south. The Earthmen are
heading due south. They'll go—south. They won't find the caravan.
You'll—all—get away. If it's—what you want, Mary."
She leaned away from Steve, kissing her father. She asked Steve: "Isn't
there anything we can do for him?"
Steve shook his head. "But he's got to live long enough to tell them, to
deceive them."
"I'll live long enough," Whiting said, and Steve knew then that he
would. "Luck to—all of you. From a—very foolish—man...."
Steve took Mary's hand and pulled her out into the hot, dark, wind-blown
night. He carried the dead Kumaji's pike and they slipped across the
sand to where the thlots were hobbled for the night. He hardly
remembered the rest of it. There was violence and death, but necessary
death. He killed a man with the pike, and unhobbled one of the thlots .
The animal screamed and two more Kumajis came sleepily through the night
to see what was the matter. With the long edge of the pike's blade he
decapitated one of them. He slammed the shaft of the weapon across the
other's face, probably breaking his jaw. The camp was in a turmoil. In
the darkness he flung Mary on the thlot's bare back in front of him,
and they glided off across the sand.
Pursuit was disorganized—and unsuccessful. It was too dark for
effective pursuit, as Steve had hoped it would be. They rode swiftly all
night and continued riding with the dawn. They could have gone in any
direction. The wind-driven sand would obliterate their trail.
Two days later they reached the caravan. As they rode up, Mary said,
"Steve, do you have to tell them?"
"We can tell them this," Steve said. "Your father died a hero's death,
sending the Kumajis off in the wrong direction."
"And not—not what he'd planned to do at first."
"No. We'll tell them that was his intention all the while. A man can
make a mistake, can't he?"
"I love you, Steve. I love you."
Then they rode down on the caravan. Somehow Steve knew they would all
reach Oasis City in safety.
With Mary he would find a new world out in the vastness of space.
Question:
Describe the Setting of the story.
Answer:
|
[
"The story is set in the twenty-second century: the Earth government is seeking colonies in many places. One of them is on Sirius’ second planet. Steve spent his early childhood here in a human settlement in the middle of a desert, but he went to Earth to get an education. Now he got back to Oasis City, which is built at the confluence of two underground rivers and is 500 miles from his home Colony. At the beginning, Steve flies across the desert to his village: it looks abandoned. He walks from the well with water to his aunt’s house and soon finds the dying Kumaji. Later, Steve flies above the desert dunes and spots the caravan. He lands there and spends the next several days with the people walking east to Oasis City. Then Steve and Mary go to the north - to the Kumaji base. They surrender, and the Kumaji take them both to a small encampment. In a secular tent, they find Mary’s Father. When it’s dark, Mary and Steve sneak out of the tent and soon glide off across the sand on the thlot’s back. ",
"The village that Steve first visits is his childhood home. There is a strong desert heat in the area and many deserted mud-houses. All of the families draw their water from a single well, and there is also a community center too. Inside of his aunt’s house, there is a set table, a coffee pot on the stove, and the remains of last night’s partially-consumed dinner. Outside, there is only hot desert sand and haze from the heat. The colonists also have imported camels to help them as well. There are also many sandhills and a small spring with brackish but drinkable water. Many small, six-legged creatures glide across the desert. At the Kumaji encampment, there is a circular tent for the prisoners. ",
"This story is set in a desert on Sirius' second planet, where an Earth colony has taken residence. The colony's village is lined with deserted mud-brick houses, a community center, and a single well, with some of the houses damaged due to the Kumaji's raids. \n\nMost of the story takes place on the road, where the caravan journeys across the desert to reach Oasis City, 500 miles away. The Sirian desert had nothing but vast miles of dry sand and heat and the camels that the colonists brought. Occasionally, the characters in the story will come across a small spring for drinkable water. \n\nThe latter part of the story takes place in a Kumaji encampment, where the characters are imprisoned in a circular tent. ",
"The story takes place on a desert planet, which is inhabited by a native race. The planet is very arid, and it is described to have different villages and cities. The village in which Steve grew up in, has a large water well in the middle, which gets poisoned by the natives. After this, the humans are trying to reach a large city inhabited by more humans. This city is called Oasis City, and it is located between two rivers. The natives live in large camps, and ride animals called Thlots, which allows them to move quickly in the desert. \n\n"
] |
32890
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HOME IS WHERE YOU LEFT IT
By ADAM CHASE
[Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Amazing Stories February
1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The chance of mass slaughter was their eternal nightmare.
How black is the blackest treachery? Is the most callous
traitor entitled to mercy? Steve pondered these questions. His decision?
That at times the villain should possibly be spoken of as a hero.
Only the shells of deserted mud-brick houses greeted Steve Cantwell when
he reached the village.
He poked around in them for a while. The desert heat was searing,
parching, and the Sirian sun gleamed balefully off the blades of Steve's
unicopter, which had brought him from Oasis City, almost five hundred
miles away. He had remembered heat from his childhood here on Sirius'
second planet with the Earth colony, but not heat like this. It was like
a magnet drawing all the moisture out of his body.
He walked among the buildings, surprise and perhaps sadness etched on
his gaunt, weather-beaten face. Childhood memories flooded back: the
single well from which all the families drew their water, the mud-brick
house, hardly different from the others and just four walls and a roof
now, in which he'd lived with his aunt after his parents had been killed
in a Kumaji raid, the community center where he'd spent his happiest
time as a boy.
He went to the well and hoisted up a pailful of water. The winch creaked
as he remembered. He ladled out the water, suddenly very thirsty, and
brought the ladle to his lips.
He hurled the ladle away. The water was bitter. Not brackish.
Poisoned.
He spat with fury, then kneeled and stuffed his mouth with sand, almost
gagging. After a while he spat out the sand too and opened his canteen
and rinsed his mouth. His lips and mouth were paralyzed by contact with
the poison. He walked quickly across the well-square to his aunt's
house. Inside, it was dim but hardly cooler. Steve was sweating, the
saline sweat making him blink. He scowled, not understanding. The table
was set in his aunt's house. A coffeepot was on the stove and last
night's partially-consumed dinner still on the table.
The well had been poisoned, the town had been deserted on the spur of
the moment, and Steve had returned to his boyhood home from Earth—too
late for anything.
He went outside into the square. A lizard was sunning itself and staring
at him with lidless eyes. When he moved across the square, the lizard
scurried away.
"Earthman!" a quavering voice called.
Steve ran toward the sound. In the scant shadow of the community center,
a Kumaji was resting. He was a withered old man, all skin and bones and
sweat-stiffened tunic, with enormous red-rimmed eyes. His purple skin,
which had been blasted by the merciless sun, was almost black.
Steve held the canteen to his lips and watched his throat working almost
spasmodically to get the water down. After a while Steve withdrew the
canteen and said:
"What happened here?"
"They're gone. All gone."
"Yes, but what happened?"
"The Kumaji—"
"You're Kumaji."
"This is my town," the old man said. "I lived with the Earthmen. Now
they're gone."
"But you stayed here—"
"To die," the old man said, without self-pity. "I'm too old to flee, too
old to fight, too old for anything but death. More water."
Steve gave him another drink. "You still haven't told me what happened."
Actually, though, Steve could guess. With the twenty-second century
Earth population hovering at the eleven billion mark, colonies were
sought everywhere. Even on a parched desert wasteland like this. The
Kumaji tribesmen had never accepted the colony as a fact of their life
on the desert, and in a way Steve could not blame them. It meant one
oasis less for their own nomadic sustenance. When Steve was a boy,
Kumaji raids were frequent. At school on Earth and Luna he'd read about
the raids, how they'd increased in violence, how the Earth government,
so far away and utterly unable to protect its distant colony, had
suggested withdrawal from the Kumaji desert settlement, especially since
a colony could exist there under only the most primitive conditions,
almost like the purple-skinned Kumaji natives themselves.
"When did it happen?" Steve demanded.
"Last night." It was now midafternoon. "Three folks died," the Kumaji
said in his almost perfect English, "from the poisoning of the well. The
well was the last straw. The colonists had no choice. They had to go,
and go fast, taking what little water they had left in the houses."
"Will they try to walk all the way through to Oasis City?" Oasis City,
built at the confluence of two underground rivers which came to the
surface there and flowed the rest of the way to the sea above ground,
was almost five hundred miles from the colony. Five hundred miles of
trackless sands and hundred-and-thirty-degree heat....
"They have to," the old man said. "And they have to hurry. Men, women
and children. The Kumaji are after them."
Steve felt irrational hatred then. He thought it would help if he could
find some of the nomadic tribesmen and kill them. It might help the way
he felt, he knew, but it certainly wouldn't help the fleeing colonists,
trekking across a parched wilderness—to the safety of Oasis City—or
death.
"Come on," Steve said, making up his mind. "The unicopter can hold two
in a pinch."
"You're going after them?"
"I've got to. They're my people. I've been away too long."
"Say, you're young Cantwell, aren't you? Now I remember."
"Yes, I'm Steve Cantwell."
"I'm not going anyplace, young fellow."
"But you can't stay here, without any good water to drink, without—"
"I'm staying," the old man said, still without self-pity, just
matter-of-factly. "The Earth folks have no room for me and I can't blame
'em. The Kumaji'll kill me for a renegade, I figure. I lived a good,
long life. I've no regrets. Go after your people, young fellow. They'll
need every extra strong right arm they can get. You got any weapons?"
"No," Steve said.
"Too bad. Well, good-bye and good luck."
"But you can't—"
"Oh, I'm staying. I want to stay. This is my home. It's the only home
I'll ever have. Good luck, young fellow."
Slowly, Steve walked to his unicopter. It was nothing more than a small
metal disk on which to stand, and a shaft with four turbo-blades. It
could do sixty miles an hour at an elevation of two thousand feet.
Steve turned the little turbo-jet engine over, then on impulse ran back
to the old man and gave him his canteen, turning away before it could be
refused and striding quickly back to the unicopter and getting himself
airborne without looking at the deserted village or the old man again.
The old man's voice called after him: "Tell the people ... hurry ...
Kumaji looking for them to kill ... desert wind ought to wipe out their
trail ... but hurry...."
The voice faded into the faint rushing sound of the hot desert wind.
Steve gazed down on bare sun-blasted rock, on rippled dunes, on
hate-haze. He circled wider and wider, seeking his people.
Hours later he spotted the caravan in the immensity of sand and
wasteland. He brought the unicopter down quickly, with a rush of air and
a whine of turbojets. He alighted in the sand in front of the
slow-moving column. It was like something out of Earth's Middle
East—and Middle Ages. They had even imported camels for their life here
on the Sirian desert, deciding the Earth camel was a better beast of
burden than anything the Sirius II wastelands had to offer. They walked
beside the great-humped beasts of burden, the animals piled high with
the swaying baggage of their belongings. They moved through the sands
with agonizing slowness. Already, after only one day's travel, Steve
could see that some of the people were spent and exhausted and had to
ride on camelback. They had gone perhaps fifteen miles, with almost five
hundred to go across searing desert, the Kumaji seeking them....
"Hullo!" Steve shouted, and a man armed with an atorifle came striding
clumsily through the sand toward him. "Cantwell's the name," Steve said.
"I'm one of you."
Bleak hostility in his face, the man approached. "Cantwell. Yeah, I
remember you. Colony wasn't good enough for young Steve Cantwell. Oh,
no. Had to go off to Earth to get himself educated. What are you doing
here now on that fancy aircraft of yours, coming to crow at our wake?"
The bitterness surprised Steve. He recognized the man now as Tobias
Whiting, who had been the Colony's most successful man when Steve was a
boy. Except for his bitterness and for the bleak self-pity and defeat in
his eyes, the years had been good to Tobias Whiting. He was probably in
his mid-forties now, twenty years Steve's senior, but he was
well-muscled, his flesh was solid, his step bold and strong. He was a
big muscular man with a craggy, handsome face. In ten years he had
hardly changed at all, while Steve Cantwell, the boy, had become Steve
Cantwell the man. He had been the Colony's official trader with the
Kumajis, and had grown rich—by colony standards—at his business. Now,
Steve realized, all that was behind him, and he could only flee with the
others—either back to the terribly crowded Earth or on in search of a
new colony on some other outworld, if they could get the transportation.
Perhaps that explained his bitterness.
"So you've come back, eh? You sure picked a time, Cantwell."
The refugees were still about a quarter of a mile off, coming up slowly.
They hardly seemed to be moving at all. "Is my aunt all right?" Steve
said. She was the only family he remembered.
Tobias Whiting shook his head slowly. "I hate to be the one to tell you
this. Brace yourself for a shock. Your aunt was one of those who died
from the poisoned water last night."
For a long moment, Steve said nothing. The only emotion he felt was
pity—pity for the hard life his aunt had lived, and the hard death.
Sadness would come later, if there was to be a time for sadness.
The caravan reached them then. The first person Steve saw was a girl.
She wore the shroud-like desert garment and her face—it would be a
pretty face under other circumstances, Steve realized—was etched with
lines of fatigue. Steve did not recognize her. "Who is he, Dad?" the
girl said.
"Young Cantwell. Remember?"
So this was Mary Whiting, Steve thought. Why, she'd been a moppet ten
years ago! How old? Ten years old maybe. The years crowded him suddenly.
She was a woman now....
"Steve Cantwell?" Mary said. "Of course I remember. Hello, Steve. I—I'm
sorry you had to come back at a time like this. I'm sorry about your
aunt. If there's anything I can do...."
Steve shook his head, then shook the hand she offered him. She was a
slim, strong girl with a firm handshake. Her concern for him at a time
like this was little short of amazing, especially since it was
completely genuine.
He appreciated it.
Tobias Whiting said: "Shame of it is, Cantwell, some of us could get
along with the Kumaji. I had a pretty good business here, you know
that." He looked with bitterness at the dusty file of refugees. "But I
never got a credit out of it. Wherever we wind up, my girl and I will be
poor again. We could have been rich."
Steve asked, "What happened to all your profits?"
"Tied up with a Kumaji moneylender, but thanks to what happened I'll
never see it again."
Mary winced, as if her father's words and his self-pity were painful to
her. Then others came up and a few minutes were spent in back-pounding
and hand-shaking as some of the men who had been boys with Steve came up
to recognize and be recognized. Their greeting was warm, as Tobias
Whiting's had been cool. Despite the knowledge of what lay behind all of
them, and what still lay ahead, it was a little like homecoming.
But Steve liked Mary Whiting's warm, friendly smile best of all. It was
comforting and reassuring.
Three days later, Tobias Whiting disappeared.
The caravan had been making no more than ten or fifteen miles a day.
Their water supply was almost gone but on the fourth day they hoped to
reach an oasis in the desert. Two of the older folks had died of
fatigue. A third was critically ill and there was little that could be
done for him. The food supply was running short, but they could always
slaughter their camels for food and make their way to Oasis City, still
four hundred and some miles away, with nothing but the clothes on their
backs.
And then, during the fourth night, Tobias Whiting disappeared, taking
Steve's unicopter. A sentry had heard the low muffled whine of the
turbojets during the night and had seen the small craft take off, but
had assumed Steve had taken it up for some reason. Each day Steve had
done so, reconnoitering for signs of the Kumaji.
"But why?" someone asked. "Why?"
At first there was no answer. Then a woman whose husband had died the
day before said: "It's no secret Whiting has plenty of money—with the
Kumaji."
None of them looked at Mary. She stood there defiantly, not saying
anything, and Steve squeezed her hand.
"Now, wait a minute," one of Whiting's friends said.
"Wait, nothing." This was Jeremy Gort, who twice had been mayor of the
colony. "I know how Whiting's mind works. He slaved all his life for
that money, that's the way he'll see it. Cantwell, didn't you say the
Kumaji were looking for us, to kill us?"
"That's what I was told," Steve said.
"All right," Gort went on relentlessly. "Then this is what I figure must
have happened. Whiting got to brooding over his lost fortune and finally
decided he had to have it. So, he went off at night in Cantwell's
'copter, determined to get it. Only catch is, folks, if I know the
Kumaji, they won't just give it to him—not by a long sight."
"No?" someone asked.
"No sir. They'll trade. For our location. And if Whiting went off like
that without even saying good-bye to his girl here, my guess is he'll
make the trade." His voice reflected some bitterness.
Mary went to Gort and slapped his face. The elderly man did not even
blink. "Well," he asked her gently, "did your pa tell you he was going?"
"N-no," Mary said. There were tears in her eyes, but she did not cry.
Gort turned to Steve. "Cantwell, can he get far in that 'copter?"
Steve shook his head. "Ten or fifteen miles is all. Almost out of fuel,
Mr. Gort. You saw how I took her up for only a quick mile swing each
day. He won't get far."
"He'll crash in the desert?"
"Crash or crash-land," Steve said.
Mary sobbed, and bit her lip, and was silent.
"We've got to stop him," Gort said. "And fast. If he gets to the Kumaji,
they'll send down a raiding party and we'll be finished. We could never
fight them off without the protection of our village. Near as I can
figure, there's a Kumaji base fifty miles due north of here. Whiting
knows it too, so that's where he'll be going, I figure. Can't spare more
than a couple of men to look for him, though, in case the Kumaji find
us—or are led to us—and attack."
Steve said, "I should have taken something out of the 'copter every
night, so it couldn't start. I'll go."
Mary came forward boldly. "I have to go. He's my father. If he crashed
out there, he may be hurt. He may be—dying."
Gort looked at her. "And if he's trying to sell us out to the Kumajis?"
"Then—then I'll do whatever Steve asks me to. I promise."
"That's good enough for me," Steve said.
A few minutes later, armed with atorifles and their share of the food
and water that was left, Steve and Mary set out northward across the
sand while the caravan continued east. Fear of what they might find
mounted.
The first night, they camped in the lee of low sandhills. The second
night they found a small spring with brackish but drinkable water. On
the third day, having covered half the distance to the Kumaji
settlement, they began to encounter Kumaji patrols, on foot or thlotback , the six-legged desert animals running so swiftly over the
sands and so low to the ground that they almost seemed to be gliding.
Steve and Mary hardly spoke. Talk was unnecessary. But slowly a bond
grew between them. Steve liked this slim silent girl who had come out
here with him risking her life although she must have known deep in her
heart that her father had almost certainly decided to turn traitor in
order to regain his fortune.
On the fourth day, they spotted the unicopter from a long way off and
made their way toward it. It had come much further than Steve had
expected. With sinking heart he realized that Tobias Whiting, if he
escaped the crash-landing without injury, must surely have reached the
Kumaji encampment by now.
"It doesn't seem badly damaged," Mary said.
The platform had buckled slightly, the 'copter was tilted over, one of
the rotors twisted, its end buried in sand. Tobias Whiting wasn't there.
"No," Steve said. "It's hardly damaged at all. Your father got out of it
all right."
"To go—to them?"
"I think so, Mary. I don't want to pass judgment until we're sure. I'm
sorry."
"Oh, Steve! Steve! What will we do? What can we do?"
"Find him, if it isn't too late. Come on."
"North?"
"North."
"And if by some miracle we find him?"
Steve said nothing. The answer—capture or death—was obvious. But you
couldn't tell that to a traitor's daughter, could you?
As it turned out, they did not find Tobias Whiting through their own
efforts. Half an hour after setting out from the unicopter, they were
spotted by a roving band of Kumajis, who came streaking toward them on
their thlots . Mary raised her atorifle, but Steve struck the barrel
aside. "They'd kill us," he said. "We can only surrender."
They were hobbled and led painfully across the sand. They were taken
that way to a small Kumaji encampment, and thrust within a circular
tent.
Tobias Whiting was in there.
"Mary!" he cried. "My God! Mary...."
"We came for you, Dad," she said coldly. "To stop you. To ... to kill
you if necessary."
"Mary...."
"Oh, Dad, why did you do it? Why?"
"We couldn't start all over again, could we? You have a right to live
the sort of life I planned for you. You...."
"Whiting," Steve said, "did you tell them yet?"
"No. No, I haven't. I have information to trade, sure. But I want to
make sure it's going to the right people. I want to get our...."
"Dad! Our money, and all those deaths?"
"It doesn't matter now. I—I had changed my mind, Mary. Truly. But now,
now that you're a prisoner, what if I don't talk? Don't you see, they'll
torture you. They'll make you talk. And that way—we get nothing. I
couldn't stand to see them hurt you."
"They can do—what they think they have to do. I'll tell them nothing."
"You won't have to," Whiting said. "I'll tell them when we reach the
larger settlement. They're taking us there tomorrow, they told me."
"Then we've got to get out of here tonight," Steve said.
The low sun cast the shadow of their guard against the thlot skin wall
of their tent. He was a single man, armed with a long, pike-like weapon.
When darkness came, if the guard were not increased....
They were brought a pasty gruel for their supper, and ate in silence and
distaste, ate because they needed the strength. Mary said, "Dad, I don't
want you to tell them anything. Dad, please. If you thought you were
doing it for me...."
"I've made up my mind," Tobias Whiting said.
Mary turned to Steve, in despair. "Steve," she said. "Steve.
Do—whatever you have to do. I—I'll understand."
Steve didn't answer her. Wasn't Whiting right now? he thought. If Steve
silenced him, wouldn't the Kumaji torture them for the information?
Steve could stand up to it perhaps—but he couldn't stand to see them
hurt Mary. He'd talk if they did that....
Then silencing Whiting wasn't the answer. But the Kumajis had one
willing prisoner and two unwilling ones. They knew that. If the willing
one yelled for help but the yelling was kept to a minimum so only one
guard, the man outside, came....
Darkness in the Kumaji encampment.
Far off, a lone tribesman singing a chant old as the desert.
"Are you asleep?" Mary asked.
"No," Steve said.
"Dad is. Listen to the way he's breathing—like a baby. As if—as if he
wasn't going to betray all our people. Oh, I hate him, I hate him!"
Steve crawled to where the older man was sleeping. Tobias Whiting's
voice surprised him. "I'm not asleep. I was thinking. I—"
"I'm going to kill you," Steve said very softly, and sprang at Whiting.
He paused, though. It was a calculated pause, and Whiting cried out as
Steve had hoped he would. Then his hands found the older man's throat
and closed there—not to kill him but to keep him from crying out again.
Sand stirred, the tentflap lifted, and a bulky figure rushed inside.
Steve got up, met him halfway, felt the jarring contact of their bodies.
The pike came up dimly in the darkness, the point scraping against
Steve's ribs as the guard lunged awkwardly. Steve's fingers sought the
thick-muscled neck, clamped there—squeezing.
The guard writhed. His feet drummed the sand. With one hand he stabbed
out wildly with the unwieldy pike. There was a cry from Mary and the
guard managed a low squawking noise. Outside, the rest of the camp
seemed undisturbed. There was death in Steve's strong tightening
fingers. There had to be death there. Death for the Kumaji guard—or
death for the fleeing Earthmen, who had lost one colony and must seek
another.
They fell together on the sand, the guard still struggling. Steve
couldn't release his throat to grab the pike. The guard stabbed out
awkwardly, blindly with it, kicking up sand. Then Tobias Whiting moaned,
but Steve hardly heard him.
When the guard's legs stopped drumming, Steve released him. The man was
either dead or so close to death that he would be out for hours. Steve
had never killed a man before, had never in violence and with intent to
kill attacked a man....
"Steve!"
It was Mary, calling his name and crying.
"It's Dad. Dad was—hit. The pike, a wild stab. He's hit bad—"
Steve crawled over to them. It was very dark. He could barely make out
Tobias Whiting's pain-contorted face.
"My stomach," Whiting said, gasping for breath. "The pain...."
Steve probed with his hands, found the wound. Blood was rushing out. He
couldn't stop it and he knew it and he thought Whiting knew it too. He
touched Mary's hand, and held it. Mary sobbed against him, crying
softly.
"You two ..." Whiting gasped. "You two ... Mary, Mary girl. Is—he—what
you want?"
"Yes, Dad. Oh, yes!"
"You can get her out of here, Cantwell?"
"I think so," Steve said.
"Then go. Go while you can. I'll tell them—due south. The Earthmen are
heading due south. They'll go—south. They won't find the caravan.
You'll—all—get away. If it's—what you want, Mary."
She leaned away from Steve, kissing her father. She asked Steve: "Isn't
there anything we can do for him?"
Steve shook his head. "But he's got to live long enough to tell them, to
deceive them."
"I'll live long enough," Whiting said, and Steve knew then that he
would. "Luck to—all of you. From a—very foolish—man...."
Steve took Mary's hand and pulled her out into the hot, dark, wind-blown
night. He carried the dead Kumaji's pike and they slipped across the
sand to where the thlots were hobbled for the night. He hardly
remembered the rest of it. There was violence and death, but necessary
death. He killed a man with the pike, and unhobbled one of the thlots .
The animal screamed and two more Kumajis came sleepily through the night
to see what was the matter. With the long edge of the pike's blade he
decapitated one of them. He slammed the shaft of the weapon across the
other's face, probably breaking his jaw. The camp was in a turmoil. In
the darkness he flung Mary on the thlot's bare back in front of him,
and they glided off across the sand.
Pursuit was disorganized—and unsuccessful. It was too dark for
effective pursuit, as Steve had hoped it would be. They rode swiftly all
night and continued riding with the dawn. They could have gone in any
direction. The wind-driven sand would obliterate their trail.
Two days later they reached the caravan. As they rode up, Mary said,
"Steve, do you have to tell them?"
"We can tell them this," Steve said. "Your father died a hero's death,
sending the Kumajis off in the wrong direction."
"And not—not what he'd planned to do at first."
"No. We'll tell them that was his intention all the while. A man can
make a mistake, can't he?"
"I love you, Steve. I love you."
Then they rode down on the caravan. Somehow Steve knew they would all
reach Oasis City in safety.
With Mary he would find a new world out in the vastness of space.
|
Describe the new world order and the Equalization Laws.
|
After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about Master of Life and Death by Robert Silverberg.
Relevant chunks:
MASTER of Life and Death
by ROBERT SILVERBERG
ACE BOOKS A Division of A. A. Wyn, Inc. 23 West 47th Street, New York 36, N. Y.
MASTER OF LIFE AND DEATH
Copyright 1957, by A. A. Wyn, Inc. All Rights Reserved
For Antigone— Who Thinks We're Property
Printed in U.S.A.
[Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
THE MAN WHO RATIONED BABIES
By the 23rd century Earth's population had reached seven billion. Mankind was in danger of perishing for lack of elbow room—unless prompt measures were taken. Roy Walton had the power to enforce those measures. But though his job was in the service of humanity, he soon found himself the most hated man in the world.
For it was his job to tell parents their children were unfit to live; he had to uproot people from their homes and send them to remote areas of the world. Now, threatened by mobs of outraged citizens, denounced and blackened by the press, Roy Walton had to make a decision: resign his post, or use his power to destroy his enemies, become a dictator in the hopes of saving humanity from its own folly. In other words, should he become the MASTER OF LIFE AND DEATH?
CAST OF CHARACTERS
ROY WALTON
He had to adopt the motto— the ends justify the means .
FITZMAUGHAM
His reward for devoted service was—an assassin's bullet.
FRED WALTON
His ambition was to fill his brother's shoes—but he underestimated their size.
LEE PERCY
His specialty was sugarcoating bitter pills.
PRIOR
With the pen as his only weapon, could he save his son?
DR. LAMARRE
He died for discovering the secret of immortality.
Contents
I
The offices of the Bureau of Population Equalization, vulgarly known as Popeek, were located on the twentieth through twenty-ninth floors of the Cullen Building, a hundred-story monstrosity typical of twenty-second-century neo-Victorian at its overdecorated worst. Roy Walton, Popeek's assistant administrator, had to apologize to himself each morning as he entered the hideous place.
Since taking the job, he had managed to redecorate his own office—on the twenty-eighth floor, immediately below Director FitzMaugham's—but that had created only one minor oasis in the esthetically repugnant building. It couldn't be helped, though; Popeek was unpopular, though necessary; and, like the public hangman of some centuries earlier, the Bureau did not rate attractive quarters.
So Walton had removed some of the iridescent chrome scalloping that trimmed the walls, replaced the sash windows with opaquers, and changed the massive ceiling fixture to more subtle electroluminescents. But the mark of the last century was stamped irrevocably on both building and office.
Which was as it should be, Walton had finally realized. It was the last century's foolishness that had made Popeek necessary, after all.
His desk was piled high with reports, and more kept arriving via pneumochute every minute. The job of assistant administrator was a thankless one, he thought; as much responsibility as Director FitzMaugham, and half the pay.
He lifted a report from one eyebrow-high stack, smoothed the crinkly paper carefully, and read it.
It was a despatch from Horrocks, the Popeek agent currently on duty in Patagonia. It was dated 4 June 2232 , six days before, and after a long and rambling prologue in the usual Horrocks manner it went on to say, Population density remains low here: 17.3 per square mile, far below optimum. Looks like a prime candidate for equalization.
Walton agreed. He reached for his voicewrite and said sharply, "Memo from Assistant Administrator Walton, re equalization of ..." He paused, picking a trouble-spot at random, "... central Belgium. Will the section chief in charge of this area please consider the advisability of transferring population excess to fertile areas in Patagonia? Recommendation: establishment of industries in latter region, to ease transition."
He shut his eyes, dug his thumbs into them until bright flares of light shot across his eyeballs, and refused to let himself be bothered by the multiple problems involved in dumping several hundred thousand Belgians into Patagonia. He forced himself to cling to one of Director FitzMaugham's oft-repeated maxims, If you want to stay sane, think of these people as pawns in a chess game—not as human beings.
Walton sighed. This was the biggest chess problem in the history of humanity, and the way it looked now, all the solutions led to checkmate in a century or less. They could keep equalizing population only so long, shifting like loggers riding logs in a rushing river, before trouble came.
There was another matter to be attended to now. He picked up the voicewrite again. "Memo from the assistant administrator, re establishment of new policy on reports from local agents: hire a staff of three clever girls to make a précis of each report, eliminating irrelevant data."
It was a basic step, one that should have been taken long ago. Now, with three feet of reports stacked on his desk, it was mandatory. One of the troubles with Popeek was its newness; it had been established so suddenly that most of its procedures were still in the formative stage.
He took another report from the heap. This one was the data sheet of the Zurich Euthanasia Center, and he gave it a cursory scanning. During the past week, eleven substandard children and twenty-three substandard adults had been sent on to Happysleep.
That was the grimmest form of population equalization. Walton initialed the report, earmarked it for files, and dumped it in the pneumochute.
The annunciator chimed.
"I'm busy," Walton said immediately.
"There's a Mr. Prior to see you," the annunciator's calm voice said.
"He insists it's an emergency."
"Tell Mr. Prior I can't see anyone for at least three hours." Walton stared gloomily at the growing pile of paper on his desk. "Tell him he can have ten minutes with me at—oh, say, 1300."
Walton heard an angry male voice muttering something in the outer office, and then the annunciator said, "He insists he must see you immediately in reference to a Happysleep commitment."
"Commitments are irrevocable," Walton said heavily. The last thing in the world he wanted was to see a man whose child or parent had just been committed. "Tell Mr. Prior I can't see him at all."
Walton found his fingers trembling; he clamped them tight to the edge of his desk to steady himself. It was all right sitting up here in this ugly building and initialing commitment papers, but actually to see one of those people and try to convince him of the need—
The door burst open.
A tall, dark-haired man in an open jacket came rushing through and paused dramatically just over the threshold. Immediately behind him came three unsmiling men in the gray silk-sheen uniforms of security. They carried drawn needlers.
"Are you Administrator Walton?" the big man asked, in an astonishingly deep, rich voice. "I have to see you. I'm Lyle Prior."
The three security men caught up and swarmed all over Prior. One of them turned apologetically to Walton. "We're terribly sorry about this, sir. He just broke away and ran. We can't understand how he got in here, but he did."
"Ah—yes. So I noticed," Walton remarked drily. "See if he's planning to assassinate anybody, will you?"
"Administrator Walton!" Prior protested. "I'm a man of peace! How can you accuse me of—"
One of the security men hit him. Walton stiffened and resisted the urge to reprimand the man. He was only doing his job, after all.
"Search him," Walton said.
They gave Prior an efficient going-over. "He's clean, Mr. Walton. Should we take him to security, or downstairs to health?"
"Neither. Leave him here with me."
"Are you sure you—"
"Get out of here," Walton snapped. As the three security men slinked away, he added, "And figure out some more efficient system for protecting me. Some day an assassin is going to sneak through here and get me. Not that I give a damn about myself, you understand; it's simply that I'm indispensable. There isn't another lunatic in the world who'd take this job. Now get out !"
They wasted no time in leaving. Walton waited until the door closed and jammed down hard on the lockstud. His tirade, he knew, was wholly unjustified; if he had remembered to lock his door as regulations prescribed, Prior would never have broken in. But he couldn't admit that to the guards.
"Take a seat, Mr. Prior."
"I have to thank you for granting me this audience," Prior said, without a hint of sarcasm in his booming voice. "I realize you're a terribly busy man."
"I am." Another three inches of paper had deposited itself on Walton's desk since Prior had entered. "You're very lucky to have hit the psychological moment for your entrance. At any other time I'd have had you brigged for a month, but just now I'm in need of a little diversion. Besides, I very much admire your work, Mr. Prior."
"Thank you." Again that humility, startling in so big and commanding a man. "I hadn't expected to find—I mean that you—"
"That a bureaucrat should admire poetry? Is that what you're groping for?"
Prior reddened. "Yes," he admitted.
Grinning, Walton said, "I have to do something when I go home at night. I don't really read Popeek reports twenty-four hours a day. No more than twenty; that's my rule. I thought your last book was quite remarkable."
"The critics didn't," Prior said diffidently.
"Critics! What do they know?" Walton demanded. "They swing in cycles. Ten years ago it was form and technique, and you got the Melling Prize. Now it's message, political content that counts. That's not poetry, Mr. Prior—and there are still a few of us who recognize what poetry is. Take Yeats, for instance—"
Walton was ready to launch into a discussion of every poet from Prior back to Surrey and Wyatt; anything to keep from the job at hand, anything to keep his mind from Popeek. But Prior interrupted him.
"Mr. Walton...."
"Yes?"
"My son Philip ... he's two weeks old now...."
Walton understood. "No, Prior. Please don't ask." Walton's skin felt cold; his hands, tightly clenched, were clammy.
"He was committed to Happysleep this morning—potentially tubercular. The boy's perfectly sound, Mr. Walton. Couldn't you—"
Walton rose. " No ," he said, half-commanding, half-pleading. "Don't ask me to do it. I can't make any exceptions, not even for you. You're an intelligent man; you understand our program."
"I voted for Popeek. I know all about Weeding the Garden and the Euthanasia Plan. But I hadn't expected—"
"You thought euthanasia was a fine thing for other people. So did everyone else," Walton said. "That's how the act was passed." Tenderly he said, "I can't do it. I can't spare your son. Our doctors give a baby every chance to live."
" I was tubercular. They cured me. What if they had practiced euthanasia a generation ago? Where would my poems be now?"
It was an unanswerable question; Walton tried to ignore it.
"Tuberculosis is an extremely rare disease, Mr. Prior. We can wipe it out completely if we strike at those with TB-susceptible genetic traits."
"Meaning you'll kill any children I have?" Prior asked.
"Those who inherit your condition," Walton said gently. "Go home, Mr. Prior. Burn me in effigy. Write a poem about me. But don't ask me to do the impossible. I can't catch any falling stars for you."
Prior rose. He was immense, a hulking tragic figure staring broodingly at Walton. For the first time since the poet's abrupt entry, Walton feared violence. His fingers groped for the needle gun he kept in his upper left desk drawer.
But Prior had no violence in him. "I'll leave you," he said somberly.
"I'm sorry, sir. Deeply sorry. For both of us."
Walton pressed the doorlock to let him out, then locked it again and slipped heavily into his chair. Three more reports slid out of the chute and landed on his desk. He stared at them as if they were three basilisks.
In the six weeks of Popeek's existence, three thousand babies had been ticketed for Happysleep, and three thousand sets of degenerate genes had been wiped from the race. Ten thousand subnormal males had been sterilized. Eight thousand dying oldsters had reached their graves ahead of time.
It was a tough-minded program. But why transmit palsy to unborn generations? Why let an adult idiot litter the world with subnormal progeny? Why force a man hopelessly cancerous to linger on in pain, consuming precious food?
Unpleasant? Sure. But the world had voted for it. Until Lang and his team succeeded in terraforming Venus, or until the faster-than-light outfit opened the stars to mankind, something had to be done about Earth's overpopulation. There were seven billion now and the figure was still growing.
Prior's words haunted him. I was tubercular ... where would my poems be now?
The big humble man was one of the great poets. Keats had been tubercular too.
What good are poets? he asked himself savagely.
The reply came swiftly: What good is anything, then? Keats, Shakespeare, Eliot, Yeats, Donne, Pound, Matthews ... and Prior. How much duller life would be without them, Walton thought, picturing his bookshelf—his one bookshelf, in his crowded little cubicle of a one-room home.
Sweat poured down his back as he groped toward his decision.
The step he was considering would disqualify him from his job if he admitted it, though he wouldn't do that. Under the Equalization Law, it would be a criminal act.
But just one baby wouldn't matter. Just one.
Prior's baby.
With nervous fingers he switched on the annunciator and said, "If there are any calls for me, take the message. I'll be out of my office for the next half-hour."
II
He stepped out of the office, glancing around furtively. The outer office was busy: half a dozen girls were answering calls, opening letters, coordinating activities. Walton slipped quickly past them into the hallway.
There was a knot of fear in his stomach as he turned toward the lift tube. Six weeks of pressure, six weeks of tension since Popeek was organized and old man FitzMaugham had tapped him for the second-in-command post ... and now, a rebellion. The sparing of a single child was a small rebellion, true, but he knew he was striking as effectively at the base of Popeek this way as if he had brought about repeal of the entire Equalization Law.
Well, just one lapse, he promised himself. I'll spare Prior's child, and after that I'll keep within the law.
He jabbed the lift tube indicator and the tube rose in its shaft. The clinic was on the twentieth floor.
"Roy."
At the sound of the quiet voice behind him, Walton jumped in surprise. He steadied himself, forcing himself to turn slowly. The director stood there.
"Good morning, Mr. FitzMaugham."
The old man was smiling serenely, his unlined face warm and friendly, his mop of white hair bright and full. "You look preoccupied, boy. Something the matter?"
Walton shook his head quickly. "Just a little tired, sir. There's been a lot of work lately."
As he said it, he knew how foolish it sounded. If anyone in Popeek worked harder than he did, it was the elderly director. FitzMaugham had striven for equalization legislature for fifty years, and now, at the age of eighty, he put in a sixteen-hour day at the task of saving mankind from itself.
The director smiled. "You never did learn how to budget your strength, Roy. You'll be a worn-out wreck before you're half my age. I'm glad you're adopting my habit of taking a coffee break in the morning, though. Mind if I join you?"
"I'm—not taking a break, sir. I have some work to do downstairs."
"Oh? Can't you take care of it by phone?"
"No, Mr. FitzMaugham." Walton felt as though he'd already been tried, drawn, and quartered. "It requires personal attention."
"I see." The deep, warm eyes bored into his. "You ought to slow down a little, I think."
"Yes, sir. As soon as the work eases up a little."
FitzMaugham chuckled. "In another century or two, you mean. I'm afraid you'll never learn how to relax, my boy."
The lift tube arrived. Walton stepped to one side, allowed the Director to enter, and got in himself. FitzMaugham pushed Fourteen ; there was a coffee shop down there. Hesitantly, Walton pushed twenty , covering the panel with his arm so the old man would be unable to see his destination.
As the tube began to descend, FitzMaugham said, "Did Mr. Prior come to see you this morning?"
"Yes," Walton said.
"He's the poet, isn't he? The one you say is so good?"
"That's right, sir," Walton said tightly.
"He came to see me first, but I had him referred down to you. What was on his mind?"
Walton hesitated. "He—he wanted his son spared from Happysleep. Naturally, I had to turn him down."
"Naturally," FitzMaugham agreed solemnly. "Once we make even one exception, the whole framework crumbles."
"Of course, sir."
The lift tube halted and rocked on its suspension. The door slid back, revealing a neat, gleaming sign:
FLOOR 20 Euthanasia Clinic and Files
Walton had forgotten the accursed sign. He began to wish he had avoided traveling down with the director. He felt that his purpose must seem nakedly obvious now.
The old man's eyes were twinkling amusedly. "I guess you get off here," he said. "I hope you catch up with your work soon, Roy. You really should take some time off for relaxation each day."
"I'll try, sir."
Walton stepped out of the tube and returned FitzMaugham's smile as the door closed again. Bitter thoughts assailed him as soon as he was alone.
Some fine criminal you are. You've given the show away already! And damn that smooth paternal smile. FitzMaugham knows! He must know!
Walton wavered, then abruptly made his decision. He sucked in a deep breath and walked briskly toward the big room where the euthanasia files were kept.
The room was large, as rooms went nowadays—thirty by twenty, with deck upon deck of Donnerson micro-memory-tubes racked along one wall and a bank of microfilm records along the other. In six weeks of life Popeek had piled up an impressive collection of data.
While he stood there, the computer chattered, lights flashed. New facts poured into the memory banks. It probably went on day and night.
"Can I help—oh, it's you, Mr. Walton," a white-smocked technician said. Popeek employed a small army of technicians, each one faceless and without personality, but always ready to serve. "Is there anything I can do?"
"I'm simply running a routine checkup. Mind if I use the machine?"
"Not at all, sir. Go right ahead."
Walton grinned lightly and stepped forward. The technician practically backed out of his presence.
No doubt I must radiate charisma , he thought. Within the building he wore a sort of luminous halo, by virtue of being Director FitzMaugham's protégé and second-in-command. Outside, in the colder reality of the crowded metropolis, he kept his identity and Popeek rank quietly to himself.
Frowning, he tried to remember the Prior boy's name. Ah ... Philip, wasn't it? He punched out a request for the card on Philip Prior.
A moment's pause followed, while the millions of tiny cryotronic circuits raced with information pulses, searching the Donnerson tubes for Philip Prior's record. Then, a brief squeaking sound and a yellow-brown card dropped out of the slot:
3216847AB1
PRIOR, Philip Hugh. Born 31 May 2232, New York General Hospital, New York. First son of Prior, Lyle Martin and Prior, Ava Leonard. Wgt. at birth 5lb. 3oz.
An elaborate description of the boy in great detail followed, ending with blood type, agglutinating characteristic, and gene-pattern, codified. Walton skipped impatiently through that and came to the notification typed in curt, impersonal green capital letters at the bottom of the card:
EXAMINED AT N Y EUTH CLINIC 10 JUNE 2332 EUTHANASIA RECOMMENDED
He glanced at his watch: the time was 1026. The boy was probably still somewhere in the clinic lab, waiting for the figurative axe to descend.
Walton had set up the schedule himself: the gas chamber delivered Happysleep each day at 1100 and 1500. He had about half an hour to save Philip Prior.
He peered covertly over his shoulder; no one was in sight. He slipped the baby's card into his breast pocket.
That done, he typed out a requisition for explanation of the gene-sorting code the clinic used. Symbols began pouring forth, and Walton puzzledly correlated them with the line of gibberish on Phillip Prior's record card. Finally he found the one he wanted: 3f2, tubercular-prone .
He scrapped the guide sheet he had and typed out a message to the machine. Revision of card number 3216847AB1 follows. Please alter in all circuits.
He proceeded to retype the child's card, omitting both the fatal symbol 3f2 and the notation recommending euthanasia from the new version. The machine beeped an acknowledgement. Walton smiled. So far, so good.
Then, he requested the boy's file all over again. After the customary pause, a card numbered 3216847AB1 dropped out of the slot. He read it.
The deletions had been made. As far as the machine was concerned, Philip Prior was a normal, healthy baby.
He glanced at his watch. 1037. Still twenty-three minutes before this morning's haul of unfortunates was put away.
Now came the real test: could he pry the baby away from the doctors without attracting too much attention to himself in the process?
Five doctors were bustling back and forth as Walton entered the main section of the clinic. There must have been a hundred babies there, each in a little pen of its own, and the doctors were humming from one to the next, while anxious parents watched from screens above.
The Equalization Law provided that every child be presented at its local clinic within two weeks of birth, for an examination and a certificate. Perhaps one in ten thousand would be denied a certificate ... and life.
"Hello, Mr. Walton. What brings you down here?"
Walton smiled affably. "Just a routine investigation, Doctor. I try to keep in touch with every department we have, you know."
"Mr. FitzMaugham was down here to look around a little while ago. We're really getting a going-over today, Mr. Walton!"
"Umm. Yes." Walton didn't like that, but there was nothing he could do about it. He'd have to rely on the old man's abiding faith in his protégé to pull him out of any possible stickiness that arose.
"Seen my brother around?" he asked.
"Fred? He's working in room seven, running analyses. Want me to get him for you, Mr. Walton?"
"No—no, don't bother him, thanks. I'll find him later." Inwardly, Walton felt relieved. Fred Walton, his younger brother, was a doctor in the employ of Popeek. Little love was lost between the brothers, and Roy did not care to have Fred know he was down there.
Strolling casually through the clinic, he peered at a few plump, squalling babies, and said, "Find many sour ones today?"
"Seven so far. They're scheduled for the 1100 chamber. Three tuberc, two blind, one congenital syph."
"That only makes six," Walton said.
"Oh, and a spastic," the doctor said. "Biggest haul we've had yet. Seven in one morning."
"Have any trouble with the parents?"
"What do you think?" the doctor asked. "But some of them seemed to understand. One of the tuberculars nearly raised the roof, though."
Walton shuddered. "You remember his name?" he asked, with feigned calm.
Silence for a moment. "No. Darned if I can think of it. I can look it up for you if you like."
"Don't bother," Walton said hurriedly.
He moved on, down the winding corridor that led to the execution chamber. Falbrough, the executioner, was studying a list of names at his desk when Walton appeared.
Falbrough didn't look like the sort of man who would enjoy his work. He was short and plump, with a high-domed bald head and glittering contact lenses in his weak blue eyes. "Morning, Mr. Walton."
"Good morning, Doctor Falbrough. You'll be operating soon, won't you?"
"Eleven hundred, as usual."
"Good. There's a new regulation in effect from now on," Walton said.
"To keep public opinion on our side."
"Sir?"
"Henceforth, until further notice, you're to check each baby that comes to you against the main file, just to make sure there's been no mistake. Got that?"
" Mistake? But how—"
"Never mind that, Falbrough. There was quite a tragic slip-up at one of the European centers yesterday. We may all hang for it if news gets out." How glibly I reel this stuff off , Walton thought in amazement.
Falbrough looked grave. "I see, sir. Of course. We'll double-check everything from now on."
"Good. Begin with the 1100 batch."
Walton couldn't bear to remain down in the clinic any longer. He left via a side exit, and signaled for a lift tube.
Minutes later he was back in his office, behind the security of a towering stack of work. His pulse was racing; his throat was dry. He remembered what FitzMaugham had said: Once we make even one exception, the whole framework crumbles.
Well, the framework had begun crumbling, then. And there was little doubt in Walton's mind that FitzMaugham knew or would soon know what he had done. He would have to cover his traces, somehow.
The annunciator chimed and said, "Dr. Falbrough of Happysleep calling you, sir."
"Put him on."
The screen lit and Falbrough's face appeared; its normal blandness had given way to wild-eyed tenseness.
"What is it, Doctor?"
"It's a good thing you issued that order when you did, sir! You'll never guess what just happened—"
"No guessing games, Falbrough. Speak up."
"I—well, sir, I ran checks on the seven babies they sent me this morning. And guess—I mean—well, one of them shouldn't have been sent to me!"
"No!"
"It's the truth, sir. A cute little baby indeed. I've got his card right here. The boy's name is Philip Prior, and his gene-pattern is fine."
"Any recommendation for euthanasia on the card?" Walton asked.
"No, sir."
Walton chewed at a ragged cuticle for a moment, counterfeiting great anxiety. "Falbrough, we're going to have to keep this very quiet. Someone slipped up in the examining room, and if word gets out that there's been as much as one mistake, we'll have a mob swarming over us in half an hour."
"Yes, sir." Falbrough looked terribly grave. "What should I do, sir?"
"Don't say a word about this to anyone , not even the men in the examining room. Fill out a certificate for the boy, find his parents, apologize and return him to them. And make sure you keep checking for any future cases of this sort."
"Certainly, sir. Is that all?"
"It is," Walton said crisply, and broke the contact. He took a deep breath and stared bleakly at the far wall.
The Prior boy was safe. And in the eyes of the law—the Equalization Law—Roy Walton was now a criminal. He was every bit as much a criminal as the man who tried to hide his dying father from the investigators, or the anxious parents who attempted to bribe an examining doctor.
He felt curiously dirty. And, now that he had betrayed FitzMaugham and the Cause, now that it was done, he had little idea why he had done it, why he had jeopardized the Popeek program, his position—his life, even—for the sake of one potentially tubercular baby.
Well, the thing was done.
No. Not quite. Later, when things had quieted down, he would have to finish the job by transferring all the men in the clinic to distant places and by obliterating the computer's memories of this morning's activities.
The annunciator chimed again. "Your brother is on the wire, sir."
Walton trembled imperceptibly as he said, "Put him on." Somehow, Fred never called unless he could say or do something unpleasant. And Walton was very much afraid that his brother meant no good by this call. No good at all.
III
Roy Walton watched his brother's head and shoulders take form out of the swirl of colors on the screen. Fred Walton was more compact, built closer to the ground than his rangy brother; he was a squat five-seven, next to Roy's lean six-two. Fred had always threatened to "get even" with his older brother as soon as they were the same size, but to Fred's great dismay he had never managed to catch up with Roy in height.
Even on the screen, Fred's neck and shoulders gave an impression of tremendous solidity and force. Walton waited for his brother's image to take shape, and when the time lag was over he said, "Well, Fred? What goes?"
His brother's eyes flickered sleepily. "They tell me you were down here a little while ago, Roy. How come I didn't rate a visit?"
"I wasn't in your section. It was official business, anyway. I didn't have time."
Walton fixed his eyes sharply on the caduceus emblem gleaming on Fred's lapel, and refused to look anywhere else.
Fred said slowly, "You had time to tinker with our computer, though."
"Official business!"
"Really, Roy?" His brother's tone was venomous. "I happened to be using the computer shortly after you this morning. I was curious—unpardonably so, dear brother. I requested a transcript of your conversation with the machine."
Sparks seemed to flow from the screen. Walton sat back, feeling numb. He managed to pull his sagging mouth back into a stiff hard line and say, "That's a criminal offense, Fred. Any use I make of a Popeek computer outlet is confidential."
"Criminal offence? Maybe so ... but that makes two of us, then. Eh, Roy?"
"How much do you know?"
"You wouldn't want me to recite it over a public communications system, would you? Your friend FitzMaugham might be listening to every word of this, and I have too much fraternal feeling for that. Ole Doc Walton doesn't want to get his bigwig big brother in trouble—oh, no!"
"Thanks for small blessings," Roy said acidly.
"You got me this job. You can take it away. Let's call it even for now, shall we?"
"Anything you like," Walton said. He was drenched in sweat, though the ingenious executive filter in the sending apparatus of the screen cloaked that fact and presented him as neat and fresh. "I have some work to do now." His voice was barely audible.
"I won't keep you any longer, then," Fred said.
The screen went dead.
Walton killed the contact at his end, got up, walked to the window. He nudged the opaquer control and the frosty white haze over the glass cleared away, revealing the fantastic beehive of the city outside.
Idiot! he thought. Fool!
He had risked everything to save one baby, one child probably doomed to an early death anyway. And FitzMaugham knew—the old man could see through Walton with ease—and Fred knew, too. His brother, and his father-substitute.
FitzMaugham might well choose to conceal Roy's defection this time, but would surely place less trust in him in the future. And as for Fred....
There was no telling what Fred might do. They had never been particularly close as brothers; they had lived with their parents (now almost totally forgotten) until Roy was nine and Fred seven. Their parents had gone down off Maracaibo in a jet crash; Roy and Fred had been sent to the public crèche.
After that it had been separate paths for the brothers. For Roy, an education in the law, a short spell as Senator FitzMaugham's private secretary, followed last month by his sudden elevation to assistant administrator of the newly-created Popeek Bureau. For Fred, medicine, unsuccessful private practice, finally a job in the Happysleep section of Popeek, thanks to Roy.
Question:
Describe the new world order and the Equalization Laws.
Answer:
|
[
"In the year 2232, the Earth’s population of humans had maxed out at seven billion. This huge influx of people and steady population growth caused major poverty, starvation, and trade/supply issues. For these reasons and more, the Equalization Law was implemented in order to contain humanity and limit population growth. One such rule under this new world order was the Equalization Law where all newborn babies must be presented before they are two weeks old to be examined. If they do not have any congenital defects or carry any unwanted genes, they will be allowed to live. If not, they will be committed to euthanization, otherwise known as Happysleep. As well, several thousand members of the elderly population were euthanized, as they were already on death’s doorstep. Thousands of men were sterilized in order to prevent any insufficient offspring, and those that were ill or handicapped in some way were also euthanized. \nAs for overcrowding, the Bureau of Population Equalization (Popeek) also relocates certain groups of people to more empty settings. For example, Roy Walton set up a relocation for several thousand people in Belgium to the empty areas of Patagonia. \n",
"The Equalization Laws were proposed for legislation by Mr. FitzMaugham fifty years earlier, and when it passed, he was made director of the organization in charge of administering the laws. In the new world order and under the Equalization Laws, the Bureau of Population Equalization is tasked with redistributing the population to make the population density more balanced. It also manages the population numbers by identifying children genetically predisposed to medical conditions deemed unsuited for life and euthanizes them (euphemistically called sending them to Happysleep). The Bureau also identifies other unsuitable (“substandard”) people for euthanasia, such as the very old and terminally ill. And subnormal males are sterilized to prevent them from procreating and passing on their traits. This “cleaning out” of the population is known as “Weeding the Garden” and was voted on by the population. These steps are considered necessary until more space is available for humans, either through terraforming Venus or opening the stars to mankind. Both projects are underway but not fully operational yet. \n",
"In this version of Earth in the 23rd century, the population is so large that people are moved from high-density areas to lower-density areas when possible, but more drastic measures are being put in place to control the population. Six weeks before the story starts, in the year 2232, the Bureau of Population Equalization is founded to coordinate a lot of these efforts. Another major effort of theirs is a project called Happysleep, which euthanizes children who are genetically susceptible to certain diseases. In order to get rid of tuberculosis, for instance, they are trying to kill off people with the \"TB-susceptible genetic traits\". The Equalization Law criminalizes saving the life of a potentially-tubercular child, which Walton knows when he leaves his office after his conversation with Lyle Prior. This same group also sterilizes men to the same effect. The main way that the Equalization Laws that govern these decisions work is that children have to go to a local clinic within two weeks of birth, and this is when these decisions are made. The other major way these Laws contribute to the story is that these are the Laws that Roy Walton is breaking when he decides to save Philip Prior's life.",
"In order to deal with the world's overpopulation problem, Senator FitzMaugham had fought for the establishment of the Bureau of Population Equalization, or Popeek, in order to oversee the process of balancing out overcrowded areas with parts of the world with smaller populations. For example, when Belgium's population becomes too untenable, Roy requests a report on the viability of sending a number of them to live in Patagonia, where the population density remains low. In addition to the process of equalization, the more controversial measure of euthanasia in the form of \"Happysleep\" takes place at Euthanasia Centers around the world to wipe out adults and children considered \"substandard\" because of genetic diseases, physical disabilities, mental challenges, etc. The Equalization Laws also require every newborn child to be examined at a local clinic to determine if they are suitable for a birth certificate or if they will be scheduled for Happysleep. Roughly one in ten thousand is scheduled for the euthanasia procedure. Saving Philip Prior's life would be considered a criminal act under the Equalization Laws, but Roy Walton does it anyway, swayed by Lyle's argument that if he had been euthanized as a baby because of his tuberculosis, the world would never have his poetry."
] |
50441
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MASTER of Life and Death
by ROBERT SILVERBERG
ACE BOOKS A Division of A. A. Wyn, Inc. 23 West 47th Street, New York 36, N. Y.
MASTER OF LIFE AND DEATH
Copyright 1957, by A. A. Wyn, Inc. All Rights Reserved
For Antigone— Who Thinks We're Property
Printed in U.S.A.
[Transcriber's Note: Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
THE MAN WHO RATIONED BABIES
By the 23rd century Earth's population had reached seven billion. Mankind was in danger of perishing for lack of elbow room—unless prompt measures were taken. Roy Walton had the power to enforce those measures. But though his job was in the service of humanity, he soon found himself the most hated man in the world.
For it was his job to tell parents their children were unfit to live; he had to uproot people from their homes and send them to remote areas of the world. Now, threatened by mobs of outraged citizens, denounced and blackened by the press, Roy Walton had to make a decision: resign his post, or use his power to destroy his enemies, become a dictator in the hopes of saving humanity from its own folly. In other words, should he become the MASTER OF LIFE AND DEATH?
CAST OF CHARACTERS
ROY WALTON
He had to adopt the motto— the ends justify the means .
FITZMAUGHAM
His reward for devoted service was—an assassin's bullet.
FRED WALTON
His ambition was to fill his brother's shoes—but he underestimated their size.
LEE PERCY
His specialty was sugarcoating bitter pills.
PRIOR
With the pen as his only weapon, could he save his son?
DR. LAMARRE
He died for discovering the secret of immortality.
Contents
I
The offices of the Bureau of Population Equalization, vulgarly known as Popeek, were located on the twentieth through twenty-ninth floors of the Cullen Building, a hundred-story monstrosity typical of twenty-second-century neo-Victorian at its overdecorated worst. Roy Walton, Popeek's assistant administrator, had to apologize to himself each morning as he entered the hideous place.
Since taking the job, he had managed to redecorate his own office—on the twenty-eighth floor, immediately below Director FitzMaugham's—but that had created only one minor oasis in the esthetically repugnant building. It couldn't be helped, though; Popeek was unpopular, though necessary; and, like the public hangman of some centuries earlier, the Bureau did not rate attractive quarters.
So Walton had removed some of the iridescent chrome scalloping that trimmed the walls, replaced the sash windows with opaquers, and changed the massive ceiling fixture to more subtle electroluminescents. But the mark of the last century was stamped irrevocably on both building and office.
Which was as it should be, Walton had finally realized. It was the last century's foolishness that had made Popeek necessary, after all.
His desk was piled high with reports, and more kept arriving via pneumochute every minute. The job of assistant administrator was a thankless one, he thought; as much responsibility as Director FitzMaugham, and half the pay.
He lifted a report from one eyebrow-high stack, smoothed the crinkly paper carefully, and read it.
It was a despatch from Horrocks, the Popeek agent currently on duty in Patagonia. It was dated 4 June 2232 , six days before, and after a long and rambling prologue in the usual Horrocks manner it went on to say, Population density remains low here: 17.3 per square mile, far below optimum. Looks like a prime candidate for equalization.
Walton agreed. He reached for his voicewrite and said sharply, "Memo from Assistant Administrator Walton, re equalization of ..." He paused, picking a trouble-spot at random, "... central Belgium. Will the section chief in charge of this area please consider the advisability of transferring population excess to fertile areas in Patagonia? Recommendation: establishment of industries in latter region, to ease transition."
He shut his eyes, dug his thumbs into them until bright flares of light shot across his eyeballs, and refused to let himself be bothered by the multiple problems involved in dumping several hundred thousand Belgians into Patagonia. He forced himself to cling to one of Director FitzMaugham's oft-repeated maxims, If you want to stay sane, think of these people as pawns in a chess game—not as human beings.
Walton sighed. This was the biggest chess problem in the history of humanity, and the way it looked now, all the solutions led to checkmate in a century or less. They could keep equalizing population only so long, shifting like loggers riding logs in a rushing river, before trouble came.
There was another matter to be attended to now. He picked up the voicewrite again. "Memo from the assistant administrator, re establishment of new policy on reports from local agents: hire a staff of three clever girls to make a précis of each report, eliminating irrelevant data."
It was a basic step, one that should have been taken long ago. Now, with three feet of reports stacked on his desk, it was mandatory. One of the troubles with Popeek was its newness; it had been established so suddenly that most of its procedures were still in the formative stage.
He took another report from the heap. This one was the data sheet of the Zurich Euthanasia Center, and he gave it a cursory scanning. During the past week, eleven substandard children and twenty-three substandard adults had been sent on to Happysleep.
That was the grimmest form of population equalization. Walton initialed the report, earmarked it for files, and dumped it in the pneumochute.
The annunciator chimed.
"I'm busy," Walton said immediately.
"There's a Mr. Prior to see you," the annunciator's calm voice said.
"He insists it's an emergency."
"Tell Mr. Prior I can't see anyone for at least three hours." Walton stared gloomily at the growing pile of paper on his desk. "Tell him he can have ten minutes with me at—oh, say, 1300."
Walton heard an angry male voice muttering something in the outer office, and then the annunciator said, "He insists he must see you immediately in reference to a Happysleep commitment."
"Commitments are irrevocable," Walton said heavily. The last thing in the world he wanted was to see a man whose child or parent had just been committed. "Tell Mr. Prior I can't see him at all."
Walton found his fingers trembling; he clamped them tight to the edge of his desk to steady himself. It was all right sitting up here in this ugly building and initialing commitment papers, but actually to see one of those people and try to convince him of the need—
The door burst open.
A tall, dark-haired man in an open jacket came rushing through and paused dramatically just over the threshold. Immediately behind him came three unsmiling men in the gray silk-sheen uniforms of security. They carried drawn needlers.
"Are you Administrator Walton?" the big man asked, in an astonishingly deep, rich voice. "I have to see you. I'm Lyle Prior."
The three security men caught up and swarmed all over Prior. One of them turned apologetically to Walton. "We're terribly sorry about this, sir. He just broke away and ran. We can't understand how he got in here, but he did."
"Ah—yes. So I noticed," Walton remarked drily. "See if he's planning to assassinate anybody, will you?"
"Administrator Walton!" Prior protested. "I'm a man of peace! How can you accuse me of—"
One of the security men hit him. Walton stiffened and resisted the urge to reprimand the man. He was only doing his job, after all.
"Search him," Walton said.
They gave Prior an efficient going-over. "He's clean, Mr. Walton. Should we take him to security, or downstairs to health?"
"Neither. Leave him here with me."
"Are you sure you—"
"Get out of here," Walton snapped. As the three security men slinked away, he added, "And figure out some more efficient system for protecting me. Some day an assassin is going to sneak through here and get me. Not that I give a damn about myself, you understand; it's simply that I'm indispensable. There isn't another lunatic in the world who'd take this job. Now get out !"
They wasted no time in leaving. Walton waited until the door closed and jammed down hard on the lockstud. His tirade, he knew, was wholly unjustified; if he had remembered to lock his door as regulations prescribed, Prior would never have broken in. But he couldn't admit that to the guards.
"Take a seat, Mr. Prior."
"I have to thank you for granting me this audience," Prior said, without a hint of sarcasm in his booming voice. "I realize you're a terribly busy man."
"I am." Another three inches of paper had deposited itself on Walton's desk since Prior had entered. "You're very lucky to have hit the psychological moment for your entrance. At any other time I'd have had you brigged for a month, but just now I'm in need of a little diversion. Besides, I very much admire your work, Mr. Prior."
"Thank you." Again that humility, startling in so big and commanding a man. "I hadn't expected to find—I mean that you—"
"That a bureaucrat should admire poetry? Is that what you're groping for?"
Prior reddened. "Yes," he admitted.
Grinning, Walton said, "I have to do something when I go home at night. I don't really read Popeek reports twenty-four hours a day. No more than twenty; that's my rule. I thought your last book was quite remarkable."
"The critics didn't," Prior said diffidently.
"Critics! What do they know?" Walton demanded. "They swing in cycles. Ten years ago it was form and technique, and you got the Melling Prize. Now it's message, political content that counts. That's not poetry, Mr. Prior—and there are still a few of us who recognize what poetry is. Take Yeats, for instance—"
Walton was ready to launch into a discussion of every poet from Prior back to Surrey and Wyatt; anything to keep from the job at hand, anything to keep his mind from Popeek. But Prior interrupted him.
"Mr. Walton...."
"Yes?"
"My son Philip ... he's two weeks old now...."
Walton understood. "No, Prior. Please don't ask." Walton's skin felt cold; his hands, tightly clenched, were clammy.
"He was committed to Happysleep this morning—potentially tubercular. The boy's perfectly sound, Mr. Walton. Couldn't you—"
Walton rose. " No ," he said, half-commanding, half-pleading. "Don't ask me to do it. I can't make any exceptions, not even for you. You're an intelligent man; you understand our program."
"I voted for Popeek. I know all about Weeding the Garden and the Euthanasia Plan. But I hadn't expected—"
"You thought euthanasia was a fine thing for other people. So did everyone else," Walton said. "That's how the act was passed." Tenderly he said, "I can't do it. I can't spare your son. Our doctors give a baby every chance to live."
" I was tubercular. They cured me. What if they had practiced euthanasia a generation ago? Where would my poems be now?"
It was an unanswerable question; Walton tried to ignore it.
"Tuberculosis is an extremely rare disease, Mr. Prior. We can wipe it out completely if we strike at those with TB-susceptible genetic traits."
"Meaning you'll kill any children I have?" Prior asked.
"Those who inherit your condition," Walton said gently. "Go home, Mr. Prior. Burn me in effigy. Write a poem about me. But don't ask me to do the impossible. I can't catch any falling stars for you."
Prior rose. He was immense, a hulking tragic figure staring broodingly at Walton. For the first time since the poet's abrupt entry, Walton feared violence. His fingers groped for the needle gun he kept in his upper left desk drawer.
But Prior had no violence in him. "I'll leave you," he said somberly.
"I'm sorry, sir. Deeply sorry. For both of us."
Walton pressed the doorlock to let him out, then locked it again and slipped heavily into his chair. Three more reports slid out of the chute and landed on his desk. He stared at them as if they were three basilisks.
In the six weeks of Popeek's existence, three thousand babies had been ticketed for Happysleep, and three thousand sets of degenerate genes had been wiped from the race. Ten thousand subnormal males had been sterilized. Eight thousand dying oldsters had reached their graves ahead of time.
It was a tough-minded program. But why transmit palsy to unborn generations? Why let an adult idiot litter the world with subnormal progeny? Why force a man hopelessly cancerous to linger on in pain, consuming precious food?
Unpleasant? Sure. But the world had voted for it. Until Lang and his team succeeded in terraforming Venus, or until the faster-than-light outfit opened the stars to mankind, something had to be done about Earth's overpopulation. There were seven billion now and the figure was still growing.
Prior's words haunted him. I was tubercular ... where would my poems be now?
The big humble man was one of the great poets. Keats had been tubercular too.
What good are poets? he asked himself savagely.
The reply came swiftly: What good is anything, then? Keats, Shakespeare, Eliot, Yeats, Donne, Pound, Matthews ... and Prior. How much duller life would be without them, Walton thought, picturing his bookshelf—his one bookshelf, in his crowded little cubicle of a one-room home.
Sweat poured down his back as he groped toward his decision.
The step he was considering would disqualify him from his job if he admitted it, though he wouldn't do that. Under the Equalization Law, it would be a criminal act.
But just one baby wouldn't matter. Just one.
Prior's baby.
With nervous fingers he switched on the annunciator and said, "If there are any calls for me, take the message. I'll be out of my office for the next half-hour."
II
He stepped out of the office, glancing around furtively. The outer office was busy: half a dozen girls were answering calls, opening letters, coordinating activities. Walton slipped quickly past them into the hallway.
There was a knot of fear in his stomach as he turned toward the lift tube. Six weeks of pressure, six weeks of tension since Popeek was organized and old man FitzMaugham had tapped him for the second-in-command post ... and now, a rebellion. The sparing of a single child was a small rebellion, true, but he knew he was striking as effectively at the base of Popeek this way as if he had brought about repeal of the entire Equalization Law.
Well, just one lapse, he promised himself. I'll spare Prior's child, and after that I'll keep within the law.
He jabbed the lift tube indicator and the tube rose in its shaft. The clinic was on the twentieth floor.
"Roy."
At the sound of the quiet voice behind him, Walton jumped in surprise. He steadied himself, forcing himself to turn slowly. The director stood there.
"Good morning, Mr. FitzMaugham."
The old man was smiling serenely, his unlined face warm and friendly, his mop of white hair bright and full. "You look preoccupied, boy. Something the matter?"
Walton shook his head quickly. "Just a little tired, sir. There's been a lot of work lately."
As he said it, he knew how foolish it sounded. If anyone in Popeek worked harder than he did, it was the elderly director. FitzMaugham had striven for equalization legislature for fifty years, and now, at the age of eighty, he put in a sixteen-hour day at the task of saving mankind from itself.
The director smiled. "You never did learn how to budget your strength, Roy. You'll be a worn-out wreck before you're half my age. I'm glad you're adopting my habit of taking a coffee break in the morning, though. Mind if I join you?"
"I'm—not taking a break, sir. I have some work to do downstairs."
"Oh? Can't you take care of it by phone?"
"No, Mr. FitzMaugham." Walton felt as though he'd already been tried, drawn, and quartered. "It requires personal attention."
"I see." The deep, warm eyes bored into his. "You ought to slow down a little, I think."
"Yes, sir. As soon as the work eases up a little."
FitzMaugham chuckled. "In another century or two, you mean. I'm afraid you'll never learn how to relax, my boy."
The lift tube arrived. Walton stepped to one side, allowed the Director to enter, and got in himself. FitzMaugham pushed Fourteen ; there was a coffee shop down there. Hesitantly, Walton pushed twenty , covering the panel with his arm so the old man would be unable to see his destination.
As the tube began to descend, FitzMaugham said, "Did Mr. Prior come to see you this morning?"
"Yes," Walton said.
"He's the poet, isn't he? The one you say is so good?"
"That's right, sir," Walton said tightly.
"He came to see me first, but I had him referred down to you. What was on his mind?"
Walton hesitated. "He—he wanted his son spared from Happysleep. Naturally, I had to turn him down."
"Naturally," FitzMaugham agreed solemnly. "Once we make even one exception, the whole framework crumbles."
"Of course, sir."
The lift tube halted and rocked on its suspension. The door slid back, revealing a neat, gleaming sign:
FLOOR 20 Euthanasia Clinic and Files
Walton had forgotten the accursed sign. He began to wish he had avoided traveling down with the director. He felt that his purpose must seem nakedly obvious now.
The old man's eyes were twinkling amusedly. "I guess you get off here," he said. "I hope you catch up with your work soon, Roy. You really should take some time off for relaxation each day."
"I'll try, sir."
Walton stepped out of the tube and returned FitzMaugham's smile as the door closed again. Bitter thoughts assailed him as soon as he was alone.
Some fine criminal you are. You've given the show away already! And damn that smooth paternal smile. FitzMaugham knows! He must know!
Walton wavered, then abruptly made his decision. He sucked in a deep breath and walked briskly toward the big room where the euthanasia files were kept.
The room was large, as rooms went nowadays—thirty by twenty, with deck upon deck of Donnerson micro-memory-tubes racked along one wall and a bank of microfilm records along the other. In six weeks of life Popeek had piled up an impressive collection of data.
While he stood there, the computer chattered, lights flashed. New facts poured into the memory banks. It probably went on day and night.
"Can I help—oh, it's you, Mr. Walton," a white-smocked technician said. Popeek employed a small army of technicians, each one faceless and without personality, but always ready to serve. "Is there anything I can do?"
"I'm simply running a routine checkup. Mind if I use the machine?"
"Not at all, sir. Go right ahead."
Walton grinned lightly and stepped forward. The technician practically backed out of his presence.
No doubt I must radiate charisma , he thought. Within the building he wore a sort of luminous halo, by virtue of being Director FitzMaugham's protégé and second-in-command. Outside, in the colder reality of the crowded metropolis, he kept his identity and Popeek rank quietly to himself.
Frowning, he tried to remember the Prior boy's name. Ah ... Philip, wasn't it? He punched out a request for the card on Philip Prior.
A moment's pause followed, while the millions of tiny cryotronic circuits raced with information pulses, searching the Donnerson tubes for Philip Prior's record. Then, a brief squeaking sound and a yellow-brown card dropped out of the slot:
3216847AB1
PRIOR, Philip Hugh. Born 31 May 2232, New York General Hospital, New York. First son of Prior, Lyle Martin and Prior, Ava Leonard. Wgt. at birth 5lb. 3oz.
An elaborate description of the boy in great detail followed, ending with blood type, agglutinating characteristic, and gene-pattern, codified. Walton skipped impatiently through that and came to the notification typed in curt, impersonal green capital letters at the bottom of the card:
EXAMINED AT N Y EUTH CLINIC 10 JUNE 2332 EUTHANASIA RECOMMENDED
He glanced at his watch: the time was 1026. The boy was probably still somewhere in the clinic lab, waiting for the figurative axe to descend.
Walton had set up the schedule himself: the gas chamber delivered Happysleep each day at 1100 and 1500. He had about half an hour to save Philip Prior.
He peered covertly over his shoulder; no one was in sight. He slipped the baby's card into his breast pocket.
That done, he typed out a requisition for explanation of the gene-sorting code the clinic used. Symbols began pouring forth, and Walton puzzledly correlated them with the line of gibberish on Phillip Prior's record card. Finally he found the one he wanted: 3f2, tubercular-prone .
He scrapped the guide sheet he had and typed out a message to the machine. Revision of card number 3216847AB1 follows. Please alter in all circuits.
He proceeded to retype the child's card, omitting both the fatal symbol 3f2 and the notation recommending euthanasia from the new version. The machine beeped an acknowledgement. Walton smiled. So far, so good.
Then, he requested the boy's file all over again. After the customary pause, a card numbered 3216847AB1 dropped out of the slot. He read it.
The deletions had been made. As far as the machine was concerned, Philip Prior was a normal, healthy baby.
He glanced at his watch. 1037. Still twenty-three minutes before this morning's haul of unfortunates was put away.
Now came the real test: could he pry the baby away from the doctors without attracting too much attention to himself in the process?
Five doctors were bustling back and forth as Walton entered the main section of the clinic. There must have been a hundred babies there, each in a little pen of its own, and the doctors were humming from one to the next, while anxious parents watched from screens above.
The Equalization Law provided that every child be presented at its local clinic within two weeks of birth, for an examination and a certificate. Perhaps one in ten thousand would be denied a certificate ... and life.
"Hello, Mr. Walton. What brings you down here?"
Walton smiled affably. "Just a routine investigation, Doctor. I try to keep in touch with every department we have, you know."
"Mr. FitzMaugham was down here to look around a little while ago. We're really getting a going-over today, Mr. Walton!"
"Umm. Yes." Walton didn't like that, but there was nothing he could do about it. He'd have to rely on the old man's abiding faith in his protégé to pull him out of any possible stickiness that arose.
"Seen my brother around?" he asked.
"Fred? He's working in room seven, running analyses. Want me to get him for you, Mr. Walton?"
"No—no, don't bother him, thanks. I'll find him later." Inwardly, Walton felt relieved. Fred Walton, his younger brother, was a doctor in the employ of Popeek. Little love was lost between the brothers, and Roy did not care to have Fred know he was down there.
Strolling casually through the clinic, he peered at a few plump, squalling babies, and said, "Find many sour ones today?"
"Seven so far. They're scheduled for the 1100 chamber. Three tuberc, two blind, one congenital syph."
"That only makes six," Walton said.
"Oh, and a spastic," the doctor said. "Biggest haul we've had yet. Seven in one morning."
"Have any trouble with the parents?"
"What do you think?" the doctor asked. "But some of them seemed to understand. One of the tuberculars nearly raised the roof, though."
Walton shuddered. "You remember his name?" he asked, with feigned calm.
Silence for a moment. "No. Darned if I can think of it. I can look it up for you if you like."
"Don't bother," Walton said hurriedly.
He moved on, down the winding corridor that led to the execution chamber. Falbrough, the executioner, was studying a list of names at his desk when Walton appeared.
Falbrough didn't look like the sort of man who would enjoy his work. He was short and plump, with a high-domed bald head and glittering contact lenses in his weak blue eyes. "Morning, Mr. Walton."
"Good morning, Doctor Falbrough. You'll be operating soon, won't you?"
"Eleven hundred, as usual."
"Good. There's a new regulation in effect from now on," Walton said.
"To keep public opinion on our side."
"Sir?"
"Henceforth, until further notice, you're to check each baby that comes to you against the main file, just to make sure there's been no mistake. Got that?"
" Mistake? But how—"
"Never mind that, Falbrough. There was quite a tragic slip-up at one of the European centers yesterday. We may all hang for it if news gets out." How glibly I reel this stuff off , Walton thought in amazement.
Falbrough looked grave. "I see, sir. Of course. We'll double-check everything from now on."
"Good. Begin with the 1100 batch."
Walton couldn't bear to remain down in the clinic any longer. He left via a side exit, and signaled for a lift tube.
Minutes later he was back in his office, behind the security of a towering stack of work. His pulse was racing; his throat was dry. He remembered what FitzMaugham had said: Once we make even one exception, the whole framework crumbles.
Well, the framework had begun crumbling, then. And there was little doubt in Walton's mind that FitzMaugham knew or would soon know what he had done. He would have to cover his traces, somehow.
The annunciator chimed and said, "Dr. Falbrough of Happysleep calling you, sir."
"Put him on."
The screen lit and Falbrough's face appeared; its normal blandness had given way to wild-eyed tenseness.
"What is it, Doctor?"
"It's a good thing you issued that order when you did, sir! You'll never guess what just happened—"
"No guessing games, Falbrough. Speak up."
"I—well, sir, I ran checks on the seven babies they sent me this morning. And guess—I mean—well, one of them shouldn't have been sent to me!"
"No!"
"It's the truth, sir. A cute little baby indeed. I've got his card right here. The boy's name is Philip Prior, and his gene-pattern is fine."
"Any recommendation for euthanasia on the card?" Walton asked.
"No, sir."
Walton chewed at a ragged cuticle for a moment, counterfeiting great anxiety. "Falbrough, we're going to have to keep this very quiet. Someone slipped up in the examining room, and if word gets out that there's been as much as one mistake, we'll have a mob swarming over us in half an hour."
"Yes, sir." Falbrough looked terribly grave. "What should I do, sir?"
"Don't say a word about this to anyone , not even the men in the examining room. Fill out a certificate for the boy, find his parents, apologize and return him to them. And make sure you keep checking for any future cases of this sort."
"Certainly, sir. Is that all?"
"It is," Walton said crisply, and broke the contact. He took a deep breath and stared bleakly at the far wall.
The Prior boy was safe. And in the eyes of the law—the Equalization Law—Roy Walton was now a criminal. He was every bit as much a criminal as the man who tried to hide his dying father from the investigators, or the anxious parents who attempted to bribe an examining doctor.
He felt curiously dirty. And, now that he had betrayed FitzMaugham and the Cause, now that it was done, he had little idea why he had done it, why he had jeopardized the Popeek program, his position—his life, even—for the sake of one potentially tubercular baby.
Well, the thing was done.
No. Not quite. Later, when things had quieted down, he would have to finish the job by transferring all the men in the clinic to distant places and by obliterating the computer's memories of this morning's activities.
The annunciator chimed again. "Your brother is on the wire, sir."
Walton trembled imperceptibly as he said, "Put him on." Somehow, Fred never called unless he could say or do something unpleasant. And Walton was very much afraid that his brother meant no good by this call. No good at all.
III
Roy Walton watched his brother's head and shoulders take form out of the swirl of colors on the screen. Fred Walton was more compact, built closer to the ground than his rangy brother; he was a squat five-seven, next to Roy's lean six-two. Fred had always threatened to "get even" with his older brother as soon as they were the same size, but to Fred's great dismay he had never managed to catch up with Roy in height.
Even on the screen, Fred's neck and shoulders gave an impression of tremendous solidity and force. Walton waited for his brother's image to take shape, and when the time lag was over he said, "Well, Fred? What goes?"
His brother's eyes flickered sleepily. "They tell me you were down here a little while ago, Roy. How come I didn't rate a visit?"
"I wasn't in your section. It was official business, anyway. I didn't have time."
Walton fixed his eyes sharply on the caduceus emblem gleaming on Fred's lapel, and refused to look anywhere else.
Fred said slowly, "You had time to tinker with our computer, though."
"Official business!"
"Really, Roy?" His brother's tone was venomous. "I happened to be using the computer shortly after you this morning. I was curious—unpardonably so, dear brother. I requested a transcript of your conversation with the machine."
Sparks seemed to flow from the screen. Walton sat back, feeling numb. He managed to pull his sagging mouth back into a stiff hard line and say, "That's a criminal offense, Fred. Any use I make of a Popeek computer outlet is confidential."
"Criminal offence? Maybe so ... but that makes two of us, then. Eh, Roy?"
"How much do you know?"
"You wouldn't want me to recite it over a public communications system, would you? Your friend FitzMaugham might be listening to every word of this, and I have too much fraternal feeling for that. Ole Doc Walton doesn't want to get his bigwig big brother in trouble—oh, no!"
"Thanks for small blessings," Roy said acidly.
"You got me this job. You can take it away. Let's call it even for now, shall we?"
"Anything you like," Walton said. He was drenched in sweat, though the ingenious executive filter in the sending apparatus of the screen cloaked that fact and presented him as neat and fresh. "I have some work to do now." His voice was barely audible.
"I won't keep you any longer, then," Fred said.
The screen went dead.
Walton killed the contact at his end, got up, walked to the window. He nudged the opaquer control and the frosty white haze over the glass cleared away, revealing the fantastic beehive of the city outside.
Idiot! he thought. Fool!
He had risked everything to save one baby, one child probably doomed to an early death anyway. And FitzMaugham knew—the old man could see through Walton with ease—and Fred knew, too. His brother, and his father-substitute.
FitzMaugham might well choose to conceal Roy's defection this time, but would surely place less trust in him in the future. And as for Fred....
There was no telling what Fred might do. They had never been particularly close as brothers; they had lived with their parents (now almost totally forgotten) until Roy was nine and Fred seven. Their parents had gone down off Maracaibo in a jet crash; Roy and Fred had been sent to the public crèche.
After that it had been separate paths for the brothers. For Roy, an education in the law, a short spell as Senator FitzMaugham's private secretary, followed last month by his sudden elevation to assistant administrator of the newly-created Popeek Bureau. For Fred, medicine, unsuccessful private practice, finally a job in the Happysleep section of Popeek, thanks to Roy.
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How does the narrator’s name affect his social life?
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After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about I, the Unspeakable by Walter J. Sheldon.
Relevant chunks:
I, the Unspeakable
By WALT SHELDON
Illustrated by LOUIS MARCHETTI
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction April 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
"What's in a name?" might be very dangerous to ask in certain societies, in which sticks and stones are also a big problem!
I fought to be awake. I was dreaming, but I think I must have blushed. I must have blushed in my sleep.
" Do it! " she said. " Please do it! For me! "
It was the voice that always came, low, intense, seductive, the sound of your hand on silk ... and to a citizen of Northem, a conformist, it was shocking. I was a conformist then; I was still one that morning.
I awoke. The glowlight was on, slowly increasing. I was in my living machine in Center Four, where I belonged, and all the familiar things were about me, reality was back, but I was breathing very hard.
I lay on the pneumo a while before getting up. I looked at the chroner: 0703 hours, Day 17, Month IX, New Century Three. My morning nuro-tablets had already popped from the tube, and the timer had begun to boil an egg. The egg was there because the realfood allotment had been increased last month. The balance of trade with Southem had just swung a decimal or two our way.
I rose finally, stepped to the mirror, switched it to positive and looked at myself. New wrinkles—or maybe just a deepening of the old ones. It was beginning to show; the past two years were leaving traces.
I hadn't worried about my appearance when I'd been with the Office of Weapons. There, I'd been able to keep pretty much to myself, doing research on magnetic mechanics as applied to space drive. But other jobs, where you had to be among people, might be different. I needed every possible thing in my favor.
Yes, I still hoped for a job, even after two years. I still meant to keep on plugging, making the rounds.
I'd go out again today.
The timer clicked and my egg was ready. I swallowed the tablets and then took the egg to the table to savor it and make it last.
As I leaned forward to sit, the metal tag dangled from my neck, catching the glowlight. My identity tag.
Everything came back in a rush—
My name. The dream and her voice. And her suggestion.
Would I dare? Would I start out this very morning and take the risk, the terrible risk?
You remember renumbering. Two years ago. You remember how it was then; how everybody looked forward to his new designation, and how everybody made jokes about the way the letters came out, and how all the records were for a while fouled up beyond recognition.
The telecomics kidded renumbering. One went a little too far and they psycho-scanned him and then sent him to Marscol as a dangerous nonconform.
If you were disappointed with your new designation, you didn't complain. You didn't want a sudden visit from the Deacons during the night.
There had to be renumbering. We all understood that. With the population of Northem already past two billion, the old designations were too clumsy. Renumbering was efficient. It contributed to the good of Northem. It helped advance the warless struggle with Southem.
The equator is the boundary. I understand that once there was a political difference and that the two superstates sprawled longitudinally, not latitudinally, over the globe. Now they are pretty much the same. There is the truce, and they are both geared for war. They are both efficient states, as tightly controlled as an experiment with enzymes, as microsurgery, as the temper of a diplomat.
We were renumbered, then, in Northem. You know the system: everybody now has six digits and an additional prefix or suffix of four letters. Stateleader, for instance, has the designation AAAA-111/111. Now, to address somebody by calling off four letters is a little clumsy. We try to pronounce them when they are pronounceable. That is, no one says to Stateleader, "Good morning, A-A-A-A." They say, "Good morning, Aaaa."
Reading the last quote, I notice a curious effect. It says what I feel. Of course I didn't feel that way on that particular morning. I was still conformal; the last thing in my mind was that I would infract and be psycho-scanned.
Four letters then, and in many cases a pronounceable four letter word.
A four letter word.
Yes, you suspect already. You know what a four letter word can be.
Mine was.
It was unspeakable.
The slight weight on my forehead reminded me that I still wore my sleep-learner. I'd been studying administrative cybernetics, hoping to qualify in that field, although it was a poor substitute for a space drive expert. I removed the band and stepped across the room and turned off the oscillator. I went back to my egg and my bitter memories.
I will never forget the first day I received my new four letter combination and reported it to my chief, as required. I was unthinkably embarrassed. He didn't say anything. He just swallowed and choked and became crimson when he saw it. He didn't dare pass it to his secretarial engineer; he went to the administrative circuits and registered it himself.
I can't blame him for easing me out. He was trying to run an efficient organization, after all, and no doubt I upset its efficiency. My work was important—magnetic mechanics was the only way to handle quanta reaction, or the so-called non-energy drive, and was therefore the answer to feasible space travel beyond our present limit of Mars—and there were frequent inspection tours by Big Wheels and Very Important Persons.
Whenever anyone, especially a woman, asked my name, the embarrassment would become a crackling electric field all about us. The best tactic was just not to answer.
The chief called me in one day. He looked haggard.
"Er—old man," he said, not quite able to bring himself to utter my name, "I'm going to have to switch you to another department. How would you like to work on nutrition kits? Very interesting work."
"Nutrition kits? Me? On nutrition kits?"
"Well, I—er—know it sounds unusual, but it justifies. I just had the cybs work it over in the light of present regulations, and it justifies."
Everything had to justify, of course. Every act in the monthly report had to be covered by regulations and cross-regulations. Of course there were so many regulations that if you just took the time to work it out, you could justify damn near anything. I knew what the chief was up to. Just to remove me from my post would have taken a year of applications and hearings and innumerable visits to the capital in Center One. But if I should infract—deliberately infract—it would enable the chief to let me go. The equivalent of resigning.
"I'll infract," I said. "Rather than go on nutrition kits, I'll infract."
He looked vastly relieved. "Uh—fine," he said. "I rather hoped you would."
It took a week or so. Then I was on Non-Productive status and issued an N/P book for my necessities. Very few luxury coupons in the N/P book. I didn't really mind at first. My new living machine was smaller, but basically comfortable, and since I was still a loyal member of the state and a verified conformist, I wouldn't starve.
But I didn't know what I was in for.
I went from bureau to bureau, office to office, department to department—any place where they might use a space drive expert. A pattern began to emerge; the same story everywhere. When I mentioned my specialty they would look delighted. When I handed them my tag and they saw my name, they would go into immediate polite confusion. As soon as they recovered they would say they'd call me if anything turned up....
A few weeks of this and I became a bit dazed.
And then there was the problem of everyday existence. You might say it's lucky to be an N/P for a while. I've heard people say that. Basic needs provided, worlds of leisure time; on the surface it sounds attractive.
But let me give you an example. Say it is monthly realfood day. You go to the store, your mouth already watering in anticipation. You take your place in line and wait for your package. The distributor takes your coupon book and is all ready to reach for your package—and then he sees the fatal letters N/P. Non-Producer. A drone, a drain upon the State. You can see his stare curdle. He scowls at the book again.
"Not sure this is in order. Better go to the end of the line. We'll check it later."
You know what happens before the end of the line reaches the counter. No more packages.
Well, I couldn't get myself off N/P status until I got a post, and with my name I couldn't get a post.
Nor could I change my name. You know what happens when you try to change something already on the records. The very idea of wanting change implies criticism of the State. Unthinkable behavior.
That was why this curious dream voice shocked me so. The thing that it suggested was quite as embarrassing as its non-standard, emotional, provocative tone.
Bear with me; I'm getting to the voice—to her —in a moment.
I want to tell you first about the loneliness, the terrible loneliness. I could hardly join group games at any of the rec centers. I could join no special interest clubs or even State Loyalty chapters. Although I dabbled with theoretical research in my own quarters, I could scarcely submit any findings for publication—not with my name attached. A pseudonym would have been non-regulation and illegal.
But there was the worst thing of all. I could not mate.
Funny, I hadn't thought about mating until it became impossible. I remember the first time, out of sheer idleness, I wandered into a Eugenic Center. I filled out my form very carefully and submitted it for analysis and assignment. The clerk saw my name, and did the usual double-take. He coughed and swallowed and fidgeted.
He said, "Of course you understand that we must submit your application to the woman authorized to spend time in the mating booths with you, and that she has the right to refuse."
"Yes, I understand that."
"M'm," he said, and dismissed me with a nod.
I waited for a call in the next few weeks, still hoping, but I knew no woman would consent to meet a man with my name, let alone enter a mating booth with him.
The urge to reproduce myself became unbearable. I concocted all sorts of wild schemes.
I might infract socially and be classified a nonconform and sent to Marscol. I'd heard rumors that in that desolate land, on that desolate planet, both mingling and mating were rather disgustingly unrestricted. Casual mating would be terribly dangerous, of course, with all the wild irradiated genes from the atomic decade still around, but I felt I'd be willing to risk that. Well, almost....
About then I began to have these dreams. As I've told you, in the dream there was only this woman's seductive voice. The first time I heard it I awoke in a warm sweat and swore something had gone wrong with the sleep-learner. You never hear the actual words with this machine, of course; you simply absorb the concepts unconsciously. Still, it seemed an explanation. I checked thoroughly. Nothing wrong.
The next night I heard the woman's voice again.
" Try it ," she said. " Do it. Start tomorrow to get your name changed. There will be a way. There must be a way. The rules are so mixed up that a clever man can do almost anything. Do it, please—for me. "
She was not only trying to get me to commit nonconformity, but making heretical remarks besides. I awoke that time and half-expected a Deacon to pop out of the tube and turn his electric club upon me.
And I heard the voice nearly every night.
It hammered away.
" What if you do fail? Almost anything would be better than the miserable existence you're leading now! "
One morning I even caught myself wondering just how I'd go about this idea of hers. Wondering what the first step might be.
She seemed to read my thoughts. That night she said, " Consult the cybs in the Govpub office. If you look hard enough and long enough, you'll find a way. "
Now, on this morning of the seventeenth day in the ninth month, I ate my boiled egg slowly and actually toyed with the idea. I thought of being on productive status again. I had almost lost my fanatical craving to be useful to the State, but I did want to be busy—desperately. I didn't want to be despised any more. I didn't want to be lonely. I wanted to reproduce myself.
I made my decision suddenly. Waves of emotion carried me along. I got up, crossed the room to the directory, and pushbuttoned to find the location of the nearest Govpub office.
I didn't know what would happen and almost didn't care.
II
Like most important places, the Govpub Office in Center Four was underground. I could have taken a tunnelcar more quickly, but it seemed pleasanter to travel topside. Or maybe I just wanted to put this off a bit. Think about it. Compose myself.
At the entrance to the Govpub warren there was a big director cyb, a plate with a speaker and switch. The sign on it said to switch it on and get close to the speaker and I did.
The cyb's mechanical voice—they never seem to get the "th" sounds right—said, "This is Branch Four of the Office of Government Publications. Say, 'Publications,' and/or, 'Information desired,' as thoroughly and concisely as possible. Use approved voice and standard phraseology."
Well, simple enough so far. I had always rather prided myself on my knack for approved voice, those flat, emotionless tones that indicate efficiency. And I would never forget how to speak Statese. I said,
"Applicant desires all pertinent information relative assignment, change or amendment of State Serial designations, otherwise generally referred to as nomenclature."
There was a second's delay while the audio patterns tripped relays and brought the memory tubes in.
Then the cyb said, "Proceed to Numbering and Identity section. Consult alphabetical list and diagram on your left for location of same."
"Thanks," I said absent-mindedly.
I started to turn away and the cyb said, "Information on tanks is military information and classified. State authorization for—"
I switched it off.
Numbering and Identity wasn't hard to find. I took the shaft to the proper level and then it was only a walk of a few hundred yards through the glowlit corridors.
N. & I. turned out to be a big room, somewhat circular, very high-ceilinged, with banks of cyb controls covering the upper walls. Narrow passageways, like spokes, led off in several directions. There was an information desk in the center of the room.
I looked that way and my heart went into free fall.
There was a girl at the information desk. An exceptionally attractive girl. She was well within the limits of acceptable standard, and her features were even enough, and her hair a middle blonde—but she had something else. Hard to describe. It was a warmth, a buoyancy, a sense of life and intense animation. It didn't exactly show; it radiated. It seemed to sing out from her clear complexion, from her figure, which even a tunic could not hide, from everything about her.
And if I were to state my business, I would have to tell her my name.
I almost backed out right then. I stopped momentarily. And then common sense took hold and I realized that if I were to go through with this thing, here would be only the first of a long series of embarrassments and discomforts. It had to be done.
I walked up to the desk and the girl turned to face me, and I could have sworn that a faint smile crossed her lips. It was swift, like the shadow of a bird across one of the lawns in one of the great parks topside. Very non-standard. Yet I wasn't offended; if anything, I felt suddenly and disturbingly pleased.
"What information is desired?" she asked. Her voice was standard—or was it?
Again I had the feeling of restrained warmth.
I used colloquial. "I want to get the dope on State Serial designations, how they're assigned and so forth. Especially how they might be changed."
She put a handsteno on the desk top and said, "Name? Address? Post?"
I froze. I stood there and stared at her.
She looked up and said, "Well?"
"I—er—no post at present. N/P status."
Her fingers moved on the steno.
I gave her my address and she recorded that.
Then I paused again.
She said, "And your name?"
I took a deep breath and told her.
I didn't want to look into her eyes. I wanted to look away, but I couldn't find a decent excuse to. I saw her eyes become wide and noticed for the first time that they were a warm gray, almost a mouse color. I felt like laughing at that irrelevant observation, but more than that I felt like turning and running. I felt like climbing and dashing all over the walls like a frustrated cat and yelling at the top of my lungs. I felt like anything but standing there and looking stupid, meeting her stare—
She looked down quickly and recorded my name. It took her a little longer than necessary. In that time she recovered. Somewhat.
"All right," she said finally, "I'll make a search."
She turned to a row of buttons on a console in the center of the desk and began to press them in various combinations. A typer clicked away. She tore off a slip of paper, consulted it, and said, "Information desired is in Bank 29. Please follow me."
Well, following her was a pleasure, anyway. I could watch the movement of her hips and torso as she walked. She was not tall, but long-legged and extremely lithe. Graceful and rhythmic. Very, very feminine, almost beyond standard in that respect. I felt blood throb in my temples and was heartily ashamed of myself.
I would like to be in a mating booth with her, I thought, the full authorized twenty minutes. And I knew I was unconformist and the realization hardly scared me at all.
She led me down one of the long passageways.
A few moments later I said, "Don't you sometimes get—well, pretty lonely working here?" Personal talk at a time like this wasn't approved behavior, but I couldn't help it.
She answered hesitantly, but at least she answered. She said, "Not terribly. The cybs are company enough most of the time."
"You don't get many visitors, then."
"Not right here. N. & I. isn't a very popular section. Most people who come to Govpub spend their time researching in the ancient manuscript room. The—er—social habits of the pre-atomic civilization."
I laughed. I knew what she meant, all right. Pre-atomics and their ideas about free mating always fascinated people. I moved up beside her. "What's your name, by the way?"
"L-A-R-A 339/827."
I pronounced it. "Lara. Lah-rah. That's beautiful. Fits you, too."
She didn't answer; she kept her eyes straight ahead and I saw the faint spot of color on her cheek.
I had a sudden impulse to ask her to meet me after hours at one of the rec centers. If it had been my danger alone, I might have, but I couldn't very well ask her to risk discovery of a haphazard, unauthorized arrangement like that and the possibility of going to the psycho-scan.
We came to a turn in the corridor and something happened; I'm not sure just how it happened. I keep telling myself that my movements were not actually deliberate. I was to the right of her. The turn was to the left. She turned quickly, and I didn't, so that I bumped into her, knocking her off balance. I grabbed her to keep her from falling.
For a moment we stood there, face to face, touching each other lightly. I held her by the arms. I felt the primitive warmth of her breath. Our eyes held together ... proton ... electron ... I felt her tremble.
She broke from my grip suddenly and started off again.
After that she was very business-like.
We came finally to the controls of Bank 29 and she stood before them and began to press button combinations. I watched her work; I watched her move. I had almost forgotten why I'd come here. The lights blinked on and off and the typers clacked softly as the machine sorted out information.
She had a long printed sheet from the roll presently. She frowned at it and turned to me. "You can take this along and study it," she said,
"but I'm afraid what you have in mind may be—a little difficult."
She must have guessed what I had in mind. I said, "I didn't think it would be easy."
"It seems that the only agency authorized to change a State Serial under any circumstances is Opsych."
"Opsych?" You can't keep up with all these departments.
"The Office of Psychological Adjustment. They can change you if you go from a lower to higher E.A.C."
"I don't get it, exactly."
As she spoke I had the idea that there was sympathy in her voice. Just an overtone. "Well," she said, "as you know, the post a person is qualified to hold often depends largely on his Emotional Adjustment Category. Now if he improves and passes from, let us say, Grade 3 to Grade 4, he will probably change his place of work. In order to protect him from any associative maladjustments developed under the old E.A.C, he is permitted a new number."
I groaned. "But I'm already in the highest E.A.C.!"
"It looks very uncertain then."
"Sometimes I think I'd be better off in the mines, or on Marscol—or—in the hell of the pre-atomics!"
She looked amused. "What did you say your E.A.C. was?"
"Oh, all right. Sorry." I controlled myself and grinned. "I guess this whole thing has been just a little too much for me. Maybe my E.A.C.'s even gone down."
"That might be your chance then."
"How do you mean?"
"If you could get to the top man in Opsych and demonstrate that your number has inadvertently changed your E.A.C., he might be able to justify a change."
"By the State, he might!" I punched my palm. "Only how do I get to him?"
"I can find his location on the cyb here. Center One, the capital, for a guess. You'll have to get a travel permit to go there, of course. Just a moment."
She worked at the machine again, trying it on general data. The printed slip came out a moment later and she read it to me. Chief, Opsych, was in the capital all right. It didn't give the exact location of his office, but it did tell how to find the underground bay in Center One containing the Opsych offices.
We headed back through the passageway then and she kept well ahead of me. I couldn't keep my eyes from her walk, from the way she walked with everything below her shoulders. My blood was pounding at my temples again.
I tried to keep the conversation going. "Do you think it'll be hard to get a travel permit?"
"Not impossible. My guess is that you'll be at Travbur all day tomorrow, maybe even the next day. But you ought to be able to swing it if you hold out long enough."
I sighed. "I know. It's that way everywhere in Northem. Our motto ought to be, 'Why make it difficult when with just a little more effort you can make it impossible?'"
She started to laugh, and then, as she emerged from the passageway into the big circular room, she cut her laugh short.
A second later, as I came along, I saw why.
There were two Deacons by the central desk. They were burly and had that hard, pinched-face look and wore the usual black belts. Electric clubs hung from the belts. Spidery looking pistols were at their sides.
I didn't know whether these two had heard my crack or not. I know they kept looking at me.
Lara and I crossed the room silently, she back to her desk, I to the exit door. The Deacons' remote, disapproving eyes swung in azimuth, tracking us.
I walked out and wanted to turn and smile at Lara, and get into my smile something of the hope that someday, somewhere, I'd see her again—but of course I didn't dare.
III
I had the usual difficulties at Travbur the next day. I won't go into them, except to say that I was batted from office to office like a ping pong ball, and that, when I finally got my travel permit, I was made to feel that I had stolen an original Picasso from the State Museum.
I made it in a day. Just. I got my permit thirty seconds before closing time. I was to take the jetcopter to Center One at 0700 hours the following morning.
In my living machine that evening, I was much too excited to work at theoretical research as I usually did after a hard day of tramping around. I bathed, I paced a while, I sat and hummed nervously and got up and paced again. I turned on the telepuppets. There was a drama about the space pilots who fly the nonconformist prisoners to the forests and pulp-acetate plants on Mars. Seemed that the Southem political prisoners who are confined to the southern hemisphere of Mars, wanted to attack and conquer the north. The nonconformists, led by our pilot, came through for the State in the end. Corn is thicker than water. Standard.
There were, however, some good stereofilm shots of the limitless forests of Mars, and I wondered what it would be like to live there, in a green, fresh-smelling land. Pleasant, I supposed, if you could put up with the no doubt revolting morality of a prison planet.
And the drama seemed to point out that there was no more security for the nonconformists out there than for us here on Earth. Maybe somewhere in the universe, I thought, there would be peace for men. Somewhere beyond the solar system, perhaps, someday when we had the means to go there....
Yet instinct told me that wasn't the answer, either. I thought of a verse by an ancient pre-atomic poet named Hoffenstein. (People had unwieldy, random combinations of letters for names in those days.) The poem went:
Wherever I go,
I
go too,
And spoil everything.
That was it. The story of mankind.
I turned the glowlight down and lay on the pneumo after a while, but I didn't sleep for a long, long time.
Then, when I did sleep, when I had been sleeping, I heard the voice again. The low, seductive woman's voice—the startling, shocking voice out of my unconscious.
" You have taken the first step ," she said. " You are on your way to freedom. Don't stop now. Don't sink back into the lifelessness of conformity. Go on ... on and on. Keep struggling, for that is the only answer.... "
I didn't exactly talk back, but in the queer way of the dream, I thought objections. I was in my thirties, at the mid-point of my life, and the whole of that life had been spent under the State. I knew no other way to act. Suppressing what little individuality I might have was, for me, a way of survival. I was chockful of prescribed, stereotyped reactions, and I held onto them even when something within me told me what they were. This wasn't easy, this breaking away, not even this slight departure from the secure, camouflaged norm....
" The woman, Lara, attracts you ," said the voice.
I suppose at that point I twitched or rolled in my sleep. Yes, the voice was right, the woman Lara attracted me. So much that I ached with it.
" Take her. Find a way. When you succeed in changing your name, and know that you can do things, then find a way. There will be a way. "
The idea at once thrilled and frightened me.
I woke writhing and in a sweat again.
It was morning.
I dressed and headed for the jetcopter stage and the ship for Center One.
The ship was comfortable and departed on time, a transport with seats for about twenty passengers. I sat near the tail and moodily busied myself watching the gaunt brown earth far below. Between Centers there was mostly desert, only occasional patches of green. Before the atomic decade, I had heard, nearly all the earth was green and teemed with life ... birds, insects, animals, people, too. It was hard rock and sand now, with a few scrubs hanging on for life. The pre-atomics, who hadn't mastered synthesization, would have a hard time scratching existence from the earth today.
I tried to break the sad mood, and started to look around at some of the other passengers. That was when I first noticed the prisoners in the forward seats. Man and woman, they were, a youngish, rather non-descript couple, thin, very quiet. They were manacled and two Deacons sat across from them. The Deacons' backs were turned to me and I could see the prisoners' faces.
They had curious faces. Their eyes were indescribably sad, and yet their lips seemed to be ready to smile at any moment.
They were holding hands, not seeming to care about this vulgar emotional display.
I had the sudden crazy idea that Lara and I were sitting there, holding hands like that, nonconforming in the highest, and that we were wonderfully happy. Our eyes were sad too, but we were really happy, quietly happy, and that was why our lips stayed upon the brink of a smile.
Question:
How does the narrator’s name affect his social life?
Answer:
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[
"The narrator, who was designated an unspeakably vulgar four-letter designation during the last renumbering, has been negatively affected by his new name. Because of its distracting effect on those who learn it, he is forced to resign from his job studying magnetic mechanics and assume non-productive status, which in turn hampers his ability to acquire realfood. Theoretical research which the narrator privately conducts could not be published. His designation further prevents him from participating in group games at the rec center, special interest clubs, and State Loyalty chapters. The narrator is unable to mate since, at the Eugenic Centers where mating is regulated by the State, he must submit an application which must be approved by women who are authorized to mate with him.",
"His social life is heavily affected by his name. He cannot get himself off the N/P status with his name. Firslty, he loses his job due to this name. He can still remember the day that he got his name, and the embarrasement that came with it. His boss finds his name making the company less efficient, making him resign. Secondly, he cannot find any new job. Each of the employer, hearing his name, would tell him that they will call of something comes up. But they never do. Secondly, he can hardly join group games at any of the rec centers. No special interest clubs or even State Loyalty chapters would allow him to join them; simply because of his name, he can scarcely submit any findings for publication, at least not under his name. Moreover, because he is at N/P status, he cannot even get his order because the distributer tells him to get to the end of the line. And the food packages never reachese the end. Lastly, he cannot mate, no one at the Eugenic Center would even bother to call him back after hearing his name. No woman would want to mate with him. Thus, he feels terribly lonely. ",
"The narrator's name makes it difficult for him to lead a normal life, and instead makes him very lonely. At the beginning of the story, the narrator's chief lets him go from his place of employment, because of the difficulties that his name brought to the workplace. He has trouble getting a new job, despite his impressive expertise, because of his name. This makes the narrator stuck in the Non-Productive status, which interrupts his everyday life, including on realfood day, joining games and clubs, and even being unable to publish anything with his name on it. These difficulties also apply for mating; the narrator is unable to find a partner and finds himself extremely lonely. ",
"The narrator is embarrassed by his name and upset with it due to its effect on his social life. Women and others, in general, become quite embarrassed when they hear his name. People seem to not want to associate with him due to his name. He loses his job because of his name, though the manager does not directly state that it is the reason. People do not want him to join their group games, clubs, or State Loyalty chapters and his research is unable to be submitted for publication. Because people have adverse reactions to his name, the narrator is lonely due to the lack of his social life. In addition, because of his name, the narrator is not able to mate with a woman. His inability to find a woman that will mate with him creates a longing and a desire for him to mate with a woman. "
] |
51210
|
I, the Unspeakable
By WALT SHELDON
Illustrated by LOUIS MARCHETTI
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction April 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
"What's in a name?" might be very dangerous to ask in certain societies, in which sticks and stones are also a big problem!
I fought to be awake. I was dreaming, but I think I must have blushed. I must have blushed in my sleep.
" Do it! " she said. " Please do it! For me! "
It was the voice that always came, low, intense, seductive, the sound of your hand on silk ... and to a citizen of Northem, a conformist, it was shocking. I was a conformist then; I was still one that morning.
I awoke. The glowlight was on, slowly increasing. I was in my living machine in Center Four, where I belonged, and all the familiar things were about me, reality was back, but I was breathing very hard.
I lay on the pneumo a while before getting up. I looked at the chroner: 0703 hours, Day 17, Month IX, New Century Three. My morning nuro-tablets had already popped from the tube, and the timer had begun to boil an egg. The egg was there because the realfood allotment had been increased last month. The balance of trade with Southem had just swung a decimal or two our way.
I rose finally, stepped to the mirror, switched it to positive and looked at myself. New wrinkles—or maybe just a deepening of the old ones. It was beginning to show; the past two years were leaving traces.
I hadn't worried about my appearance when I'd been with the Office of Weapons. There, I'd been able to keep pretty much to myself, doing research on magnetic mechanics as applied to space drive. But other jobs, where you had to be among people, might be different. I needed every possible thing in my favor.
Yes, I still hoped for a job, even after two years. I still meant to keep on plugging, making the rounds.
I'd go out again today.
The timer clicked and my egg was ready. I swallowed the tablets and then took the egg to the table to savor it and make it last.
As I leaned forward to sit, the metal tag dangled from my neck, catching the glowlight. My identity tag.
Everything came back in a rush—
My name. The dream and her voice. And her suggestion.
Would I dare? Would I start out this very morning and take the risk, the terrible risk?
You remember renumbering. Two years ago. You remember how it was then; how everybody looked forward to his new designation, and how everybody made jokes about the way the letters came out, and how all the records were for a while fouled up beyond recognition.
The telecomics kidded renumbering. One went a little too far and they psycho-scanned him and then sent him to Marscol as a dangerous nonconform.
If you were disappointed with your new designation, you didn't complain. You didn't want a sudden visit from the Deacons during the night.
There had to be renumbering. We all understood that. With the population of Northem already past two billion, the old designations were too clumsy. Renumbering was efficient. It contributed to the good of Northem. It helped advance the warless struggle with Southem.
The equator is the boundary. I understand that once there was a political difference and that the two superstates sprawled longitudinally, not latitudinally, over the globe. Now they are pretty much the same. There is the truce, and they are both geared for war. They are both efficient states, as tightly controlled as an experiment with enzymes, as microsurgery, as the temper of a diplomat.
We were renumbered, then, in Northem. You know the system: everybody now has six digits and an additional prefix or suffix of four letters. Stateleader, for instance, has the designation AAAA-111/111. Now, to address somebody by calling off four letters is a little clumsy. We try to pronounce them when they are pronounceable. That is, no one says to Stateleader, "Good morning, A-A-A-A." They say, "Good morning, Aaaa."
Reading the last quote, I notice a curious effect. It says what I feel. Of course I didn't feel that way on that particular morning. I was still conformal; the last thing in my mind was that I would infract and be psycho-scanned.
Four letters then, and in many cases a pronounceable four letter word.
A four letter word.
Yes, you suspect already. You know what a four letter word can be.
Mine was.
It was unspeakable.
The slight weight on my forehead reminded me that I still wore my sleep-learner. I'd been studying administrative cybernetics, hoping to qualify in that field, although it was a poor substitute for a space drive expert. I removed the band and stepped across the room and turned off the oscillator. I went back to my egg and my bitter memories.
I will never forget the first day I received my new four letter combination and reported it to my chief, as required. I was unthinkably embarrassed. He didn't say anything. He just swallowed and choked and became crimson when he saw it. He didn't dare pass it to his secretarial engineer; he went to the administrative circuits and registered it himself.
I can't blame him for easing me out. He was trying to run an efficient organization, after all, and no doubt I upset its efficiency. My work was important—magnetic mechanics was the only way to handle quanta reaction, or the so-called non-energy drive, and was therefore the answer to feasible space travel beyond our present limit of Mars—and there were frequent inspection tours by Big Wheels and Very Important Persons.
Whenever anyone, especially a woman, asked my name, the embarrassment would become a crackling electric field all about us. The best tactic was just not to answer.
The chief called me in one day. He looked haggard.
"Er—old man," he said, not quite able to bring himself to utter my name, "I'm going to have to switch you to another department. How would you like to work on nutrition kits? Very interesting work."
"Nutrition kits? Me? On nutrition kits?"
"Well, I—er—know it sounds unusual, but it justifies. I just had the cybs work it over in the light of present regulations, and it justifies."
Everything had to justify, of course. Every act in the monthly report had to be covered by regulations and cross-regulations. Of course there were so many regulations that if you just took the time to work it out, you could justify damn near anything. I knew what the chief was up to. Just to remove me from my post would have taken a year of applications and hearings and innumerable visits to the capital in Center One. But if I should infract—deliberately infract—it would enable the chief to let me go. The equivalent of resigning.
"I'll infract," I said. "Rather than go on nutrition kits, I'll infract."
He looked vastly relieved. "Uh—fine," he said. "I rather hoped you would."
It took a week or so. Then I was on Non-Productive status and issued an N/P book for my necessities. Very few luxury coupons in the N/P book. I didn't really mind at first. My new living machine was smaller, but basically comfortable, and since I was still a loyal member of the state and a verified conformist, I wouldn't starve.
But I didn't know what I was in for.
I went from bureau to bureau, office to office, department to department—any place where they might use a space drive expert. A pattern began to emerge; the same story everywhere. When I mentioned my specialty they would look delighted. When I handed them my tag and they saw my name, they would go into immediate polite confusion. As soon as they recovered they would say they'd call me if anything turned up....
A few weeks of this and I became a bit dazed.
And then there was the problem of everyday existence. You might say it's lucky to be an N/P for a while. I've heard people say that. Basic needs provided, worlds of leisure time; on the surface it sounds attractive.
But let me give you an example. Say it is monthly realfood day. You go to the store, your mouth already watering in anticipation. You take your place in line and wait for your package. The distributor takes your coupon book and is all ready to reach for your package—and then he sees the fatal letters N/P. Non-Producer. A drone, a drain upon the State. You can see his stare curdle. He scowls at the book again.
"Not sure this is in order. Better go to the end of the line. We'll check it later."
You know what happens before the end of the line reaches the counter. No more packages.
Well, I couldn't get myself off N/P status until I got a post, and with my name I couldn't get a post.
Nor could I change my name. You know what happens when you try to change something already on the records. The very idea of wanting change implies criticism of the State. Unthinkable behavior.
That was why this curious dream voice shocked me so. The thing that it suggested was quite as embarrassing as its non-standard, emotional, provocative tone.
Bear with me; I'm getting to the voice—to her —in a moment.
I want to tell you first about the loneliness, the terrible loneliness. I could hardly join group games at any of the rec centers. I could join no special interest clubs or even State Loyalty chapters. Although I dabbled with theoretical research in my own quarters, I could scarcely submit any findings for publication—not with my name attached. A pseudonym would have been non-regulation and illegal.
But there was the worst thing of all. I could not mate.
Funny, I hadn't thought about mating until it became impossible. I remember the first time, out of sheer idleness, I wandered into a Eugenic Center. I filled out my form very carefully and submitted it for analysis and assignment. The clerk saw my name, and did the usual double-take. He coughed and swallowed and fidgeted.
He said, "Of course you understand that we must submit your application to the woman authorized to spend time in the mating booths with you, and that she has the right to refuse."
"Yes, I understand that."
"M'm," he said, and dismissed me with a nod.
I waited for a call in the next few weeks, still hoping, but I knew no woman would consent to meet a man with my name, let alone enter a mating booth with him.
The urge to reproduce myself became unbearable. I concocted all sorts of wild schemes.
I might infract socially and be classified a nonconform and sent to Marscol. I'd heard rumors that in that desolate land, on that desolate planet, both mingling and mating were rather disgustingly unrestricted. Casual mating would be terribly dangerous, of course, with all the wild irradiated genes from the atomic decade still around, but I felt I'd be willing to risk that. Well, almost....
About then I began to have these dreams. As I've told you, in the dream there was only this woman's seductive voice. The first time I heard it I awoke in a warm sweat and swore something had gone wrong with the sleep-learner. You never hear the actual words with this machine, of course; you simply absorb the concepts unconsciously. Still, it seemed an explanation. I checked thoroughly. Nothing wrong.
The next night I heard the woman's voice again.
" Try it ," she said. " Do it. Start tomorrow to get your name changed. There will be a way. There must be a way. The rules are so mixed up that a clever man can do almost anything. Do it, please—for me. "
She was not only trying to get me to commit nonconformity, but making heretical remarks besides. I awoke that time and half-expected a Deacon to pop out of the tube and turn his electric club upon me.
And I heard the voice nearly every night.
It hammered away.
" What if you do fail? Almost anything would be better than the miserable existence you're leading now! "
One morning I even caught myself wondering just how I'd go about this idea of hers. Wondering what the first step might be.
She seemed to read my thoughts. That night she said, " Consult the cybs in the Govpub office. If you look hard enough and long enough, you'll find a way. "
Now, on this morning of the seventeenth day in the ninth month, I ate my boiled egg slowly and actually toyed with the idea. I thought of being on productive status again. I had almost lost my fanatical craving to be useful to the State, but I did want to be busy—desperately. I didn't want to be despised any more. I didn't want to be lonely. I wanted to reproduce myself.
I made my decision suddenly. Waves of emotion carried me along. I got up, crossed the room to the directory, and pushbuttoned to find the location of the nearest Govpub office.
I didn't know what would happen and almost didn't care.
II
Like most important places, the Govpub Office in Center Four was underground. I could have taken a tunnelcar more quickly, but it seemed pleasanter to travel topside. Or maybe I just wanted to put this off a bit. Think about it. Compose myself.
At the entrance to the Govpub warren there was a big director cyb, a plate with a speaker and switch. The sign on it said to switch it on and get close to the speaker and I did.
The cyb's mechanical voice—they never seem to get the "th" sounds right—said, "This is Branch Four of the Office of Government Publications. Say, 'Publications,' and/or, 'Information desired,' as thoroughly and concisely as possible. Use approved voice and standard phraseology."
Well, simple enough so far. I had always rather prided myself on my knack for approved voice, those flat, emotionless tones that indicate efficiency. And I would never forget how to speak Statese. I said,
"Applicant desires all pertinent information relative assignment, change or amendment of State Serial designations, otherwise generally referred to as nomenclature."
There was a second's delay while the audio patterns tripped relays and brought the memory tubes in.
Then the cyb said, "Proceed to Numbering and Identity section. Consult alphabetical list and diagram on your left for location of same."
"Thanks," I said absent-mindedly.
I started to turn away and the cyb said, "Information on tanks is military information and classified. State authorization for—"
I switched it off.
Numbering and Identity wasn't hard to find. I took the shaft to the proper level and then it was only a walk of a few hundred yards through the glowlit corridors.
N. & I. turned out to be a big room, somewhat circular, very high-ceilinged, with banks of cyb controls covering the upper walls. Narrow passageways, like spokes, led off in several directions. There was an information desk in the center of the room.
I looked that way and my heart went into free fall.
There was a girl at the information desk. An exceptionally attractive girl. She was well within the limits of acceptable standard, and her features were even enough, and her hair a middle blonde—but she had something else. Hard to describe. It was a warmth, a buoyancy, a sense of life and intense animation. It didn't exactly show; it radiated. It seemed to sing out from her clear complexion, from her figure, which even a tunic could not hide, from everything about her.
And if I were to state my business, I would have to tell her my name.
I almost backed out right then. I stopped momentarily. And then common sense took hold and I realized that if I were to go through with this thing, here would be only the first of a long series of embarrassments and discomforts. It had to be done.
I walked up to the desk and the girl turned to face me, and I could have sworn that a faint smile crossed her lips. It was swift, like the shadow of a bird across one of the lawns in one of the great parks topside. Very non-standard. Yet I wasn't offended; if anything, I felt suddenly and disturbingly pleased.
"What information is desired?" she asked. Her voice was standard—or was it?
Again I had the feeling of restrained warmth.
I used colloquial. "I want to get the dope on State Serial designations, how they're assigned and so forth. Especially how they might be changed."
She put a handsteno on the desk top and said, "Name? Address? Post?"
I froze. I stood there and stared at her.
She looked up and said, "Well?"
"I—er—no post at present. N/P status."
Her fingers moved on the steno.
I gave her my address and she recorded that.
Then I paused again.
She said, "And your name?"
I took a deep breath and told her.
I didn't want to look into her eyes. I wanted to look away, but I couldn't find a decent excuse to. I saw her eyes become wide and noticed for the first time that they were a warm gray, almost a mouse color. I felt like laughing at that irrelevant observation, but more than that I felt like turning and running. I felt like climbing and dashing all over the walls like a frustrated cat and yelling at the top of my lungs. I felt like anything but standing there and looking stupid, meeting her stare—
She looked down quickly and recorded my name. It took her a little longer than necessary. In that time she recovered. Somewhat.
"All right," she said finally, "I'll make a search."
She turned to a row of buttons on a console in the center of the desk and began to press them in various combinations. A typer clicked away. She tore off a slip of paper, consulted it, and said, "Information desired is in Bank 29. Please follow me."
Well, following her was a pleasure, anyway. I could watch the movement of her hips and torso as she walked. She was not tall, but long-legged and extremely lithe. Graceful and rhythmic. Very, very feminine, almost beyond standard in that respect. I felt blood throb in my temples and was heartily ashamed of myself.
I would like to be in a mating booth with her, I thought, the full authorized twenty minutes. And I knew I was unconformist and the realization hardly scared me at all.
She led me down one of the long passageways.
A few moments later I said, "Don't you sometimes get—well, pretty lonely working here?" Personal talk at a time like this wasn't approved behavior, but I couldn't help it.
She answered hesitantly, but at least she answered. She said, "Not terribly. The cybs are company enough most of the time."
"You don't get many visitors, then."
"Not right here. N. & I. isn't a very popular section. Most people who come to Govpub spend their time researching in the ancient manuscript room. The—er—social habits of the pre-atomic civilization."
I laughed. I knew what she meant, all right. Pre-atomics and their ideas about free mating always fascinated people. I moved up beside her. "What's your name, by the way?"
"L-A-R-A 339/827."
I pronounced it. "Lara. Lah-rah. That's beautiful. Fits you, too."
She didn't answer; she kept her eyes straight ahead and I saw the faint spot of color on her cheek.
I had a sudden impulse to ask her to meet me after hours at one of the rec centers. If it had been my danger alone, I might have, but I couldn't very well ask her to risk discovery of a haphazard, unauthorized arrangement like that and the possibility of going to the psycho-scan.
We came to a turn in the corridor and something happened; I'm not sure just how it happened. I keep telling myself that my movements were not actually deliberate. I was to the right of her. The turn was to the left. She turned quickly, and I didn't, so that I bumped into her, knocking her off balance. I grabbed her to keep her from falling.
For a moment we stood there, face to face, touching each other lightly. I held her by the arms. I felt the primitive warmth of her breath. Our eyes held together ... proton ... electron ... I felt her tremble.
She broke from my grip suddenly and started off again.
After that she was very business-like.
We came finally to the controls of Bank 29 and she stood before them and began to press button combinations. I watched her work; I watched her move. I had almost forgotten why I'd come here. The lights blinked on and off and the typers clacked softly as the machine sorted out information.
She had a long printed sheet from the roll presently. She frowned at it and turned to me. "You can take this along and study it," she said,
"but I'm afraid what you have in mind may be—a little difficult."
She must have guessed what I had in mind. I said, "I didn't think it would be easy."
"It seems that the only agency authorized to change a State Serial under any circumstances is Opsych."
"Opsych?" You can't keep up with all these departments.
"The Office of Psychological Adjustment. They can change you if you go from a lower to higher E.A.C."
"I don't get it, exactly."
As she spoke I had the idea that there was sympathy in her voice. Just an overtone. "Well," she said, "as you know, the post a person is qualified to hold often depends largely on his Emotional Adjustment Category. Now if he improves and passes from, let us say, Grade 3 to Grade 4, he will probably change his place of work. In order to protect him from any associative maladjustments developed under the old E.A.C, he is permitted a new number."
I groaned. "But I'm already in the highest E.A.C.!"
"It looks very uncertain then."
"Sometimes I think I'd be better off in the mines, or on Marscol—or—in the hell of the pre-atomics!"
She looked amused. "What did you say your E.A.C. was?"
"Oh, all right. Sorry." I controlled myself and grinned. "I guess this whole thing has been just a little too much for me. Maybe my E.A.C.'s even gone down."
"That might be your chance then."
"How do you mean?"
"If you could get to the top man in Opsych and demonstrate that your number has inadvertently changed your E.A.C., he might be able to justify a change."
"By the State, he might!" I punched my palm. "Only how do I get to him?"
"I can find his location on the cyb here. Center One, the capital, for a guess. You'll have to get a travel permit to go there, of course. Just a moment."
She worked at the machine again, trying it on general data. The printed slip came out a moment later and she read it to me. Chief, Opsych, was in the capital all right. It didn't give the exact location of his office, but it did tell how to find the underground bay in Center One containing the Opsych offices.
We headed back through the passageway then and she kept well ahead of me. I couldn't keep my eyes from her walk, from the way she walked with everything below her shoulders. My blood was pounding at my temples again.
I tried to keep the conversation going. "Do you think it'll be hard to get a travel permit?"
"Not impossible. My guess is that you'll be at Travbur all day tomorrow, maybe even the next day. But you ought to be able to swing it if you hold out long enough."
I sighed. "I know. It's that way everywhere in Northem. Our motto ought to be, 'Why make it difficult when with just a little more effort you can make it impossible?'"
She started to laugh, and then, as she emerged from the passageway into the big circular room, she cut her laugh short.
A second later, as I came along, I saw why.
There were two Deacons by the central desk. They were burly and had that hard, pinched-face look and wore the usual black belts. Electric clubs hung from the belts. Spidery looking pistols were at their sides.
I didn't know whether these two had heard my crack or not. I know they kept looking at me.
Lara and I crossed the room silently, she back to her desk, I to the exit door. The Deacons' remote, disapproving eyes swung in azimuth, tracking us.
I walked out and wanted to turn and smile at Lara, and get into my smile something of the hope that someday, somewhere, I'd see her again—but of course I didn't dare.
III
I had the usual difficulties at Travbur the next day. I won't go into them, except to say that I was batted from office to office like a ping pong ball, and that, when I finally got my travel permit, I was made to feel that I had stolen an original Picasso from the State Museum.
I made it in a day. Just. I got my permit thirty seconds before closing time. I was to take the jetcopter to Center One at 0700 hours the following morning.
In my living machine that evening, I was much too excited to work at theoretical research as I usually did after a hard day of tramping around. I bathed, I paced a while, I sat and hummed nervously and got up and paced again. I turned on the telepuppets. There was a drama about the space pilots who fly the nonconformist prisoners to the forests and pulp-acetate plants on Mars. Seemed that the Southem political prisoners who are confined to the southern hemisphere of Mars, wanted to attack and conquer the north. The nonconformists, led by our pilot, came through for the State in the end. Corn is thicker than water. Standard.
There were, however, some good stereofilm shots of the limitless forests of Mars, and I wondered what it would be like to live there, in a green, fresh-smelling land. Pleasant, I supposed, if you could put up with the no doubt revolting morality of a prison planet.
And the drama seemed to point out that there was no more security for the nonconformists out there than for us here on Earth. Maybe somewhere in the universe, I thought, there would be peace for men. Somewhere beyond the solar system, perhaps, someday when we had the means to go there....
Yet instinct told me that wasn't the answer, either. I thought of a verse by an ancient pre-atomic poet named Hoffenstein. (People had unwieldy, random combinations of letters for names in those days.) The poem went:
Wherever I go,
I
go too,
And spoil everything.
That was it. The story of mankind.
I turned the glowlight down and lay on the pneumo after a while, but I didn't sleep for a long, long time.
Then, when I did sleep, when I had been sleeping, I heard the voice again. The low, seductive woman's voice—the startling, shocking voice out of my unconscious.
" You have taken the first step ," she said. " You are on your way to freedom. Don't stop now. Don't sink back into the lifelessness of conformity. Go on ... on and on. Keep struggling, for that is the only answer.... "
I didn't exactly talk back, but in the queer way of the dream, I thought objections. I was in my thirties, at the mid-point of my life, and the whole of that life had been spent under the State. I knew no other way to act. Suppressing what little individuality I might have was, for me, a way of survival. I was chockful of prescribed, stereotyped reactions, and I held onto them even when something within me told me what they were. This wasn't easy, this breaking away, not even this slight departure from the secure, camouflaged norm....
" The woman, Lara, attracts you ," said the voice.
I suppose at that point I twitched or rolled in my sleep. Yes, the voice was right, the woman Lara attracted me. So much that I ached with it.
" Take her. Find a way. When you succeed in changing your name, and know that you can do things, then find a way. There will be a way. "
The idea at once thrilled and frightened me.
I woke writhing and in a sweat again.
It was morning.
I dressed and headed for the jetcopter stage and the ship for Center One.
The ship was comfortable and departed on time, a transport with seats for about twenty passengers. I sat near the tail and moodily busied myself watching the gaunt brown earth far below. Between Centers there was mostly desert, only occasional patches of green. Before the atomic decade, I had heard, nearly all the earth was green and teemed with life ... birds, insects, animals, people, too. It was hard rock and sand now, with a few scrubs hanging on for life. The pre-atomics, who hadn't mastered synthesization, would have a hard time scratching existence from the earth today.
I tried to break the sad mood, and started to look around at some of the other passengers. That was when I first noticed the prisoners in the forward seats. Man and woman, they were, a youngish, rather non-descript couple, thin, very quiet. They were manacled and two Deacons sat across from them. The Deacons' backs were turned to me and I could see the prisoners' faces.
They had curious faces. Their eyes were indescribably sad, and yet their lips seemed to be ready to smile at any moment.
They were holding hands, not seeming to care about this vulgar emotional display.
I had the sudden crazy idea that Lara and I were sitting there, holding hands like that, nonconforming in the highest, and that we were wonderfully happy. Our eyes were sad too, but we were really happy, quietly happy, and that was why our lips stayed upon the brink of a smile.
|
What is the plot of the story?
|
After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about Prime Difference by Alan Edward Nourse.
Relevant chunks:
PRIME DIFFERENCE
By ALAN E. NOURSE
Illustrated by SCHOENHEER
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Being two men rolled out of one would solve my problems—but which one would I be?
I suppose that every guy reaches a point once in his lifetime when he gets one hundred and forty per cent fed up with his wife.
Understand now—I've got nothing against marriage or any thing like that. Marriage is great. It's a good old red-blooded American Institution. Except that it's got one defect in it big enough to throw a cat through, especially when you happen to be married to a woman like Marge—
It's so permanent .
Oh, I'd have divorced Marge in a minute if we'd been living in the Blissful 'Fifties—but with the Family Solidarity Amendment of 1968, and all the divorce taxes we have these days since the women got their teeth into politics, to say nothing of the Aggrieved Spouse Compensation Act, I'd have been a pauper for the rest of my life if I'd tried it. That's aside from the social repercussions involved.
You can't really blame me for looking for another way out. But a man has to be desperate to try to buy himself an Ego Prime.
So, all right, I was desperate. I'd spent eight years trying to keep Marge happy, which was exactly seven and a half years too long.
Marge was a dream to look at, with her tawny hair and her sulky eyes and a shape that could set your teeth chattering—but that was where the dream stopped.
She had a tongue like a #10 wood rasp and a list of grievances long enough to paper the bedroom wall. When she wasn't complaining, she was crying, and when she wasn't crying, she was pointing out in chilling detail exactly where George Faircloth fell short as a model husband, which happened to be everywhere. Half of the time she had a "beastly headache" (for which I was personally responsible) and the other half she was sore about something, so ninety-nine per cent of the time we got along like a couple of tomcats in a packing case.
Maybe we just weren't meant for each other. I don't know. I used to envy guys like Harry Folsom at the office. His wife is no joy to live with either, but at least he could take a spin down to Rio once in a while with one of the stenographers and get away with it.
I knew better than to try. Marge was already so jealous that I couldn't even smile at the company receptionist without a twinge of guilt. Give Marge something real to howl about, and I'd be ready for the Rehab Center in a week.
But I'd underestimated Marge. She didn't need anything real, as I found out when Jeree came along.
Business was booming and the secretaries at the office got shuffled around from time to time. Since I had an executive-type job, I got an executive-type secretary. Her name was Jeree and she was gorgeous. As a matter of fact, she was better than gorgeous. She was the sort of secretary every businessman ought to have in his office. Not to do any work—just to sit there.
Jeree was tall and dark, and she could convey more without saying anything than I ever dreamed was possible. The first day she was there, she conveyed to me very clearly that if I cared to supply the opportunity, she'd be glad to supply the motive.
That night, I could tell that Marge had been thinking something over during the day. She let me get the first bite of dinner halfway to my mouth, and then she said, "I hear you got a new secretary today."
I muttered something into my coffee cup and pretended not to hear.
Marge turned on her Accusing Look #7. "I also hear that she's five-foot-eight and tapes out at 38-25-36 and thinks you're handsome."
Marge had quite a spy system.
"She couldn't be much of a secretary," she added.
"She's a perfectly good secretary," I blurted, and kicked myself mentally. I should have known Marge's traps by then.
Marge exploded. I didn't get any supper, and she was still going strong at midnight. I tried to argue, but when Marge got going, there was no stopping her. I had my ultimatum, as far as Jeree was concerned.
Harry Folsom administered the coup de grace at coffee next morning.
"What you need is an Ego Prime," he said with a grin. "Solve all your problems. I hear they work like a charm."
I set my coffee cup down. Bells were ringing in my ears. "Don't be ridiculous. It's against the law. Anyway, I wouldn't think of such a thing. It's—it's indecent."
Harry shrugged. "Just joking, old man, just joking. Still, it's fun to think about, eh? Freedom from wife. Absolutely safe and harmless. Not even too expensive, if you've got the right contacts. And I've got a friend who knows a guy—"
Just then, Jeree walked past us and flashed me a big smile. I gripped my cup for dear life and still spilled coffee on my tie.
As I said, a guy gets fed up.
And maybe opportunity would only knock once.
And an Ego Prime would solve all my problems, as Harry had told me.
It was completely illegal, of course. The wonder was that Ego Prime, Inc., ever got to put their product on the market at all, once the nation's housewives got wind of just what their product was.
From the first, there was rigid Federal control and laws regulating the use of Primes right down to the local level. You could get a license for a Utility model Prime if you were a big business executive, or a high public official, or a movie star, or something like that; but even then his circuits had to be inspected every two months, and he had to have a thousand built-in Paralyzers, and you had to specify in advance exactly what you wanted your Prime to be able to do when, where, how, why, and under what circumstances.
The law didn't leave a man much leeway.
But everybody knew that if you really wanted a personal Prime with all his circuits open and no questions asked, you could get one. Black market prices were steep and you ran your own risk, but it could be done.
Harry Folsom told his friend who knew a guy, and a few greenbacks got lost somewhere, and I found myself looking at a greasy little man with a black mustache and a bald spot, up in a dingy fourth-story warehouse off lower Broadway.
"Ah, yes," the little man said. "Mr. Faircloth. We've been expecting you."
I didn't like the looks of the guy any more than the looks of the place. "I've been told you can supply me with a—"
He coughed. "Yes, yes. I understand. It might be possible." He fingered his mustache and regarded me from pouchy eyes. "Busy executives often come to us to avoid the—ah—unpleasantness of formal arrangements. Naturally, we only act as agents, you might say. We never see the merchandise ourselves—" He wiped his hands on his trousers. "Now were you interested in the ordinary Utility model, Mr. Faircloth?"
I assumed he was just being polite. You didn't come to the back door for Utility models.
"Or perhaps you'd require one of our Deluxe models. Very careful workmanship. Only a few key Paralyzers in operation and practically complete circuit duplication. Very useful for—ah—close contact work, you know. Social engagements, conferences—"
I was shaking my head. "I want a Super Deluxe model," I told him.
He grinned and winked. "Ah, indeed! You want perfect duplication. Yes, indeed. Domestic situations can be—awkward, shall we say. Very awkward—"
I gave him a cold stare. I couldn't see where my domestic problems were any affairs of his. He got the idea and hurried me back to a storeroom.
"We keep a few blanks here for the basic measurement. You'll go to our laboratory on 14th Street to have the minute impressions taken. But I can assure you you'll be delighted, simply delighted."
The blanks weren't very impressive—clay and putty and steel, faceless, brainless. He went over me like a tailor, checking measurements of all sorts. He was thorough—embarrassingly thorough, in fact—but finally he was finished. I went on to the laboratory.
And that was all there was to it.
Practical androids had been a pipe dream until Hunyadi invented the Neuro-pantograph. Hunyadi had no idea in the world what to do with it once he'd invented it, but a couple of enterprising engineers bought him body and soul, sub-contracted the problems of anatomy, design, artistry, audio and visio circuitry, and so forth, and ended up with the modern Ego Primes we have today.
I spent a busy two hours under the NP microprobes; the artists worked outside while the NP technicians worked inside. I came out of it pretty woozy, but a shot of Happy-O set that straight. Then I waited in the recovery room for another two hours, dreaming up ways to use my Prime when I got him. Finally the door opened and the head technician walked in, followed by a tall, sandy-haired man with worried blue eyes and a tired look on his face.
"Meet George Faircloth Prime," the technician said, grinning at me like a nursing mother.
I shook hands with myself. Good firm handshake, I thought admiringly. Nothing flabby about it.
I slapped George Prime on the shoulder happily. "Come on, Brother," I said. "You've got a job to do."
But, secretly, I was wondering what Jeree was doing that night.
George Prime had remote controls, as well as a completely recorded neurological analogue of his boss, who was me. George Prime thought what I thought about the same things I did in the same way I did. The only difference was that what I told George Prime to do, George Prime did.
If I told him to go to a business conference in San Francisco and make the smallest possible concessions for the largest possible orders, he would go there and do precisely that. His signature would be my signature. It would hold up in court.
And if I told him that my wife Marge was really a sweet, good-hearted girl and that he was to stay home and keep her quiet and happy any time I chose, he'd do that, too.
George Prime was a duplicate of me right down to the sandy hairs on the back of my hands. Our fingerprints were the same. We had the same mannerisms and used the same figures of speech. The only physical difference apparent even to an expert was the tiny finger-depression buried in the hair above his ear. A little pressure there would stop George Prime dead in his tracks.
He was so lifelike, even I kept forgetting that he was basically just a pile of gears.
I'd planned very carefully how I meant to use him, of course.
Every man who's been married eight years has a sanctuary. He builds it up and maintains it against assault in the very teeth of his wife's natural instinct to clean, poke, pry and rearrange things. Sometimes it takes him years of diligent work to establish his hideout and be confident that it will stay inviolate, but if he starts early enough, and sticks with it long enough, and is fierce enough and persistent enough and crafty enough, he'll probably win in the end. The girls hate him for it, but he'll win.
With some men, it's just a box on their dressers, or a desk, or a corner of an unused back room. But I had set my sights high early in the game. With me, it was the whole workshop in the garage.
At first, Marge tried open warfare. She had to clean the place up, she said. I told her I didn't want her to clean it up. She could clean the whole house as often as she chose, but I would clean up the workshop.
After a couple of sharp engagements on that field, Marge staged a strategic withdrawal and reorganized her attack. A little pile of wood shavings would be on the workshop floor one night and be gone the next. A wrench would be back on the rack—upside down, of course. An open paint can would have a cover on it.
I always knew. I screamed loudly and bitterly. I ranted and raved. I swore I'd rig up a booby-trap with a shotgun.
So she quit trying to clean in there and just went in once in a while to take a look around. I fixed that with the old toothpick-in-the-door routine. Every time she so much as set foot in that workshop, she had a battle on her hands for the next week or so. She could count on it. It was that predictable.
She never found out how I knew, and after seven years or so, it wore her down. She didn't go into the workshop any more.
As I said, you've got to be persistent, but you'll win.
Eventually.
If you're really persistent.
Now all my effort paid off. I got Marge out of the house for an hour or two that day and had George Prime delivered and stored in the big closet in the workshop. They hooked his controls up and left me a manual of instructions for running him. When I got home that night, there he was, just waiting to be put to work.
After supper, I went out to the workshop—to get the pipe I'd left there, I said. I pushed George Prime's button, winked at him and switched on the free-behavior circuits.
"Go to it, Brother," I said.
George Prime put my pipe in his mouth, lit it and walked back into the house.
Five minutes later, I heard them fighting.
It sounded so familiar that I laughed out loud. Then I caught a cab on the corner and headed uptown.
We had quite a night, Jeree and I. I got home just about time to start for work, and sure enough, there was George Prime starting my car, business suit on, briefcase under his arm.
I pushed the recall and George Prime got out of the car and walked into the workshop. He stepped into his cradle in the closet. I turned him off and then drove away in the car.
Bless his metallic soul, he'd even kissed Marge good-by for me!
Needless to say, the affairs of George Faircloth took on a new sparkle with George Prime on hand to cover the home front.
For the first week, I was hardly home at all. I must say I felt a little guilty, leaving poor old George Prime to cope with Marge all the time—he looked and acted so human, it was easy to forget that he literally couldn't care less. But I felt apologetic all the same whenever I took him out of his closet.
"She's really a sweet girl underneath it all," I'd say. "You'll learn to like her after a bit."
"Of course I like her," George Prime said. "You told me to, didn't you? Stop worrying. She's really a sweet girl underneath it all."
He sounded convincing enough, but still it bothered me. "You're sure you understand the exchange mechanism?" I asked. I didn't want any foul-ups there, as you can imagine.
"Perfectly," said George Prime. "When you buzz the recall, I wait for the first logical opportunity I can find to come out to the workshop, and you take over."
"But you might get nervous. You might inadvertently tip her off."
George Prime looked pained. "Really, old man! I'm a Super Deluxe model, remember? I don't have fourteen activated Hunyadi tubes up in this cranial vault of mine just for nothing. You're the one that's nervous. I'll take care of everything. Relax."
So I did.
Jeree made good all her tacit promises and then some. She had a very cozy little apartment on 34th Street where we went to relax after a hard day at the office. When we weren't doing the town, that is. As long as Jeree didn't try too much conversation, everything was wonderful.
And then, when Jeree got a little boring, there was Sybil in the accounting department. Or Dorothy in promotion. Or Jane. Or Ingrid.
I could go on at some length, but I won't. I was building quite a reputation for myself around the office.
Of course, it was like buying your first 3-V set. In a week or so, the novelty wears off a little and you start eating on schedule again. It took a little while, but I finally had things down to a reasonable program.
Tuesday and Thursday nights, I was informally "out" while formally
"in." Sometimes I took Sunday nights "out" if things got too sticky around the house over the weekend. The rest of the time, George Prime cooled his heels in his closet. Locked up, of course. Can't completely trust a wife to observe a taboo, no matter how well trained she is.
There, was an irreconcilable amount of risk. George Prime had to quick-step some questions about my work at the office—there was no way to supply him with current data until the time for his regular two-month refill and pattern-accommodation at the laboratory. In the meantime, George Prime had to make do with what he had.
But as he himself pointed out he was a Super Deluxe model.
Marge didn't suspect a thing. In fact, George Prime seemed to be having a remarkable effect on her. I didn't notice anything at first—I was hardly ever home. But one night I found my pipe and slippers laid out for me, and the evening paper neatly folded on my chair, and it brought me up short. Marge had been extremely docile lately. We hadn't had a good fight in days. Weeks, come to think of it.
I thought it over and shrugged. Old age, I figured. She was bound to mellow sometime.
But pretty soon I began to wonder if she wasn't mellowing a little too much.
One night when I got home, she kissed me almost as though she really meant it. There wasn't an unpleasant word all through dinner, which happened to be steak with mushrooms, served in the dining room (!) by candlelight (!!) with dinner music that Marge could never bear, chiefly because I liked it.
We sat over coffee and cigarettes, and it seemed almost like old times. Very old times, in fact I even caught myself looking at Marge again—really looking at her, watching the light catch in her hair, almost admiring the sparkle in her brown eyes. Sparkle, I said, not glint.
As I mentioned before, Marge was always easy to look at. That night, she was practically ravishing.
"What are you doing to her?" I asked George Prime later, out in the workshop.
"Why, nothing," said George Prime, looking innocent. He couldn't fool me with his look, though, because it was exactly the look I use when I'm guilty and pretending to be innocent.
"There must be something ."
George Prime shrugged. "Any woman will warm up if you spend enough time telling her all the things she wants to hear and pay all the attention to her that she wants paid to her. That's elemental psychology. I can give you page references."
I ought to mention that George Prime had a complete set of basic texts run into his circuits, at a slightly additional charge. Never can tell when an odd bit of information will come in useful.
"Well, you must be doing quite a job," I said. I'd never managed to warm Marge up much.
"I try," said George Prime.
"Oh, I'm not complaining," I hastened to add, forgetting that a Prime's feelings can't be hurt and that he was only acting like me because it was in character. "I was just curious."
"Of course, George."
"I'm really delighted that you're doing so well."
"Thank you, George."
But the next night when I was with Dawn, who happens to be a gorgeous redhead who could put Marge to shame on practically any field of battle except maybe brains, I kept thinking about Marge all evening long, and wondering if things weren't getting just a little out of hand.
The next evening I almost tripped over George Prime coming out of a liquor store. I ducked quickly into an alley and flagged him. " What are you doing out on the street? "
He gave me my martyred look. "Just buying some bourbon. You were out."
"But you're not supposed to be off the premises—"
"Marge asked me to come. I couldn't tell her I was sorry, but her husband wouldn't let me, could I?"
"Well, certainly not—"
"You want me to keep her happy, don't you? You don't want her to get suspicious."
"No, but suppose somebody saw us together! If she ever got a hint—"
"I'm sorry," George Prime said contritely. "It seemed the right thing to do. You would have done it. At least that's what my judgment center maintained. We had quite an argument."
"Well, tell your judgment center to use a little sense," I snapped. "I don't want it to happen again."
The next night, I stayed home, even though it was Tuesday night. I was beginning to get worried. Of course, I did have complete control—I could snap George Prime off any time I wanted, or even take him in for a complete recircuiting—but it seemed a pity. He was doing such a nice job.
Marge was docile as a kitten, even more so than before. She sympathized with my hard day at the office and agreed heartily that the boss, despite all appearances, was in reality a jabbering idiot. After dinner, I suggested a movie, but Marge gave me an odd sort of look and said she thought it would be much nicer to spend the evening at home by the fire.
I'd just gotten settled with the paper when she came into the living room and sat down beside me. She was wearing some sort of filmy affair I'd never laid eyes on before, and I caught a whiff of my favorite perfume.
"Georgie?" she said.
"Uh?"
"Do you still love me?"
I set the paper down and stared at her. "How's that? Of course I still—"
"Well, sometimes you don't act much like it."
"Mm. I guess I've—uh—got an awful headache tonight." Damn that perfume!
"Oh," said Marge.
"In fact, I thought I'd turn in early and get some sleep—"
"Sleep," said Marge. There was no mistaking the disappointment in her voice. Now I knew that things were out of hand.
The next evening, I activated George Prime and caught the taxi at the corner, but I called Ruby and broke my date with her. I took in an early movie alone and was back by ten o'clock. I left the cab at the corner and walked quietly up the path toward the garage.
Then I stopped. I could see Marge and George Prime through the living room windows.
George Prime was kissing my wife the way I hadn't kissed her in eight long years. It made my hair stand on end. And Marge wasn't exactly fighting him off, either. She was coming back for more. After a little, the lights went off.
George Prime was a Super Deluxe model, all right.
I dashed into the workshop and punched the recall button as hard as I could, swearing under my breath. How long had this been going on? I punched the button again, viciously, and waited.
George Prime didn't come out.
It was plenty cold out in the workshop that night and I didn't sleep a wink. About dawn, out came George Prime, looking like a man with a four-day hangover.
Our conversation got down to fundamentals. George Prime kept insisting blandly that, according to my own directions, he was to pick the first logical opportunity to come out when I buzzed, and that was exactly what he'd done.
I was furious all the way to work. I'd take care of this nonsense, all right. I'd have George Prime rewired from top to bottom as soon as the laboratory could take him.
But I never phoned the laboratory. The bank was calling me when I got to the office. They wanted to know what I planned to do about that check of mine that had just bounced.
"What check?" I asked.
"The one you wrote to cash yesterday—five hundred dollars—against your regular account, Mr. Faircloth."
The last I'd looked, I'd had about three thousand dollars in that account. I told the man so rather bluntly.
"Oh, no, sir. That is, you did until last week. But all these checks you've been cashing have emptied the account."
He flashed the checks on the desk screen. My signature was on every one of them.
"What about my special account?" I'd learned long before that an account Marge didn't know about was sound rear-guard strategy.
"That's been closed out for two weeks."
I hadn't written a check against that account for over a year! I glared at the ceiling and tried to think things through.
I came up with a horrible thought.
Marge had always had her heart set on a trip to Bermuda. Just to get away from it all, she'd say. A second honeymoon.
I got a list of travel agencies from the business directory and started down them. The third one I tried had a pleasant tenor voice. "No, sir, not Mrs. Faircloth. You bought two tickets. One way. Champagne flight to Bermuda."
"When?" I choked out.
"Why, today, as a matter of fact. It leaves Idlewild at eleven o'clock—"
I let him worry about my amnesia and started home fast. I didn't know what they'd given that Prime for circuits, but there was no question now that he was out of control— way out of control. And poor Marge, all worked up for a second honeymoon—
Then it struck me. Poor Marge? Poor sucker George! No Prime in his right circuits would behave this way without some human guidance and that meant only one thing: Marge had spotted him. It had happened before. Couple of nasty court battles I'd read about. And she'd known all about George Prime.
For how long?
When I got home, the house was empty. George Prime wasn't in his closet. And Marge wasn't in the house.
They were gone.
I started to call the police, but caught myself just in time. I couldn't very well complain to the cops that my wife had run off with an android.
Worse yet, I could get twenty years for having an illegal Prime wandering around.
I sat down and poured myself a stiff drink.
My own wife deserting me for a pile of bearings.
It was indecent.
Then I heard the front door open and there was Marge, her arms full of grocery bundles. "Why, darling! You're home early!"
I just blinked for a moment. Then I said, "You're still here!"
"Of course. Where did you think I'd be?"
"But I thought—I mean the ticket office—"
She set down the bundles and kissed me and looked up into my eyes, almost smiling, half reproachful. "You didn't really think I'd go running off with something out of a lab, did you?"
"Then—you knew?"
"Certainly I knew, silly. You didn't do a very good job of instructing him, either. You gave him far too much latitude. Let him have ideas of his own and all that. And next thing I knew, he was trying to get me to run off with him to Hawaii or someplace."
"Bermuda," I said.
And then Marge was in my arms, kissing me and snuggling her cheek against my chest.
"Even though he looked like you, I knew he couldn't be," she said. "He was like you, but he wasn't you , darling. And all I ever want is you. I just never appreciated you before...."
I held her close and tried to keep my hands from shaking. George Faircloth, Idiot, I thought. She'd never been more beautiful. "But what did you do with him?"
"I sent him back to the factory, naturally. They said they could blot him out and use him over again. But let's not talk about that any more. We've got more interesting things to discuss."
Maybe we had, but we didn't waste a lot of time talking. It was the Marge I'd once known and I was beginning to wonder how I could have been so wrong about her. In fact unless my memory was getting awfully porous, the old Marge was never like this—
I kissed her tenderly and ran my hands through her hair, and felt the depression with my fore-finger, and then I knew what had really happened.
That Marge always had been a sly one.
I wondered how she was liking things in Bermuda.
Marge probably thought she'd really put me where I belonged, but the laugh was on her, after all.
As I said, the old Marge was never like the new one. Marge Prime makes Jeree and Sybil and Dorothy and Dawn and Jane and Ruby all look pretty sad by comparison.
She cooks like a dream and she always brings me my pipe and slippers. As they say, there's nothing a man likes more than to be appreciated.
A hundred per cent appreciated, with a factory guarantee to correct any slippage, which would only be temporary, anyhow.
One of these days, we'll take that second honeymoon. But I think we'll go to Hawaii.
Question:
What is the plot of the story?
Answer:
|
[
"George Faircloth, a husband who has an eight-year marriage with Marge Faircloth, is unsatisfied with his wife as he thinks she is annoying and unbearable. He desires but cannot divorce her as the law and society are critical of the divorce. His colleague, Harry Folsom, suggests he get an illegal Ego Prime, a technology that can produce a human duplicate possessing all the human features and functions, after he becomes fed up with his wife after a fight over his new secretary. He goes to the black market, goes through all the examinations needed for the technology, and buys a Super Deluxe Prime, George Prime, to hide in his workshop in the garage. The workshop is his sanctuary that he keeps for years after a long fight with Marge, a place where Marge cannot go in. He sets up George Prime and orders it to pretend him whenever he goes out to have some extramarital affairs with women in his office. George Prime does an excellent job on that as it behaves completely identical to George Faircloth, except that it gives Marge Faircloth more pleasure than George Faircloth does. At first, George Faircloth enjoys the freedom of playing around with women and not having to worry about Marge’s hysteria. But after a while, as he realizes that Marge has been more mellow and sweet whenever he is at home, catching George Prime on the street once when it is not supposed to be outside according to his order, he starts to suspect whether his choice is correct or not. One day, he leaves his date and comes home early, seeing George Prime have sexual affairs with Marge. Gripped by the anger, he tries to recall George Prime coming back to the garage, but it doesn’t respond due to the lack of the first logical opportunity for it to return. After that, through the conversation with George Prime, he realizes that things are out of his control as he cannot decide specifically what George Prime will do. Even worse, he finds out that his money is spent through the signature of George Prime as their signatures both have legal effects, and that he cannot call the police to fix it as he couldn’t explain the situation of illegal George Prime. George Prime and Marge Faircloth leave for Bermuda with his money. Marge comes home when he feels desperate in his house and comforts him. He soon realizes that it is not Marge Faircloth but Marge Prime, his wife’s duplicate and that his wife had already found out his trick long before. In the end, George Faircloth lives happily with Marge Prime, and Marge Faircloth lives happily with George Prime. Both of them are satisfied with the duplicates as they would satisfy their needs in the marriage.",
"The main character is George Faircloth. He has been married to his wife, Marge, for eight years, and he is tired of her and their relationship. He describes her as emotional and grumpy. He also calls her jealous and brings up the story of when she fought with him because of his new female secretary. His friend Harry Folsom suggests buying an Ego Prime - an android that fully resembles the person it was built after, including the feature of speech and mannerisms. The sale of this mechanism is heavily regulated by the law - having a personal Ego Prime with open circuits is illegal, but George feels desperate. He comes to a four-storied warehouse near Broadway meets a little man, a consultant who, after a quick chat, sends him to a laboratory where they can copy George’s appearance and behavioral patterns. Two hours later, Faircloth meets his android duplicate George Prime, who later gets delivered and stored in the big closet in George's workshop - Marge never comes here. After supper, he switches on George Prime, lets him go to the house, and leaves for a date. During the following weeks George leaves at night after switching with his duplicate. He usually uses the android several days a week and puts him back in the workshop closet when he returns. Soon George realizes that his wife has become happier and calmer. George Prime claims that he was simply paying attention to her, listening - that’s why she changed. George thanks him. The next evening, Faircloth unexpectedly meets the duplicate at the liquor store and becomes angry, but George Prime says that he had to get bourbon for Marge and was in no position to refuse. Faircloth decides to stay home the next night and has a strange conversation with his wife, after which he decides to go to bed. The next night, he activates George Prime and goes to the movies alone. Once back, Faircloth sees his wife and the duplicate kiss. He walks to the workshop and pushes the recall button waiting for the android to come, but George Prime appears only at dawn. The next morning, George gets a call from the bank and learns that someone who appeared to be him has been cashing checks for the last weeks, and now his account is empty. He calls one of the city travel agencies and learns that George Prime just bought two tickets to Bermuda. Apparently, Marge has spotted the substitution and convinced the android to purchase the tickets. George comes back home, but no one is there. Suddenly his wife opens the front door, her arms full of groceries. She tells him that she figured out everything but was not planning on running away with George Prime. She sent him back to the factory. George becomes suspicious and soon understands that it is a duplicate of Marge standing in front of him - his real wife did run away. \n",
"The story follows a couple, the Faircloths. It starts out with George being tired of his marriage, and he wants to find ways to enjoy his life more. The story is narrated in first person, so we get much better insight into George’s thoughts. He describes his marriage as tiresome and draining, and says that he would have liked to divorce his wife a long time ago. He tries to flirt with different women, but his wife finds out and that just leads to more and more fighting. One day, one of his coworkers tells him about a new technology that allows him to buy a perfect robot replica of himself. George doubts buying the technology, because it is illegal, but then decides to do it. The robot he buys is a perfect replica of himself, and can be completely controlled by George. George uses the robot to stay at home with his wife while he goes out with different women. George is very happy with how his life is going, and he also starts to notice that his wife is much happier than before. Slowly, Prime George starts to defy George’s orders until one day he realizes that Prime George bought two one-way tickets to Bermuda. George gets worried that his wife ran off with the android, but then she enters the house as if nothing happened and tells George that she wasn’t going to run off with the android. When they embrace, George realizes that he was hugging an android replica of his wife, and he seems okay with that. ",
"The story introduces Goerge Faircloth, husband to Marge Faircloth. The two live together and have been in a marriage for eight years. The story is told through George who explains that he has been desperate to find a way out of their marriage. He finds Marge complaining, whining too much and picking up on every little detail he does that does not go her way. Because of the Family Solidarity Amendment of 1968, divorce was never an option for them as taxes charged on it are too high.At work, George envies his co-worker, Harry Folsom, who is equally not in the happiest relationship but is allowed to gets away with traveling away from his wife. Marge is easily jealous. George has an affair with his new secretary, Jeree, which Marge finds out about and calls George out over dinner. The next morning, Harry advises George to get an “Ego Prime,” a clone android of one’s self that looks and behaves just like the real person. This “Ego Prime,” however, seems to only be accessible to highly respected individuals with reputable titles. Harry recommends an agent from the black market to George. The agent recommends the Utility model but George wants the Super Deluxe Model. George’s measurements are taken and after the whole process, gets to meet “George Prime.” The android is delivered to George’s home along with a remote. George has manipulated Marge beforehand as to not make her check upon the garage, which is where he plans to hide George Prime. The first week George Prime was put to use, George was barely at home, hanging out with not only Jeree but also other women. When he came back home ready for work, he would turn George Prime off and get to work. As time went on, George noticed something different: Marge became softer, nicer, cooking him dinner with music he likes. George Prime tells him he has just been telling her the right things. George Prime starts getting out of control as he makes his own decisions like going to the liquor store or spending intimate time with Marge overnight. George unexpectedly starts to crave Marge and cancels on his date. As he gets a call from the bank informing him about checks that were made to his account, he realizes Marge has known his tactic all along, and has been using the android to get what she wants, a trip to Bermuda. He finds no way out as calling the police would out get him into prison because of the prime being illegal. He comes back home to Marge, who expected would already be on the trip. She tells him she knew all along and realized she never fully appreciated the real him. From hugging her and feeling the depression button under her hair, he realizes Marge has also been using a Prime. He is, however, satisfied with her prime as she seems to do and say all the right things.\n"
] |
51321
|
PRIME DIFFERENCE
By ALAN E. NOURSE
Illustrated by SCHOENHEER
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Being two men rolled out of one would solve my problems—but which one would I be?
I suppose that every guy reaches a point once in his lifetime when he gets one hundred and forty per cent fed up with his wife.
Understand now—I've got nothing against marriage or any thing like that. Marriage is great. It's a good old red-blooded American Institution. Except that it's got one defect in it big enough to throw a cat through, especially when you happen to be married to a woman like Marge—
It's so permanent .
Oh, I'd have divorced Marge in a minute if we'd been living in the Blissful 'Fifties—but with the Family Solidarity Amendment of 1968, and all the divorce taxes we have these days since the women got their teeth into politics, to say nothing of the Aggrieved Spouse Compensation Act, I'd have been a pauper for the rest of my life if I'd tried it. That's aside from the social repercussions involved.
You can't really blame me for looking for another way out. But a man has to be desperate to try to buy himself an Ego Prime.
So, all right, I was desperate. I'd spent eight years trying to keep Marge happy, which was exactly seven and a half years too long.
Marge was a dream to look at, with her tawny hair and her sulky eyes and a shape that could set your teeth chattering—but that was where the dream stopped.
She had a tongue like a #10 wood rasp and a list of grievances long enough to paper the bedroom wall. When she wasn't complaining, she was crying, and when she wasn't crying, she was pointing out in chilling detail exactly where George Faircloth fell short as a model husband, which happened to be everywhere. Half of the time she had a "beastly headache" (for which I was personally responsible) and the other half she was sore about something, so ninety-nine per cent of the time we got along like a couple of tomcats in a packing case.
Maybe we just weren't meant for each other. I don't know. I used to envy guys like Harry Folsom at the office. His wife is no joy to live with either, but at least he could take a spin down to Rio once in a while with one of the stenographers and get away with it.
I knew better than to try. Marge was already so jealous that I couldn't even smile at the company receptionist without a twinge of guilt. Give Marge something real to howl about, and I'd be ready for the Rehab Center in a week.
But I'd underestimated Marge. She didn't need anything real, as I found out when Jeree came along.
Business was booming and the secretaries at the office got shuffled around from time to time. Since I had an executive-type job, I got an executive-type secretary. Her name was Jeree and she was gorgeous. As a matter of fact, she was better than gorgeous. She was the sort of secretary every businessman ought to have in his office. Not to do any work—just to sit there.
Jeree was tall and dark, and she could convey more without saying anything than I ever dreamed was possible. The first day she was there, she conveyed to me very clearly that if I cared to supply the opportunity, she'd be glad to supply the motive.
That night, I could tell that Marge had been thinking something over during the day. She let me get the first bite of dinner halfway to my mouth, and then she said, "I hear you got a new secretary today."
I muttered something into my coffee cup and pretended not to hear.
Marge turned on her Accusing Look #7. "I also hear that she's five-foot-eight and tapes out at 38-25-36 and thinks you're handsome."
Marge had quite a spy system.
"She couldn't be much of a secretary," she added.
"She's a perfectly good secretary," I blurted, and kicked myself mentally. I should have known Marge's traps by then.
Marge exploded. I didn't get any supper, and she was still going strong at midnight. I tried to argue, but when Marge got going, there was no stopping her. I had my ultimatum, as far as Jeree was concerned.
Harry Folsom administered the coup de grace at coffee next morning.
"What you need is an Ego Prime," he said with a grin. "Solve all your problems. I hear they work like a charm."
I set my coffee cup down. Bells were ringing in my ears. "Don't be ridiculous. It's against the law. Anyway, I wouldn't think of such a thing. It's—it's indecent."
Harry shrugged. "Just joking, old man, just joking. Still, it's fun to think about, eh? Freedom from wife. Absolutely safe and harmless. Not even too expensive, if you've got the right contacts. And I've got a friend who knows a guy—"
Just then, Jeree walked past us and flashed me a big smile. I gripped my cup for dear life and still spilled coffee on my tie.
As I said, a guy gets fed up.
And maybe opportunity would only knock once.
And an Ego Prime would solve all my problems, as Harry had told me.
It was completely illegal, of course. The wonder was that Ego Prime, Inc., ever got to put their product on the market at all, once the nation's housewives got wind of just what their product was.
From the first, there was rigid Federal control and laws regulating the use of Primes right down to the local level. You could get a license for a Utility model Prime if you were a big business executive, or a high public official, or a movie star, or something like that; but even then his circuits had to be inspected every two months, and he had to have a thousand built-in Paralyzers, and you had to specify in advance exactly what you wanted your Prime to be able to do when, where, how, why, and under what circumstances.
The law didn't leave a man much leeway.
But everybody knew that if you really wanted a personal Prime with all his circuits open and no questions asked, you could get one. Black market prices were steep and you ran your own risk, but it could be done.
Harry Folsom told his friend who knew a guy, and a few greenbacks got lost somewhere, and I found myself looking at a greasy little man with a black mustache and a bald spot, up in a dingy fourth-story warehouse off lower Broadway.
"Ah, yes," the little man said. "Mr. Faircloth. We've been expecting you."
I didn't like the looks of the guy any more than the looks of the place. "I've been told you can supply me with a—"
He coughed. "Yes, yes. I understand. It might be possible." He fingered his mustache and regarded me from pouchy eyes. "Busy executives often come to us to avoid the—ah—unpleasantness of formal arrangements. Naturally, we only act as agents, you might say. We never see the merchandise ourselves—" He wiped his hands on his trousers. "Now were you interested in the ordinary Utility model, Mr. Faircloth?"
I assumed he was just being polite. You didn't come to the back door for Utility models.
"Or perhaps you'd require one of our Deluxe models. Very careful workmanship. Only a few key Paralyzers in operation and practically complete circuit duplication. Very useful for—ah—close contact work, you know. Social engagements, conferences—"
I was shaking my head. "I want a Super Deluxe model," I told him.
He grinned and winked. "Ah, indeed! You want perfect duplication. Yes, indeed. Domestic situations can be—awkward, shall we say. Very awkward—"
I gave him a cold stare. I couldn't see where my domestic problems were any affairs of his. He got the idea and hurried me back to a storeroom.
"We keep a few blanks here for the basic measurement. You'll go to our laboratory on 14th Street to have the minute impressions taken. But I can assure you you'll be delighted, simply delighted."
The blanks weren't very impressive—clay and putty and steel, faceless, brainless. He went over me like a tailor, checking measurements of all sorts. He was thorough—embarrassingly thorough, in fact—but finally he was finished. I went on to the laboratory.
And that was all there was to it.
Practical androids had been a pipe dream until Hunyadi invented the Neuro-pantograph. Hunyadi had no idea in the world what to do with it once he'd invented it, but a couple of enterprising engineers bought him body and soul, sub-contracted the problems of anatomy, design, artistry, audio and visio circuitry, and so forth, and ended up with the modern Ego Primes we have today.
I spent a busy two hours under the NP microprobes; the artists worked outside while the NP technicians worked inside. I came out of it pretty woozy, but a shot of Happy-O set that straight. Then I waited in the recovery room for another two hours, dreaming up ways to use my Prime when I got him. Finally the door opened and the head technician walked in, followed by a tall, sandy-haired man with worried blue eyes and a tired look on his face.
"Meet George Faircloth Prime," the technician said, grinning at me like a nursing mother.
I shook hands with myself. Good firm handshake, I thought admiringly. Nothing flabby about it.
I slapped George Prime on the shoulder happily. "Come on, Brother," I said. "You've got a job to do."
But, secretly, I was wondering what Jeree was doing that night.
George Prime had remote controls, as well as a completely recorded neurological analogue of his boss, who was me. George Prime thought what I thought about the same things I did in the same way I did. The only difference was that what I told George Prime to do, George Prime did.
If I told him to go to a business conference in San Francisco and make the smallest possible concessions for the largest possible orders, he would go there and do precisely that. His signature would be my signature. It would hold up in court.
And if I told him that my wife Marge was really a sweet, good-hearted girl and that he was to stay home and keep her quiet and happy any time I chose, he'd do that, too.
George Prime was a duplicate of me right down to the sandy hairs on the back of my hands. Our fingerprints were the same. We had the same mannerisms and used the same figures of speech. The only physical difference apparent even to an expert was the tiny finger-depression buried in the hair above his ear. A little pressure there would stop George Prime dead in his tracks.
He was so lifelike, even I kept forgetting that he was basically just a pile of gears.
I'd planned very carefully how I meant to use him, of course.
Every man who's been married eight years has a sanctuary. He builds it up and maintains it against assault in the very teeth of his wife's natural instinct to clean, poke, pry and rearrange things. Sometimes it takes him years of diligent work to establish his hideout and be confident that it will stay inviolate, but if he starts early enough, and sticks with it long enough, and is fierce enough and persistent enough and crafty enough, he'll probably win in the end. The girls hate him for it, but he'll win.
With some men, it's just a box on their dressers, or a desk, or a corner of an unused back room. But I had set my sights high early in the game. With me, it was the whole workshop in the garage.
At first, Marge tried open warfare. She had to clean the place up, she said. I told her I didn't want her to clean it up. She could clean the whole house as often as she chose, but I would clean up the workshop.
After a couple of sharp engagements on that field, Marge staged a strategic withdrawal and reorganized her attack. A little pile of wood shavings would be on the workshop floor one night and be gone the next. A wrench would be back on the rack—upside down, of course. An open paint can would have a cover on it.
I always knew. I screamed loudly and bitterly. I ranted and raved. I swore I'd rig up a booby-trap with a shotgun.
So she quit trying to clean in there and just went in once in a while to take a look around. I fixed that with the old toothpick-in-the-door routine. Every time she so much as set foot in that workshop, she had a battle on her hands for the next week or so. She could count on it. It was that predictable.
She never found out how I knew, and after seven years or so, it wore her down. She didn't go into the workshop any more.
As I said, you've got to be persistent, but you'll win.
Eventually.
If you're really persistent.
Now all my effort paid off. I got Marge out of the house for an hour or two that day and had George Prime delivered and stored in the big closet in the workshop. They hooked his controls up and left me a manual of instructions for running him. When I got home that night, there he was, just waiting to be put to work.
After supper, I went out to the workshop—to get the pipe I'd left there, I said. I pushed George Prime's button, winked at him and switched on the free-behavior circuits.
"Go to it, Brother," I said.
George Prime put my pipe in his mouth, lit it and walked back into the house.
Five minutes later, I heard them fighting.
It sounded so familiar that I laughed out loud. Then I caught a cab on the corner and headed uptown.
We had quite a night, Jeree and I. I got home just about time to start for work, and sure enough, there was George Prime starting my car, business suit on, briefcase under his arm.
I pushed the recall and George Prime got out of the car and walked into the workshop. He stepped into his cradle in the closet. I turned him off and then drove away in the car.
Bless his metallic soul, he'd even kissed Marge good-by for me!
Needless to say, the affairs of George Faircloth took on a new sparkle with George Prime on hand to cover the home front.
For the first week, I was hardly home at all. I must say I felt a little guilty, leaving poor old George Prime to cope with Marge all the time—he looked and acted so human, it was easy to forget that he literally couldn't care less. But I felt apologetic all the same whenever I took him out of his closet.
"She's really a sweet girl underneath it all," I'd say. "You'll learn to like her after a bit."
"Of course I like her," George Prime said. "You told me to, didn't you? Stop worrying. She's really a sweet girl underneath it all."
He sounded convincing enough, but still it bothered me. "You're sure you understand the exchange mechanism?" I asked. I didn't want any foul-ups there, as you can imagine.
"Perfectly," said George Prime. "When you buzz the recall, I wait for the first logical opportunity I can find to come out to the workshop, and you take over."
"But you might get nervous. You might inadvertently tip her off."
George Prime looked pained. "Really, old man! I'm a Super Deluxe model, remember? I don't have fourteen activated Hunyadi tubes up in this cranial vault of mine just for nothing. You're the one that's nervous. I'll take care of everything. Relax."
So I did.
Jeree made good all her tacit promises and then some. She had a very cozy little apartment on 34th Street where we went to relax after a hard day at the office. When we weren't doing the town, that is. As long as Jeree didn't try too much conversation, everything was wonderful.
And then, when Jeree got a little boring, there was Sybil in the accounting department. Or Dorothy in promotion. Or Jane. Or Ingrid.
I could go on at some length, but I won't. I was building quite a reputation for myself around the office.
Of course, it was like buying your first 3-V set. In a week or so, the novelty wears off a little and you start eating on schedule again. It took a little while, but I finally had things down to a reasonable program.
Tuesday and Thursday nights, I was informally "out" while formally
"in." Sometimes I took Sunday nights "out" if things got too sticky around the house over the weekend. The rest of the time, George Prime cooled his heels in his closet. Locked up, of course. Can't completely trust a wife to observe a taboo, no matter how well trained she is.
There, was an irreconcilable amount of risk. George Prime had to quick-step some questions about my work at the office—there was no way to supply him with current data until the time for his regular two-month refill and pattern-accommodation at the laboratory. In the meantime, George Prime had to make do with what he had.
But as he himself pointed out he was a Super Deluxe model.
Marge didn't suspect a thing. In fact, George Prime seemed to be having a remarkable effect on her. I didn't notice anything at first—I was hardly ever home. But one night I found my pipe and slippers laid out for me, and the evening paper neatly folded on my chair, and it brought me up short. Marge had been extremely docile lately. We hadn't had a good fight in days. Weeks, come to think of it.
I thought it over and shrugged. Old age, I figured. She was bound to mellow sometime.
But pretty soon I began to wonder if she wasn't mellowing a little too much.
One night when I got home, she kissed me almost as though she really meant it. There wasn't an unpleasant word all through dinner, which happened to be steak with mushrooms, served in the dining room (!) by candlelight (!!) with dinner music that Marge could never bear, chiefly because I liked it.
We sat over coffee and cigarettes, and it seemed almost like old times. Very old times, in fact I even caught myself looking at Marge again—really looking at her, watching the light catch in her hair, almost admiring the sparkle in her brown eyes. Sparkle, I said, not glint.
As I mentioned before, Marge was always easy to look at. That night, she was practically ravishing.
"What are you doing to her?" I asked George Prime later, out in the workshop.
"Why, nothing," said George Prime, looking innocent. He couldn't fool me with his look, though, because it was exactly the look I use when I'm guilty and pretending to be innocent.
"There must be something ."
George Prime shrugged. "Any woman will warm up if you spend enough time telling her all the things she wants to hear and pay all the attention to her that she wants paid to her. That's elemental psychology. I can give you page references."
I ought to mention that George Prime had a complete set of basic texts run into his circuits, at a slightly additional charge. Never can tell when an odd bit of information will come in useful.
"Well, you must be doing quite a job," I said. I'd never managed to warm Marge up much.
"I try," said George Prime.
"Oh, I'm not complaining," I hastened to add, forgetting that a Prime's feelings can't be hurt and that he was only acting like me because it was in character. "I was just curious."
"Of course, George."
"I'm really delighted that you're doing so well."
"Thank you, George."
But the next night when I was with Dawn, who happens to be a gorgeous redhead who could put Marge to shame on practically any field of battle except maybe brains, I kept thinking about Marge all evening long, and wondering if things weren't getting just a little out of hand.
The next evening I almost tripped over George Prime coming out of a liquor store. I ducked quickly into an alley and flagged him. " What are you doing out on the street? "
He gave me my martyred look. "Just buying some bourbon. You were out."
"But you're not supposed to be off the premises—"
"Marge asked me to come. I couldn't tell her I was sorry, but her husband wouldn't let me, could I?"
"Well, certainly not—"
"You want me to keep her happy, don't you? You don't want her to get suspicious."
"No, but suppose somebody saw us together! If she ever got a hint—"
"I'm sorry," George Prime said contritely. "It seemed the right thing to do. You would have done it. At least that's what my judgment center maintained. We had quite an argument."
"Well, tell your judgment center to use a little sense," I snapped. "I don't want it to happen again."
The next night, I stayed home, even though it was Tuesday night. I was beginning to get worried. Of course, I did have complete control—I could snap George Prime off any time I wanted, or even take him in for a complete recircuiting—but it seemed a pity. He was doing such a nice job.
Marge was docile as a kitten, even more so than before. She sympathized with my hard day at the office and agreed heartily that the boss, despite all appearances, was in reality a jabbering idiot. After dinner, I suggested a movie, but Marge gave me an odd sort of look and said she thought it would be much nicer to spend the evening at home by the fire.
I'd just gotten settled with the paper when she came into the living room and sat down beside me. She was wearing some sort of filmy affair I'd never laid eyes on before, and I caught a whiff of my favorite perfume.
"Georgie?" she said.
"Uh?"
"Do you still love me?"
I set the paper down and stared at her. "How's that? Of course I still—"
"Well, sometimes you don't act much like it."
"Mm. I guess I've—uh—got an awful headache tonight." Damn that perfume!
"Oh," said Marge.
"In fact, I thought I'd turn in early and get some sleep—"
"Sleep," said Marge. There was no mistaking the disappointment in her voice. Now I knew that things were out of hand.
The next evening, I activated George Prime and caught the taxi at the corner, but I called Ruby and broke my date with her. I took in an early movie alone and was back by ten o'clock. I left the cab at the corner and walked quietly up the path toward the garage.
Then I stopped. I could see Marge and George Prime through the living room windows.
George Prime was kissing my wife the way I hadn't kissed her in eight long years. It made my hair stand on end. And Marge wasn't exactly fighting him off, either. She was coming back for more. After a little, the lights went off.
George Prime was a Super Deluxe model, all right.
I dashed into the workshop and punched the recall button as hard as I could, swearing under my breath. How long had this been going on? I punched the button again, viciously, and waited.
George Prime didn't come out.
It was plenty cold out in the workshop that night and I didn't sleep a wink. About dawn, out came George Prime, looking like a man with a four-day hangover.
Our conversation got down to fundamentals. George Prime kept insisting blandly that, according to my own directions, he was to pick the first logical opportunity to come out when I buzzed, and that was exactly what he'd done.
I was furious all the way to work. I'd take care of this nonsense, all right. I'd have George Prime rewired from top to bottom as soon as the laboratory could take him.
But I never phoned the laboratory. The bank was calling me when I got to the office. They wanted to know what I planned to do about that check of mine that had just bounced.
"What check?" I asked.
"The one you wrote to cash yesterday—five hundred dollars—against your regular account, Mr. Faircloth."
The last I'd looked, I'd had about three thousand dollars in that account. I told the man so rather bluntly.
"Oh, no, sir. That is, you did until last week. But all these checks you've been cashing have emptied the account."
He flashed the checks on the desk screen. My signature was on every one of them.
"What about my special account?" I'd learned long before that an account Marge didn't know about was sound rear-guard strategy.
"That's been closed out for two weeks."
I hadn't written a check against that account for over a year! I glared at the ceiling and tried to think things through.
I came up with a horrible thought.
Marge had always had her heart set on a trip to Bermuda. Just to get away from it all, she'd say. A second honeymoon.
I got a list of travel agencies from the business directory and started down them. The third one I tried had a pleasant tenor voice. "No, sir, not Mrs. Faircloth. You bought two tickets. One way. Champagne flight to Bermuda."
"When?" I choked out.
"Why, today, as a matter of fact. It leaves Idlewild at eleven o'clock—"
I let him worry about my amnesia and started home fast. I didn't know what they'd given that Prime for circuits, but there was no question now that he was out of control— way out of control. And poor Marge, all worked up for a second honeymoon—
Then it struck me. Poor Marge? Poor sucker George! No Prime in his right circuits would behave this way without some human guidance and that meant only one thing: Marge had spotted him. It had happened before. Couple of nasty court battles I'd read about. And she'd known all about George Prime.
For how long?
When I got home, the house was empty. George Prime wasn't in his closet. And Marge wasn't in the house.
They were gone.
I started to call the police, but caught myself just in time. I couldn't very well complain to the cops that my wife had run off with an android.
Worse yet, I could get twenty years for having an illegal Prime wandering around.
I sat down and poured myself a stiff drink.
My own wife deserting me for a pile of bearings.
It was indecent.
Then I heard the front door open and there was Marge, her arms full of grocery bundles. "Why, darling! You're home early!"
I just blinked for a moment. Then I said, "You're still here!"
"Of course. Where did you think I'd be?"
"But I thought—I mean the ticket office—"
She set down the bundles and kissed me and looked up into my eyes, almost smiling, half reproachful. "You didn't really think I'd go running off with something out of a lab, did you?"
"Then—you knew?"
"Certainly I knew, silly. You didn't do a very good job of instructing him, either. You gave him far too much latitude. Let him have ideas of his own and all that. And next thing I knew, he was trying to get me to run off with him to Hawaii or someplace."
"Bermuda," I said.
And then Marge was in my arms, kissing me and snuggling her cheek against my chest.
"Even though he looked like you, I knew he couldn't be," she said. "He was like you, but he wasn't you , darling. And all I ever want is you. I just never appreciated you before...."
I held her close and tried to keep my hands from shaking. George Faircloth, Idiot, I thought. She'd never been more beautiful. "But what did you do with him?"
"I sent him back to the factory, naturally. They said they could blot him out and use him over again. But let's not talk about that any more. We've got more interesting things to discuss."
Maybe we had, but we didn't waste a lot of time talking. It was the Marge I'd once known and I was beginning to wonder how I could have been so wrong about her. In fact unless my memory was getting awfully porous, the old Marge was never like this—
I kissed her tenderly and ran my hands through her hair, and felt the depression with my fore-finger, and then I knew what had really happened.
That Marge always had been a sly one.
I wondered how she was liking things in Bermuda.
Marge probably thought she'd really put me where I belonged, but the laugh was on her, after all.
As I said, the old Marge was never like the new one. Marge Prime makes Jeree and Sybil and Dorothy and Dawn and Jane and Ruby all look pretty sad by comparison.
She cooks like a dream and she always brings me my pipe and slippers. As they say, there's nothing a man likes more than to be appreciated.
A hundred per cent appreciated, with a factory guarantee to correct any slippage, which would only be temporary, anyhow.
One of these days, we'll take that second honeymoon. But I think we'll go to Hawaii.
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Who is the webfoot and what is his personality like?
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After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about A City Near Centaurus by William R. Doede.
Relevant chunks:
A CITY NEAR CENTAURUS
By BILL DOEDE
Illustrated by WEST
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine October 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The city was sacred, but not to its gods. Michaelson was a god—but far from sacred!
Crouched in the ancient doorway like an animal peering out from his burrow, Mr. Michaelson saw the native.
At first he was startled, thinking it might be someone else from the Earth settlement who had discovered the old city before him. Then he saw the glint of sun against the metallic skirt, and relaxed.
He chuckled to himself, wondering with amusement what a webfooted man was doing in an old dead city so far from his people. Some facts were known about the people of Alpha Centaurus II. They were not actually natives, he recalled. They were a colony from the fifth planet of the system. They were a curious people. Some were highly intelligent, though uneducated.
He decided to ignore the man for the moment. He was far down the ancient street, a mere speck against the sand. There would be plenty of time to wonder about him.
He gazed out from his position at the complex variety of buildings before him. Some were small, obviously homes. Others were huge with tall, frail spires standing against the pale blue sky. Square buildings, ellipsoid, spheroid. Beautiful, dream-stuff bridges connected tall, conical towers, bridges that still swung in the wind after half a million years. Late afternoon sunlight shone against ebony surfaces. The sands of many centuries had blown down the wide streets and filled the doorways. Desert plants grew from roofs of smaller buildings.
Ignoring the native, Mr. Michaelson poked about among the ruins happily, exclaiming to himself about some particular artifact, marveling at its state of preservation, holding it this way and that to catch the late afternoon sun, smiling, clucking gleefully. He crawled over the rubble through old doorways half filled with the accumulation of ages. He dug experimentally in the sand with his hands, like a dog, under a roof that had weathered half a million years of rain and sun. Then he crawled out again, covered with dust and cobwebs.
The native stood in the street less than a hundred feet away, waving his arms madly. "Mr. Earthgod," he cried. "It is sacred ground where you are trespassing!"
The archeologist smiled, watching the man hurry closer. He was short, even for a native. Long gray hair hung to his shoulders, bobbing up and down as he walked. He wore no shoes. The toes of his webbed feet dragged in the sand, making a deep trail behind him. He was an old man.
"You never told us about this old dead city," Michaelson said, chidingly. "Shame on you. But never mind. I've found it now. Isn't it beautiful?"
"Yes, beautiful. You will leave now."
"Leave?" Michaelson asked, acting surprised as if the man were a child. "I just got here a few hours ago."
"You must go."
"Why? Who are you?"
"I am keeper of the city."
"You?" Michaelson laughed. Then, seeing how serious the native was, said, "What makes you think a dead city needs a keeper?"
"The spirits may return."
Michaelson crawled out of the doorway and stood up. He brushed his trousers. He pointed. "See that wall? Built of some metal, I'd say, some alloy impervious to rust and wear."
"The spirits are angry."
"Notice the inscriptions? Wind has blown sand against them for eons, and rain and sleet. But their story is there, once we decipher it."
"Leave!"
The native's lined, weathered old face was working around the mouth in anger. Michaelson was almost sorry he had mocked him. He was deadly serious.
"Look," he said. "No spirits are ever coming back here. Don't you know that? And even if they did, spirits care nothing for old cities half covered with sand and dirt."
He walked away from the old man, heading for another building. The sun had already gone below the horizon, coloring the high clouds. He glanced backward. The webfoot was following.
"Mr. Earthgod!" the webfoot cried, so sharply that Michaelson stopped.
"You must not touch, not walk upon, not handle. Your step may destroy the home of some ancient spirit. Your breath may cause one iota of change and a spirit may lose his way in the darkness. Go quickly now, or be killed."
He turned and walked off, not looking back.
Michaelson stood in the ancient street, tall, gaunt, feet planted wide, hands in pockets, watching the webfoot until he was out of sight beyond a huge circular building. There was a man to watch. There was one of the intelligent ones. One look into the alert old eyes had told him that.
Michaelson shook his head, and went about satisfying his curiosity. He entered buildings without thought of roofs falling in, or decayed floors dropping from under his weight. He began to collect small items, making a pile of them in the street. An ancient bowl, metal untouched by the ages. A statue of a man, one foot high, correct to the minutest detail, showing how identical they had been to Earthmen. He found books still standing on ancient shelves but was afraid to touch them without tools.
Darkness came swiftly and he was forced out into the street.
He stood there alone feeling the age of the place. Even the smell of age was in the air. Silver moonlight from the two moons filtered through clear air down upon the ruins. The city lay now in darkness, dead and still, waiting for morning so it could lie dead and still in the sun.
There was no hurry to be going home, although he was alone, although this was Alpha Centaurus II with many unknowns, many dangers ... although home was a very great distance away. There was no one back there to worry about him.
His wife had died many years ago back on Earth. No children. His friends in the settlement would not look for him for another day at least. Anyway, the tiny cylinder, buried in flesh behind his ear, a thing of mystery and immense power, could take him home instantly, without effort save a flicker of thought.
"You did not leave, as I asked you."
Michaelson whirled around at the sound of the native's voice. Then he relaxed. He said, "You shouldn't sneak up on a man like that."
"You must leave, or I will be forced to kill you. I do not want to kill you, but if I must...." He made a clucking sound deep in the throat.
"The spirits are angry."
"Nonsense. Superstition! But never mind. You have been here longer than I. Tell me, what are those instruments in the rooms? It looks like a clock but I'm certain it had some other function."
"What rooms?"
"Oh, come now. The small rooms back there. Look like they were bedrooms."
"I do not know." The webfoot drew closer. Michaelson decided he was sixty or seventy years old, at least.
"You've been here a long time. You are intelligent, and you must be educated, the way you talk. That gadget looks like a time-piece of some sort. What is it? What does it measure?"
"I insist that you go." The webfoot held something in his hand.
"No." Michaelson looked off down the street, trying to ignore the native, trying to feel the life of the city as it might have been.
"You are sensitive," the native said in his ear. "It takes a sensitive god to feel the spirits moving in the houses and walking in these old streets."
"Say it any way you want to. This is the most fascinating thing I've ever seen. The Inca's treasure, the ruins of Pompeii, Egyptian tombs—none can hold a candle to this."
"Mr. Earthgod...."
"Don't call me that. I'm not a god, and you know it."
The old man shrugged. "It is not an item worthy of dispute. Those names you mention, are they the names of gods?"
He chuckled. "In a way, yes. What is your name?"
"Maota."
"You must help me, Maota. These things must be preserved. We'll build a museum, right here in the street. No, over there on the hill just outside the city. We'll collect all the old writings and perhaps we may decipher them. Think of it, Maota! To read pages written so long ago and think their thoughts. We'll put everything under glass. Build and evacuate chambers to stop the decay. Catalogue, itemize...."
Michaelson was warming up to his subject, but Maota shook his head like a waving palm frond and stamped his feet.
"You will leave now."
"Can't you see? Look at the decay. These things are priceless. They must be preserved. Future generations will thank us."
"Do you mean," the old man asked, aghast, "that you want others to come here? You know the city abhors the sound of alien voices. Those who lived here may return one day! They must not find their city packaged and preserved and laid out on shelves for the curious to breathe their foul breaths upon. You will leave. Now!"
"No." Michaelson was adamant. The rock of Gibraltar.
Maota hit him, quickly, passionately, and dropped the weapon beside his body. He turned swiftly, making a swirling mark in the sand with his heel, and walked off toward the hills outside the city.
The weapon he had used was an ancient book. Its paper-thin pages rustled in the wind as if an unseen hand turned them, reading, while Michaelson's blood trickled out from the head wound upon the ancient street.
When he regained consciousness the two moons, bright sentinel orbs in the night sky, had moved to a new position down their sliding path. Old Maota's absence took some of the weirdness and fantasy away. It seemed a more practical place now.
The gash in his head was painful, throbbing with quick, short hammer-blows synchronized with his heart beats. But there was a new determination in him. If it was a fight that the old webfooted fool wanted, a fight he would get. The cylinder flicked him, at his command, across five hundred miles of desert and rocks to a small creek he remembered. Here he bathed his head in cool water until all the caked blood was dissolved from his hair. Feeling better, he went back.
The wind had turned cool. Michaelson shivered, wishing he had brought a coat. The city was absolutely still except for small gusts of wind sighing through the frail spires. The ancient book still lay in the sand beside the dark spot of blood. He stooped over and picked it up.
It was light, much lighter than most Earth books. He ran a hand over the binding. Smooth it was, untouched by time or climate. He squinted at the pages, tilting the book to catch the bright moonlight, but the writing was alien. He touched the page, ran his forefinger over the writing.
Suddenly he sprang back. The book fell from his hands.
"God in heaven!" he exclaimed.
He had heard a voice. He looked around at the old buildings, down the length of the ancient street. Something strange about the voice. Not Maota. Not his tones. Not his words. Satisfied that no one was near, he stooped and picked up the book again.
"Good God!" he said aloud. It was the book talking. His fingers had touched the writing again. It was not a voice, exactly, but a stirring in his mind, like a strange language heard for the first time.
A talking book. What other surprises were in the city? Tall, fragile buildings laughing at time and weather. A clock measuring God-knows-what. If such wonders remained, what about those already destroyed? One could only guess at the machines, the gadgets, the artistry already decayed and blown away to mix forever with the sand.
I must preserve it, he thought, whether Maota likes it or not. They say these people lived half a million years ago. A long time. Let's see, now. A man lives one hundred years on the average. Five thousand lifetimes.
And all you do is touch a book, and a voice jumps across all those years!
He started off toward the tall building he had examined upon discovery of the city. His left eyelid began to twitch and he laid his forefinger against the eye, pressing until it stopped. Then he stooped and entered the building. He laid the book down and tried to take the "clock" off the wall. It was dark in the building and his fingers felt along the wall, looking for it. Then he touched it. His fingers moved over its smooth surface. Then suddenly he jerked his hand back with an exclamation of amazement. Fear ran up his spine.
The clock was warm.
He felt like running, like flicking back to the settlement where there were people and familiar voices, for here was a thing that should not be. Half a million years—and here was warmth!
He touched it again, curiosity overwhelming his fear. It was warm. No mistake. And there was a faint vibration, a suggestion of power. He stood there in the darkness staring off into the darkness, trembling. Fear built up in him until it was a monstrous thing, drowning reason. He forgot the power of the cylinder behind his ear. He scrambled through the doorway. He got up and ran down the ancient sandy street until he came to the edge of the city. Here he stopped, gasping for air, feeling the pain throb in his head.
Common sense said that he should go home, that nothing worthwhile could be accomplished at night, that he was tired, that he was weak from loss of blood and fright and running. But when Michaelson was on the trail of important discoveries he had no common sense.
He sat down in the darkness, meaning to rest a moment.
When he awoke dawn was red against thin clouds in the east.
Old Maota stood in the street with webbed feet planted far apart in the sand, a weapon in the crook of his arm. It was a long tube affair, familiar to Michaelson.
Michaelson asked, "Did you sleep well?"
"No."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"How do you feel?"
"Fine, but my head aches a little."
"Sorry," Maota said.
"For what?"
"For hitting you. Pain is not for gods like you."
Michaelson relaxed somewhat. "What kind of man are you? First you try to break my skull, then you apologize."
"I abhor pain. I should have killed you outright."
He thought about that for a moment, eyeing the weapon.
It looked in good working order. Slim and shiny and innocent, it looked like a glorified African blowgun. But he was not deceived by its appearance. It was a deadly weapon.
"Well," he said, "before you kill me, tell me about the book." He held it up for Maota to see.
"What about the book?"
"What kind of book is it?"
"What does Mr. Earthgod mean, what kind of book? You have seen it. It is like any other book, except for the material and the fact that it talks."
"No, no. I mean, what's in it?"
"Poetry."
"Poetry? For God's sake, why poetry? Why not mathematics or history? Why not tell how to make the metal of the book itself? Now there is a subject worthy of a book."
Maota shook his head. "One does not study a dead culture to learn how they made things, but how they thought. But we are wasting time. I must kill you now, so I can get some rest."
The old man raised the gun.
"Wait! You forget that I also have a weapon." He pointed to the spot behind his ear where the cylinder was buried. "I can move faster than you can fire the gun."
Maota nodded. "I have heard how you travel. It does not matter. I will kill you anyway."
"I suggest we negotiate."
"No."
"Why not?"
Maota looked off toward the hills, old eyes filmed from years of sand and wind, leather skin lined and pitted. The hills stood immobile, brown-gray, already shimmering with heat, impotent.
"Why not?" Michaelson repeated.
"Why not what?" Maota dragged his eyes back.
"Negotiate."
"No." Maota's eyes grew hard as steel. They stood there in the sun, not twenty feet apart, hating each other. The two moons, very pale and far away on the western horizon, stared like two bottomless eyes.
"All right, then. At least it's a quick death. I hear that thing just disintegrates a man. Pfft! And that's that."
Michaelson prepared himself to move if the old man's finger slid closer toward the firing stud. The old man raised the gun.
"Wait!"
"Now what?"
"At least read some of the book to me before I die, then."
The gun wavered. "I am not an unreasonable man," the webfoot said.
Michaelson stepped forward, extending his arm with the book.
"No, stay where you are. Throw it."
"This book is priceless. You just don't go throwing such valuable items around."
"It won't break. Throw it."
Michaelson threw the book. It landed at Maota's feet, spouting sand against his leg. He shifted the weapon, picked up the book and leafed through it, raising his head in a listening attitude, searching for a suitable passage. Michaelson heard the thin, metallic pages rustle softly. He could have jumped and seized the weapon at that moment, but his desire to hear the book was strong.
Old Maota read, Michaelson listened. The cadence was different, the syntax confusing. But the thoughts were there. It might have been a professor back on Earth reading to his students. Keats, Shelley, Browning. These people were human, with human thoughts and aspirations.
The old man stopped reading. He squatted slowly, keeping Michaelson in sight, and laid the book face up in the sand. Wind moved the pages.
"See?" he said. "The spirits read. They must have been great readers, these people. They drink the book, as if it were an elixir. See how gentle! They lap at the pages like a new kitten tasting milk."
Michaelson laughed. "You certainly have an imagination."
"What difference does it make?" Maota cried, suddenly angry. "You want to close up all these things in boxes for a posterity who may have no slightest feeling or appreciation. I want to leave the city as it is, for spirits whose existence I cannot prove."
The old man's eyes were furious now, deadly. The gun came down directly in line with the Earthman's chest. The gnarled finger moved.
Michaelson, using the power of the cylinder behind his ear, jumped behind the old webfoot. To Maota it seemed that he had flicked out of existence like a match blown out. The next instant Michaelson spun him around and hit him. It was an inexpert fist, belonging to an archeologist, not a fighter. But Maota was an old man.
He dropped in the sand, momentarily stunned. Michaelson bent over to pick up the gun and the old man, feeling it slip from his fingers, hung on and was pulled to his feet.
They struggled for possession of the gun, silently, gasping, kicking sand. Faces grew red. Lips drew back over Michaelson's white teeth, over Maota's pink, toothless gums. The dead city's fragile spires threw impersonal shadows down where they fought.
Then quite suddenly a finger or hand—neither knew whose finger or hand—touched the firing stud.
There was a hollow, whooshing sound. Both stopped still, realizing the total destruction they might have caused.
"It only hit the ground," Michaelson said.
A black, charred hole, two feet in diameter and—they could not see how deep—stared at them.
Maota let go and sprawled in the sand. "The book!" he cried. "The book is gone!"
"No! We probably covered it with sand while we fought."
Both men began scooping sand in their cupped hands, digging frantically for the book. Saliva dripped from Maota's mouth, but he didn't know or care.
Finally they stopped, exhausted. They had covered a substantial area around the hole. They had covered the complete area where they had been.
"We killed it," the old man moaned.
"It was just a book. Not alive, you know."
"How do you know?" The old man's pale eyes were filled with tears. "It talked and it sang. In a way, it had a soul. Sometimes on long nights I used to imagine it loved me, for taking care of it."
"There are other books. We'll get another."
Maota shook his head. "There are no more."
"But I've seen them. Down there in the square building."
"Not poetry. Books, yes, but not poetry. That was the only book with songs."
"I'm sorry."
" You killed it!" Maota suddenly sprang for the weapon, lying forgotten in the sand. Michaelson put his foot on it and Maota was too weak to tear it loose. He could only weep out his rage.
When he could talk again, Maota said, "I am sorry, Mr. Earthgod. I've disgraced myself."
"Don't be sorry." Michaelson helped him to his feet. "We fight for some reasons, cry for others. A priceless book is a good reason for either."
"Not for that. For not winning. I should have killed you last night when I had the chance. The gods give us chances and if we don't take them we lose forever."
"I told you before! We are on the same side. Negotiate. Have you never heard of negotiation?"
"You are a god," Maota said. "One does not negotiate with gods. One either loves them, or kills them."
"That's another thing. I am not a god. Can't you understand?"
"Of course you are." Maota looked up, very sure. "Mortals cannot step from star to star like crossing a shallow brook."
"No, no. I don't step from one star to another. An invention does that. Just an invention. I carry it with me. It's a tiny thing. No one would ever guess it has such power. So you see, I'm human, just like you. Hit me and I hurt. Cut me and I bleed. I love. I hate. I was born. Some day I'll die. See? I'm human. Just a human with a machine. No more than that."
Maota laughed, then sobered quickly. "You lie."
"No."
"If I had this machine, could I travel as you?"
"Yes."
"Then I'll kill you and take yours."
"It would not work for you."
"Why?"
"Each machine is tailored for each person."
The old man hung his head. He looked down into the black, charred hole. He walked all around the hole. He kicked at the sand, looking half-heartedly again for the book.
"Look," Michaelson said. "I'm sure I've convinced you that I'm human. Why not have a try at negotiating our differences?"
He looked up. His expressive eyes, deep, resigned, studied Michaelson's face. Finally he shook his head sadly. "When we first met I hoped we could think the ancient thoughts together. But our paths diverge. We have finished, you and I."
He turned and started off, shoulders slumped dejectedly.
Michaelson caught up to him. "Are you leaving the city?"
"No."
"Where are you going?"
"Away. Far away." Maota looked off toward the hills, eyes distant.
"Don't be stupid, old man. How can you go far away and not leave the city?"
"There are many directions. You would not understand."
"East. West. North. South. Up. Down."
"No, no. There is another direction. Come, if you must see."
Michaelson followed him far down the street. They came to a section of the city he had not seen before. Buildings were smaller, spires dwarfed against larger structures. Here a path was packed in the sand, leading to a particular building.
Michaelson said, "This is where you live?"
"Yes."
Maota went inside. Michaelson stood in the entrance and looked around. The room was clean, furnished with hand made chairs and a bed. Who is this old man, he thought, far from his people, living alone, choosing a life of solitude among ancient ruins but not touching them? Above the bed a "clock" was fastened to the wall, Michaelson remembered his fright—thinking of the warmth where warmth should not be.
Maota pointed to it.
"You asked about this machine," he said. "Now I will tell you." He laid his hand against it. "Here is power to follow another direction."
Michaelson tested one of the chairs to see if it would hold his weight, then sat down. His curiosity about the instrument was colossal, but he forced a short laugh. "Maota, you are complex. Why not stop all this mystery nonsense and tell me about it? You know more about it than I."
"Of course." Maota smiled a toothless, superior smile. "What do you suppose happened to this race?"
"You tell me."
"They took the unknown direction. The books speak of it. I don't know how the instrument works, but one thing is certain. The race did not die out, as a species becomes extinct."
Michaelson was amused, but interested. "Something like a fourth dimension?"
"I don't know. I only know that with this instrument there is no death. I have read the books that speak of this race, this wonderful people who conquered all disease, who explored all the mysteries of science, who devised this machine to cheat death. See this button here on the face of the instrument? Press the button, and...."
"And what?"
"I don't know, exactly. But I have lived many years. I have walked the streets of this city and wondered, and wanted to press the button. Now I will do so."
Quickly the old man, still smiling, pressed the button. A high-pitched whine filled the air, just within audio range. Steady for a moment, it then rose in pitch passing beyond hearing quickly.
The old man's knees buckled. He sank down, fell over the bed, lay still. Michaelson touched him cautiously, then examined him more carefully. No question about it.
The old man was dead.
Feeling depressed and alone, Michaelson found a desert knoll outside the city overlooking the tall spires that shone in the sunlight and gleamed in the moonlight. He made a stretcher, rolled the old man's body on to it and dragged it down the long ancient street and up the knoll.
Here he buried him.
But it seemed a waste of time. Somehow he knew beyond any doubt that the old native and his body were completely disassociated in some sense more complete than death.
In the days that followed he gave much thought to the "clock." He came to the city every day. He spent long hours in the huge square building with the books. He learned the language by sheer bulldog determination. Then he searched the books for information about the instrument.
Finally after many weeks, long after the winds had obliterated all evidence of Maota's grave on the knoll, Michaelson made a decision. He had to know if the machine would work for him.
And so one afternoon when the ancient spires threw long shadows over the sand he walked down the long street and entered the old man's house. He stood before the instrument, trembling, afraid, but determined. He pinched his eyes shut tight like a child and pressed the button.
The high-pitched whine started.
Complete, utter silence. Void. Darkness. Awareness and memory, yes; nothing else. Then Maota's chuckle came. No sound, an impression only like the voice from the ancient book. Where was he? There was no left or right, up or down. Maota was everywhere, nowhere.
"Look!" Maota's thought was directed at him in this place of no direction. "Think of the city and you will see it."
Michaelson did, and he saw the city beyond, as if he were looking through a window. And yet he was in the city looking at his own body.
Maota's chuckle again. "The city will remain as it is. You did not win after all."
"Neither did you."
"But this existence has compensations," Maota said. "You can be anywhere, see anywhere on this planet. Even on your Earth."
Michaelson felt a great sadness, seeing his body lying across the old, home made bed. He looked closer. He sensed a vibration or life force—he didn't stop to define it—in his body. Why was his dead body different from Old Maota's? Could it be that there was some thread stretching from the reality of his body to his present state?
"I don't like your thoughts," Maota said. "No one can go back. I tried. I have discussed it with many who are not presently in communication with you. No one can go back."
Michaelson decided he try.
"No!" Maota's thought was prickled with fear and anger.
Michaelson did not know how to try, but he remembered the cylinder and gathered all the force of his mind in spite of Maota's protests, and gave his most violent command.
At first he thought it didn't work. He got up and looked around, then it struck him. He was standing up!
The cylinder. He knew it was the cylinder. That was the difference between himself and Maota. When he used the cylinder, that was where he went, the place where Maota was now. It was a door of some kind, leading to a path of some kind where distance was non-existent. But the
"clock" was a mechanism to transport only the mind to that place.
To be certain of it, he pressed the button again, with the same result as before. He saw his own body fall down. He felt Maota's presence.
"You devil!" Maota's thought-scream was a sword of hate and anger, irrational suddenly, like a person who knows his loss is irrevocable.
"I said you were a god. I said you were a god. I said you were a god...! "
Question:
Who is the webfoot and what is his personality like?
Answer:
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[
"The webfoot, real name Maota (also referred to as “the native” by Mr. Michaelson), is the self-proclaimed keeper of the dead city on Alpha Centaurus II. He is an older man of at least sixty or seventy years, short in stature with long gray hair to his shoulders. The toes of his webbed, bare feet drag in the sand as he walks making a trail behind him. \nMaota is sturdy in his beliefs that the dead city needs to be protected, and that the gods are being disrupted by Mr. Michaelson. He feels strongly enough about it that he resorts to physical violence on two occasions - hitting Mr. Michaelson with a book over the head, and firing a gun-like weapon at him. Although he is angry and violent with Mr. Michaelson, he also shows remarkable tolerance for him. \nMaota’s ultimate duty, he believes, is to the gods. This brings him turmoil when he thinks he missed the chance the gods gave him to kill Mr. Michaelson, and even apologized to him directly for instead letting him suffer with a head wound instead of killing him. There is a reference to them perhaps having met before when Michaelson says tauntingly to Maota, “You never told us about this old dead city… Shame on you. But never mind. I've found it now. Isn't it beautiful?” Thus, Maota is also motivated to protect the dead city at all costs, perhaps even concealing its location. \n",
"The webfoot is named Maota, and he is the guardian of the ancient dead city on Alpha Centaurus II. His people are not natives of the planet but originated from a colony from the system's fifth planet. These people are curious and sometimes highly intelligent, although they are not educated. Maota himself is an older man, perhaps sixty or seventy years old, short with long gray hair. He wears no shoes, and his toes drag in the sand as he walks. Maota is upset when he finds Michaelson trespassing in the dead city and urgently informs him that he is on sacred ground and must leave. Maota tells Michaelson that the spirits are angry that he is there and indicates the spirits might return; that is why he guards the city. When Michaelson pays no heed to the order to leave, Maota grows angry, warning Michaelson that even his steps or breath may be detrimental to the spirits and he must leave now or be killed. When his warning falls on deaf ears, Maota resorts to flattery, saying that it takes a sensitive god to feel the spirits moving in the houses and walking in the old street, thus implying that Michaelson is not only a god but one with the sensitivity required to detect the history and spirits of the place. \nHowever, when Michaelson tells Maota his plan to build a museum and display everything for others to come and see, Maota loses his temper and throws one of the ancient books at Michaelson, hitting him in the back of the head and knocking him unconscious. After Michaelson stays in the city overnight, Maota approaches him with a weapon, intent on killing him. Maota believes he has reasoned logically with Michaelson and given him enough warnings that he should have left; he isn’t interested in negotiating with Michaelson because the only satisfactory outcome is for Michaelson to leave and never come back. He is prepared to kill Michaelson with his tube gun. Maota is willing to entertain Michaelson’s last request, which is for Maota to read to him from the book. He does, but he still insists Michaelson must die. The city must be preserved for the spirits, not a show for people who may not appreciate it or the spirits. Maota’s great sensitivity and reverence for the spirits lead to his great despair when the book of poetry is destroyed. When he is unsuccessful at driving Michaelson away, he chooses the last resort—using the device that kills his human body but allows his mind to live on.\n",
"The webfooted man's name is Maota, and he is part of a group of people who live on Alpha Centaurus II, far away from the old city where Michaelson meets him. Although they make their home on Alpha Centaurus II, the webfooted people are originally from a colony on the fifth planet in the system. Michaelson wonders why Maota is so far from his people when they first meet. Maota stays in the city because he believes strongly in the presence of spirits, and he spends his days roaming the streets feeling their presence and reading an ancient book of poetry. Maota bemoans Michaelson's presence because he believes his interest in preserving the city for posterity disturbs the spirits and would potentially violate the beauty and magic of the city. Because of Michaelson's teleportation implant, Maota believes Michaelson is a god, and so he feels he must kill Michaelson if he will not leave because mortals cannot negotiate wit\nh gods. Once Michaelson convinces Maota he is just a human, Maota feels disappointed because he had hoped Michaelson would join him in his practice of thinking the ancient thoughts. As such, Maota leads Michaelson to a room where he keeps a clock-like device that he triggers. Then, Maota appears to die. In actuality, his spirit has been transferred to another dimension. When Michaelson joins him there and demonstrates how he can zoom in between dimensions using his implant, Maota starts to believe Michaelson is a devil.",
"Maota is a webfoot that lives on Alpha Centaurus II. He is older, around 60 or 70 years of age, and the lines on his face show it. He is a human with normal human features, aside from his webbed feet. He does not wear shoes but chooses to walk barefoot. With long, gray hair and relatively short stature, Maota is a weathered man. He takes his self-assigned role as keeper of the city very seriously and will act violently if need be. Maota is very spiritual, shown through his belief that tampering with the city will upset the spirits should they choose to return home. Although he is somewhat patient with Michaelson at first, he chooses his duty over Michaelson’s curiosity. He attempts to kill him twice but to no avail, which shows his true dedication to the city. In the end, when he is trapped in the so-called fourth dimension, Maota is incredibly angry when Michaelson, an alleged god with his cylinder, is able to travel between planes while he is stuck there. "
] |
50802
|
A CITY NEAR CENTAURUS
By BILL DOEDE
Illustrated by WEST
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine October 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The city was sacred, but not to its gods. Michaelson was a god—but far from sacred!
Crouched in the ancient doorway like an animal peering out from his burrow, Mr. Michaelson saw the native.
At first he was startled, thinking it might be someone else from the Earth settlement who had discovered the old city before him. Then he saw the glint of sun against the metallic skirt, and relaxed.
He chuckled to himself, wondering with amusement what a webfooted man was doing in an old dead city so far from his people. Some facts were known about the people of Alpha Centaurus II. They were not actually natives, he recalled. They were a colony from the fifth planet of the system. They were a curious people. Some were highly intelligent, though uneducated.
He decided to ignore the man for the moment. He was far down the ancient street, a mere speck against the sand. There would be plenty of time to wonder about him.
He gazed out from his position at the complex variety of buildings before him. Some were small, obviously homes. Others were huge with tall, frail spires standing against the pale blue sky. Square buildings, ellipsoid, spheroid. Beautiful, dream-stuff bridges connected tall, conical towers, bridges that still swung in the wind after half a million years. Late afternoon sunlight shone against ebony surfaces. The sands of many centuries had blown down the wide streets and filled the doorways. Desert plants grew from roofs of smaller buildings.
Ignoring the native, Mr. Michaelson poked about among the ruins happily, exclaiming to himself about some particular artifact, marveling at its state of preservation, holding it this way and that to catch the late afternoon sun, smiling, clucking gleefully. He crawled over the rubble through old doorways half filled with the accumulation of ages. He dug experimentally in the sand with his hands, like a dog, under a roof that had weathered half a million years of rain and sun. Then he crawled out again, covered with dust and cobwebs.
The native stood in the street less than a hundred feet away, waving his arms madly. "Mr. Earthgod," he cried. "It is sacred ground where you are trespassing!"
The archeologist smiled, watching the man hurry closer. He was short, even for a native. Long gray hair hung to his shoulders, bobbing up and down as he walked. He wore no shoes. The toes of his webbed feet dragged in the sand, making a deep trail behind him. He was an old man.
"You never told us about this old dead city," Michaelson said, chidingly. "Shame on you. But never mind. I've found it now. Isn't it beautiful?"
"Yes, beautiful. You will leave now."
"Leave?" Michaelson asked, acting surprised as if the man were a child. "I just got here a few hours ago."
"You must go."
"Why? Who are you?"
"I am keeper of the city."
"You?" Michaelson laughed. Then, seeing how serious the native was, said, "What makes you think a dead city needs a keeper?"
"The spirits may return."
Michaelson crawled out of the doorway and stood up. He brushed his trousers. He pointed. "See that wall? Built of some metal, I'd say, some alloy impervious to rust and wear."
"The spirits are angry."
"Notice the inscriptions? Wind has blown sand against them for eons, and rain and sleet. But their story is there, once we decipher it."
"Leave!"
The native's lined, weathered old face was working around the mouth in anger. Michaelson was almost sorry he had mocked him. He was deadly serious.
"Look," he said. "No spirits are ever coming back here. Don't you know that? And even if they did, spirits care nothing for old cities half covered with sand and dirt."
He walked away from the old man, heading for another building. The sun had already gone below the horizon, coloring the high clouds. He glanced backward. The webfoot was following.
"Mr. Earthgod!" the webfoot cried, so sharply that Michaelson stopped.
"You must not touch, not walk upon, not handle. Your step may destroy the home of some ancient spirit. Your breath may cause one iota of change and a spirit may lose his way in the darkness. Go quickly now, or be killed."
He turned and walked off, not looking back.
Michaelson stood in the ancient street, tall, gaunt, feet planted wide, hands in pockets, watching the webfoot until he was out of sight beyond a huge circular building. There was a man to watch. There was one of the intelligent ones. One look into the alert old eyes had told him that.
Michaelson shook his head, and went about satisfying his curiosity. He entered buildings without thought of roofs falling in, or decayed floors dropping from under his weight. He began to collect small items, making a pile of them in the street. An ancient bowl, metal untouched by the ages. A statue of a man, one foot high, correct to the minutest detail, showing how identical they had been to Earthmen. He found books still standing on ancient shelves but was afraid to touch them without tools.
Darkness came swiftly and he was forced out into the street.
He stood there alone feeling the age of the place. Even the smell of age was in the air. Silver moonlight from the two moons filtered through clear air down upon the ruins. The city lay now in darkness, dead and still, waiting for morning so it could lie dead and still in the sun.
There was no hurry to be going home, although he was alone, although this was Alpha Centaurus II with many unknowns, many dangers ... although home was a very great distance away. There was no one back there to worry about him.
His wife had died many years ago back on Earth. No children. His friends in the settlement would not look for him for another day at least. Anyway, the tiny cylinder, buried in flesh behind his ear, a thing of mystery and immense power, could take him home instantly, without effort save a flicker of thought.
"You did not leave, as I asked you."
Michaelson whirled around at the sound of the native's voice. Then he relaxed. He said, "You shouldn't sneak up on a man like that."
"You must leave, or I will be forced to kill you. I do not want to kill you, but if I must...." He made a clucking sound deep in the throat.
"The spirits are angry."
"Nonsense. Superstition! But never mind. You have been here longer than I. Tell me, what are those instruments in the rooms? It looks like a clock but I'm certain it had some other function."
"What rooms?"
"Oh, come now. The small rooms back there. Look like they were bedrooms."
"I do not know." The webfoot drew closer. Michaelson decided he was sixty or seventy years old, at least.
"You've been here a long time. You are intelligent, and you must be educated, the way you talk. That gadget looks like a time-piece of some sort. What is it? What does it measure?"
"I insist that you go." The webfoot held something in his hand.
"No." Michaelson looked off down the street, trying to ignore the native, trying to feel the life of the city as it might have been.
"You are sensitive," the native said in his ear. "It takes a sensitive god to feel the spirits moving in the houses and walking in these old streets."
"Say it any way you want to. This is the most fascinating thing I've ever seen. The Inca's treasure, the ruins of Pompeii, Egyptian tombs—none can hold a candle to this."
"Mr. Earthgod...."
"Don't call me that. I'm not a god, and you know it."
The old man shrugged. "It is not an item worthy of dispute. Those names you mention, are they the names of gods?"
He chuckled. "In a way, yes. What is your name?"
"Maota."
"You must help me, Maota. These things must be preserved. We'll build a museum, right here in the street. No, over there on the hill just outside the city. We'll collect all the old writings and perhaps we may decipher them. Think of it, Maota! To read pages written so long ago and think their thoughts. We'll put everything under glass. Build and evacuate chambers to stop the decay. Catalogue, itemize...."
Michaelson was warming up to his subject, but Maota shook his head like a waving palm frond and stamped his feet.
"You will leave now."
"Can't you see? Look at the decay. These things are priceless. They must be preserved. Future generations will thank us."
"Do you mean," the old man asked, aghast, "that you want others to come here? You know the city abhors the sound of alien voices. Those who lived here may return one day! They must not find their city packaged and preserved and laid out on shelves for the curious to breathe their foul breaths upon. You will leave. Now!"
"No." Michaelson was adamant. The rock of Gibraltar.
Maota hit him, quickly, passionately, and dropped the weapon beside his body. He turned swiftly, making a swirling mark in the sand with his heel, and walked off toward the hills outside the city.
The weapon he had used was an ancient book. Its paper-thin pages rustled in the wind as if an unseen hand turned them, reading, while Michaelson's blood trickled out from the head wound upon the ancient street.
When he regained consciousness the two moons, bright sentinel orbs in the night sky, had moved to a new position down their sliding path. Old Maota's absence took some of the weirdness and fantasy away. It seemed a more practical place now.
The gash in his head was painful, throbbing with quick, short hammer-blows synchronized with his heart beats. But there was a new determination in him. If it was a fight that the old webfooted fool wanted, a fight he would get. The cylinder flicked him, at his command, across five hundred miles of desert and rocks to a small creek he remembered. Here he bathed his head in cool water until all the caked blood was dissolved from his hair. Feeling better, he went back.
The wind had turned cool. Michaelson shivered, wishing he had brought a coat. The city was absolutely still except for small gusts of wind sighing through the frail spires. The ancient book still lay in the sand beside the dark spot of blood. He stooped over and picked it up.
It was light, much lighter than most Earth books. He ran a hand over the binding. Smooth it was, untouched by time or climate. He squinted at the pages, tilting the book to catch the bright moonlight, but the writing was alien. He touched the page, ran his forefinger over the writing.
Suddenly he sprang back. The book fell from his hands.
"God in heaven!" he exclaimed.
He had heard a voice. He looked around at the old buildings, down the length of the ancient street. Something strange about the voice. Not Maota. Not his tones. Not his words. Satisfied that no one was near, he stooped and picked up the book again.
"Good God!" he said aloud. It was the book talking. His fingers had touched the writing again. It was not a voice, exactly, but a stirring in his mind, like a strange language heard for the first time.
A talking book. What other surprises were in the city? Tall, fragile buildings laughing at time and weather. A clock measuring God-knows-what. If such wonders remained, what about those already destroyed? One could only guess at the machines, the gadgets, the artistry already decayed and blown away to mix forever with the sand.
I must preserve it, he thought, whether Maota likes it or not. They say these people lived half a million years ago. A long time. Let's see, now. A man lives one hundred years on the average. Five thousand lifetimes.
And all you do is touch a book, and a voice jumps across all those years!
He started off toward the tall building he had examined upon discovery of the city. His left eyelid began to twitch and he laid his forefinger against the eye, pressing until it stopped. Then he stooped and entered the building. He laid the book down and tried to take the "clock" off the wall. It was dark in the building and his fingers felt along the wall, looking for it. Then he touched it. His fingers moved over its smooth surface. Then suddenly he jerked his hand back with an exclamation of amazement. Fear ran up his spine.
The clock was warm.
He felt like running, like flicking back to the settlement where there were people and familiar voices, for here was a thing that should not be. Half a million years—and here was warmth!
He touched it again, curiosity overwhelming his fear. It was warm. No mistake. And there was a faint vibration, a suggestion of power. He stood there in the darkness staring off into the darkness, trembling. Fear built up in him until it was a monstrous thing, drowning reason. He forgot the power of the cylinder behind his ear. He scrambled through the doorway. He got up and ran down the ancient sandy street until he came to the edge of the city. Here he stopped, gasping for air, feeling the pain throb in his head.
Common sense said that he should go home, that nothing worthwhile could be accomplished at night, that he was tired, that he was weak from loss of blood and fright and running. But when Michaelson was on the trail of important discoveries he had no common sense.
He sat down in the darkness, meaning to rest a moment.
When he awoke dawn was red against thin clouds in the east.
Old Maota stood in the street with webbed feet planted far apart in the sand, a weapon in the crook of his arm. It was a long tube affair, familiar to Michaelson.
Michaelson asked, "Did you sleep well?"
"No."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"How do you feel?"
"Fine, but my head aches a little."
"Sorry," Maota said.
"For what?"
"For hitting you. Pain is not for gods like you."
Michaelson relaxed somewhat. "What kind of man are you? First you try to break my skull, then you apologize."
"I abhor pain. I should have killed you outright."
He thought about that for a moment, eyeing the weapon.
It looked in good working order. Slim and shiny and innocent, it looked like a glorified African blowgun. But he was not deceived by its appearance. It was a deadly weapon.
"Well," he said, "before you kill me, tell me about the book." He held it up for Maota to see.
"What about the book?"
"What kind of book is it?"
"What does Mr. Earthgod mean, what kind of book? You have seen it. It is like any other book, except for the material and the fact that it talks."
"No, no. I mean, what's in it?"
"Poetry."
"Poetry? For God's sake, why poetry? Why not mathematics or history? Why not tell how to make the metal of the book itself? Now there is a subject worthy of a book."
Maota shook his head. "One does not study a dead culture to learn how they made things, but how they thought. But we are wasting time. I must kill you now, so I can get some rest."
The old man raised the gun.
"Wait! You forget that I also have a weapon." He pointed to the spot behind his ear where the cylinder was buried. "I can move faster than you can fire the gun."
Maota nodded. "I have heard how you travel. It does not matter. I will kill you anyway."
"I suggest we negotiate."
"No."
"Why not?"
Maota looked off toward the hills, old eyes filmed from years of sand and wind, leather skin lined and pitted. The hills stood immobile, brown-gray, already shimmering with heat, impotent.
"Why not?" Michaelson repeated.
"Why not what?" Maota dragged his eyes back.
"Negotiate."
"No." Maota's eyes grew hard as steel. They stood there in the sun, not twenty feet apart, hating each other. The two moons, very pale and far away on the western horizon, stared like two bottomless eyes.
"All right, then. At least it's a quick death. I hear that thing just disintegrates a man. Pfft! And that's that."
Michaelson prepared himself to move if the old man's finger slid closer toward the firing stud. The old man raised the gun.
"Wait!"
"Now what?"
"At least read some of the book to me before I die, then."
The gun wavered. "I am not an unreasonable man," the webfoot said.
Michaelson stepped forward, extending his arm with the book.
"No, stay where you are. Throw it."
"This book is priceless. You just don't go throwing such valuable items around."
"It won't break. Throw it."
Michaelson threw the book. It landed at Maota's feet, spouting sand against his leg. He shifted the weapon, picked up the book and leafed through it, raising his head in a listening attitude, searching for a suitable passage. Michaelson heard the thin, metallic pages rustle softly. He could have jumped and seized the weapon at that moment, but his desire to hear the book was strong.
Old Maota read, Michaelson listened. The cadence was different, the syntax confusing. But the thoughts were there. It might have been a professor back on Earth reading to his students. Keats, Shelley, Browning. These people were human, with human thoughts and aspirations.
The old man stopped reading. He squatted slowly, keeping Michaelson in sight, and laid the book face up in the sand. Wind moved the pages.
"See?" he said. "The spirits read. They must have been great readers, these people. They drink the book, as if it were an elixir. See how gentle! They lap at the pages like a new kitten tasting milk."
Michaelson laughed. "You certainly have an imagination."
"What difference does it make?" Maota cried, suddenly angry. "You want to close up all these things in boxes for a posterity who may have no slightest feeling or appreciation. I want to leave the city as it is, for spirits whose existence I cannot prove."
The old man's eyes were furious now, deadly. The gun came down directly in line with the Earthman's chest. The gnarled finger moved.
Michaelson, using the power of the cylinder behind his ear, jumped behind the old webfoot. To Maota it seemed that he had flicked out of existence like a match blown out. The next instant Michaelson spun him around and hit him. It was an inexpert fist, belonging to an archeologist, not a fighter. But Maota was an old man.
He dropped in the sand, momentarily stunned. Michaelson bent over to pick up the gun and the old man, feeling it slip from his fingers, hung on and was pulled to his feet.
They struggled for possession of the gun, silently, gasping, kicking sand. Faces grew red. Lips drew back over Michaelson's white teeth, over Maota's pink, toothless gums. The dead city's fragile spires threw impersonal shadows down where they fought.
Then quite suddenly a finger or hand—neither knew whose finger or hand—touched the firing stud.
There was a hollow, whooshing sound. Both stopped still, realizing the total destruction they might have caused.
"It only hit the ground," Michaelson said.
A black, charred hole, two feet in diameter and—they could not see how deep—stared at them.
Maota let go and sprawled in the sand. "The book!" he cried. "The book is gone!"
"No! We probably covered it with sand while we fought."
Both men began scooping sand in their cupped hands, digging frantically for the book. Saliva dripped from Maota's mouth, but he didn't know or care.
Finally they stopped, exhausted. They had covered a substantial area around the hole. They had covered the complete area where they had been.
"We killed it," the old man moaned.
"It was just a book. Not alive, you know."
"How do you know?" The old man's pale eyes were filled with tears. "It talked and it sang. In a way, it had a soul. Sometimes on long nights I used to imagine it loved me, for taking care of it."
"There are other books. We'll get another."
Maota shook his head. "There are no more."
"But I've seen them. Down there in the square building."
"Not poetry. Books, yes, but not poetry. That was the only book with songs."
"I'm sorry."
" You killed it!" Maota suddenly sprang for the weapon, lying forgotten in the sand. Michaelson put his foot on it and Maota was too weak to tear it loose. He could only weep out his rage.
When he could talk again, Maota said, "I am sorry, Mr. Earthgod. I've disgraced myself."
"Don't be sorry." Michaelson helped him to his feet. "We fight for some reasons, cry for others. A priceless book is a good reason for either."
"Not for that. For not winning. I should have killed you last night when I had the chance. The gods give us chances and if we don't take them we lose forever."
"I told you before! We are on the same side. Negotiate. Have you never heard of negotiation?"
"You are a god," Maota said. "One does not negotiate with gods. One either loves them, or kills them."
"That's another thing. I am not a god. Can't you understand?"
"Of course you are." Maota looked up, very sure. "Mortals cannot step from star to star like crossing a shallow brook."
"No, no. I don't step from one star to another. An invention does that. Just an invention. I carry it with me. It's a tiny thing. No one would ever guess it has such power. So you see, I'm human, just like you. Hit me and I hurt. Cut me and I bleed. I love. I hate. I was born. Some day I'll die. See? I'm human. Just a human with a machine. No more than that."
Maota laughed, then sobered quickly. "You lie."
"No."
"If I had this machine, could I travel as you?"
"Yes."
"Then I'll kill you and take yours."
"It would not work for you."
"Why?"
"Each machine is tailored for each person."
The old man hung his head. He looked down into the black, charred hole. He walked all around the hole. He kicked at the sand, looking half-heartedly again for the book.
"Look," Michaelson said. "I'm sure I've convinced you that I'm human. Why not have a try at negotiating our differences?"
He looked up. His expressive eyes, deep, resigned, studied Michaelson's face. Finally he shook his head sadly. "When we first met I hoped we could think the ancient thoughts together. But our paths diverge. We have finished, you and I."
He turned and started off, shoulders slumped dejectedly.
Michaelson caught up to him. "Are you leaving the city?"
"No."
"Where are you going?"
"Away. Far away." Maota looked off toward the hills, eyes distant.
"Don't be stupid, old man. How can you go far away and not leave the city?"
"There are many directions. You would not understand."
"East. West. North. South. Up. Down."
"No, no. There is another direction. Come, if you must see."
Michaelson followed him far down the street. They came to a section of the city he had not seen before. Buildings were smaller, spires dwarfed against larger structures. Here a path was packed in the sand, leading to a particular building.
Michaelson said, "This is where you live?"
"Yes."
Maota went inside. Michaelson stood in the entrance and looked around. The room was clean, furnished with hand made chairs and a bed. Who is this old man, he thought, far from his people, living alone, choosing a life of solitude among ancient ruins but not touching them? Above the bed a "clock" was fastened to the wall, Michaelson remembered his fright—thinking of the warmth where warmth should not be.
Maota pointed to it.
"You asked about this machine," he said. "Now I will tell you." He laid his hand against it. "Here is power to follow another direction."
Michaelson tested one of the chairs to see if it would hold his weight, then sat down. His curiosity about the instrument was colossal, but he forced a short laugh. "Maota, you are complex. Why not stop all this mystery nonsense and tell me about it? You know more about it than I."
"Of course." Maota smiled a toothless, superior smile. "What do you suppose happened to this race?"
"You tell me."
"They took the unknown direction. The books speak of it. I don't know how the instrument works, but one thing is certain. The race did not die out, as a species becomes extinct."
Michaelson was amused, but interested. "Something like a fourth dimension?"
"I don't know. I only know that with this instrument there is no death. I have read the books that speak of this race, this wonderful people who conquered all disease, who explored all the mysteries of science, who devised this machine to cheat death. See this button here on the face of the instrument? Press the button, and...."
"And what?"
"I don't know, exactly. But I have lived many years. I have walked the streets of this city and wondered, and wanted to press the button. Now I will do so."
Quickly the old man, still smiling, pressed the button. A high-pitched whine filled the air, just within audio range. Steady for a moment, it then rose in pitch passing beyond hearing quickly.
The old man's knees buckled. He sank down, fell over the bed, lay still. Michaelson touched him cautiously, then examined him more carefully. No question about it.
The old man was dead.
Feeling depressed and alone, Michaelson found a desert knoll outside the city overlooking the tall spires that shone in the sunlight and gleamed in the moonlight. He made a stretcher, rolled the old man's body on to it and dragged it down the long ancient street and up the knoll.
Here he buried him.
But it seemed a waste of time. Somehow he knew beyond any doubt that the old native and his body were completely disassociated in some sense more complete than death.
In the days that followed he gave much thought to the "clock." He came to the city every day. He spent long hours in the huge square building with the books. He learned the language by sheer bulldog determination. Then he searched the books for information about the instrument.
Finally after many weeks, long after the winds had obliterated all evidence of Maota's grave on the knoll, Michaelson made a decision. He had to know if the machine would work for him.
And so one afternoon when the ancient spires threw long shadows over the sand he walked down the long street and entered the old man's house. He stood before the instrument, trembling, afraid, but determined. He pinched his eyes shut tight like a child and pressed the button.
The high-pitched whine started.
Complete, utter silence. Void. Darkness. Awareness and memory, yes; nothing else. Then Maota's chuckle came. No sound, an impression only like the voice from the ancient book. Where was he? There was no left or right, up or down. Maota was everywhere, nowhere.
"Look!" Maota's thought was directed at him in this place of no direction. "Think of the city and you will see it."
Michaelson did, and he saw the city beyond, as if he were looking through a window. And yet he was in the city looking at his own body.
Maota's chuckle again. "The city will remain as it is. You did not win after all."
"Neither did you."
"But this existence has compensations," Maota said. "You can be anywhere, see anywhere on this planet. Even on your Earth."
Michaelson felt a great sadness, seeing his body lying across the old, home made bed. He looked closer. He sensed a vibration or life force—he didn't stop to define it—in his body. Why was his dead body different from Old Maota's? Could it be that there was some thread stretching from the reality of his body to his present state?
"I don't like your thoughts," Maota said. "No one can go back. I tried. I have discussed it with many who are not presently in communication with you. No one can go back."
Michaelson decided he try.
"No!" Maota's thought was prickled with fear and anger.
Michaelson did not know how to try, but he remembered the cylinder and gathered all the force of his mind in spite of Maota's protests, and gave his most violent command.
At first he thought it didn't work. He got up and looked around, then it struck him. He was standing up!
The cylinder. He knew it was the cylinder. That was the difference between himself and Maota. When he used the cylinder, that was where he went, the place where Maota was now. It was a door of some kind, leading to a path of some kind where distance was non-existent. But the
"clock" was a mechanism to transport only the mind to that place.
To be certain of it, he pressed the button again, with the same result as before. He saw his own body fall down. He felt Maota's presence.
"You devil!" Maota's thought-scream was a sword of hate and anger, irrational suddenly, like a person who knows his loss is irrevocable.
"I said you were a god. I said you were a god. I said you were a god...! "
|
What is the setting of the story
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After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about The Snare by Richard Rein Smith.
Relevant chunks:
The Snare
By RICHARD R. SMITH
Illustrated by WEISS
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy January 1956. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
It's easy to find a solution when there is one—the trick is to do it if there is none!
I glanced at the path we had made across the Mare Serenitatis . The Latin translated as "the Sea of Serenity." It was well named because, as far as the eye could see in every direction, there was a smooth layer of pumice that resembled the surface of a calm sea. Scattered across the quiet sea of virgin Moon dust were occasional islands of rock that jutted abruptly toward the infinity of stars above. Considering everything, our surroundings conveyed a sense of serenity like none I had ever felt.
Our bounding path across the level expanse was clearly marked. Because of the light gravity, we had leaped high into the air with each step and every time we struck the ground, the impact had raised a cloud of dustlike pumice. Now the clouds of dust were slowly settling in the light gravity.
Above us, the stars were cold, motionless and crystal-clear. Indifferently, they sprayed a faint light on our surroundings ... a dim glow that was hardly sufficient for normal vision and was too weak to be reflected toward Earth.
We turned our head-lamps on the strange object before us. Five beams of light illuminated the smooth shape that protruded from the Moon's surface.
The incongruity was so awesome that for several minutes, we remained motionless and quiet. Miller broke the silence with his quavering voice, "Strange someone didn't notice it before."
Strange? The object rose a quarter of a mile above us, a huge, curving hulk of smooth metal. It was featureless and yet conveyed a sense of alienness . It was alien and yet it wasn't a natural formation. Something had made the thing, whatever it was. But was it strange that it hadn't been noticed before? Men had lived on the Moon for over a year, but the Moon was vast and the Mare Serenitatis covered three hundred and forty thousand square miles.
"What is it?" Marie asked breathlessly.
Her husband grunted his bafflement. "Who knows? But see how it curves? If it's a perfect sphere, it must be at least two miles in diameter!"
"If it's a perfect sphere," Miller suggested, "most of it must be beneath the Moon's surface."
"Maybe it isn't a sphere," my wife said. "Maybe this is all of it."
"Let's call Lunar City and tell the authorities about it." I reached for the radio controls on my suit.
Kane grabbed my arm. "No. Let's find out whatever we can by ourselves. If we tell the authorities, they'll order us to leave it alone. If we discover something really important, we'll be famous!"
I lowered my arm. His outburst seemed faintly childish to me. And yet it carried a good measure of common sense. If we discovered proof of an alien race, we would indeed be famous. The more we discovered for ourselves, the more famous we'd be. Fame was practically a synonym for prestige and wealth.
"All right," I conceded.
Miller stepped forward, moving slowly in the bulk of his spacesuit. Deliberately, he removed a small torch from his side and pressed the brilliant flame against the metal.
A few minutes later, the elderly mineralogist gave his opinion: "It's steel ... made thousands of years ago."
Someone gasped over the intercom, "Thousands of years! But wouldn't it be in worse shape than this if it was that old?"
Miller pointed at the small cut his torch had made in the metal. The notch was only a quarter of an inch deep. "I say steel because it's similar to steel. Actually, it's a much stronger alloy. Besides that, on the Moon, there's been no water or atmosphere to rust it. Not even a wind to disturb its surface. It's at least several thousand years old."
We slowly circled the alien structure. Several minutes later, Kane shouted, "Look!"
A few feet above the ground, the structure's smooth surface was broken by a circular opening that yawned invitingly. Kane ran ahead and flashed his head-lamp into the dark recess.
"There's a small room inside," he told us, and climbed through the opening.
We waited outside and focused our lamps through the five-foot opening to give him as much light as possible.
"Come on in, Marie," he called to his wife. "This is really something! It must be an alien race. There's all kinds of weird drawings on the walls and gadgets that look like controls for something...."
Briefly, my lamp flickered over Marie's pale face. Her features struggled with two conflicting emotions: She was frightened by the alienness of the thing and yet she wanted to be with her husband. She hesitated momentarily, then climbed through the passage.
"You want to go in?" my wife asked.
"Do you?"
"Let's."
I helped Verana through the opening, climbed through myself and turned to help Miller.
Miller was sixty years old. He was an excellent mineralogist, alert mentally, but with a body that was almost feeble. I reached out to help him as he stepped into the passageway.
For a brief second, he was framed in the opening, a dark silhouette against the star-studded sky.
The next second, he was thrown twenty yards into the air. He gasped with pain when he struck the ground. " Something pushed me!"
"Are you all right?"
"Yes."
He had fallen on a spot beyond our angle of vision. I started through the passage....
... and struck an invisible solid wall.
My eyes were on the circular opening. A metal panel emerged from a recess on one side and slid across the passage. The room darkened with the absence of starlight.
" What happened? "
"The door to this damned place closed," I explained.
" What? "
Before we could recover from the shock, the room filled with a brilliant glare. We turned off our lamps.
The room was approximately twelve feet long and nine feet wide. The ceiling was only a few inches above our heads and when I looked at the smooth, hard metal, I felt as if I were trapped in some alien vault.
The walls of the room were covered with strange drawings and instruments. Here and there, kaleidoscopic lights pulsed rhythmically.
Kane brushed past me and beat his gloved fists against the metal door that had imprisoned us.
"Miller!"
"Yes?"
"See if you can get this thing open from the outside."
I knelt before the door and explored its surface with my fingers. There were no visible recesses or controls.
Over the intercom network, everyone's breath mingled and formed a rough, harsh sound. I could discern the women's quick, frightened breaths that were almost sobs. Kane's breath was deep and strong; Miller's was faltering and weak.
"Miller, get help!"
"I'll—" The sound of his breathing ceased. We listened intently.
"What happened to him?"
"I'll phone Lunar City." My fingers fumbled at the radio controls and trembled beneath the thick gloves.
I turned the dials that would connect my radio with Lunar City....
Static grated against my ear drums.
Static!
I listened to the harsh, erratic sound and my voice was weak by comparison: "Calling Lunar City."
"Static!" Kane echoed my thoughts. His frown made deep clefts between his eyebrows. "There's no static between inter-lunar radio!"
Verana's voice was small and frightened. "That sounds like the static we hear over the bigger radios when we broadcast to Earth."
"It does," Marie agreed.
"But we wouldn't have that kind of static over our radio, unless—" Verana's eyes widened until the pupils were surrounded by circles of white—"unless we were in outer space!"
We stared at the metal door that had imprisoned us, afraid even to speak of our fantastic suspicion.
I deactivated my radio.
Marie screamed as an inner door opened to disclose a long, narrow corridor beyond.
Simultaneous with the opening of the second door, I felt air press against my spacesuit. Before, our suits had been puffed outward by the pressure of air inside. Now our spacesuits were slack and dangling on our bodies.
We looked at each other and then at the inviting corridor beyond the open door.
We went single file, first Kane, then his wife Marie. Verana followed next and I was the last.
We walked slowly, examining the strange construction. The walls were featureless but still seemed alien. At various places on the walls were the outlines of doors without handles or locks.
Kane pressed his shoulder against a door and shoved. The door was unyielding.
I manipulated the air-vent controls of my spacesuit, allowed a small amount of the corridor's air into my helmet and inhaled cautiously. It smelled all right. I waited and nothing happened. Gradually, I increased the intake, turned off the oxygenating machines and removed my helmet.
"Shut off your oxy," I suggested. "We might as well breathe the air in this place and save our supply. We may need the oxygen in our suits later."
They saw that I had removed my helmet and was still alive and one by one removed their own helmets.
At the end of the corridor, Kane stopped before a blank wall. The sweat on his face glistened dully; his chest rose and fell rapidly. Kane was a pilot and one of the prerequisites for the job of guiding tons of metal between Earth and the Moon was a good set of nerves. Kane excited easily, his temper was fiery, but his nerves were like steel.
"The end of the line," he grunted.
As though to disprove the statement, a door on his right side opened soundlessly.
He went through the doorway as if shoved violently by an invisible hand.
The door closed behind him.
Marie threw herself at the door and beat at the metal. "Harry!"
Verana rushed to her side. Another door on the opposite side of the corridor opened silently. The door was behind them; they didn't notice.
Before I could warn them, Marie floated across the corridor, through the doorway.
Verana and I stared at the darkness beyond the opening, our muscles frozen by shock.
The door closed behind Marie's screaming, struggling form.
Verana's face was white with fear. Apprehensively, she glanced at the other doors that lined the hall.
I put my arms around her, held her close.
"Antigravity machines, force rays," I suggested worriedly.
For several minutes, we remained motionless and silent. I recalled the preceding events of the day, searched for a sense of normality in them. The Kanes, Miller, Verana and I lived in Lunar City with hundreds of other people. Mankind had inhabited the Moon for over a year. Means of recreation were scarce. Many people explored the place to amuse themselves. After supper, we had decided to take a walk. As simple as that: a walk on the Moon.
We had expected only the familiar craters, chasms and weird rock formations. A twist of fate and here we were: imprisoned in an alien ship.
My legs quivered with fatigue, my heart throbbed heavily, Verana's perfume dizzied me. No, it wasn't a dream. Despite our incredible situation, there was no sensation of unreality.
I took Verana's hand and led her down the long corridor, retracing our steps.
We had walked not more than two yards when the rest of the doors opened soundlessly.
Verana's hand flew to her mouth to stifle a gasp.
Six doors were now open. The only two that remained closed were the ones that the Kanes had unwillingly entered.
This time, no invisible hand thrust us into any of the rooms.
I entered the nearest one. Verana followed hesitantly.
The walls of the large room were lined with shelves containing thousands of variously colored boxes and bottles. A table and four chairs were located in the center of the green, plasticlike floor. Each chair had no back, only a curving platform with a single supporting column.
"Ed!" I joined Verana on the other side of the room. She pointed a trembling finger at some crude drawings. "The things in this room are food!"
The drawings were so simple that anyone could have understood them. The first drawing portrayed a naked man and woman removing boxes and bottles from the shelves. The second picture showed the couple opening the containers. The third showed the man eating from one of the boxes and the woman drinking from a bottle.
"Let's see how it tastes," I said.
I selected an orange-colored box. The lid dissolved at the touch of my fingers.
The only contents were small cubes of a soft orange substance.
I tasted a small piece.
"Chocolate! Just like chocolate!"
Verana chose a nearby bottle and drank some of the bluish liquid.
"Milk!" she exclaimed.
"Perhaps we'd better look at the other rooms," I told her.
The next room we examined was obviously for recreation. Containers were filled with dozens of strange games and books of instructions in the form of simple drawings. The games were foreign, but designed in such a fashion that they would be interesting to Earthmen.
Two of the rooms were sleeping quarters. The floors were covered with a spongy substance and the lights were dim and soothing.
Another room contained a small bathing pool, running water, waste-disposal units and yellow cakes of soap.
The last room was an observatory. The ceiling and an entire wall were transparent. Outside, the stars shone clearly for a few seconds, then disappeared for an equal time, only to reappear in a different position.
"Hyper-space drive," Verana whispered softly. She was fascinated by the movement of the stars. For years, our scientists had sought a hyperspatial drive to conquer the stars.
We selected a comfortable chair facing the transparent wall, lit cigarettes and waited.
A few minutes later, Marie entered the room.
I noticed with some surprise that her face was calm. If she was excited, her actions didn't betray it.
She sat next to Verana.
"What happened?" my wife asked.
Marie crossed her legs and began in a rambling manner as if discussing a new recipe, "That was really a surprise, wasn't it? I was scared silly, at first. That room was dark and I didn't know what to expect. Something touched my head and I heard a telepathic voice—"
"Telepathic?" Verana interrupted.
"Yes. Well, this voice said not to worry and that it wasn't going to hurt me. It said it only wanted to learn something about us. It was the oddest feeling! All the time, this voice kept talking to me in a nice way and made me feel at ease ... and at the same time, I felt something search my mind and gather information. I could actually feel it search my memories!"
"What memories?" I inquired.
She frowned with concentration. "Memories of high school mostly. It seemed interested in English and history classes. And then it searched for memories of our customs and lives in general...."
Kane stalked into the room at that moment, his face red with anger.
" Do you know where we are? " he demanded. "When those damned aliens got me in that room, they explained what this is all about. We're guinea pigs!"
"Did they use telepathy to explain?" Verana asked. I suddenly remembered that she was a member of a club that investigated extra-sensory perception with the hope of learning how it operated. She was probably sorry she hadn't been contacted telepathically.
"Yeah," Kane replied. "I saw all sorts of mental pictures and they explained what they did to us. Those damned aliens want us for their zoo!"
"Start at the beginning," I suggested.
He flashed an angry glance at me, but seemed to calm somewhat. "This ship was made by a race from another galaxy. Thousands of years ago, they came to Earth in their spaceships when men were primitives living in caves. They wanted to know what our civilization would be like when we developed space flight. So they put this ship on the Moon as a sort of booby-trap. They put it there with the idea that when we made spaceships and went to the Moon, sooner or later, we'd find the ship and enter it— like rabbits in a snare! "
"And now the booby-trap is on its way home," I guessed.
"Yeah, this ship is taking us to their planet and they're going to keep us there while they study us."
"How long will the trip take?" I asked.
"Six months. We'll be bottled up in this crate for six whole damned months! And when we get there, we'll be prisoners!"
Marie's hypnotic spell was fading and once more her face showed the terror inside her.
"Don't feel so bad," I told Kane. "It could be worse. It should be interesting to see an alien race. We'll have our wives with us—"
"Maybe they'll dissect us!" Marie gasped.
Verana scoffed. "A race intelligent enough to build a ship like this? A race that was traveling between the stars when we were living in caves? Dissection is primitive. They won't have to dissect us in order to study us. They'll have more advanced methods."
"Maybe we can reach the ship's controls somehow," Kane said excitedly.
"We've got to try to change the ship's course and get back to the Moon!"
"It's impossible. Don't waste your time." The voice had no visible source and seemed to fill the room.
Verana snapped her fingers. "So that's why the aliens read Marie's mind! They wanted to learn our language so they could talk to us!"
Kane whirled in a complete circle, glaring at each of the four walls.
"Where are you? Who are you?"
"I'm located in a part of the ship you can't reach. I'm a machine."
"Is anyone else aboard besides ourselves?"
"No. I control the ship." Although the voice spoke without stilted phrases, the tone was cold and mechanical.
"What are your—your masters going to do with us?" Marie asked anxiously.
"You won't be harmed. My masters merely wish to question and examine you. Thousands of years ago, they wondered what your race would be like when it developed to the space-flight stage. They left this ship on your Moon only because they were curious. My masters have no animosity toward your race, only compassion and curiosity."
I remembered the way antigravity rays had shoved Miller from the ship and asked the machine, "Why didn't you let our fifth member board the ship?"
"The trip to my makers' planet will take six months. There are food, oxygen and living facilities for four only of your race. I had to prevent the fifth from entering the ship."
"Come on," Kane ordered. "We'll search this ship room by room and we'll find some way to make it take us back to Earth."
"It's useless," the ship warned us.
For five hours, we minutely examined every room. We had no tools to force our way through solid metal walls to the engine or control rooms. The only things in the ship that could be lifted and carried about were the containers of food and alien games. None were sufficiently heavy or hard enough to put even a scratch in the heavy metal.
Six rooms were open to our use. The two rooms in which the Kanes had been imprisoned were locked and there were no controls or locks to work on.
The rooms that we could enter were without doors, except the ones that opened into the corridor.
After intensive searching, we realized there was no way to damage the ship or reach any section other than our allotted space.
We gave up.
The women went to the sleeping compartments to rest and Kane I went to the "kitchen."
At random, we sampled the variously colored boxes and bottles and discussed our predicament.
"Trapped," Kane said angrily. "Trapped in a steel prison." He slammed his fist against the table top. "But there must be a way to get out! Every problem has a solution!"
"You sure?" I asked.
"What?"
" Does every problem have a solution? I don't believe it. Some problems are too great. Take the problem of a murderer in our civilization: John Doe has killed someone and his problem is to escape. Primarily, a murderer's problem is the same principle as ours. A murderer has to outwit an entire civilization. We have to outwit an entire civilization that was hundreds of times more advanced than ours is now when we were clubbing animals and eating the meat raw. Damned few criminals get away these days, even though they've got such crowds to lose themselves in. All we have is a ship that we can't control. I don't think we have a chance."
My resignation annoyed him. Each of us had reacted differently: Kane's wife was frightened, Verana was calm because of an inner serenity that few people have, I was resigned and Kane was angry.
For several minutes, we sampled the different foods. Every one had a distinctive flavor, comparable to that of a fruit or vegetable on Earth.
Kane lifted a brown bottle to his lips, took a huge gulp and almost choked.
"Whiskey!"
"My masters realized your race would develop intoxicants and tried to create a comparable one," the machine explained.
I selected a brown bottle and sampled the liquid. "A little stronger than our own," I informed the machine.
We drank until Kane was staggering about the room, shouting insults at the alien race and the mechanical voice that seemed to be everywhere. He beat his fist against a wall until blood trickled from bruised knuckles.
"Please don't hurt yourself," the machine pleaded.
" Why? " Kane screamed at the ceiling. "Why should you care?"
"My masters will be displeased with me if you arrive in a damaged condition."
Kane banged his head against a bulkhead; an ugly bruise formed rapidly.
"Shtop me, then!"
"I can't. My masters created no way for me to restrain or contact you other than use of your language."
It took fully fifteen minutes to drag Kane to his sleeping compartment.
After I left Kane in his wife's care, I went to the adjoining room and stretched out on the soft floor beside Verana.
I tried to think of some solution. We were locked in an alien ship at the start of a six months' journey to a strange planet. We had no tools or weapons.
Solution? I doubted if two dozen geniuses working steadily for years could think of one!
I wondered what the alien race was like. Intelligent, surely: They had foreseen our conquest of space flight when we hadn't even invented the wheel. That thought awed me—somehow they had analyzed our brains thousands of years ago and calculated what our future accomplishments would be.
They had been able to predict our scientific development, but they hadn't been able to tell how our civilization would develop. They were curious, so they had left an enormously elaborate piece of bait on the Moon.
The aliens were incredibly more advanced than ourselves. I couldn't help thinking, And to a rabbit in a snare, mankind must seem impossibly clever .
I decided to ask the machine about its makers in the "morning."
When I awoke, my head was throbbing painfully.
I opened my eyes and blinked several times to make sure they were functioning properly. I wasn't in the compartment where I had fallen asleep a few hours before.
I was tied to one of the chairs in the "kitchen." Beside me, Verana was bound to a chair by strips of cloth from her skirt, and across from us, Marie was secured to another chair.
Kane staggered into the room. Although he was visibly drunk, he appeared more sober than the night before. His dark hair was rumpled and his face was flushed, but his eyes gleamed with a growing alertness.
"Awake, huh?"
"What have you done, Harry?" his wife screamed at him. Her eyes were red with tears and her lips twisted in an expression of shame when she looked at him.
"Obvious, isn't it? While all of you were asleep, I conked each of you on the head, dragged you in here and tied you up." He smiled crookedly.
"It's amazing the things a person can do when he's pickled. I'm sorry I had to be so rough, but I have a plan and I knew you wouldn't agree or cooperate with me."
"What's your plan?" I asked.
He grinned wryly and crinkled bloodshot eyes. "I don't want to live in a zoo on an alien planet. I want to go home and prove my theory that this problem has a solution."
I grunted my disgust.
"The solution is simple," he said. "We're in a trap so strong that the aliens didn't establish any means to control our actions. When men put a lion in a strong cage, they don't worry about controlling the lion because the lion can't get out. We're in the same basic situation."
"So what?" Verana queried in a sarcastic tone.
"The aliens want us transported to their planet so they can examine and question us. Right?"
"Right."
"Ed, remember that remark the machine made last night?"
"What remark?"
"It said, ' My masters will be displeased with me if you arrive in a damaged condition.' What does that indicate to you?"
I assumed a baffled expression. I didn't have the slightest idea of what he was driving at and I told him so.
"Ed," he said, "if you could build an electronic brain capable of making decisions, how would you build it?"
"Hell, I don't know," I confessed.
"Well, if I could build an electronic brain like the one running this ship, I'd build it with a conscience so it'd do its best at all times."
"Machines always do their best," I argued. "Come on, untie us. I'm getting a crick in my back!" I didn't like the idea of being slugged while asleep. If Kane had been sober and if his wife hadn't been present, I would have let him know exactly what I thought of him.
" Our machines always do their best," he argued, "because we punch buttons and they respond in predetermined patterns. But the electronic brain in this ship isn't automatic. It makes decisions and I'll bet it even has to decide how much energy and time to put into each process!"
"So what?"
He shrugged muscular shoulders. "So this ship is operated by a thinking, conscientious machine. It's the first time I've encountered such a machine, but I think I know what will happen. I spent hours last night figuring—"
"What are you talking about?" I interrupted. "Are you so drunk that you don't know—"
"I'll show you, Ed."
He walked around the table and stood behind my chair. I felt his thick fingers around my throat and smelled the alcohol on his breath.
"Can you see me, machine?" he asked the empty air.
"Yes," the electronic brain replied.
"Watch!"
Kane tightened his fingers around my throat.
Verana and Marie screamed shrilly.
My head seemed to swell like a balloon; my throat gurgled painfully.
"Please stop," the machine pleaded.
"What will your masters think of you if I kill all of us? You'll return to them with a cargo of dead people!"
The machine didn't answer. I waited for the electronic brain to interfere and, with a cold knot in my stomach, realized the machine had said it had no way to control our actions!
"Your purpose won't be fulfilled, will it?" Kane demanded. "Not if you return with dead specimens!"
"No," the machine admitted.
"If you don't take us back to the Moon," Kane threatened, "I'll kill all of us !"
The alien electronic brain was silent.
By this time, I couldn't see and Kane's voice was a hollow, faraway thing that rang in my ears. I tugged at my bindings, but they only tightened as I struggled.
"If you take us back to the Moon, your masters will never know you failed in your mission. They won't know you failed because you won't bring them proof of your failure."
My fading consciousness tried to envision the alien mechanical brain as it struggled with the problem.
"Look at it this way," Kane persisted. "If you carry our corpses to your masters, all your efforts will have been useless. If you return us to the Moon alive, you'll still have a chance to carry out your mission later."
A long silence followed. Verana and Marie screamed at Kane to let go. A soft darkness seemed to fill the room, blurring everything, drowning even their shrieks in strangling blackness.
"You win," the machine conceded. "I'll return the ship to the Moon."
Kane released his grip on my throat.
"See?" he asked. "Didn't I tell you every problem has a solution?"
I didn't answer. I was too busy enjoying breathing again.
Question:
What is the setting of the story
Answer:
|
[
"The story begins on the surface of the Moon. The group revels in its beauty and the clear, star filled sky. They soon enter into the alien spaceship. The opening chamber's walls are filled with drawings and instruments. There are \"Kaleidoscopic\" lights that flash on and off. A small door opens to reveal a narrow passageway. The passageway is lined with eight doors, with no way to open them. Kane and Marie are pulled by some invisible forces into the first two rooms. Ed and Verana first enter into the \"kitchen\". It's a large room with shelves running along its walls, full of multicoloured containers and bottles. There is a table and four backless chairs in the centre, and the floor is a shiny green. There are drawings of a naked man and woman eating from the contents of the boxes. The second room is dedicated to recreation. There are numerous containers filled with alien games and books. There are more simple drawings to use as instructions to go along with them. They enter the sleeping quarters next, where the floors are squishy and the lights are ambient and relaxing. They go into a bathroom, with a large bath, alien toilets and soap. They finally enter an observatory. On one side is floor to ceiling see through, and the room is furnished with comfortable chairs. ",
"The beginning of the story takes place on the Moon's surface, described as a sea of dust and a calm, vast plain. The characters then find a strange object on the Moon, a tall, curved piece of metal. The rest of the story takes place inside this object; first, they find themselves in a strange, small room with walls covered in foreign drawings and lights. Then, they are in a long corridor, where the doors are within the walls without handles. The doors in the corridor open on their own, revealing several different rooms, including a room with colorful boxes of food, a recreational room with games and books, a room with a bathing pool, sleeping quarters, and an observatory with transparent ceilings and walls. The rooms are somewhat recognizable, yet unfamiliar and foreign to the humans.",
"The story is initially set on the Moon. The area where Ed and his crew explore consists of a smooth layer of pumice that stretches extremely far. There are also occasional rock islands that go off into the stars above. The Mare Serenitatis also covers three hundred and forty thousand square miles. Lunar City is also on the Moon, and humans have been living there for over a year already. \n\nThe spaceship they board later has a long corridor with multiple rooms. There is a kitchen for food. It is lined with shelves that contain thousands of colored boxes and bottles. The green floor is plastic-like, and at the center, there is a table with four chairs. The chairs have no back and are supported by a single column. As a tutorial, there are drawings on the wall of a man and woman going through the steps of eating. Apart from the food room, there is also a recreation room that has games. All of the instructions are in drawings. The ship also has two sleeping quarters with floors that have a spongy substance and dimly-lit lights. One of the other rooms is similar to a bathroom, with a small bathing pool and running water. Other amenities include yellow soap and a waste-disposal unit. The last room they go to is an observatory. It features transparent walls, a transparent ceiling, and stars that shine outside. There are also comfortable chairs to sit in and observe the stars. \n\n",
"The story begins on the surface of the Moon, in a smooth desert made of pumice, under cold and faint stars. In the middle of the desert there is a huge alien sphere. Then the setting moves into the room inside the sphere with weird drawings and gadgets. A narrow corridor opens from there, even there the walls seem alien. The doors in the corridor keep opening and closing by themselves behind people. Ed and Verana find themselves in a large room with a table with chairs and food on the shelves. There are also simple drawings on the walls looking like instructions. The next room is a recreation room with games and books, then there are sleeping quarters, a small pool and the last one is an observatory with a transparent wall. Then the characters move throughout the ship and the rooms described. Eventually, the women go to sleep and the men are talking in the kitchen. Then they go to the dormitories. In the morning everyone is in the kitchen, the rest three bound to chairs by Kane. Some events take place in the kitchen and the ship heads back. "
] |
49901
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The Snare
By RICHARD R. SMITH
Illustrated by WEISS
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy January 1956. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
It's easy to find a solution when there is one—the trick is to do it if there is none!
I glanced at the path we had made across the Mare Serenitatis . The Latin translated as "the Sea of Serenity." It was well named because, as far as the eye could see in every direction, there was a smooth layer of pumice that resembled the surface of a calm sea. Scattered across the quiet sea of virgin Moon dust were occasional islands of rock that jutted abruptly toward the infinity of stars above. Considering everything, our surroundings conveyed a sense of serenity like none I had ever felt.
Our bounding path across the level expanse was clearly marked. Because of the light gravity, we had leaped high into the air with each step and every time we struck the ground, the impact had raised a cloud of dustlike pumice. Now the clouds of dust were slowly settling in the light gravity.
Above us, the stars were cold, motionless and crystal-clear. Indifferently, they sprayed a faint light on our surroundings ... a dim glow that was hardly sufficient for normal vision and was too weak to be reflected toward Earth.
We turned our head-lamps on the strange object before us. Five beams of light illuminated the smooth shape that protruded from the Moon's surface.
The incongruity was so awesome that for several minutes, we remained motionless and quiet. Miller broke the silence with his quavering voice, "Strange someone didn't notice it before."
Strange? The object rose a quarter of a mile above us, a huge, curving hulk of smooth metal. It was featureless and yet conveyed a sense of alienness . It was alien and yet it wasn't a natural formation. Something had made the thing, whatever it was. But was it strange that it hadn't been noticed before? Men had lived on the Moon for over a year, but the Moon was vast and the Mare Serenitatis covered three hundred and forty thousand square miles.
"What is it?" Marie asked breathlessly.
Her husband grunted his bafflement. "Who knows? But see how it curves? If it's a perfect sphere, it must be at least two miles in diameter!"
"If it's a perfect sphere," Miller suggested, "most of it must be beneath the Moon's surface."
"Maybe it isn't a sphere," my wife said. "Maybe this is all of it."
"Let's call Lunar City and tell the authorities about it." I reached for the radio controls on my suit.
Kane grabbed my arm. "No. Let's find out whatever we can by ourselves. If we tell the authorities, they'll order us to leave it alone. If we discover something really important, we'll be famous!"
I lowered my arm. His outburst seemed faintly childish to me. And yet it carried a good measure of common sense. If we discovered proof of an alien race, we would indeed be famous. The more we discovered for ourselves, the more famous we'd be. Fame was practically a synonym for prestige and wealth.
"All right," I conceded.
Miller stepped forward, moving slowly in the bulk of his spacesuit. Deliberately, he removed a small torch from his side and pressed the brilliant flame against the metal.
A few minutes later, the elderly mineralogist gave his opinion: "It's steel ... made thousands of years ago."
Someone gasped over the intercom, "Thousands of years! But wouldn't it be in worse shape than this if it was that old?"
Miller pointed at the small cut his torch had made in the metal. The notch was only a quarter of an inch deep. "I say steel because it's similar to steel. Actually, it's a much stronger alloy. Besides that, on the Moon, there's been no water or atmosphere to rust it. Not even a wind to disturb its surface. It's at least several thousand years old."
We slowly circled the alien structure. Several minutes later, Kane shouted, "Look!"
A few feet above the ground, the structure's smooth surface was broken by a circular opening that yawned invitingly. Kane ran ahead and flashed his head-lamp into the dark recess.
"There's a small room inside," he told us, and climbed through the opening.
We waited outside and focused our lamps through the five-foot opening to give him as much light as possible.
"Come on in, Marie," he called to his wife. "This is really something! It must be an alien race. There's all kinds of weird drawings on the walls and gadgets that look like controls for something...."
Briefly, my lamp flickered over Marie's pale face. Her features struggled with two conflicting emotions: She was frightened by the alienness of the thing and yet she wanted to be with her husband. She hesitated momentarily, then climbed through the passage.
"You want to go in?" my wife asked.
"Do you?"
"Let's."
I helped Verana through the opening, climbed through myself and turned to help Miller.
Miller was sixty years old. He was an excellent mineralogist, alert mentally, but with a body that was almost feeble. I reached out to help him as he stepped into the passageway.
For a brief second, he was framed in the opening, a dark silhouette against the star-studded sky.
The next second, he was thrown twenty yards into the air. He gasped with pain when he struck the ground. " Something pushed me!"
"Are you all right?"
"Yes."
He had fallen on a spot beyond our angle of vision. I started through the passage....
... and struck an invisible solid wall.
My eyes were on the circular opening. A metal panel emerged from a recess on one side and slid across the passage. The room darkened with the absence of starlight.
" What happened? "
"The door to this damned place closed," I explained.
" What? "
Before we could recover from the shock, the room filled with a brilliant glare. We turned off our lamps.
The room was approximately twelve feet long and nine feet wide. The ceiling was only a few inches above our heads and when I looked at the smooth, hard metal, I felt as if I were trapped in some alien vault.
The walls of the room were covered with strange drawings and instruments. Here and there, kaleidoscopic lights pulsed rhythmically.
Kane brushed past me and beat his gloved fists against the metal door that had imprisoned us.
"Miller!"
"Yes?"
"See if you can get this thing open from the outside."
I knelt before the door and explored its surface with my fingers. There were no visible recesses or controls.
Over the intercom network, everyone's breath mingled and formed a rough, harsh sound. I could discern the women's quick, frightened breaths that were almost sobs. Kane's breath was deep and strong; Miller's was faltering and weak.
"Miller, get help!"
"I'll—" The sound of his breathing ceased. We listened intently.
"What happened to him?"
"I'll phone Lunar City." My fingers fumbled at the radio controls and trembled beneath the thick gloves.
I turned the dials that would connect my radio with Lunar City....
Static grated against my ear drums.
Static!
I listened to the harsh, erratic sound and my voice was weak by comparison: "Calling Lunar City."
"Static!" Kane echoed my thoughts. His frown made deep clefts between his eyebrows. "There's no static between inter-lunar radio!"
Verana's voice was small and frightened. "That sounds like the static we hear over the bigger radios when we broadcast to Earth."
"It does," Marie agreed.
"But we wouldn't have that kind of static over our radio, unless—" Verana's eyes widened until the pupils were surrounded by circles of white—"unless we were in outer space!"
We stared at the metal door that had imprisoned us, afraid even to speak of our fantastic suspicion.
I deactivated my radio.
Marie screamed as an inner door opened to disclose a long, narrow corridor beyond.
Simultaneous with the opening of the second door, I felt air press against my spacesuit. Before, our suits had been puffed outward by the pressure of air inside. Now our spacesuits were slack and dangling on our bodies.
We looked at each other and then at the inviting corridor beyond the open door.
We went single file, first Kane, then his wife Marie. Verana followed next and I was the last.
We walked slowly, examining the strange construction. The walls were featureless but still seemed alien. At various places on the walls were the outlines of doors without handles or locks.
Kane pressed his shoulder against a door and shoved. The door was unyielding.
I manipulated the air-vent controls of my spacesuit, allowed a small amount of the corridor's air into my helmet and inhaled cautiously. It smelled all right. I waited and nothing happened. Gradually, I increased the intake, turned off the oxygenating machines and removed my helmet.
"Shut off your oxy," I suggested. "We might as well breathe the air in this place and save our supply. We may need the oxygen in our suits later."
They saw that I had removed my helmet and was still alive and one by one removed their own helmets.
At the end of the corridor, Kane stopped before a blank wall. The sweat on his face glistened dully; his chest rose and fell rapidly. Kane was a pilot and one of the prerequisites for the job of guiding tons of metal between Earth and the Moon was a good set of nerves. Kane excited easily, his temper was fiery, but his nerves were like steel.
"The end of the line," he grunted.
As though to disprove the statement, a door on his right side opened soundlessly.
He went through the doorway as if shoved violently by an invisible hand.
The door closed behind him.
Marie threw herself at the door and beat at the metal. "Harry!"
Verana rushed to her side. Another door on the opposite side of the corridor opened silently. The door was behind them; they didn't notice.
Before I could warn them, Marie floated across the corridor, through the doorway.
Verana and I stared at the darkness beyond the opening, our muscles frozen by shock.
The door closed behind Marie's screaming, struggling form.
Verana's face was white with fear. Apprehensively, she glanced at the other doors that lined the hall.
I put my arms around her, held her close.
"Antigravity machines, force rays," I suggested worriedly.
For several minutes, we remained motionless and silent. I recalled the preceding events of the day, searched for a sense of normality in them. The Kanes, Miller, Verana and I lived in Lunar City with hundreds of other people. Mankind had inhabited the Moon for over a year. Means of recreation were scarce. Many people explored the place to amuse themselves. After supper, we had decided to take a walk. As simple as that: a walk on the Moon.
We had expected only the familiar craters, chasms and weird rock formations. A twist of fate and here we were: imprisoned in an alien ship.
My legs quivered with fatigue, my heart throbbed heavily, Verana's perfume dizzied me. No, it wasn't a dream. Despite our incredible situation, there was no sensation of unreality.
I took Verana's hand and led her down the long corridor, retracing our steps.
We had walked not more than two yards when the rest of the doors opened soundlessly.
Verana's hand flew to her mouth to stifle a gasp.
Six doors were now open. The only two that remained closed were the ones that the Kanes had unwillingly entered.
This time, no invisible hand thrust us into any of the rooms.
I entered the nearest one. Verana followed hesitantly.
The walls of the large room were lined with shelves containing thousands of variously colored boxes and bottles. A table and four chairs were located in the center of the green, plasticlike floor. Each chair had no back, only a curving platform with a single supporting column.
"Ed!" I joined Verana on the other side of the room. She pointed a trembling finger at some crude drawings. "The things in this room are food!"
The drawings were so simple that anyone could have understood them. The first drawing portrayed a naked man and woman removing boxes and bottles from the shelves. The second picture showed the couple opening the containers. The third showed the man eating from one of the boxes and the woman drinking from a bottle.
"Let's see how it tastes," I said.
I selected an orange-colored box. The lid dissolved at the touch of my fingers.
The only contents were small cubes of a soft orange substance.
I tasted a small piece.
"Chocolate! Just like chocolate!"
Verana chose a nearby bottle and drank some of the bluish liquid.
"Milk!" she exclaimed.
"Perhaps we'd better look at the other rooms," I told her.
The next room we examined was obviously for recreation. Containers were filled with dozens of strange games and books of instructions in the form of simple drawings. The games were foreign, but designed in such a fashion that they would be interesting to Earthmen.
Two of the rooms were sleeping quarters. The floors were covered with a spongy substance and the lights were dim and soothing.
Another room contained a small bathing pool, running water, waste-disposal units and yellow cakes of soap.
The last room was an observatory. The ceiling and an entire wall were transparent. Outside, the stars shone clearly for a few seconds, then disappeared for an equal time, only to reappear in a different position.
"Hyper-space drive," Verana whispered softly. She was fascinated by the movement of the stars. For years, our scientists had sought a hyperspatial drive to conquer the stars.
We selected a comfortable chair facing the transparent wall, lit cigarettes and waited.
A few minutes later, Marie entered the room.
I noticed with some surprise that her face was calm. If she was excited, her actions didn't betray it.
She sat next to Verana.
"What happened?" my wife asked.
Marie crossed her legs and began in a rambling manner as if discussing a new recipe, "That was really a surprise, wasn't it? I was scared silly, at first. That room was dark and I didn't know what to expect. Something touched my head and I heard a telepathic voice—"
"Telepathic?" Verana interrupted.
"Yes. Well, this voice said not to worry and that it wasn't going to hurt me. It said it only wanted to learn something about us. It was the oddest feeling! All the time, this voice kept talking to me in a nice way and made me feel at ease ... and at the same time, I felt something search my mind and gather information. I could actually feel it search my memories!"
"What memories?" I inquired.
She frowned with concentration. "Memories of high school mostly. It seemed interested in English and history classes. And then it searched for memories of our customs and lives in general...."
Kane stalked into the room at that moment, his face red with anger.
" Do you know where we are? " he demanded. "When those damned aliens got me in that room, they explained what this is all about. We're guinea pigs!"
"Did they use telepathy to explain?" Verana asked. I suddenly remembered that she was a member of a club that investigated extra-sensory perception with the hope of learning how it operated. She was probably sorry she hadn't been contacted telepathically.
"Yeah," Kane replied. "I saw all sorts of mental pictures and they explained what they did to us. Those damned aliens want us for their zoo!"
"Start at the beginning," I suggested.
He flashed an angry glance at me, but seemed to calm somewhat. "This ship was made by a race from another galaxy. Thousands of years ago, they came to Earth in their spaceships when men were primitives living in caves. They wanted to know what our civilization would be like when we developed space flight. So they put this ship on the Moon as a sort of booby-trap. They put it there with the idea that when we made spaceships and went to the Moon, sooner or later, we'd find the ship and enter it— like rabbits in a snare! "
"And now the booby-trap is on its way home," I guessed.
"Yeah, this ship is taking us to their planet and they're going to keep us there while they study us."
"How long will the trip take?" I asked.
"Six months. We'll be bottled up in this crate for six whole damned months! And when we get there, we'll be prisoners!"
Marie's hypnotic spell was fading and once more her face showed the terror inside her.
"Don't feel so bad," I told Kane. "It could be worse. It should be interesting to see an alien race. We'll have our wives with us—"
"Maybe they'll dissect us!" Marie gasped.
Verana scoffed. "A race intelligent enough to build a ship like this? A race that was traveling between the stars when we were living in caves? Dissection is primitive. They won't have to dissect us in order to study us. They'll have more advanced methods."
"Maybe we can reach the ship's controls somehow," Kane said excitedly.
"We've got to try to change the ship's course and get back to the Moon!"
"It's impossible. Don't waste your time." The voice had no visible source and seemed to fill the room.
Verana snapped her fingers. "So that's why the aliens read Marie's mind! They wanted to learn our language so they could talk to us!"
Kane whirled in a complete circle, glaring at each of the four walls.
"Where are you? Who are you?"
"I'm located in a part of the ship you can't reach. I'm a machine."
"Is anyone else aboard besides ourselves?"
"No. I control the ship." Although the voice spoke without stilted phrases, the tone was cold and mechanical.
"What are your—your masters going to do with us?" Marie asked anxiously.
"You won't be harmed. My masters merely wish to question and examine you. Thousands of years ago, they wondered what your race would be like when it developed to the space-flight stage. They left this ship on your Moon only because they were curious. My masters have no animosity toward your race, only compassion and curiosity."
I remembered the way antigravity rays had shoved Miller from the ship and asked the machine, "Why didn't you let our fifth member board the ship?"
"The trip to my makers' planet will take six months. There are food, oxygen and living facilities for four only of your race. I had to prevent the fifth from entering the ship."
"Come on," Kane ordered. "We'll search this ship room by room and we'll find some way to make it take us back to Earth."
"It's useless," the ship warned us.
For five hours, we minutely examined every room. We had no tools to force our way through solid metal walls to the engine or control rooms. The only things in the ship that could be lifted and carried about were the containers of food and alien games. None were sufficiently heavy or hard enough to put even a scratch in the heavy metal.
Six rooms were open to our use. The two rooms in which the Kanes had been imprisoned were locked and there were no controls or locks to work on.
The rooms that we could enter were without doors, except the ones that opened into the corridor.
After intensive searching, we realized there was no way to damage the ship or reach any section other than our allotted space.
We gave up.
The women went to the sleeping compartments to rest and Kane I went to the "kitchen."
At random, we sampled the variously colored boxes and bottles and discussed our predicament.
"Trapped," Kane said angrily. "Trapped in a steel prison." He slammed his fist against the table top. "But there must be a way to get out! Every problem has a solution!"
"You sure?" I asked.
"What?"
" Does every problem have a solution? I don't believe it. Some problems are too great. Take the problem of a murderer in our civilization: John Doe has killed someone and his problem is to escape. Primarily, a murderer's problem is the same principle as ours. A murderer has to outwit an entire civilization. We have to outwit an entire civilization that was hundreds of times more advanced than ours is now when we were clubbing animals and eating the meat raw. Damned few criminals get away these days, even though they've got such crowds to lose themselves in. All we have is a ship that we can't control. I don't think we have a chance."
My resignation annoyed him. Each of us had reacted differently: Kane's wife was frightened, Verana was calm because of an inner serenity that few people have, I was resigned and Kane was angry.
For several minutes, we sampled the different foods. Every one had a distinctive flavor, comparable to that of a fruit or vegetable on Earth.
Kane lifted a brown bottle to his lips, took a huge gulp and almost choked.
"Whiskey!"
"My masters realized your race would develop intoxicants and tried to create a comparable one," the machine explained.
I selected a brown bottle and sampled the liquid. "A little stronger than our own," I informed the machine.
We drank until Kane was staggering about the room, shouting insults at the alien race and the mechanical voice that seemed to be everywhere. He beat his fist against a wall until blood trickled from bruised knuckles.
"Please don't hurt yourself," the machine pleaded.
" Why? " Kane screamed at the ceiling. "Why should you care?"
"My masters will be displeased with me if you arrive in a damaged condition."
Kane banged his head against a bulkhead; an ugly bruise formed rapidly.
"Shtop me, then!"
"I can't. My masters created no way for me to restrain or contact you other than use of your language."
It took fully fifteen minutes to drag Kane to his sleeping compartment.
After I left Kane in his wife's care, I went to the adjoining room and stretched out on the soft floor beside Verana.
I tried to think of some solution. We were locked in an alien ship at the start of a six months' journey to a strange planet. We had no tools or weapons.
Solution? I doubted if two dozen geniuses working steadily for years could think of one!
I wondered what the alien race was like. Intelligent, surely: They had foreseen our conquest of space flight when we hadn't even invented the wheel. That thought awed me—somehow they had analyzed our brains thousands of years ago and calculated what our future accomplishments would be.
They had been able to predict our scientific development, but they hadn't been able to tell how our civilization would develop. They were curious, so they had left an enormously elaborate piece of bait on the Moon.
The aliens were incredibly more advanced than ourselves. I couldn't help thinking, And to a rabbit in a snare, mankind must seem impossibly clever .
I decided to ask the machine about its makers in the "morning."
When I awoke, my head was throbbing painfully.
I opened my eyes and blinked several times to make sure they were functioning properly. I wasn't in the compartment where I had fallen asleep a few hours before.
I was tied to one of the chairs in the "kitchen." Beside me, Verana was bound to a chair by strips of cloth from her skirt, and across from us, Marie was secured to another chair.
Kane staggered into the room. Although he was visibly drunk, he appeared more sober than the night before. His dark hair was rumpled and his face was flushed, but his eyes gleamed with a growing alertness.
"Awake, huh?"
"What have you done, Harry?" his wife screamed at him. Her eyes were red with tears and her lips twisted in an expression of shame when she looked at him.
"Obvious, isn't it? While all of you were asleep, I conked each of you on the head, dragged you in here and tied you up." He smiled crookedly.
"It's amazing the things a person can do when he's pickled. I'm sorry I had to be so rough, but I have a plan and I knew you wouldn't agree or cooperate with me."
"What's your plan?" I asked.
He grinned wryly and crinkled bloodshot eyes. "I don't want to live in a zoo on an alien planet. I want to go home and prove my theory that this problem has a solution."
I grunted my disgust.
"The solution is simple," he said. "We're in a trap so strong that the aliens didn't establish any means to control our actions. When men put a lion in a strong cage, they don't worry about controlling the lion because the lion can't get out. We're in the same basic situation."
"So what?" Verana queried in a sarcastic tone.
"The aliens want us transported to their planet so they can examine and question us. Right?"
"Right."
"Ed, remember that remark the machine made last night?"
"What remark?"
"It said, ' My masters will be displeased with me if you arrive in a damaged condition.' What does that indicate to you?"
I assumed a baffled expression. I didn't have the slightest idea of what he was driving at and I told him so.
"Ed," he said, "if you could build an electronic brain capable of making decisions, how would you build it?"
"Hell, I don't know," I confessed.
"Well, if I could build an electronic brain like the one running this ship, I'd build it with a conscience so it'd do its best at all times."
"Machines always do their best," I argued. "Come on, untie us. I'm getting a crick in my back!" I didn't like the idea of being slugged while asleep. If Kane had been sober and if his wife hadn't been present, I would have let him know exactly what I thought of him.
" Our machines always do their best," he argued, "because we punch buttons and they respond in predetermined patterns. But the electronic brain in this ship isn't automatic. It makes decisions and I'll bet it even has to decide how much energy and time to put into each process!"
"So what?"
He shrugged muscular shoulders. "So this ship is operated by a thinking, conscientious machine. It's the first time I've encountered such a machine, but I think I know what will happen. I spent hours last night figuring—"
"What are you talking about?" I interrupted. "Are you so drunk that you don't know—"
"I'll show you, Ed."
He walked around the table and stood behind my chair. I felt his thick fingers around my throat and smelled the alcohol on his breath.
"Can you see me, machine?" he asked the empty air.
"Yes," the electronic brain replied.
"Watch!"
Kane tightened his fingers around my throat.
Verana and Marie screamed shrilly.
My head seemed to swell like a balloon; my throat gurgled painfully.
"Please stop," the machine pleaded.
"What will your masters think of you if I kill all of us? You'll return to them with a cargo of dead people!"
The machine didn't answer. I waited for the electronic brain to interfere and, with a cold knot in my stomach, realized the machine had said it had no way to control our actions!
"Your purpose won't be fulfilled, will it?" Kane demanded. "Not if you return with dead specimens!"
"No," the machine admitted.
"If you don't take us back to the Moon," Kane threatened, "I'll kill all of us !"
The alien electronic brain was silent.
By this time, I couldn't see and Kane's voice was a hollow, faraway thing that rang in my ears. I tugged at my bindings, but they only tightened as I struggled.
"If you take us back to the Moon, your masters will never know you failed in your mission. They won't know you failed because you won't bring them proof of your failure."
My fading consciousness tried to envision the alien mechanical brain as it struggled with the problem.
"Look at it this way," Kane persisted. "If you carry our corpses to your masters, all your efforts will have been useless. If you return us to the Moon alive, you'll still have a chance to carry out your mission later."
A long silence followed. Verana and Marie screamed at Kane to let go. A soft darkness seemed to fill the room, blurring everything, drowning even their shrieks in strangling blackness.
"You win," the machine conceded. "I'll return the ship to the Moon."
Kane released his grip on my throat.
"See?" he asked. "Didn't I tell you every problem has a solution?"
I didn't answer. I was too busy enjoying breathing again.
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What is the significance of the “Prime” technology?
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After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about Prime Difference by Alan Edward Nourse.
Relevant chunks:
PRIME DIFFERENCE
By ALAN E. NOURSE
Illustrated by SCHOENHEER
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Being two men rolled out of one would solve my problems—but which one would I be?
I suppose that every guy reaches a point once in his lifetime when he gets one hundred and forty per cent fed up with his wife.
Understand now—I've got nothing against marriage or any thing like that. Marriage is great. It's a good old red-blooded American Institution. Except that it's got one defect in it big enough to throw a cat through, especially when you happen to be married to a woman like Marge—
It's so permanent .
Oh, I'd have divorced Marge in a minute if we'd been living in the Blissful 'Fifties—but with the Family Solidarity Amendment of 1968, and all the divorce taxes we have these days since the women got their teeth into politics, to say nothing of the Aggrieved Spouse Compensation Act, I'd have been a pauper for the rest of my life if I'd tried it. That's aside from the social repercussions involved.
You can't really blame me for looking for another way out. But a man has to be desperate to try to buy himself an Ego Prime.
So, all right, I was desperate. I'd spent eight years trying to keep Marge happy, which was exactly seven and a half years too long.
Marge was a dream to look at, with her tawny hair and her sulky eyes and a shape that could set your teeth chattering—but that was where the dream stopped.
She had a tongue like a #10 wood rasp and a list of grievances long enough to paper the bedroom wall. When she wasn't complaining, she was crying, and when she wasn't crying, she was pointing out in chilling detail exactly where George Faircloth fell short as a model husband, which happened to be everywhere. Half of the time she had a "beastly headache" (for which I was personally responsible) and the other half she was sore about something, so ninety-nine per cent of the time we got along like a couple of tomcats in a packing case.
Maybe we just weren't meant for each other. I don't know. I used to envy guys like Harry Folsom at the office. His wife is no joy to live with either, but at least he could take a spin down to Rio once in a while with one of the stenographers and get away with it.
I knew better than to try. Marge was already so jealous that I couldn't even smile at the company receptionist without a twinge of guilt. Give Marge something real to howl about, and I'd be ready for the Rehab Center in a week.
But I'd underestimated Marge. She didn't need anything real, as I found out when Jeree came along.
Business was booming and the secretaries at the office got shuffled around from time to time. Since I had an executive-type job, I got an executive-type secretary. Her name was Jeree and she was gorgeous. As a matter of fact, she was better than gorgeous. She was the sort of secretary every businessman ought to have in his office. Not to do any work—just to sit there.
Jeree was tall and dark, and she could convey more without saying anything than I ever dreamed was possible. The first day she was there, she conveyed to me very clearly that if I cared to supply the opportunity, she'd be glad to supply the motive.
That night, I could tell that Marge had been thinking something over during the day. She let me get the first bite of dinner halfway to my mouth, and then she said, "I hear you got a new secretary today."
I muttered something into my coffee cup and pretended not to hear.
Marge turned on her Accusing Look #7. "I also hear that she's five-foot-eight and tapes out at 38-25-36 and thinks you're handsome."
Marge had quite a spy system.
"She couldn't be much of a secretary," she added.
"She's a perfectly good secretary," I blurted, and kicked myself mentally. I should have known Marge's traps by then.
Marge exploded. I didn't get any supper, and she was still going strong at midnight. I tried to argue, but when Marge got going, there was no stopping her. I had my ultimatum, as far as Jeree was concerned.
Harry Folsom administered the coup de grace at coffee next morning.
"What you need is an Ego Prime," he said with a grin. "Solve all your problems. I hear they work like a charm."
I set my coffee cup down. Bells were ringing in my ears. "Don't be ridiculous. It's against the law. Anyway, I wouldn't think of such a thing. It's—it's indecent."
Harry shrugged. "Just joking, old man, just joking. Still, it's fun to think about, eh? Freedom from wife. Absolutely safe and harmless. Not even too expensive, if you've got the right contacts. And I've got a friend who knows a guy—"
Just then, Jeree walked past us and flashed me a big smile. I gripped my cup for dear life and still spilled coffee on my tie.
As I said, a guy gets fed up.
And maybe opportunity would only knock once.
And an Ego Prime would solve all my problems, as Harry had told me.
It was completely illegal, of course. The wonder was that Ego Prime, Inc., ever got to put their product on the market at all, once the nation's housewives got wind of just what their product was.
From the first, there was rigid Federal control and laws regulating the use of Primes right down to the local level. You could get a license for a Utility model Prime if you were a big business executive, or a high public official, or a movie star, or something like that; but even then his circuits had to be inspected every two months, and he had to have a thousand built-in Paralyzers, and you had to specify in advance exactly what you wanted your Prime to be able to do when, where, how, why, and under what circumstances.
The law didn't leave a man much leeway.
But everybody knew that if you really wanted a personal Prime with all his circuits open and no questions asked, you could get one. Black market prices were steep and you ran your own risk, but it could be done.
Harry Folsom told his friend who knew a guy, and a few greenbacks got lost somewhere, and I found myself looking at a greasy little man with a black mustache and a bald spot, up in a dingy fourth-story warehouse off lower Broadway.
"Ah, yes," the little man said. "Mr. Faircloth. We've been expecting you."
I didn't like the looks of the guy any more than the looks of the place. "I've been told you can supply me with a—"
He coughed. "Yes, yes. I understand. It might be possible." He fingered his mustache and regarded me from pouchy eyes. "Busy executives often come to us to avoid the—ah—unpleasantness of formal arrangements. Naturally, we only act as agents, you might say. We never see the merchandise ourselves—" He wiped his hands on his trousers. "Now were you interested in the ordinary Utility model, Mr. Faircloth?"
I assumed he was just being polite. You didn't come to the back door for Utility models.
"Or perhaps you'd require one of our Deluxe models. Very careful workmanship. Only a few key Paralyzers in operation and practically complete circuit duplication. Very useful for—ah—close contact work, you know. Social engagements, conferences—"
I was shaking my head. "I want a Super Deluxe model," I told him.
He grinned and winked. "Ah, indeed! You want perfect duplication. Yes, indeed. Domestic situations can be—awkward, shall we say. Very awkward—"
I gave him a cold stare. I couldn't see where my domestic problems were any affairs of his. He got the idea and hurried me back to a storeroom.
"We keep a few blanks here for the basic measurement. You'll go to our laboratory on 14th Street to have the minute impressions taken. But I can assure you you'll be delighted, simply delighted."
The blanks weren't very impressive—clay and putty and steel, faceless, brainless. He went over me like a tailor, checking measurements of all sorts. He was thorough—embarrassingly thorough, in fact—but finally he was finished. I went on to the laboratory.
And that was all there was to it.
Practical androids had been a pipe dream until Hunyadi invented the Neuro-pantograph. Hunyadi had no idea in the world what to do with it once he'd invented it, but a couple of enterprising engineers bought him body and soul, sub-contracted the problems of anatomy, design, artistry, audio and visio circuitry, and so forth, and ended up with the modern Ego Primes we have today.
I spent a busy two hours under the NP microprobes; the artists worked outside while the NP technicians worked inside. I came out of it pretty woozy, but a shot of Happy-O set that straight. Then I waited in the recovery room for another two hours, dreaming up ways to use my Prime when I got him. Finally the door opened and the head technician walked in, followed by a tall, sandy-haired man with worried blue eyes and a tired look on his face.
"Meet George Faircloth Prime," the technician said, grinning at me like a nursing mother.
I shook hands with myself. Good firm handshake, I thought admiringly. Nothing flabby about it.
I slapped George Prime on the shoulder happily. "Come on, Brother," I said. "You've got a job to do."
But, secretly, I was wondering what Jeree was doing that night.
George Prime had remote controls, as well as a completely recorded neurological analogue of his boss, who was me. George Prime thought what I thought about the same things I did in the same way I did. The only difference was that what I told George Prime to do, George Prime did.
If I told him to go to a business conference in San Francisco and make the smallest possible concessions for the largest possible orders, he would go there and do precisely that. His signature would be my signature. It would hold up in court.
And if I told him that my wife Marge was really a sweet, good-hearted girl and that he was to stay home and keep her quiet and happy any time I chose, he'd do that, too.
George Prime was a duplicate of me right down to the sandy hairs on the back of my hands. Our fingerprints were the same. We had the same mannerisms and used the same figures of speech. The only physical difference apparent even to an expert was the tiny finger-depression buried in the hair above his ear. A little pressure there would stop George Prime dead in his tracks.
He was so lifelike, even I kept forgetting that he was basically just a pile of gears.
I'd planned very carefully how I meant to use him, of course.
Every man who's been married eight years has a sanctuary. He builds it up and maintains it against assault in the very teeth of his wife's natural instinct to clean, poke, pry and rearrange things. Sometimes it takes him years of diligent work to establish his hideout and be confident that it will stay inviolate, but if he starts early enough, and sticks with it long enough, and is fierce enough and persistent enough and crafty enough, he'll probably win in the end. The girls hate him for it, but he'll win.
With some men, it's just a box on their dressers, or a desk, or a corner of an unused back room. But I had set my sights high early in the game. With me, it was the whole workshop in the garage.
At first, Marge tried open warfare. She had to clean the place up, she said. I told her I didn't want her to clean it up. She could clean the whole house as often as she chose, but I would clean up the workshop.
After a couple of sharp engagements on that field, Marge staged a strategic withdrawal and reorganized her attack. A little pile of wood shavings would be on the workshop floor one night and be gone the next. A wrench would be back on the rack—upside down, of course. An open paint can would have a cover on it.
I always knew. I screamed loudly and bitterly. I ranted and raved. I swore I'd rig up a booby-trap with a shotgun.
So she quit trying to clean in there and just went in once in a while to take a look around. I fixed that with the old toothpick-in-the-door routine. Every time she so much as set foot in that workshop, she had a battle on her hands for the next week or so. She could count on it. It was that predictable.
She never found out how I knew, and after seven years or so, it wore her down. She didn't go into the workshop any more.
As I said, you've got to be persistent, but you'll win.
Eventually.
If you're really persistent.
Now all my effort paid off. I got Marge out of the house for an hour or two that day and had George Prime delivered and stored in the big closet in the workshop. They hooked his controls up and left me a manual of instructions for running him. When I got home that night, there he was, just waiting to be put to work.
After supper, I went out to the workshop—to get the pipe I'd left there, I said. I pushed George Prime's button, winked at him and switched on the free-behavior circuits.
"Go to it, Brother," I said.
George Prime put my pipe in his mouth, lit it and walked back into the house.
Five minutes later, I heard them fighting.
It sounded so familiar that I laughed out loud. Then I caught a cab on the corner and headed uptown.
We had quite a night, Jeree and I. I got home just about time to start for work, and sure enough, there was George Prime starting my car, business suit on, briefcase under his arm.
I pushed the recall and George Prime got out of the car and walked into the workshop. He stepped into his cradle in the closet. I turned him off and then drove away in the car.
Bless his metallic soul, he'd even kissed Marge good-by for me!
Needless to say, the affairs of George Faircloth took on a new sparkle with George Prime on hand to cover the home front.
For the first week, I was hardly home at all. I must say I felt a little guilty, leaving poor old George Prime to cope with Marge all the time—he looked and acted so human, it was easy to forget that he literally couldn't care less. But I felt apologetic all the same whenever I took him out of his closet.
"She's really a sweet girl underneath it all," I'd say. "You'll learn to like her after a bit."
"Of course I like her," George Prime said. "You told me to, didn't you? Stop worrying. She's really a sweet girl underneath it all."
He sounded convincing enough, but still it bothered me. "You're sure you understand the exchange mechanism?" I asked. I didn't want any foul-ups there, as you can imagine.
"Perfectly," said George Prime. "When you buzz the recall, I wait for the first logical opportunity I can find to come out to the workshop, and you take over."
"But you might get nervous. You might inadvertently tip her off."
George Prime looked pained. "Really, old man! I'm a Super Deluxe model, remember? I don't have fourteen activated Hunyadi tubes up in this cranial vault of mine just for nothing. You're the one that's nervous. I'll take care of everything. Relax."
So I did.
Jeree made good all her tacit promises and then some. She had a very cozy little apartment on 34th Street where we went to relax after a hard day at the office. When we weren't doing the town, that is. As long as Jeree didn't try too much conversation, everything was wonderful.
And then, when Jeree got a little boring, there was Sybil in the accounting department. Or Dorothy in promotion. Or Jane. Or Ingrid.
I could go on at some length, but I won't. I was building quite a reputation for myself around the office.
Of course, it was like buying your first 3-V set. In a week or so, the novelty wears off a little and you start eating on schedule again. It took a little while, but I finally had things down to a reasonable program.
Tuesday and Thursday nights, I was informally "out" while formally
"in." Sometimes I took Sunday nights "out" if things got too sticky around the house over the weekend. The rest of the time, George Prime cooled his heels in his closet. Locked up, of course. Can't completely trust a wife to observe a taboo, no matter how well trained she is.
There, was an irreconcilable amount of risk. George Prime had to quick-step some questions about my work at the office—there was no way to supply him with current data until the time for his regular two-month refill and pattern-accommodation at the laboratory. In the meantime, George Prime had to make do with what he had.
But as he himself pointed out he was a Super Deluxe model.
Marge didn't suspect a thing. In fact, George Prime seemed to be having a remarkable effect on her. I didn't notice anything at first—I was hardly ever home. But one night I found my pipe and slippers laid out for me, and the evening paper neatly folded on my chair, and it brought me up short. Marge had been extremely docile lately. We hadn't had a good fight in days. Weeks, come to think of it.
I thought it over and shrugged. Old age, I figured. She was bound to mellow sometime.
But pretty soon I began to wonder if she wasn't mellowing a little too much.
One night when I got home, she kissed me almost as though she really meant it. There wasn't an unpleasant word all through dinner, which happened to be steak with mushrooms, served in the dining room (!) by candlelight (!!) with dinner music that Marge could never bear, chiefly because I liked it.
We sat over coffee and cigarettes, and it seemed almost like old times. Very old times, in fact I even caught myself looking at Marge again—really looking at her, watching the light catch in her hair, almost admiring the sparkle in her brown eyes. Sparkle, I said, not glint.
As I mentioned before, Marge was always easy to look at. That night, she was practically ravishing.
"What are you doing to her?" I asked George Prime later, out in the workshop.
"Why, nothing," said George Prime, looking innocent. He couldn't fool me with his look, though, because it was exactly the look I use when I'm guilty and pretending to be innocent.
"There must be something ."
George Prime shrugged. "Any woman will warm up if you spend enough time telling her all the things she wants to hear and pay all the attention to her that she wants paid to her. That's elemental psychology. I can give you page references."
I ought to mention that George Prime had a complete set of basic texts run into his circuits, at a slightly additional charge. Never can tell when an odd bit of information will come in useful.
"Well, you must be doing quite a job," I said. I'd never managed to warm Marge up much.
"I try," said George Prime.
"Oh, I'm not complaining," I hastened to add, forgetting that a Prime's feelings can't be hurt and that he was only acting like me because it was in character. "I was just curious."
"Of course, George."
"I'm really delighted that you're doing so well."
"Thank you, George."
But the next night when I was with Dawn, who happens to be a gorgeous redhead who could put Marge to shame on practically any field of battle except maybe brains, I kept thinking about Marge all evening long, and wondering if things weren't getting just a little out of hand.
The next evening I almost tripped over George Prime coming out of a liquor store. I ducked quickly into an alley and flagged him. " What are you doing out on the street? "
He gave me my martyred look. "Just buying some bourbon. You were out."
"But you're not supposed to be off the premises—"
"Marge asked me to come. I couldn't tell her I was sorry, but her husband wouldn't let me, could I?"
"Well, certainly not—"
"You want me to keep her happy, don't you? You don't want her to get suspicious."
"No, but suppose somebody saw us together! If she ever got a hint—"
"I'm sorry," George Prime said contritely. "It seemed the right thing to do. You would have done it. At least that's what my judgment center maintained. We had quite an argument."
"Well, tell your judgment center to use a little sense," I snapped. "I don't want it to happen again."
The next night, I stayed home, even though it was Tuesday night. I was beginning to get worried. Of course, I did have complete control—I could snap George Prime off any time I wanted, or even take him in for a complete recircuiting—but it seemed a pity. He was doing such a nice job.
Marge was docile as a kitten, even more so than before. She sympathized with my hard day at the office and agreed heartily that the boss, despite all appearances, was in reality a jabbering idiot. After dinner, I suggested a movie, but Marge gave me an odd sort of look and said she thought it would be much nicer to spend the evening at home by the fire.
I'd just gotten settled with the paper when she came into the living room and sat down beside me. She was wearing some sort of filmy affair I'd never laid eyes on before, and I caught a whiff of my favorite perfume.
"Georgie?" she said.
"Uh?"
"Do you still love me?"
I set the paper down and stared at her. "How's that? Of course I still—"
"Well, sometimes you don't act much like it."
"Mm. I guess I've—uh—got an awful headache tonight." Damn that perfume!
"Oh," said Marge.
"In fact, I thought I'd turn in early and get some sleep—"
"Sleep," said Marge. There was no mistaking the disappointment in her voice. Now I knew that things were out of hand.
The next evening, I activated George Prime and caught the taxi at the corner, but I called Ruby and broke my date with her. I took in an early movie alone and was back by ten o'clock. I left the cab at the corner and walked quietly up the path toward the garage.
Then I stopped. I could see Marge and George Prime through the living room windows.
George Prime was kissing my wife the way I hadn't kissed her in eight long years. It made my hair stand on end. And Marge wasn't exactly fighting him off, either. She was coming back for more. After a little, the lights went off.
George Prime was a Super Deluxe model, all right.
I dashed into the workshop and punched the recall button as hard as I could, swearing under my breath. How long had this been going on? I punched the button again, viciously, and waited.
George Prime didn't come out.
It was plenty cold out in the workshop that night and I didn't sleep a wink. About dawn, out came George Prime, looking like a man with a four-day hangover.
Our conversation got down to fundamentals. George Prime kept insisting blandly that, according to my own directions, he was to pick the first logical opportunity to come out when I buzzed, and that was exactly what he'd done.
I was furious all the way to work. I'd take care of this nonsense, all right. I'd have George Prime rewired from top to bottom as soon as the laboratory could take him.
But I never phoned the laboratory. The bank was calling me when I got to the office. They wanted to know what I planned to do about that check of mine that had just bounced.
"What check?" I asked.
"The one you wrote to cash yesterday—five hundred dollars—against your regular account, Mr. Faircloth."
The last I'd looked, I'd had about three thousand dollars in that account. I told the man so rather bluntly.
"Oh, no, sir. That is, you did until last week. But all these checks you've been cashing have emptied the account."
He flashed the checks on the desk screen. My signature was on every one of them.
"What about my special account?" I'd learned long before that an account Marge didn't know about was sound rear-guard strategy.
"That's been closed out for two weeks."
I hadn't written a check against that account for over a year! I glared at the ceiling and tried to think things through.
I came up with a horrible thought.
Marge had always had her heart set on a trip to Bermuda. Just to get away from it all, she'd say. A second honeymoon.
I got a list of travel agencies from the business directory and started down them. The third one I tried had a pleasant tenor voice. "No, sir, not Mrs. Faircloth. You bought two tickets. One way. Champagne flight to Bermuda."
"When?" I choked out.
"Why, today, as a matter of fact. It leaves Idlewild at eleven o'clock—"
I let him worry about my amnesia and started home fast. I didn't know what they'd given that Prime for circuits, but there was no question now that he was out of control— way out of control. And poor Marge, all worked up for a second honeymoon—
Then it struck me. Poor Marge? Poor sucker George! No Prime in his right circuits would behave this way without some human guidance and that meant only one thing: Marge had spotted him. It had happened before. Couple of nasty court battles I'd read about. And she'd known all about George Prime.
For how long?
When I got home, the house was empty. George Prime wasn't in his closet. And Marge wasn't in the house.
They were gone.
I started to call the police, but caught myself just in time. I couldn't very well complain to the cops that my wife had run off with an android.
Worse yet, I could get twenty years for having an illegal Prime wandering around.
I sat down and poured myself a stiff drink.
My own wife deserting me for a pile of bearings.
It was indecent.
Then I heard the front door open and there was Marge, her arms full of grocery bundles. "Why, darling! You're home early!"
I just blinked for a moment. Then I said, "You're still here!"
"Of course. Where did you think I'd be?"
"But I thought—I mean the ticket office—"
She set down the bundles and kissed me and looked up into my eyes, almost smiling, half reproachful. "You didn't really think I'd go running off with something out of a lab, did you?"
"Then—you knew?"
"Certainly I knew, silly. You didn't do a very good job of instructing him, either. You gave him far too much latitude. Let him have ideas of his own and all that. And next thing I knew, he was trying to get me to run off with him to Hawaii or someplace."
"Bermuda," I said.
And then Marge was in my arms, kissing me and snuggling her cheek against my chest.
"Even though he looked like you, I knew he couldn't be," she said. "He was like you, but he wasn't you , darling. And all I ever want is you. I just never appreciated you before...."
I held her close and tried to keep my hands from shaking. George Faircloth, Idiot, I thought. She'd never been more beautiful. "But what did you do with him?"
"I sent him back to the factory, naturally. They said they could blot him out and use him over again. But let's not talk about that any more. We've got more interesting things to discuss."
Maybe we had, but we didn't waste a lot of time talking. It was the Marge I'd once known and I was beginning to wonder how I could have been so wrong about her. In fact unless my memory was getting awfully porous, the old Marge was never like this—
I kissed her tenderly and ran my hands through her hair, and felt the depression with my fore-finger, and then I knew what had really happened.
That Marge always had been a sly one.
I wondered how she was liking things in Bermuda.
Marge probably thought she'd really put me where I belonged, but the laugh was on her, after all.
As I said, the old Marge was never like the new one. Marge Prime makes Jeree and Sybil and Dorothy and Dawn and Jane and Ruby all look pretty sad by comparison.
She cooks like a dream and she always brings me my pipe and slippers. As they say, there's nothing a man likes more than to be appreciated.
A hundred per cent appreciated, with a factory guarantee to correct any slippage, which would only be temporary, anyhow.
One of these days, we'll take that second honeymoon. But I think we'll go to Hawaii.
Question:
What is the significance of the “Prime” technology?
Answer:
|
[
"The Ego Prime is a technology that produces a robotic duplicate of a person. This duplicate is based on a neuro-pantograph with a humanlike body and soul. The duplicate is identical to a real person, including the habits, thought processes, physiological functions, or even the handwritten legal signature that one person may have. The only difference between the real person and one’s duplicate is that the duplicate has a finger-depression button hidden underneath the hair above the ear. Throughout the story, George, a husband who has been tired of his wife, buys a George Prime, the duplicate of himself, to deal with his wife and have sexual affairs with other women around his office. However, he finds out that George Prime leaves with her wife, and his wife, Marge Faircloth, sends her duplicate Marge Prime to accompany her, just as he did to her. The exchange of their duplicates to escape from the unsatisfying marriage contributes to most of the story. Prime technology plays a significant role as duplicates can satisfy human needs better than a natural person. Due to this characteristic of being able to meet one’s demand by their logical inferences and inability to feel annoyed, the duplicates of both sides become the ideal mates for each person, both George and Marge, ending the story with both of them living with the Primes. Without Prime Technology, the story would not have developed.",
"The Prime technology allows George to spend evenings with his other romantic partners without maddening or upsetting his wife. He leaves his duplicate created with the Prime technology with her while spending his nights in other places. She is not supposed to notice the substitution, but eventually, George realizes that she did. She uses this knowledge to convince George Prime to buy two tickets to Bermuda. Apparently, she enjoys George Prime’s company and feels happier with him than with her real husband. George, too, enjoys spending time with the duplicate of his wife at the end of the story, claiming that this android is a dream in comparison to all the other women he knows. The Prime technology practically ends the relationship between George and Marge but allows them to get better partners. ",
"The prime technology is one of the most important parts of the story. It allows George to get a break from a draining marriage. The technology allows people to make android replicas that can be completely controlled by their owners, and that is completely the same as the owner. George uses this technology to make a copy of himself that keeps his wife busy and happy. While the android is with his wife, he takes advantage to meet with many different women that he couldn’t have met before. Slowly, the android starts to stretch George’s commands, and George realizes that he has to turn the android off. Before he can do this, the android runs off with his wife. George realizes that his wife also had a prime replica. ",
"The “Prime” is a technology that allows an individual to create an android clone of themselves that looks and behaves like them. This can be used for many intentions, in this story’s case, to get some time off a marriage that no longer brings joy to the parties involved. The technology is said to have been started by Hunyadi who invented the “Neuro-pantograph.” Larger technology enterprises then bought the model to modify and improve it further. The “Ego Prime” by “Ego Prime, Inc.” became so popular that the wives all over the country caught up with what the technology was and what its purpose was for. That is when black markets for the same technology started, which is where George gets his Prime. The Primes have different levels of model specificity ranging from the Utility model to the Super Deluxe model, which is the one George requests. The individual has to go through measurements and be under NP microprobes to create their Prime. The Prime produced has remote controls and has neurological pathways that are identical to its owner ingrained in them, allowing them to behave like the owner. All physicialities are identical except for finger-depression above the Prime’s ear which if clicked, would end the android.\n"
] |
51321
|
PRIME DIFFERENCE
By ALAN E. NOURSE
Illustrated by SCHOENHEER
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Being two men rolled out of one would solve my problems—but which one would I be?
I suppose that every guy reaches a point once in his lifetime when he gets one hundred and forty per cent fed up with his wife.
Understand now—I've got nothing against marriage or any thing like that. Marriage is great. It's a good old red-blooded American Institution. Except that it's got one defect in it big enough to throw a cat through, especially when you happen to be married to a woman like Marge—
It's so permanent .
Oh, I'd have divorced Marge in a minute if we'd been living in the Blissful 'Fifties—but with the Family Solidarity Amendment of 1968, and all the divorce taxes we have these days since the women got their teeth into politics, to say nothing of the Aggrieved Spouse Compensation Act, I'd have been a pauper for the rest of my life if I'd tried it. That's aside from the social repercussions involved.
You can't really blame me for looking for another way out. But a man has to be desperate to try to buy himself an Ego Prime.
So, all right, I was desperate. I'd spent eight years trying to keep Marge happy, which was exactly seven and a half years too long.
Marge was a dream to look at, with her tawny hair and her sulky eyes and a shape that could set your teeth chattering—but that was where the dream stopped.
She had a tongue like a #10 wood rasp and a list of grievances long enough to paper the bedroom wall. When she wasn't complaining, she was crying, and when she wasn't crying, she was pointing out in chilling detail exactly where George Faircloth fell short as a model husband, which happened to be everywhere. Half of the time she had a "beastly headache" (for which I was personally responsible) and the other half she was sore about something, so ninety-nine per cent of the time we got along like a couple of tomcats in a packing case.
Maybe we just weren't meant for each other. I don't know. I used to envy guys like Harry Folsom at the office. His wife is no joy to live with either, but at least he could take a spin down to Rio once in a while with one of the stenographers and get away with it.
I knew better than to try. Marge was already so jealous that I couldn't even smile at the company receptionist without a twinge of guilt. Give Marge something real to howl about, and I'd be ready for the Rehab Center in a week.
But I'd underestimated Marge. She didn't need anything real, as I found out when Jeree came along.
Business was booming and the secretaries at the office got shuffled around from time to time. Since I had an executive-type job, I got an executive-type secretary. Her name was Jeree and she was gorgeous. As a matter of fact, she was better than gorgeous. She was the sort of secretary every businessman ought to have in his office. Not to do any work—just to sit there.
Jeree was tall and dark, and she could convey more without saying anything than I ever dreamed was possible. The first day she was there, she conveyed to me very clearly that if I cared to supply the opportunity, she'd be glad to supply the motive.
That night, I could tell that Marge had been thinking something over during the day. She let me get the first bite of dinner halfway to my mouth, and then she said, "I hear you got a new secretary today."
I muttered something into my coffee cup and pretended not to hear.
Marge turned on her Accusing Look #7. "I also hear that she's five-foot-eight and tapes out at 38-25-36 and thinks you're handsome."
Marge had quite a spy system.
"She couldn't be much of a secretary," she added.
"She's a perfectly good secretary," I blurted, and kicked myself mentally. I should have known Marge's traps by then.
Marge exploded. I didn't get any supper, and she was still going strong at midnight. I tried to argue, but when Marge got going, there was no stopping her. I had my ultimatum, as far as Jeree was concerned.
Harry Folsom administered the coup de grace at coffee next morning.
"What you need is an Ego Prime," he said with a grin. "Solve all your problems. I hear they work like a charm."
I set my coffee cup down. Bells were ringing in my ears. "Don't be ridiculous. It's against the law. Anyway, I wouldn't think of such a thing. It's—it's indecent."
Harry shrugged. "Just joking, old man, just joking. Still, it's fun to think about, eh? Freedom from wife. Absolutely safe and harmless. Not even too expensive, if you've got the right contacts. And I've got a friend who knows a guy—"
Just then, Jeree walked past us and flashed me a big smile. I gripped my cup for dear life and still spilled coffee on my tie.
As I said, a guy gets fed up.
And maybe opportunity would only knock once.
And an Ego Prime would solve all my problems, as Harry had told me.
It was completely illegal, of course. The wonder was that Ego Prime, Inc., ever got to put their product on the market at all, once the nation's housewives got wind of just what their product was.
From the first, there was rigid Federal control and laws regulating the use of Primes right down to the local level. You could get a license for a Utility model Prime if you were a big business executive, or a high public official, or a movie star, or something like that; but even then his circuits had to be inspected every two months, and he had to have a thousand built-in Paralyzers, and you had to specify in advance exactly what you wanted your Prime to be able to do when, where, how, why, and under what circumstances.
The law didn't leave a man much leeway.
But everybody knew that if you really wanted a personal Prime with all his circuits open and no questions asked, you could get one. Black market prices were steep and you ran your own risk, but it could be done.
Harry Folsom told his friend who knew a guy, and a few greenbacks got lost somewhere, and I found myself looking at a greasy little man with a black mustache and a bald spot, up in a dingy fourth-story warehouse off lower Broadway.
"Ah, yes," the little man said. "Mr. Faircloth. We've been expecting you."
I didn't like the looks of the guy any more than the looks of the place. "I've been told you can supply me with a—"
He coughed. "Yes, yes. I understand. It might be possible." He fingered his mustache and regarded me from pouchy eyes. "Busy executives often come to us to avoid the—ah—unpleasantness of formal arrangements. Naturally, we only act as agents, you might say. We never see the merchandise ourselves—" He wiped his hands on his trousers. "Now were you interested in the ordinary Utility model, Mr. Faircloth?"
I assumed he was just being polite. You didn't come to the back door for Utility models.
"Or perhaps you'd require one of our Deluxe models. Very careful workmanship. Only a few key Paralyzers in operation and practically complete circuit duplication. Very useful for—ah—close contact work, you know. Social engagements, conferences—"
I was shaking my head. "I want a Super Deluxe model," I told him.
He grinned and winked. "Ah, indeed! You want perfect duplication. Yes, indeed. Domestic situations can be—awkward, shall we say. Very awkward—"
I gave him a cold stare. I couldn't see where my domestic problems were any affairs of his. He got the idea and hurried me back to a storeroom.
"We keep a few blanks here for the basic measurement. You'll go to our laboratory on 14th Street to have the minute impressions taken. But I can assure you you'll be delighted, simply delighted."
The blanks weren't very impressive—clay and putty and steel, faceless, brainless. He went over me like a tailor, checking measurements of all sorts. He was thorough—embarrassingly thorough, in fact—but finally he was finished. I went on to the laboratory.
And that was all there was to it.
Practical androids had been a pipe dream until Hunyadi invented the Neuro-pantograph. Hunyadi had no idea in the world what to do with it once he'd invented it, but a couple of enterprising engineers bought him body and soul, sub-contracted the problems of anatomy, design, artistry, audio and visio circuitry, and so forth, and ended up with the modern Ego Primes we have today.
I spent a busy two hours under the NP microprobes; the artists worked outside while the NP technicians worked inside. I came out of it pretty woozy, but a shot of Happy-O set that straight. Then I waited in the recovery room for another two hours, dreaming up ways to use my Prime when I got him. Finally the door opened and the head technician walked in, followed by a tall, sandy-haired man with worried blue eyes and a tired look on his face.
"Meet George Faircloth Prime," the technician said, grinning at me like a nursing mother.
I shook hands with myself. Good firm handshake, I thought admiringly. Nothing flabby about it.
I slapped George Prime on the shoulder happily. "Come on, Brother," I said. "You've got a job to do."
But, secretly, I was wondering what Jeree was doing that night.
George Prime had remote controls, as well as a completely recorded neurological analogue of his boss, who was me. George Prime thought what I thought about the same things I did in the same way I did. The only difference was that what I told George Prime to do, George Prime did.
If I told him to go to a business conference in San Francisco and make the smallest possible concessions for the largest possible orders, he would go there and do precisely that. His signature would be my signature. It would hold up in court.
And if I told him that my wife Marge was really a sweet, good-hearted girl and that he was to stay home and keep her quiet and happy any time I chose, he'd do that, too.
George Prime was a duplicate of me right down to the sandy hairs on the back of my hands. Our fingerprints were the same. We had the same mannerisms and used the same figures of speech. The only physical difference apparent even to an expert was the tiny finger-depression buried in the hair above his ear. A little pressure there would stop George Prime dead in his tracks.
He was so lifelike, even I kept forgetting that he was basically just a pile of gears.
I'd planned very carefully how I meant to use him, of course.
Every man who's been married eight years has a sanctuary. He builds it up and maintains it against assault in the very teeth of his wife's natural instinct to clean, poke, pry and rearrange things. Sometimes it takes him years of diligent work to establish his hideout and be confident that it will stay inviolate, but if he starts early enough, and sticks with it long enough, and is fierce enough and persistent enough and crafty enough, he'll probably win in the end. The girls hate him for it, but he'll win.
With some men, it's just a box on their dressers, or a desk, or a corner of an unused back room. But I had set my sights high early in the game. With me, it was the whole workshop in the garage.
At first, Marge tried open warfare. She had to clean the place up, she said. I told her I didn't want her to clean it up. She could clean the whole house as often as she chose, but I would clean up the workshop.
After a couple of sharp engagements on that field, Marge staged a strategic withdrawal and reorganized her attack. A little pile of wood shavings would be on the workshop floor one night and be gone the next. A wrench would be back on the rack—upside down, of course. An open paint can would have a cover on it.
I always knew. I screamed loudly and bitterly. I ranted and raved. I swore I'd rig up a booby-trap with a shotgun.
So she quit trying to clean in there and just went in once in a while to take a look around. I fixed that with the old toothpick-in-the-door routine. Every time she so much as set foot in that workshop, she had a battle on her hands for the next week or so. She could count on it. It was that predictable.
She never found out how I knew, and after seven years or so, it wore her down. She didn't go into the workshop any more.
As I said, you've got to be persistent, but you'll win.
Eventually.
If you're really persistent.
Now all my effort paid off. I got Marge out of the house for an hour or two that day and had George Prime delivered and stored in the big closet in the workshop. They hooked his controls up and left me a manual of instructions for running him. When I got home that night, there he was, just waiting to be put to work.
After supper, I went out to the workshop—to get the pipe I'd left there, I said. I pushed George Prime's button, winked at him and switched on the free-behavior circuits.
"Go to it, Brother," I said.
George Prime put my pipe in his mouth, lit it and walked back into the house.
Five minutes later, I heard them fighting.
It sounded so familiar that I laughed out loud. Then I caught a cab on the corner and headed uptown.
We had quite a night, Jeree and I. I got home just about time to start for work, and sure enough, there was George Prime starting my car, business suit on, briefcase under his arm.
I pushed the recall and George Prime got out of the car and walked into the workshop. He stepped into his cradle in the closet. I turned him off and then drove away in the car.
Bless his metallic soul, he'd even kissed Marge good-by for me!
Needless to say, the affairs of George Faircloth took on a new sparkle with George Prime on hand to cover the home front.
For the first week, I was hardly home at all. I must say I felt a little guilty, leaving poor old George Prime to cope with Marge all the time—he looked and acted so human, it was easy to forget that he literally couldn't care less. But I felt apologetic all the same whenever I took him out of his closet.
"She's really a sweet girl underneath it all," I'd say. "You'll learn to like her after a bit."
"Of course I like her," George Prime said. "You told me to, didn't you? Stop worrying. She's really a sweet girl underneath it all."
He sounded convincing enough, but still it bothered me. "You're sure you understand the exchange mechanism?" I asked. I didn't want any foul-ups there, as you can imagine.
"Perfectly," said George Prime. "When you buzz the recall, I wait for the first logical opportunity I can find to come out to the workshop, and you take over."
"But you might get nervous. You might inadvertently tip her off."
George Prime looked pained. "Really, old man! I'm a Super Deluxe model, remember? I don't have fourteen activated Hunyadi tubes up in this cranial vault of mine just for nothing. You're the one that's nervous. I'll take care of everything. Relax."
So I did.
Jeree made good all her tacit promises and then some. She had a very cozy little apartment on 34th Street where we went to relax after a hard day at the office. When we weren't doing the town, that is. As long as Jeree didn't try too much conversation, everything was wonderful.
And then, when Jeree got a little boring, there was Sybil in the accounting department. Or Dorothy in promotion. Or Jane. Or Ingrid.
I could go on at some length, but I won't. I was building quite a reputation for myself around the office.
Of course, it was like buying your first 3-V set. In a week or so, the novelty wears off a little and you start eating on schedule again. It took a little while, but I finally had things down to a reasonable program.
Tuesday and Thursday nights, I was informally "out" while formally
"in." Sometimes I took Sunday nights "out" if things got too sticky around the house over the weekend. The rest of the time, George Prime cooled his heels in his closet. Locked up, of course. Can't completely trust a wife to observe a taboo, no matter how well trained she is.
There, was an irreconcilable amount of risk. George Prime had to quick-step some questions about my work at the office—there was no way to supply him with current data until the time for his regular two-month refill and pattern-accommodation at the laboratory. In the meantime, George Prime had to make do with what he had.
But as he himself pointed out he was a Super Deluxe model.
Marge didn't suspect a thing. In fact, George Prime seemed to be having a remarkable effect on her. I didn't notice anything at first—I was hardly ever home. But one night I found my pipe and slippers laid out for me, and the evening paper neatly folded on my chair, and it brought me up short. Marge had been extremely docile lately. We hadn't had a good fight in days. Weeks, come to think of it.
I thought it over and shrugged. Old age, I figured. She was bound to mellow sometime.
But pretty soon I began to wonder if she wasn't mellowing a little too much.
One night when I got home, she kissed me almost as though she really meant it. There wasn't an unpleasant word all through dinner, which happened to be steak with mushrooms, served in the dining room (!) by candlelight (!!) with dinner music that Marge could never bear, chiefly because I liked it.
We sat over coffee and cigarettes, and it seemed almost like old times. Very old times, in fact I even caught myself looking at Marge again—really looking at her, watching the light catch in her hair, almost admiring the sparkle in her brown eyes. Sparkle, I said, not glint.
As I mentioned before, Marge was always easy to look at. That night, she was practically ravishing.
"What are you doing to her?" I asked George Prime later, out in the workshop.
"Why, nothing," said George Prime, looking innocent. He couldn't fool me with his look, though, because it was exactly the look I use when I'm guilty and pretending to be innocent.
"There must be something ."
George Prime shrugged. "Any woman will warm up if you spend enough time telling her all the things she wants to hear and pay all the attention to her that she wants paid to her. That's elemental psychology. I can give you page references."
I ought to mention that George Prime had a complete set of basic texts run into his circuits, at a slightly additional charge. Never can tell when an odd bit of information will come in useful.
"Well, you must be doing quite a job," I said. I'd never managed to warm Marge up much.
"I try," said George Prime.
"Oh, I'm not complaining," I hastened to add, forgetting that a Prime's feelings can't be hurt and that he was only acting like me because it was in character. "I was just curious."
"Of course, George."
"I'm really delighted that you're doing so well."
"Thank you, George."
But the next night when I was with Dawn, who happens to be a gorgeous redhead who could put Marge to shame on practically any field of battle except maybe brains, I kept thinking about Marge all evening long, and wondering if things weren't getting just a little out of hand.
The next evening I almost tripped over George Prime coming out of a liquor store. I ducked quickly into an alley and flagged him. " What are you doing out on the street? "
He gave me my martyred look. "Just buying some bourbon. You were out."
"But you're not supposed to be off the premises—"
"Marge asked me to come. I couldn't tell her I was sorry, but her husband wouldn't let me, could I?"
"Well, certainly not—"
"You want me to keep her happy, don't you? You don't want her to get suspicious."
"No, but suppose somebody saw us together! If she ever got a hint—"
"I'm sorry," George Prime said contritely. "It seemed the right thing to do. You would have done it. At least that's what my judgment center maintained. We had quite an argument."
"Well, tell your judgment center to use a little sense," I snapped. "I don't want it to happen again."
The next night, I stayed home, even though it was Tuesday night. I was beginning to get worried. Of course, I did have complete control—I could snap George Prime off any time I wanted, or even take him in for a complete recircuiting—but it seemed a pity. He was doing such a nice job.
Marge was docile as a kitten, even more so than before. She sympathized with my hard day at the office and agreed heartily that the boss, despite all appearances, was in reality a jabbering idiot. After dinner, I suggested a movie, but Marge gave me an odd sort of look and said she thought it would be much nicer to spend the evening at home by the fire.
I'd just gotten settled with the paper when she came into the living room and sat down beside me. She was wearing some sort of filmy affair I'd never laid eyes on before, and I caught a whiff of my favorite perfume.
"Georgie?" she said.
"Uh?"
"Do you still love me?"
I set the paper down and stared at her. "How's that? Of course I still—"
"Well, sometimes you don't act much like it."
"Mm. I guess I've—uh—got an awful headache tonight." Damn that perfume!
"Oh," said Marge.
"In fact, I thought I'd turn in early and get some sleep—"
"Sleep," said Marge. There was no mistaking the disappointment in her voice. Now I knew that things were out of hand.
The next evening, I activated George Prime and caught the taxi at the corner, but I called Ruby and broke my date with her. I took in an early movie alone and was back by ten o'clock. I left the cab at the corner and walked quietly up the path toward the garage.
Then I stopped. I could see Marge and George Prime through the living room windows.
George Prime was kissing my wife the way I hadn't kissed her in eight long years. It made my hair stand on end. And Marge wasn't exactly fighting him off, either. She was coming back for more. After a little, the lights went off.
George Prime was a Super Deluxe model, all right.
I dashed into the workshop and punched the recall button as hard as I could, swearing under my breath. How long had this been going on? I punched the button again, viciously, and waited.
George Prime didn't come out.
It was plenty cold out in the workshop that night and I didn't sleep a wink. About dawn, out came George Prime, looking like a man with a four-day hangover.
Our conversation got down to fundamentals. George Prime kept insisting blandly that, according to my own directions, he was to pick the first logical opportunity to come out when I buzzed, and that was exactly what he'd done.
I was furious all the way to work. I'd take care of this nonsense, all right. I'd have George Prime rewired from top to bottom as soon as the laboratory could take him.
But I never phoned the laboratory. The bank was calling me when I got to the office. They wanted to know what I planned to do about that check of mine that had just bounced.
"What check?" I asked.
"The one you wrote to cash yesterday—five hundred dollars—against your regular account, Mr. Faircloth."
The last I'd looked, I'd had about three thousand dollars in that account. I told the man so rather bluntly.
"Oh, no, sir. That is, you did until last week. But all these checks you've been cashing have emptied the account."
He flashed the checks on the desk screen. My signature was on every one of them.
"What about my special account?" I'd learned long before that an account Marge didn't know about was sound rear-guard strategy.
"That's been closed out for two weeks."
I hadn't written a check against that account for over a year! I glared at the ceiling and tried to think things through.
I came up with a horrible thought.
Marge had always had her heart set on a trip to Bermuda. Just to get away from it all, she'd say. A second honeymoon.
I got a list of travel agencies from the business directory and started down them. The third one I tried had a pleasant tenor voice. "No, sir, not Mrs. Faircloth. You bought two tickets. One way. Champagne flight to Bermuda."
"When?" I choked out.
"Why, today, as a matter of fact. It leaves Idlewild at eleven o'clock—"
I let him worry about my amnesia and started home fast. I didn't know what they'd given that Prime for circuits, but there was no question now that he was out of control— way out of control. And poor Marge, all worked up for a second honeymoon—
Then it struck me. Poor Marge? Poor sucker George! No Prime in his right circuits would behave this way without some human guidance and that meant only one thing: Marge had spotted him. It had happened before. Couple of nasty court battles I'd read about. And she'd known all about George Prime.
For how long?
When I got home, the house was empty. George Prime wasn't in his closet. And Marge wasn't in the house.
They were gone.
I started to call the police, but caught myself just in time. I couldn't very well complain to the cops that my wife had run off with an android.
Worse yet, I could get twenty years for having an illegal Prime wandering around.
I sat down and poured myself a stiff drink.
My own wife deserting me for a pile of bearings.
It was indecent.
Then I heard the front door open and there was Marge, her arms full of grocery bundles. "Why, darling! You're home early!"
I just blinked for a moment. Then I said, "You're still here!"
"Of course. Where did you think I'd be?"
"But I thought—I mean the ticket office—"
She set down the bundles and kissed me and looked up into my eyes, almost smiling, half reproachful. "You didn't really think I'd go running off with something out of a lab, did you?"
"Then—you knew?"
"Certainly I knew, silly. You didn't do a very good job of instructing him, either. You gave him far too much latitude. Let him have ideas of his own and all that. And next thing I knew, he was trying to get me to run off with him to Hawaii or someplace."
"Bermuda," I said.
And then Marge was in my arms, kissing me and snuggling her cheek against my chest.
"Even though he looked like you, I knew he couldn't be," she said. "He was like you, but he wasn't you , darling. And all I ever want is you. I just never appreciated you before...."
I held her close and tried to keep my hands from shaking. George Faircloth, Idiot, I thought. She'd never been more beautiful. "But what did you do with him?"
"I sent him back to the factory, naturally. They said they could blot him out and use him over again. But let's not talk about that any more. We've got more interesting things to discuss."
Maybe we had, but we didn't waste a lot of time talking. It was the Marge I'd once known and I was beginning to wonder how I could have been so wrong about her. In fact unless my memory was getting awfully porous, the old Marge was never like this—
I kissed her tenderly and ran my hands through her hair, and felt the depression with my fore-finger, and then I knew what had really happened.
That Marge always had been a sly one.
I wondered how she was liking things in Bermuda.
Marge probably thought she'd really put me where I belonged, but the laugh was on her, after all.
As I said, the old Marge was never like the new one. Marge Prime makes Jeree and Sybil and Dorothy and Dawn and Jane and Ruby all look pretty sad by comparison.
She cooks like a dream and she always brings me my pipe and slippers. As they say, there's nothing a man likes more than to be appreciated.
A hundred per cent appreciated, with a factory guarantee to correct any slippage, which would only be temporary, anyhow.
One of these days, we'll take that second honeymoon. But I think we'll go to Hawaii.
|
Describe the setting of the story.
|
After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about Acid Bath by Bill Garson.
Relevant chunks:
ACID BATH
By VASELEOS GARSON
The starways' Lone Watcher had expected some odd developments
in his singular, nerve-fraught job on the asteroid. But nothing like the
weird twenty-one-day liquid test devised by the invading Steel-Blues.
Jon Karyl
was bolting in a new baffle
plate on the stationary rocket engine.
It was a tedious job and took all his
concentration. So he wasn't paying too much
attention to what was going on in other
parts of the little asteroid.
He didn't see the peculiar blue space
ship, its rockets throttled down, as it drifted
to land only a few hundred yards away from
his plastic igloo.
Nor did he see the half-dozen steel-blue
creatures slide out of the peculiar vessel's
airlock.
It was only as he crawled out of the
depths of the rocket power plant that he
realized something was wrong.
By then it was almost too late. The six
blue figures were only fifty feet away, approaching
him at a lope.
Jon Karyl took one look and went bounding
over the asteroid's rocky slopes in fifty-foot
bounds.
When you're a Lone Watcher, and
strangers catch you unawares, you don't
stand still. You move fast. It's the Watcher's
first rule. Stay alive. An Earthship may depend
upon your life.
As he fled, Jon Karyl cursed softly under
his breath. The automatic alarm should have
shrilled out a warning.
Then he saved as much of his breath as
he could as some sort of power wave tore
up the rocky sward to his left. He twisted
and zig-zagged in his flight, trying to get
out of sight of the strangers.
Once hidden from their eyes, he could cut
back and head for the underground entrance
to the service station.
He glanced back finally.
Two of the steel-blue creatures were jack-rabbiting
after him, and rapidly closing the
distance.
Jon Karyl unsheathed the stubray pistol
at his side, turned the oxygen dial up for
greater exertion, increased the gravity pull
in his space-suit boots as he neared the
ravine he'd been racing for.
The oxygen was just taking hold when
he hit the lip of the ravine and began
sprinting through its man-high bush-strewn
course.
The power ray from behind ripped out
great gobs of the sheltering bushes. But
running naturally, bent close to the bottom
of the ravine, Jon Karyl dodged the bare
spots. The oxygen made the tremendous
exertion easy for his lungs as he sped down
the dim trail, hidden from the two steel-blue
stalkers.
He'd eluded them, temporarily at least,
Jon Karyl decided when he finally edged off
the dim trail and watched for movement
along the route behind him.
He stood up, finally, pushed aside the
leafy overhang of a bush and looked for
landmarks along the edge of the ravine.
He found one, a stubby bush, shaped like
a Maltese cross, clinging to the lip of the
ravine. The hidden entrance to the service
station wasn't far off.
His pistol held ready, he moved quietly
on down the ravine until the old water
course made an abrupt hairpin turn.
Instead of following around the sharp
bend, Jon Karyl moved straight ahead
through the overhanging bushes until he
came to a dense thicket. Dropping to his
hands and knees he worked his way under
the edge of the thicket into a hollowed-out
space in the center.
There
, just ahead of him, was the lock
leading into the service station. Slipping
a key out of a leg pouch on the space suit,
he jabbed it into the center of the lock,
opening the lever housing.
He pulled strongly on the lever. With a
hiss of escaping air, the lock swung open.
Jon Karyl darted inside, the door closing
softly behind.
At the end of the long tunnel he stepped
to the televisor which was fixed on the area
surrounding the station.
Jon Karyl saw none of the steel-blue creatures.
But he saw their ship. It squatted
like a smashed-down kid's top, its lock shut
tight.
He tuned the televisor to its widest range
and finally spotted one of the Steel-Blues.
He was looking into the stationary rocket
engine.
As Karyl watched, a second Steel-Blue
came crawling out of the ship.
The two Steel-Blues moved toward the
center of the televisor range. They're coming
toward the station, Karyl thought grimly.
Karyl examined the two creatures. They
were of the steel-blue color from the crown
of their egg-shaped heads to the tips of
their walking appendages.
They were about the height of Karyl—six
feet. But where he tapered from broad
shoulders to flat hips, they were straight up
and down. They had no legs, just appendages,
many-jointed that stretched and
shrank independent of the other, but keeping
the cylindrical body with its four pairs
of tentacles on a level balance.
Where their eyes would have been was
an elliptical-shaped lens, covering half the
egg-head, with its converging ends curving
around the sides of the head.
Robots! Jon gauged immediately. But
where were their masters?
The Steel-Blues moved out of the range
of the televisor. A minute later Jon heard
a pounding from the station upstairs.
He chuckled. They were like the wolf of
pre-atomic days who huffed and puffed to
blow the house down.
The outer shell of the station was formed
from stelrylite, the toughest metal in the
solar system. With the self-sealing lock of
the same resistant material, a mere pounding
was nothing.
Jon thought he'd have a look-see anyway.
He went up the steel ladder leading to the
station's power plant and the televisor that
could look into every room within the
station.
He heaved a slight sigh when he reached
the power room, for right at his hand were
weapons to blast the ship from the asteroid.
Jon adjusted one televisor to take in the
lock to the station. His teeth suddenly
clamped down on his lower lip.
Those Steel-Blues were pounding holes
into the stelrylite with round-headed metal
clubs. But it was impossible. Stelrylite didn't
break up that easily.
Jon leaped to a row of studs, lining up
the revolving turret which capped the station
so that its thin fin pointed at the
squat ship of the invaders.
Then he went to the atomic cannon's
firing buttons.
He pressed first the yellow, then the blue
button. Finally the red one.
The thin fin—the cannon's sight—split in
half as the turret opened and the coiled nose
of the cannon protruded. There was a
soundless flash. Then a sharp crack.
Jon was dumbfounded when he saw the
bolt ricochet off the ship. This was no ship
of the solar system. There was nothing that
could withstand even the slight jolt of power
given by the station cannon on any of the
Sun's worlds. But what was this? A piece of
the ship had changed. A bubble of metal,
like a huge drop of blue wax, dripped off
the vessel and struck the rocket of the
asteroid. It steamed and ran in rivulets.
He pressed the red button again.
Then abruptly he was on the floor of the
power room, his legs strangely cut out from
under him. He tried to move them. They lay
flaccid. His arms seemed all right and tried
to lever himself to an upright position.
Damn it, he seemed as if he were paralyzed
from the waist down. But it couldn't
happen that suddenly.
He turned his head.
A Steel-Blue stood facing him. A forked
tentacle held a square black box.
Jon could read nothing in that metallic
face. He said, voice muffled by the confines
of the plastic helmet, "Who are you?"
"I am"—there was a rising inflection in
the answer—"a Steel-Blue."
There were no lips on the Steel-Blue's
face to move. "That is what I have named
you," Jon Karyl said. "But what are you?"
"A robot," came the immediate answer.
Jon was quite sure then that the Steel-Blue
was telepathic. "Yes," the Steel-Blue answered.
"We talk in the language of the
mind. Come!" he said peremptorily, motioning
with the square black box.
The paralysis left Karyl's legs. He followed
the Steel-Blue, aware that the lens
he'd seen on the creature's face had a
counterpart on the back of the egg-head.
Eyes in the back of his head, Jon thought.
That's quite an innovation. "Thank you,"
Steel-Blue said.
There wasn't much fear in Jon Karyl's
mind. Psychiatrists had proved that when he
had applied for this high-paying but man-killing
job as a Lone Watcher on the Solar
System's starways.
He had little fear now, only curiosity.
These Steel-Blues didn't seem inimical.
They could have snuffed out my life very
simply. Perhaps they and Solarians can be
friends.
Steel-Blue chuckled.
Jon
followed him through the sundered
lock of the station. Karyl stopped for a
moment to examine the wreckage of the
lock. It had been punched full of holes as
if it had been some soft cheese instead of a
metal which Earthmen had spent nearly a
century perfecting.
"We appreciate your compliment," Steel-Blue
said. "But that metal also is found on
our world. It's probably the softest and most
malleable we have. We were surprised you—earthmen,
is it?—use it as protective
metal."
"Why are you in this system?" Jon asked,
hardly expecting an answer.
It came anyway. "For the same reason you
Earthmen are reaching out farther into your
system. We need living room. You have
strategically placed planets for our use. We
will use them."
Jon sighed. For 400 years scientists had
been preaching preparedness as Earth flung
her ships into the reaches of the solar system,
taking the first long step toward the
conquest of space.
There are other races somewhere, they
argued. As strong and smart as man, many
of them so transcending man in mental and
inventive power that we must be prepared to
strike the minute danger shows.
Now here was the answer to the scientists'
warning. Invasion by extra-terrestrials.
"What did you say?" asked Steel-Blue.
"I couldn't understand."
"Just thinking to myself," Jon answered.
It was a welcome surprise. Apparently his
thoughts had to be directed outward, rather
than inward, in order for the Steel-Blues to
read it.
He followed the Steel-Blue into the gaping
lock of the invaders' space ship wondering
how he could warn Earth. The Space
Patrol cruiser was due in for refueling at
his service station in 21 days. But by that
time he probably would be mouldering in
the rocky dust of the asteroid.
It was pitch dark within the ship but the
Steel-Blue seemed to have no trouble at all
maneuvering through the maze of corridors.
Jon followed him, attached to one tentacle.
Finally Jon and his guide entered a circular
room, bright with light streaming from
a glass-like, bulging skylight. They apparently
were near topside of the vessel.
A Steel-Blue, more massive than his
guide and with four more pair of tentacles,
including two short ones that grew from the
top of its head, spoke out.
"This is the violator?" Jon's Steel-Blue
nodded.
"You know the penalty? Carry it out."
"He also is an inhabitant of this system,"
Jon's guide added.
"Examine him first, then give him the
death."
Jon Karyl shrugged as he was led from
the lighted room through more corridors.
If it got too bad he still had the stubray
pistol.
Anyway, he was curious. He'd taken on
the lonely, nerve-wracking job of service
station attendant just to see what it offered.
Here was a part of it, and it was certainly
something new.
"This is the examination room," his
Steel-Blue said, almost contemptuously.
A green effulgence surrounded him.
There
was a hiss. Simultaneously, as the
tiny microphone on the outside of his
suit picked up the hiss, he felt a chill go
through his body. Then it seemed as if a
half dozen hands were inside him, examining
his internal organs. His stomach contracted.
He felt a squeeze on his heart. His
lungs tickled.
There were several more queer motions
inside his body.
Then another Steel-Blue voice said:
"He is a soft-metal creature, made up of
metals that melt at a very low temperature.
He also contains a liquid whose makeup I
cannot ascertain by ray-probe. Bring him
back when the torture is done."
Jon Karyl grinned a trifle wryly. What
kind of torture could this be?
Would it last 21 days? He glanced at the
chronometer on his wrist.
Jon's Steel-Blue led him out of the alien
ship and halted expectantly just outside the
ship's lock.
Jon Karyl waited, too. He thought of the
stubray pistol holstered at his hip. Shoot my
way out? It'd be fun while it lasted. But he
toted up the disadvantages.
He either would have to find a hiding
place on the asteroid, and if the Steel-Blues
wanted him bad enough they could tear the
whole place to pieces, or somehow get
aboard the little life ship hidden in the
service station.
In that he would be just a sitting duck.
He shrugged off the slight temptation to
use the pistol. He was still curious.
And he was interested in staying alive as
long as possible. There was a remote chance
he might warn the SP ship. Unconsciously,
he glanced toward his belt to see the little
power pack which, if under ideal conditions,
could finger out fifty thousand miles into
space.
If he could somehow stay alive the 21
days he might be able to warn the patrol.
He couldn't do it by attempting to flee, for
his life would be snuffed out immediately.
The Steel-Blue said quietly:
"It might be ironical to let you warn
that SP ship you keep thinking about. But
we know your weapon now. Already our
ship is equipped with a force field designed
especially to deflect your atomic guns."
Jon Karyl covered up his thoughts
quickly. They can delve deeper than the
surface of the mind. Or wasn't I keeping a
leash on my thoughts?
The Steel-Blue chuckled. "You get—absent-minded,
is it?—every once in a
while."
Just then four other Steel-Blues appeared
lugging great sheets of plastic and various
other equipment.
They dumped their loads and began unbundling
them.
Working swiftly, they built a plastic
igloo, smaller than the living room in the
larger service station igloo. They ranged instruments
inside—one of them Jon Karyl
recognized as an air pump from within the
station—and they laid out a pallet.
When they were done Jon saw a miniature
reproduction of the service station, lacking
only the cannon cap and fin, and with clear
plastic walls instead of the opaqueness of the
other.
His Steel-Blue said: "We have reproduced
the atmosphere of your station so that you
be watched while you undergo the torture
under the normal conditions of your life."
"What is this torture?" Jon Karyl asked.
The answer was almost caressing: "It is
a liquid we use to dissolve metals. It causes
joints to harden if even so much as a drop
remains on it long. It eats away the metal,
leaving a scaly residue which crumbles
eventually into dust.
"We will dilute it with a harmless liquid
for you since No. 1 does not wish you to die
instantly.
"Enter your"—the Steel-Blue hesitated—"mausoleum.
You die in your own atmosphere.
However, we took the liberty of purifying
it. There were dangerous elements in
it."
Jon walked into the little igloo. The
Steel-Blues sealed the lock, fingered dials
and switches on the outside. Jon's space suit
deflated. Pressure was building up in the
igloo.
He took a sample of the air, found that
it was good, although quite rich in oxygen
compared with what he'd been using in the
service station and in his suit.
With a sigh of relief he took off his helmet
and gulped huge draughts of the air.
He sat down on the pallet and waited
for the torture to begin.
The Steel Blues crowded about the igloo,
staring at him through elliptical eyes.
Apparently, they too, were waiting for the
torture to begin.
Jon thought the excess of oxygen was
making him light-headed.
He stared at a cylinder which was beginning
to sprout tentacles from the circle.
He rubbed his eyes and looked again. An
opening, like the adjustable eye-piece of a
spacescope, was appearing in the center of
the cylinder.
A square, glass-like tumbler sat in the
opening disclosed in the four-foot cylinder
that had sprouted tentacles. It contained a
yellowish liquid.
One of the tentacles reached into the
opening and clasped the glass. The opening
closed and the cylinder, propelled by locomotor
appendages, moved toward Jon.
He didn't like the looks of the liquid in
the tumbler. It looked like an acid of some
sort. He raised to his feet.
He unsheathed the stubray gun and prepared
to blast the cylinder.
The
cylinder moved so fast Jon felt his
eyes jump in his head. He brought the
stubray gun up—but he was helpless. The
pistol kept on going up. With a deft movement,
one of the tentacles had speared it
from his hand and was holding it out of
his reach.
Jon kicked at the glass in the cylinder's
hand. But he was too slow. Two tentacles
gripped the kicking leg. Another struck him
in the chest, knocking him to the pallet. The
same tentacle, assisted by a new one,
pinioned his shoulders.
Four tentacles held him supine. The cylinder
lifted a glass-like cap from the tumbler
of liquid.
Lying there helplessly, Jon was remembering
an old fairy tale he'd read as a kid.
Something about a fellow named Socrates
who was given a cup of hemlock to drink.
It was the finis for Socrates. But the old
hero had been nonchalant and calm about
the whole thing.
With a sigh, Jon Karyl, who was curious
unto death, relaxed and said, "All right,
bub, you don't have to force-feed me. I'll
take it like a man."
The cylinder apparently understood him,
for it handed him the tumbler. It even reholstered
his stubray pistol.
Jon brought the glass of liquid under his
nose. The fumes of the liquid were pungent.
It brought tears to his eyes.
He looked at the cylinder, then at the
Steel-Blues crowding around the plastic
igloo. He waved the glass at the audience.
"To Earth, ever triumphant," he toasted.
Then he drained the glass at a gulp.
Its taste was bitter, and he felt hot
prickles jab at his scalp. It was like eating
very hot peppers. His eyes filled with tears.
He coughed as the stuff went down.
But he was still alive, he thought in
amazement. He'd drunk the hemlock and
was still alive.
The reaction set in quickly. He hadn't
known until then how tense he'd been. Now
with the torture ordeal over, he relaxed. He
laid down on the pallet and went to sleep.
There was one lone Steel-Blue watching
him when he rubbed the sleep out of his
eyes and sat up.
He vanished almost instantly. He, or another
like him, returned immediately accompanied
by a half-dozen others, including
the multi-tentacled creature known as No. 1.
One said,
"You are alive." The thought registered
amazement. "When you lost consciousness,
we thought you had"—there was a hesitation—"as
you say, died."
"No," Jon Karyl said. "I didn't die. I
was just plain dead-beat so I went to sleep."
The Steel-Blues apparently didn't understand.
"Good it is that you live. The torture
will continue," spoke No. 1 before loping
away.
The cylinder business began again. This
time, Jon drank the bitter liquid slowly, trying
to figure out what it was. It had a
familiar, tantalizing taste but he couldn't
quite put a taste-finger on it.
His belly said he was hungry. He glanced
at his chronometer. Only 20 days left before
the SP ship arrived.
Would this torture—he chuckled—last
until then? But he was growing more and
more conscious that his belly was screaming
for hunger. The liquid had taken the edge
off his thirst.
It was on the fifth day of his torture that
Jon Karyl decided that he was going to get
something to eat or perish in the attempt.
The cylinder sat passively in its niche in
the circle. A dozen Steel-Blues were watching
as Jon put on his helmet and unsheathed
his stubray.
They merely watched as he pressed the
stubray's firing stud. Invisible rays licked
out of the bulbous muzzle of the pistol.
The plastic splintered.
Jon was out of his goldfish bowl and
striding toward his own igloo adjacent to
the service station when a Steel-Blue
accosted him.
"Out of my way," grunted Jon, waving
the stubray. "I'm hungry."
"I'm the first Steel-Blue you met," said
the creature who barred his way. "Go back
to your torture."
"But I'm so hungry I'll chew off one of
your tentacles and eat it without seasoning."
"Eat?" The Steel-Blue sounded puzzled.
"I want to refuel. I've got to have food
to keep my engine going."
Steel-Blue chuckled. "So the hemlock, as
you call it, is beginning to affect you at
last? Back to the torture room."
"Like R-dust," Jon growled. He pressed
the firing stud on the stubray gun. One of
Steel-Blue's tentacles broke off and fell to
the rocky sward.
Steel-Blue jerked out the box he'd used
once before. A tentacle danced over it.
Abruptly Jon found himself standing on
a pinnacle of rock. Steel-Blue had cut a
swath around him 15 feet deep and five feet
wide.
"Back to the room," Steel-Blue commanded.
Jon resheathed the stubray pistol,
shrugged non-committally and leaped the
trench. He walked slowly back and reentered
the torture chamber.
The Steel-Blues rapidly repaired the damage
he'd done.
As he watched them, Jon was still curious,
but he was getting mad underneath at
the cold egoism of the Steel-Blues.
By the shimmering clouds of Earth, by
her green fields, and dark forests, he'd
stay alive to warn the SP ship.
Yes, he'd stay alive till then. And send
the story of the Steel-Blues' corrosive acid
to it. Then hundreds of Earth's ships could
equip themselves with spray guns and squirt
citric acid and watch the Steel-Blues fade
away.
It sounded almost silly to Jon Karyl. The
fruit acid of Earth to repel these invaders—it
doesn't sound possible. That couldn't be
the answer.
Citric acid wasn't the answer, Jon Karyl
discovered a week later.
The Steel-Blue who had captured him in
the power room of the service station came
in to examine him.
"You're still holding out, I see," he observed
after poking Jon in every sensitive
part of his body.
"I'll suggest to No. 1 that we increase
the power of the—ah—hemlock. How do
you feel?"
Between the rich oxygen and the dizziness
of hunger, Jon was a bit delirious. But he
answered honestly enough: "My guts feel as
if they're chewing each other up. My bones
ache. My joints creak. I can't coordinate I'm
so hungry."
"That is the hemlock," Steel-Blue said.
It was when he quaffed the new and
stronger draught that Jon knew that his
hope that it was citric acid was squelched.
The acid taste was weaker which meant
that the citric acid was the diluting liquid.
It was the liquid he couldn't taste beneath
the tang of the citric acid that was the corrosive
acid.
On the fourteenth day, Jon was so weak
he didn't feel much like moving around. He
let the cylinder feed him the hemlock.
No. 1 came again to see him, and went
away chuckling, "Decrease the dilution.
This Earthman at last is beginning to
suffer."
Staying
alive had now become a fetish
with Jon.
On the sixteenth day, the Earthman realized
that the Steel-Blues also were waiting
for the SP ship.
The extra-terrestrials had repaired the
blue ship where the service station atomic
ray had struck. And they were doing a little
target practice with plastic bubbles only a
few miles above the asteroid.
When his chronometer clocked off the
beginning of the twenty-first day, Jon received
a tumbler of the hemlock from the
hands of No. 1 himself.
"It is the hemlock," he chuckled, "undiluted.
Drink it and your torture is over.
You will die before your SP ship is destroyed.
"We have played with you long enough.
Today we begin to toy with your SP ship.
Drink up, Earthman, drink to enslavement."
Weak though he was Jon lunged to his
feet, spilling the tumbler of liquid. It ran
cool along the plastic arm of his space suit.
He changed his mind about throwing the
contents on No. 1.
With a smile he set the glass at his lips
and drank. Then he laughed at No. 1.
"The SP ship will turn your ship into
jelly."
No. 1 swept out, chuckling. "Boast if you
will, Earthman, it's your last chance."
There was an exultation in Jon's heart
that deadened the hunger and washed away
the nausea.
At last he knew what the hemlock was.
He sat on the pallet adjusting the little
power-pack radio. The SP ship should now
be within range of the set. The space patrol
was notorious for its accuracy in keeping to
schedule. Seconds counted like years. They
had to be on the nose, or it meant disaster
or death.
He sent out the call letters.
"AX to SP-101 ... AX to SP-101 ... AX
to SP-101 ..."
Three times he sent the call, then began
sending his message, hoping that his signal
was reaching the ship. He couldn't know if
they answered. Though the power pack
could get out a message over a vast distance,
it could not pick up messages even
when backed by an SP ship's power unless
the ship was only a few hundred miles
away.
The power pack was strictly a distress
signal.
He didn't know how long he'd been
sending, nor how many times his weary
voice had repeated the short but desperate
message.
He kept watching the heavens and hoping.
Abruptly he knew the SP ship was coming,
for the blue ship of the Steel-Blues was
rising silently from the asteroid.
Up and up it rose, then flames flickered
in a circle about its curious shape. The ship
disappeared, suddenly accelerating.
Jon Karyl strained his eyes.
Finally he looked away from the heavens
to the two Steel-Blues who stood negligently
outside the goldfish bowl.
Once more, Jon used the stubray pistol.
He marched out of the plastic igloo and ran
toward the service station.
He didn't know how weak he was until
he stumbled and fell only a few feet from
his prison.
The Steel-Blues just watched him.
He crawled on, around the circular pit in
the sward of the asteroid where one Steel-Blue
had shown him the power of his
weapon.
He'd been crawling through a nightmare
for years when the quiet voice penetrated
his dulled mind.
"Take it easy, Karyl. You're among
friends."
He pried open his eyes with his will. He
saw the blue and gold of a space guard's
uniform. He sighed and drifted into unconsciousness.
He was
still weak days later when
Capt. Ron Small of SP-101 said,
"Yes, Karyl, it's ironical. They fed you
what they thought was sure death, and it's
the only thing that kept you going long
enough to warn us."
"I was dumb for a long time," Karyl said.
"I thought that it was the acid, almost to
the very last. But when I drank that last
glass, I knew they didn't have a chance.
"They were metal monsters. No wonder
they feared that liquid. It would rust their
joints, short their wiring, and kill them.
No wonder they stared when I kept alive
after drinking enough to completely annihilate
a half-dozen of them.
"But what happened when you met the
ship?"
The space captain grinned.
"Not much. Our crew was busy creating
a hollow shell filled with water to be shot
out of a rocket tube converted into a projectile
thrower.
"These Steel-Blues, as you call them, put
traction beams on us and started tugging us
toward the asteroid. We tried a couple of
atomic shots but when they just glanced off,
we gave up.
"They weren't expecting the shell of
water. When it hit that blue ship, you could
almost see it oxidize before your eyes.
"I guess they knew what was wrong right
away. They let go the traction beams and
tried to get away. They forgot about the
force field, so we just poured atomic fire
into the weakening ship. It just melted
away."
Jon Karyl got up from the divan where
he'd been lying. "They thought I was a
metal creature, too. But where do you suppose
they came from?"
The captain shrugged. "Who knows?"
Jon set two glasses on the table.
"Have a drink of the best damn water in
the solar system?" He asked Capt. Small.
"Don't mind if I do."
The water twinkled in the two glasses,
winking as if it knew just what it had
done.
Question:
Describe the setting of the story.
Answer:
|
[
"The story is initially set on an asteroid, where a stationary rocket station is. Jon has a blue plastic igloo to live in. There is also a ravine where he runs to in an attempt to elude the Steel-Blues. There are bushes, water, and dense thicket that he must go through before getting to the hollowed-out space in the center. At the station, there is a lock for his key to go through. The lever then opens to a long tunnel, and there is a televisor that fixes on the area. The station is made out of stelrylite, but it becomes riddled with holes after the Steel-Blues attack. The station also has a row of studs and a revolving turret that fires atomic cannons. There is a yellow, blue, and red button to fire. The Blue Steels’ spaceship can change its part to a bubble-like metal. The spaceship of the invaders is pitch-black and is a maze-like corridor. At the end, there is a circular room with bright light streaming from a glass-like and bulging skylight. In the examination room, the Steel-Blues build a miniature reproduction of the space station with plastic walls. There is a small opening in the four foot cylinder that brings him a strange liquid. Although the Steel-Blues are always present, the tank they keep him in is fairly easy to break out of. ",
"This setting occurs in the same system as Earth, inhabited both by humans and the Steel-Blue creatures. More specifically, this story takes place aboard the Steel-Blues' ship. Karyl encounters many rooms including the examination room, but the majority of the story has him in a clear plastic igloo by which is he observed by the creatures. The igloo is a miniature recreation of the service station with a lock outside. \n\nAt the end of the story, Karyl is saved and the setting changes to be onboard the Space Patrol ship, where he is safe and recovering.",
"The story happens on an asteroid under the control of the earthman. The surface of the asteroid is rocky and uneven. The service station is underground of a ravine, whose surface is filled with man-high bushes. Its entrance is hidden underneath a dense thicket around the hairpin turn of the old watercourse. In the center of the hollowed-out space lies a self-sealing lock, which is the door of the entrance. Behind the door, there is a long tunnel, the end of which is a room surrounded by the televisors. A steel ladder leads to the station’s power plant room, which is also equipped with televisors that can watch all the rooms in the station. There are weapons stored in the power room. The station is capped with a revolving turret. The outer shell of the service station, including the entrance door, is constituted by stelrylite, the toughest metal in Earthman’s knowledge. The blue spaceship lies near the stationary rocket engine outside the service station. Inside the blue spaceship, it is dark and mazed with corridors. There is a circular room lighted with a bulging skylight, where the leader of the Steel-Blues is. \n\nThe Steel-Blues build a smaller plastic igloo, similar to the one in the service station, to serve as the prison for Jon to torture him. There are instruments ranged inside, such as an air pump from the station and a pallet laid inside. The wall is made of clear plastic. The atmosphere inside is reproduced as the one in the service station, only with more proportion of the oxygen. There is a cylinder whose center can open, where it usually sits a glass tumbler containing a yellowish liquid that is claimed to be the harmful liquid to torture Jon. The cylinder is equipped with tentacles that can control Jon to drink the liquid and take down his defense.\n",
"The story is located in a small asteroid that is described to be barren and empty, with gray rocks. The asteroid only has a single base, which is where Jon lives alone. There is also a ravine with plants that allow Jon to hide a secondary entry to his base, which is the one that he uses to get away from the steel-blues initially. When Jon gets captured, he is taken to the ship of the steel-blues, and he learns that they made a smaller replica of his base because they want him to die happily. "
] |
29159
|
ACID BATH
By VASELEOS GARSON
The starways' Lone Watcher had expected some odd developments
in his singular, nerve-fraught job on the asteroid. But nothing like the
weird twenty-one-day liquid test devised by the invading Steel-Blues.
Jon Karyl
was bolting in a new baffle
plate on the stationary rocket engine.
It was a tedious job and took all his
concentration. So he wasn't paying too much
attention to what was going on in other
parts of the little asteroid.
He didn't see the peculiar blue space
ship, its rockets throttled down, as it drifted
to land only a few hundred yards away from
his plastic igloo.
Nor did he see the half-dozen steel-blue
creatures slide out of the peculiar vessel's
airlock.
It was only as he crawled out of the
depths of the rocket power plant that he
realized something was wrong.
By then it was almost too late. The six
blue figures were only fifty feet away, approaching
him at a lope.
Jon Karyl took one look and went bounding
over the asteroid's rocky slopes in fifty-foot
bounds.
When you're a Lone Watcher, and
strangers catch you unawares, you don't
stand still. You move fast. It's the Watcher's
first rule. Stay alive. An Earthship may depend
upon your life.
As he fled, Jon Karyl cursed softly under
his breath. The automatic alarm should have
shrilled out a warning.
Then he saved as much of his breath as
he could as some sort of power wave tore
up the rocky sward to his left. He twisted
and zig-zagged in his flight, trying to get
out of sight of the strangers.
Once hidden from their eyes, he could cut
back and head for the underground entrance
to the service station.
He glanced back finally.
Two of the steel-blue creatures were jack-rabbiting
after him, and rapidly closing the
distance.
Jon Karyl unsheathed the stubray pistol
at his side, turned the oxygen dial up for
greater exertion, increased the gravity pull
in his space-suit boots as he neared the
ravine he'd been racing for.
The oxygen was just taking hold when
he hit the lip of the ravine and began
sprinting through its man-high bush-strewn
course.
The power ray from behind ripped out
great gobs of the sheltering bushes. But
running naturally, bent close to the bottom
of the ravine, Jon Karyl dodged the bare
spots. The oxygen made the tremendous
exertion easy for his lungs as he sped down
the dim trail, hidden from the two steel-blue
stalkers.
He'd eluded them, temporarily at least,
Jon Karyl decided when he finally edged off
the dim trail and watched for movement
along the route behind him.
He stood up, finally, pushed aside the
leafy overhang of a bush and looked for
landmarks along the edge of the ravine.
He found one, a stubby bush, shaped like
a Maltese cross, clinging to the lip of the
ravine. The hidden entrance to the service
station wasn't far off.
His pistol held ready, he moved quietly
on down the ravine until the old water
course made an abrupt hairpin turn.
Instead of following around the sharp
bend, Jon Karyl moved straight ahead
through the overhanging bushes until he
came to a dense thicket. Dropping to his
hands and knees he worked his way under
the edge of the thicket into a hollowed-out
space in the center.
There
, just ahead of him, was the lock
leading into the service station. Slipping
a key out of a leg pouch on the space suit,
he jabbed it into the center of the lock,
opening the lever housing.
He pulled strongly on the lever. With a
hiss of escaping air, the lock swung open.
Jon Karyl darted inside, the door closing
softly behind.
At the end of the long tunnel he stepped
to the televisor which was fixed on the area
surrounding the station.
Jon Karyl saw none of the steel-blue creatures.
But he saw their ship. It squatted
like a smashed-down kid's top, its lock shut
tight.
He tuned the televisor to its widest range
and finally spotted one of the Steel-Blues.
He was looking into the stationary rocket
engine.
As Karyl watched, a second Steel-Blue
came crawling out of the ship.
The two Steel-Blues moved toward the
center of the televisor range. They're coming
toward the station, Karyl thought grimly.
Karyl examined the two creatures. They
were of the steel-blue color from the crown
of their egg-shaped heads to the tips of
their walking appendages.
They were about the height of Karyl—six
feet. But where he tapered from broad
shoulders to flat hips, they were straight up
and down. They had no legs, just appendages,
many-jointed that stretched and
shrank independent of the other, but keeping
the cylindrical body with its four pairs
of tentacles on a level balance.
Where their eyes would have been was
an elliptical-shaped lens, covering half the
egg-head, with its converging ends curving
around the sides of the head.
Robots! Jon gauged immediately. But
where were their masters?
The Steel-Blues moved out of the range
of the televisor. A minute later Jon heard
a pounding from the station upstairs.
He chuckled. They were like the wolf of
pre-atomic days who huffed and puffed to
blow the house down.
The outer shell of the station was formed
from stelrylite, the toughest metal in the
solar system. With the self-sealing lock of
the same resistant material, a mere pounding
was nothing.
Jon thought he'd have a look-see anyway.
He went up the steel ladder leading to the
station's power plant and the televisor that
could look into every room within the
station.
He heaved a slight sigh when he reached
the power room, for right at his hand were
weapons to blast the ship from the asteroid.
Jon adjusted one televisor to take in the
lock to the station. His teeth suddenly
clamped down on his lower lip.
Those Steel-Blues were pounding holes
into the stelrylite with round-headed metal
clubs. But it was impossible. Stelrylite didn't
break up that easily.
Jon leaped to a row of studs, lining up
the revolving turret which capped the station
so that its thin fin pointed at the
squat ship of the invaders.
Then he went to the atomic cannon's
firing buttons.
He pressed first the yellow, then the blue
button. Finally the red one.
The thin fin—the cannon's sight—split in
half as the turret opened and the coiled nose
of the cannon protruded. There was a
soundless flash. Then a sharp crack.
Jon was dumbfounded when he saw the
bolt ricochet off the ship. This was no ship
of the solar system. There was nothing that
could withstand even the slight jolt of power
given by the station cannon on any of the
Sun's worlds. But what was this? A piece of
the ship had changed. A bubble of metal,
like a huge drop of blue wax, dripped off
the vessel and struck the rocket of the
asteroid. It steamed and ran in rivulets.
He pressed the red button again.
Then abruptly he was on the floor of the
power room, his legs strangely cut out from
under him. He tried to move them. They lay
flaccid. His arms seemed all right and tried
to lever himself to an upright position.
Damn it, he seemed as if he were paralyzed
from the waist down. But it couldn't
happen that suddenly.
He turned his head.
A Steel-Blue stood facing him. A forked
tentacle held a square black box.
Jon could read nothing in that metallic
face. He said, voice muffled by the confines
of the plastic helmet, "Who are you?"
"I am"—there was a rising inflection in
the answer—"a Steel-Blue."
There were no lips on the Steel-Blue's
face to move. "That is what I have named
you," Jon Karyl said. "But what are you?"
"A robot," came the immediate answer.
Jon was quite sure then that the Steel-Blue
was telepathic. "Yes," the Steel-Blue answered.
"We talk in the language of the
mind. Come!" he said peremptorily, motioning
with the square black box.
The paralysis left Karyl's legs. He followed
the Steel-Blue, aware that the lens
he'd seen on the creature's face had a
counterpart on the back of the egg-head.
Eyes in the back of his head, Jon thought.
That's quite an innovation. "Thank you,"
Steel-Blue said.
There wasn't much fear in Jon Karyl's
mind. Psychiatrists had proved that when he
had applied for this high-paying but man-killing
job as a Lone Watcher on the Solar
System's starways.
He had little fear now, only curiosity.
These Steel-Blues didn't seem inimical.
They could have snuffed out my life very
simply. Perhaps they and Solarians can be
friends.
Steel-Blue chuckled.
Jon
followed him through the sundered
lock of the station. Karyl stopped for a
moment to examine the wreckage of the
lock. It had been punched full of holes as
if it had been some soft cheese instead of a
metal which Earthmen had spent nearly a
century perfecting.
"We appreciate your compliment," Steel-Blue
said. "But that metal also is found on
our world. It's probably the softest and most
malleable we have. We were surprised you—earthmen,
is it?—use it as protective
metal."
"Why are you in this system?" Jon asked,
hardly expecting an answer.
It came anyway. "For the same reason you
Earthmen are reaching out farther into your
system. We need living room. You have
strategically placed planets for our use. We
will use them."
Jon sighed. For 400 years scientists had
been preaching preparedness as Earth flung
her ships into the reaches of the solar system,
taking the first long step toward the
conquest of space.
There are other races somewhere, they
argued. As strong and smart as man, many
of them so transcending man in mental and
inventive power that we must be prepared to
strike the minute danger shows.
Now here was the answer to the scientists'
warning. Invasion by extra-terrestrials.
"What did you say?" asked Steel-Blue.
"I couldn't understand."
"Just thinking to myself," Jon answered.
It was a welcome surprise. Apparently his
thoughts had to be directed outward, rather
than inward, in order for the Steel-Blues to
read it.
He followed the Steel-Blue into the gaping
lock of the invaders' space ship wondering
how he could warn Earth. The Space
Patrol cruiser was due in for refueling at
his service station in 21 days. But by that
time he probably would be mouldering in
the rocky dust of the asteroid.
It was pitch dark within the ship but the
Steel-Blue seemed to have no trouble at all
maneuvering through the maze of corridors.
Jon followed him, attached to one tentacle.
Finally Jon and his guide entered a circular
room, bright with light streaming from
a glass-like, bulging skylight. They apparently
were near topside of the vessel.
A Steel-Blue, more massive than his
guide and with four more pair of tentacles,
including two short ones that grew from the
top of its head, spoke out.
"This is the violator?" Jon's Steel-Blue
nodded.
"You know the penalty? Carry it out."
"He also is an inhabitant of this system,"
Jon's guide added.
"Examine him first, then give him the
death."
Jon Karyl shrugged as he was led from
the lighted room through more corridors.
If it got too bad he still had the stubray
pistol.
Anyway, he was curious. He'd taken on
the lonely, nerve-wracking job of service
station attendant just to see what it offered.
Here was a part of it, and it was certainly
something new.
"This is the examination room," his
Steel-Blue said, almost contemptuously.
A green effulgence surrounded him.
There
was a hiss. Simultaneously, as the
tiny microphone on the outside of his
suit picked up the hiss, he felt a chill go
through his body. Then it seemed as if a
half dozen hands were inside him, examining
his internal organs. His stomach contracted.
He felt a squeeze on his heart. His
lungs tickled.
There were several more queer motions
inside his body.
Then another Steel-Blue voice said:
"He is a soft-metal creature, made up of
metals that melt at a very low temperature.
He also contains a liquid whose makeup I
cannot ascertain by ray-probe. Bring him
back when the torture is done."
Jon Karyl grinned a trifle wryly. What
kind of torture could this be?
Would it last 21 days? He glanced at the
chronometer on his wrist.
Jon's Steel-Blue led him out of the alien
ship and halted expectantly just outside the
ship's lock.
Jon Karyl waited, too. He thought of the
stubray pistol holstered at his hip. Shoot my
way out? It'd be fun while it lasted. But he
toted up the disadvantages.
He either would have to find a hiding
place on the asteroid, and if the Steel-Blues
wanted him bad enough they could tear the
whole place to pieces, or somehow get
aboard the little life ship hidden in the
service station.
In that he would be just a sitting duck.
He shrugged off the slight temptation to
use the pistol. He was still curious.
And he was interested in staying alive as
long as possible. There was a remote chance
he might warn the SP ship. Unconsciously,
he glanced toward his belt to see the little
power pack which, if under ideal conditions,
could finger out fifty thousand miles into
space.
If he could somehow stay alive the 21
days he might be able to warn the patrol.
He couldn't do it by attempting to flee, for
his life would be snuffed out immediately.
The Steel-Blue said quietly:
"It might be ironical to let you warn
that SP ship you keep thinking about. But
we know your weapon now. Already our
ship is equipped with a force field designed
especially to deflect your atomic guns."
Jon Karyl covered up his thoughts
quickly. They can delve deeper than the
surface of the mind. Or wasn't I keeping a
leash on my thoughts?
The Steel-Blue chuckled. "You get—absent-minded,
is it?—every once in a
while."
Just then four other Steel-Blues appeared
lugging great sheets of plastic and various
other equipment.
They dumped their loads and began unbundling
them.
Working swiftly, they built a plastic
igloo, smaller than the living room in the
larger service station igloo. They ranged instruments
inside—one of them Jon Karyl
recognized as an air pump from within the
station—and they laid out a pallet.
When they were done Jon saw a miniature
reproduction of the service station, lacking
only the cannon cap and fin, and with clear
plastic walls instead of the opaqueness of the
other.
His Steel-Blue said: "We have reproduced
the atmosphere of your station so that you
be watched while you undergo the torture
under the normal conditions of your life."
"What is this torture?" Jon Karyl asked.
The answer was almost caressing: "It is
a liquid we use to dissolve metals. It causes
joints to harden if even so much as a drop
remains on it long. It eats away the metal,
leaving a scaly residue which crumbles
eventually into dust.
"We will dilute it with a harmless liquid
for you since No. 1 does not wish you to die
instantly.
"Enter your"—the Steel-Blue hesitated—"mausoleum.
You die in your own atmosphere.
However, we took the liberty of purifying
it. There were dangerous elements in
it."
Jon walked into the little igloo. The
Steel-Blues sealed the lock, fingered dials
and switches on the outside. Jon's space suit
deflated. Pressure was building up in the
igloo.
He took a sample of the air, found that
it was good, although quite rich in oxygen
compared with what he'd been using in the
service station and in his suit.
With a sigh of relief he took off his helmet
and gulped huge draughts of the air.
He sat down on the pallet and waited
for the torture to begin.
The Steel Blues crowded about the igloo,
staring at him through elliptical eyes.
Apparently, they too, were waiting for the
torture to begin.
Jon thought the excess of oxygen was
making him light-headed.
He stared at a cylinder which was beginning
to sprout tentacles from the circle.
He rubbed his eyes and looked again. An
opening, like the adjustable eye-piece of a
spacescope, was appearing in the center of
the cylinder.
A square, glass-like tumbler sat in the
opening disclosed in the four-foot cylinder
that had sprouted tentacles. It contained a
yellowish liquid.
One of the tentacles reached into the
opening and clasped the glass. The opening
closed and the cylinder, propelled by locomotor
appendages, moved toward Jon.
He didn't like the looks of the liquid in
the tumbler. It looked like an acid of some
sort. He raised to his feet.
He unsheathed the stubray gun and prepared
to blast the cylinder.
The
cylinder moved so fast Jon felt his
eyes jump in his head. He brought the
stubray gun up—but he was helpless. The
pistol kept on going up. With a deft movement,
one of the tentacles had speared it
from his hand and was holding it out of
his reach.
Jon kicked at the glass in the cylinder's
hand. But he was too slow. Two tentacles
gripped the kicking leg. Another struck him
in the chest, knocking him to the pallet. The
same tentacle, assisted by a new one,
pinioned his shoulders.
Four tentacles held him supine. The cylinder
lifted a glass-like cap from the tumbler
of liquid.
Lying there helplessly, Jon was remembering
an old fairy tale he'd read as a kid.
Something about a fellow named Socrates
who was given a cup of hemlock to drink.
It was the finis for Socrates. But the old
hero had been nonchalant and calm about
the whole thing.
With a sigh, Jon Karyl, who was curious
unto death, relaxed and said, "All right,
bub, you don't have to force-feed me. I'll
take it like a man."
The cylinder apparently understood him,
for it handed him the tumbler. It even reholstered
his stubray pistol.
Jon brought the glass of liquid under his
nose. The fumes of the liquid were pungent.
It brought tears to his eyes.
He looked at the cylinder, then at the
Steel-Blues crowding around the plastic
igloo. He waved the glass at the audience.
"To Earth, ever triumphant," he toasted.
Then he drained the glass at a gulp.
Its taste was bitter, and he felt hot
prickles jab at his scalp. It was like eating
very hot peppers. His eyes filled with tears.
He coughed as the stuff went down.
But he was still alive, he thought in
amazement. He'd drunk the hemlock and
was still alive.
The reaction set in quickly. He hadn't
known until then how tense he'd been. Now
with the torture ordeal over, he relaxed. He
laid down on the pallet and went to sleep.
There was one lone Steel-Blue watching
him when he rubbed the sleep out of his
eyes and sat up.
He vanished almost instantly. He, or another
like him, returned immediately accompanied
by a half-dozen others, including
the multi-tentacled creature known as No. 1.
One said,
"You are alive." The thought registered
amazement. "When you lost consciousness,
we thought you had"—there was a hesitation—"as
you say, died."
"No," Jon Karyl said. "I didn't die. I
was just plain dead-beat so I went to sleep."
The Steel-Blues apparently didn't understand.
"Good it is that you live. The torture
will continue," spoke No. 1 before loping
away.
The cylinder business began again. This
time, Jon drank the bitter liquid slowly, trying
to figure out what it was. It had a
familiar, tantalizing taste but he couldn't
quite put a taste-finger on it.
His belly said he was hungry. He glanced
at his chronometer. Only 20 days left before
the SP ship arrived.
Would this torture—he chuckled—last
until then? But he was growing more and
more conscious that his belly was screaming
for hunger. The liquid had taken the edge
off his thirst.
It was on the fifth day of his torture that
Jon Karyl decided that he was going to get
something to eat or perish in the attempt.
The cylinder sat passively in its niche in
the circle. A dozen Steel-Blues were watching
as Jon put on his helmet and unsheathed
his stubray.
They merely watched as he pressed the
stubray's firing stud. Invisible rays licked
out of the bulbous muzzle of the pistol.
The plastic splintered.
Jon was out of his goldfish bowl and
striding toward his own igloo adjacent to
the service station when a Steel-Blue
accosted him.
"Out of my way," grunted Jon, waving
the stubray. "I'm hungry."
"I'm the first Steel-Blue you met," said
the creature who barred his way. "Go back
to your torture."
"But I'm so hungry I'll chew off one of
your tentacles and eat it without seasoning."
"Eat?" The Steel-Blue sounded puzzled.
"I want to refuel. I've got to have food
to keep my engine going."
Steel-Blue chuckled. "So the hemlock, as
you call it, is beginning to affect you at
last? Back to the torture room."
"Like R-dust," Jon growled. He pressed
the firing stud on the stubray gun. One of
Steel-Blue's tentacles broke off and fell to
the rocky sward.
Steel-Blue jerked out the box he'd used
once before. A tentacle danced over it.
Abruptly Jon found himself standing on
a pinnacle of rock. Steel-Blue had cut a
swath around him 15 feet deep and five feet
wide.
"Back to the room," Steel-Blue commanded.
Jon resheathed the stubray pistol,
shrugged non-committally and leaped the
trench. He walked slowly back and reentered
the torture chamber.
The Steel-Blues rapidly repaired the damage
he'd done.
As he watched them, Jon was still curious,
but he was getting mad underneath at
the cold egoism of the Steel-Blues.
By the shimmering clouds of Earth, by
her green fields, and dark forests, he'd
stay alive to warn the SP ship.
Yes, he'd stay alive till then. And send
the story of the Steel-Blues' corrosive acid
to it. Then hundreds of Earth's ships could
equip themselves with spray guns and squirt
citric acid and watch the Steel-Blues fade
away.
It sounded almost silly to Jon Karyl. The
fruit acid of Earth to repel these invaders—it
doesn't sound possible. That couldn't be
the answer.
Citric acid wasn't the answer, Jon Karyl
discovered a week later.
The Steel-Blue who had captured him in
the power room of the service station came
in to examine him.
"You're still holding out, I see," he observed
after poking Jon in every sensitive
part of his body.
"I'll suggest to No. 1 that we increase
the power of the—ah—hemlock. How do
you feel?"
Between the rich oxygen and the dizziness
of hunger, Jon was a bit delirious. But he
answered honestly enough: "My guts feel as
if they're chewing each other up. My bones
ache. My joints creak. I can't coordinate I'm
so hungry."
"That is the hemlock," Steel-Blue said.
It was when he quaffed the new and
stronger draught that Jon knew that his
hope that it was citric acid was squelched.
The acid taste was weaker which meant
that the citric acid was the diluting liquid.
It was the liquid he couldn't taste beneath
the tang of the citric acid that was the corrosive
acid.
On the fourteenth day, Jon was so weak
he didn't feel much like moving around. He
let the cylinder feed him the hemlock.
No. 1 came again to see him, and went
away chuckling, "Decrease the dilution.
This Earthman at last is beginning to
suffer."
Staying
alive had now become a fetish
with Jon.
On the sixteenth day, the Earthman realized
that the Steel-Blues also were waiting
for the SP ship.
The extra-terrestrials had repaired the
blue ship where the service station atomic
ray had struck. And they were doing a little
target practice with plastic bubbles only a
few miles above the asteroid.
When his chronometer clocked off the
beginning of the twenty-first day, Jon received
a tumbler of the hemlock from the
hands of No. 1 himself.
"It is the hemlock," he chuckled, "undiluted.
Drink it and your torture is over.
You will die before your SP ship is destroyed.
"We have played with you long enough.
Today we begin to toy with your SP ship.
Drink up, Earthman, drink to enslavement."
Weak though he was Jon lunged to his
feet, spilling the tumbler of liquid. It ran
cool along the plastic arm of his space suit.
He changed his mind about throwing the
contents on No. 1.
With a smile he set the glass at his lips
and drank. Then he laughed at No. 1.
"The SP ship will turn your ship into
jelly."
No. 1 swept out, chuckling. "Boast if you
will, Earthman, it's your last chance."
There was an exultation in Jon's heart
that deadened the hunger and washed away
the nausea.
At last he knew what the hemlock was.
He sat on the pallet adjusting the little
power-pack radio. The SP ship should now
be within range of the set. The space patrol
was notorious for its accuracy in keeping to
schedule. Seconds counted like years. They
had to be on the nose, or it meant disaster
or death.
He sent out the call letters.
"AX to SP-101 ... AX to SP-101 ... AX
to SP-101 ..."
Three times he sent the call, then began
sending his message, hoping that his signal
was reaching the ship. He couldn't know if
they answered. Though the power pack
could get out a message over a vast distance,
it could not pick up messages even
when backed by an SP ship's power unless
the ship was only a few hundred miles
away.
The power pack was strictly a distress
signal.
He didn't know how long he'd been
sending, nor how many times his weary
voice had repeated the short but desperate
message.
He kept watching the heavens and hoping.
Abruptly he knew the SP ship was coming,
for the blue ship of the Steel-Blues was
rising silently from the asteroid.
Up and up it rose, then flames flickered
in a circle about its curious shape. The ship
disappeared, suddenly accelerating.
Jon Karyl strained his eyes.
Finally he looked away from the heavens
to the two Steel-Blues who stood negligently
outside the goldfish bowl.
Once more, Jon used the stubray pistol.
He marched out of the plastic igloo and ran
toward the service station.
He didn't know how weak he was until
he stumbled and fell only a few feet from
his prison.
The Steel-Blues just watched him.
He crawled on, around the circular pit in
the sward of the asteroid where one Steel-Blue
had shown him the power of his
weapon.
He'd been crawling through a nightmare
for years when the quiet voice penetrated
his dulled mind.
"Take it easy, Karyl. You're among
friends."
He pried open his eyes with his will. He
saw the blue and gold of a space guard's
uniform. He sighed and drifted into unconsciousness.
He was
still weak days later when
Capt. Ron Small of SP-101 said,
"Yes, Karyl, it's ironical. They fed you
what they thought was sure death, and it's
the only thing that kept you going long
enough to warn us."
"I was dumb for a long time," Karyl said.
"I thought that it was the acid, almost to
the very last. But when I drank that last
glass, I knew they didn't have a chance.
"They were metal monsters. No wonder
they feared that liquid. It would rust their
joints, short their wiring, and kill them.
No wonder they stared when I kept alive
after drinking enough to completely annihilate
a half-dozen of them.
"But what happened when you met the
ship?"
The space captain grinned.
"Not much. Our crew was busy creating
a hollow shell filled with water to be shot
out of a rocket tube converted into a projectile
thrower.
"These Steel-Blues, as you call them, put
traction beams on us and started tugging us
toward the asteroid. We tried a couple of
atomic shots but when they just glanced off,
we gave up.
"They weren't expecting the shell of
water. When it hit that blue ship, you could
almost see it oxidize before your eyes.
"I guess they knew what was wrong right
away. They let go the traction beams and
tried to get away. They forgot about the
force field, so we just poured atomic fire
into the weakening ship. It just melted
away."
Jon Karyl got up from the divan where
he'd been lying. "They thought I was a
metal creature, too. But where do you suppose
they came from?"
The captain shrugged. "Who knows?"
Jon set two glasses on the table.
"Have a drink of the best damn water in
the solar system?" He asked Capt. Small.
"Don't mind if I do."
The water twinkled in the two glasses,
winking as if it knew just what it had
done.
|
Who is Ida and what are her characteristics?
|
After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about Bridge Crossing by Dave Dryfoos.
Relevant chunks:
Bridge Crossing
BY DAVE DRYFOOS
Illustrated by HARRISON
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction May 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
He knew the city was organized for his individual defense, for it had been that way since he was born. But who was his enemy?
In 1849, the mist that sometimes rolled through the Golden Gate was known as fog. In 2149, it had become far more frequent, and was known as smog. By 2349, it was fog again.
But tonight there was smoke mixed with the fog. Roddie could smell it. Somewhere in the forested ruins, fire was burning.
He wasn't worried. The small blaze that smoldered behind him on the cracked concrete floor had consumed everything burnable within blocks; what remained of the gutted concrete office building from which he peered was fire-proof.
But Roddie was himself aflame with anger. As always when Invaders broke in from the north, he'd been left behind with his nurse, Molly, while the soldiers went out to fight.
And nowadays Molly's presence wasn't the comfort it used to be. He felt almost ready to jump out of his skin, the way she rocked and knitted in that grating ruined chair, saying over and over again, "The soldiers don't want little boys. The soldiers don't want little boys. The soldiers don't—"
"I'm not a little boy!" Roddie suddenly shouted. "I'm full-grown and I've never even seen an Invader. Why won't you let me go and fight?"
Fiercely he crossed the bare, gritty floor and shook Molly's shoulder. She rattled under his jarring hand, and abruptly changed the subject.
"A is for Atom, B is for Bomb, C is for Corpse—" she chanted.
Roddie reached into her shapeless dress and pinched. Lately that had helped her over these spells. But this time, though it stopped the kindergarten song, the treatment only started something worse.
"Wuzzums hungry?" Molly cooed, still rocking.
Utterly disgusted, Roddie ripped her head off her neck.
It was a completely futile gesture. The complicated mind that had cared for him and taught him speech and the alphabet hadn't made him a mechanic, and his only tool was a broken-handled screwdriver.
He was still tinkering when the soldiers came in. While they lined up along the wall, he put Molly's head back on her neck.
She gaped coyly at the new arrivals. "Hello, boys," she simpered.
"Looking for a good time?"
Roddie slapped her to silence, reflecting briefly that there were many things he didn't know about Molly. But there was work to be done. Carefully he framed the ritual words she'd taught him: "Soldiers, come to attention and report!"
There were eleven of them, six feet tall, with four limbs and eight extremities. They stood uniformly, the thumbs on each pair of hands touching along the center line of the legs, front feet turned out at an angle of forty-five degrees, rear feet turned inward at thirty degrees.
"Sir," they chorused, "we have met the enemy and he is ours."
He inspected them. All were scratched and dented, but one in particular seemed badly damaged. His left arm was almost severed at the shoulder.
"Come here, fellow," Roddie said. "Let's see if I can fix that."
The soldier took a step forward, lurched suddenly, stopped, and whipped out a bayonet.
"Death to Invaders!" he yelled, and charged crazily.
Molly stepped in front of him.
"You aren't being very nice to my baby," she murmured, and thrust her knitting needles into his eyes.
Roddie jumped behind him, knocked off his helmet, and pressed a soft spot on his conical skull. The soldier collapsed to the floor.
Roddie salvaged and returned Molly's needles. Then he examined the patient, tearing him apart as a boy dismembers an alarm clock.
It was lucky he did. The left arm's pair of hands suddenly writhed off the floor in an effort to choke him. But because the arm was detached at the shoulder and therefore blind, he escaped the clutching onslaught and could goad the reflexing hands into assaulting one another harmlessly.
Meanwhile, the other soldiers left, except for one, apparently another casualty, who stumbled on his way out and fell into the fire. By the time Roddie had hauled him clear, damage was beyond repair. Roddie swore, then decided to try combining parts of this casualty with pieces of the other to make a whole one.
To get more light for the operation, he poked up the fire. Roddie was new at his work, and took it seriously. It alarmed him to watch the soldiers melt away, gradually succumbing to battle damage, shamed him to see the empty ruins burn section by section as the Invaders repeatedly broke through and had to be burned out.
Soon there would be nothing left of the Private Property Keep Out that, according to Molly's bedtime story, the Owners had entrusted to them when driven away by radioactivity. Soon the soldiers themselves would be gone. None would remain to guard the city but a few strayed servants like Molly, and an occasional Civil Defender.
And himself, Roddie reflected, spitting savagely into the fire. He might remain. But how he fitted into the picture, he didn't know. And Molly, who claimed to have found him in the ruins after a fight with Invaders twenty years before, couldn't or wouldn't say.
Well, for as long as possible, Roddie decided, he'd do his duty as the others did theirs—single-mindedly. Eventually the soldiers might accept him as one of themselves; meanwhile, this newly attempted first aid was useful to them.
He gave the fire a final poke and then paused, wondering if, when heated, his screwdriver could make an unfastened end of wire stick on the grayish spot where it seemed to belong.
Stretching prone to blow the embers hot so he could try out his new idea, Roddie got too close to the flames. Instantly the room filled with the stench of singed hair. Roddie drew angrily back, beating out the sparks in his uncut blond mane.
As he stood slapping his head and muttering, a deranged Civil Defense firefighter popped into the doorway and covered him with carbon dioxide foam.
Roddie fled. His life-long friends were not merely wearing out, they were unbearably wearing.
In the street, even before he'd wiped off the foam, he regretted his flight. The fire was back home. And here in the cold of this fog-shrouded canyon, a mere trail between heaped-up walls of rubble, the diaper he wore felt inadequate against the pre-dawn cold. His cherished weapon, a magnetic tack-hammer, was chill beneath the diaper's top, and the broken, radium-dialed wristwatch suspended from a string around his neck hung clammy against his chest. He stood irresolute on numbing bare feet, and considered returning to the more familiar bedlam.
But colder than cold was his shame at being cold. Molly never was, though she knew how to keep him warm, nor were the others. Hunger, thirst, pain and coldness were sensations never experienced by his friends. Like the growth he'd been undergoing till recently, these were things of ignominy, to be hidden as far as possible from inquiring eyes. Cold as it was, he'd have to hide.
Temporarily, the darkness concealed him, though it was not quite complete. From above the fog, the moon played vaguely deceptive light on the splinters of architecture looming toward it. Some distance off, an owl hooted, but here nocturnal rodents felt free to squeak and rustle as they scampered.
The world seemed ghostly. Yet it wasn't dead; it merely lurked. And as an irrepressible yawn reminded Roddie of his absurd need for sleep even in the midst of danger, he concluded for the thousandth time that the One who'd built him must have been an apprentice.
For just such reasons he'd developed the hideout toward which he now walked. It had been the haven of his adolescence, when the discovery of how much he differed from his friends had been a shock, and the shock itself a difference to be hidden.
His hiding place was a manhole, dead center in the dead street. A weathered bronze bar, carefully placed in the cover's slotted rim, was the levering key that opened its door.
Everything was wrong tonight! He couldn't even find the bar. Of course that spoiled things, because the bar was a roller on which to move the heavy cover from below, and a support that held it ajar for ventilation.
But the example of his friends had taught him above all else to carry out every purpose. Molly was a nurse; she had raised him despite all obstacles. The soldiers were guards; they protected the ruins against everything larger than a rat. The firefighter had put even him out when he was aflame....
Anyhow, the manhole cover had been loosened by his frequent handling. He lifted it aside by main strength, then flattened himself to the street, and felt with his feet for the top rung.
Halfway down the iron ladder, something made him pause. He looked, but saw only blackness. He listened, sniffed, found nothing. What could have entered through the iron cover?
He sneered at his own timidity and jumped to the bottom.
It was warm! The dry bottom of the hole had the temperature of body heat, as if a large animal had recently rested there!
Quickly, Roddie drew the hammer from his waist. Then, with weapon ready for an instantaneous blow, he stretched his left hand through the darkness. He touched something warm, softish. Gingerly he felt over that curving surface for identifying features.
While Roddie investigated by touch, his long fingers were suddenly seized and bitten. At the same time, his right shin received a savage kick. And his own retaliatory blow was checked in mid-swing by an unexpected voice.
"Get your filthy hands off me!" it whispered angrily. "Who do you think you are?"
Startled, he dropped his hammer. "I'm Roddie," he said, squatting to fumble for it. "Who do you think you are?"
"I'm Ida, naturally! Just how many girls are there in this raiding party?"
His first Invader—and he had dropped his weapon!
Scrabbling fearfully in the dust for his hammer, Roddie paused suddenly. This girl—whatever that was—seemed to think him one of her own kind. There was a chance, not much, but worth taking, to turn delay to advantage. Maybe he could learn something of value before he killed her. That would make the soldiers accept him!
He stalled, seeking a gambit. "How would I know how many girls there are?"
Half expecting a blow, he got instead an apology. "I'm sorry," the girl said. "I should have known. Never even heard your name before, either. Roddie.... Whose boat did you come in, Roddie?"
Boat? What was a boat? "How would I know?" he repeated, voice tight with fear of discovery.
If she noticed the tension, she didn't show it. Certainly her whisper was friendly enough. "Oh, you're one of the fellows from Bodega, then. They shoved a boy into our boat at the last minute, too. Tough, wasn't it, getting separated in the fog and tide like that? If only we didn't have to use boats.... But, say, how are we going to get away from here?"
"I wouldn't know," Roddie said, closing his fingers on the hammer, and rising. "How did you get in?"
"Followed your footprints. It was sundown and I saw human tracks in the dust and they led me here. Where were you?"
"Scouting around," Roddie said vaguely. "How did you know I was a man when I came back?"
"Because you couldn't see me, silly! You know perfectly well these androids are heat-sensitive and can locate us in the dark!"
Indeed he did know! Many times he'd felt ashamed that Molly could find him whenever she wanted to, even here in the manhole. But perhaps the manhole would help him now to redeem himself....
"I'd like to get a look at you," he said.
The girl laughed self-consciously. "It's getting gray out. You'll see me soon enough."
But she'd see him , Roddie realized. He had to talk fast.
"What'll we do when it's light?" he asked.
"Well, I guess the boats have gone," Ida said. "You could swim the Gate, I guess—you seem tall and strong enough. But I couldn't. You'll think it's crazy, but I've given this some thought, and even looked it over from the other side. I expect to try the Golden Gate Bridge!"
Now he was getting somewhere! The bridge was ruined, impassable. Even her own people had crossed the Strait by other means. But if there were a way over the bridge....
"It's broken," he said. "How in the world can we cross it?"
"Oh, you'll find out, if you take me up there. I—I don't want to be alone, Roddie. Will you go with me? Now?"
Well, she could be made to point out the route before he killed her— if nothing happened when she saw him.
Uneasy, Roddie hefted the hammer in his hand.
A giggle broke the pause. "It's nice of you to wait and let me go first up the ladder," the girl said. "But where the heck is the rusty old thing?"
"I'll go first," said Roddie. He might need the advantage. "The ladder's right behind me."
He climbed with hammer in teeth, and stretched his left hand from street level to grasp and neutralize the girl's right. Then, nervously fingering his weapon, he stared at her in the thin gray dawn.
She was short and lean, except for roundnesses here and there. From her shapeless doeskin dress stretched slender legs that tapered to feet that were bare, tiny, and, like her hands, only two in number.
Roddie was pleased. They were evenly matched as to members, and that would make things easy when the time came.
He looked into her face. It smiled at him, tanned and ruddy, with a full mouth and bright dark eyes that hid under long lashes when he looked too long.
Startling, those wary eyes. Concealing. For a moment he felt a rush of fear, but she gave his hand a squeeze before twisting loose, and burst into sudden laughter.
"Diapers!" she chortled, struggling to keep her voice low. "My big, strong, blond and blue-eyed hero goes into battle wearing diapers, and carrying only a hammer to fight with! You're the most unforgettable character I have ever known!"
He'd passed inspection, then—so far. He expelled his withheld breath, and said, "I think you'll find me a little odd, in some ways."
"Oh, not at all," Ida replied quickly. "Different, yes, but I wouldn't say odd."
When they started down the street, she was nervous despite Roddie's assertion that he knew where the soldiers were posted. He wondered if she felt some of the doubt he'd tried to conceal, shared his visions of what the soldiers might do if they found him brazenly strolling with an Invader. They might not believe he was only questioning a prisoner.
Every day, his friends were becoming more unpredictable.
For that very reason, because he didn't know what precautions would do any good, he took a chance and walked openly to the bridge by the most direct route. In time this apparent assurance stilled Ida's fears, and she began to talk.
Many of the things she said were beyond his experience and meaningless to him, but he did note with interest how effective the soldiers had been.
"It's awful," Ida said. "So few young men are left, so many casualties....
"But why do you—we—keep up the fight?" Roddie asked. "I mean, the soldiers will never leave the city; their purpose is to guard it and they can't leave, so they won't attack. Let them alone, and there'll be plenty of young men."
"Well!" said Ida, sharply. "You need indoctrination! Didn't they ever tell you that the city is our home, even if the stupid androids do keep us out? Don't you know how dependent we are on these raids for all our tools and things?"
She sounded suspicious. Roddie shot her a furtive, startled glance. But she wasn't standing off to fight him. On the contrary, she was too close for both comfort and combat. She bumped him hip and shoulder every few steps, and if he edged away, she followed.
He went on with his questioning. "Why are you here? I mean, sure, the others are after tools and things, but what's your purpose?"
Ida shrugged. "I'll admit no girl has ever done it before," she said,
"but I thought I could help with the wounded. That's why I have no weapon."
She hesitated, glanced covertly up at him, and went on with a rush of words. "It's the lack of men, I guess. All the girls are kind of bored and hopeless, so I got this bright idea and stowed away on one of the boats when it was dark and the fog had settled down. Do you think I was being silly?"
"No, but you do seem a little purposeless."
In silence they trudged through a vast area of charred wood and concrete foundations on the northern end of the city. Thick fog over the water hid Alcatraz, but in-shore visibility was better, and they could see the beginning of the bridge approach.
A stone rattled nearby. There was a clink of metal. Ida gasped, and clung to Roddie's arm.
"Behind me!" he whispered urgently. "Get behind me and hold on!"
He felt Ida's arms encircling his waist, her chin digging into his back below the left shoulder. Facing them, a hundred feet away, stood a soldier. He looked contemptuous, hostile.
"It's all right," Roddie said, his voice breaking.
There was a long, sullen, heart-stopping stare. Then the soldier turned and walked away.
Ida's grip loosened, and he could feel her sag behind him. Roddie turned and held her. With eyes closed, she pressed cold blue lips to his. He grimaced and turned away his head.
Ida's response was quick. "Forgive me," she breathed, and slipped from his arms, but she held herself erect. "I was so scared. And then we've had no sleep, no food or water."
Roddie was familiar with these signs of weakness, proud of appearing to deny his own humiliating needs.
"I guess you're not as strong as me," he said smugly. "I'll take care of you. Of course we can't sleep now, but I'll get food and water."
Leaving her to follow, he turned left to the ruins of a supermarket he had previously visited, demonstrating his superior strength by setting a pace Ida couldn't match. By the time she caught up with him, he had grubbed out a few cans of the special size that Molly always chose. Picking two that were neither dented, swollen, nor rusted, he smashed an end of each with his hammer, and gave Ida her choice of strained spinach or squash.
"Baby food!" she muttered. "Maybe it's just what we need, but to eat baby food with a man wearing a diaper.... Tell me, Roddie, how did you happen to know where to find it?"
"Well, this is the northern end of the city," he answered, shrugging.
"I've been here before."
"Why did the soldier let us go?"
"This watch," he said, touching the radium dial. "It's a talisman."
But Ida's eyes had widened, and the color was gone from her face. She was silent, too, except when asking him to fill his fast-emptied can with rain-water. She didn't finish her own portion, but lay back in the rubble with feet higher than her head, obviously trying to renew her strength.
And when they resumed their walk, her sullen, fear-clouded face showed plainly that he'd given himself away.
But to kill her now, before learning how she planned to cross the supposedly impassable bridge, seemed as purposeless and impulsive as Ida herself. Roddie didn't think, in any case, that her death would satisfy the soldiers. With new and useful information to offer, he might join them as an equal at last. But if his dalliance with this enemy seemed pointless, not even Molly's knitting needles could protect him.
He was sure the soldiers must be tracking the mysterious emanations of his watch dial, and had trouble to keep from glancing over his shoulder at every step. But arrival at the bridge approach ended the need for this self-restraint. Here, difficult going demanded full attention.
He'd never gone as far as the bridge before, not having wanted to look as if he might be leaving the city. The approach was a jungle of concrete with an underbrush of reinforcing-steel that reached for the unwary with rusted spines. Frequently they had to balance on cracked girders, and inch over roadless spots high off the ground.
Here Ida took the lead. When they got to where three approach roads made a clover-leaf, she led him down a side road and into a forest.
Roddie stopped, and seized her arm.
"What are you trying to do?" he demanded.
"I'm taking you with me," Ida said firmly. "Taking you where you belong!"
"No!" he blurted, drawing his hammer. "I can't go, nor let you go. I belong here!"
Ida gasped, twisted loose, and ran. Roddie ran after her.
She wasn't so easily caught. Like a frightened doe, she dashed in and out among the trees, leaped to the bridge's underpinnings where they thrust rustedly from a cliff, and scrambled up the ramp.
Roddie sighed and slowed down. The pavement ended just beyond the cable anchors. From there to the south tower, only an occasional dangling support wire showed where the actual bridge had been suspended. Ida was trapped.
He could take his time. Let the soldiers come up, as they undoubtedly would, to finish the job....
But Ida didn't seem to realize she was trapped. Without hesitation she dashed up the main left-hand suspension cable and ran along its curved steel surface.
For a moment, Roddie thought of letting her go, letting her run up the ever-steepening catenary until—because there were no guard-ropes or handgrips—she simply fell. That would solve his problem.
Except it wouldn't be his solution. Her death wouldn't prove him to his friends.
He set out quickly, before Ida was lost to sight in the thick fog that billowed in straight from the ocean. At first he ran erect along the top of the yard-wide cylinder of twisted metal, but soon the curve steepened. He had to go on all fours, clinging palm and sole.
Blood was on the cable where she'd passed. More blood stained it when he'd followed.
But because his friends knew neither pain nor fatigue, Roddie would admit none either. Nor would he give in to the fear that dizzied him at every downward look. He scrambled on like an automaton, watching only his holds, till he rammed Ida's rear with his head.
She had stopped, trembling and gasping. Roddie clung just below her and looked dazedly around. There was nothing in sight but fog, pierced by the rapier of rusted wire supporting them. Neither end of it was in sight.
Upward lay success, if death were not nearer on the cable. No soldier had ever come even this far, for soldiers, as he'd told Ida, never left the city, were not built to do so. But he was here; with luck, he could capitalize on the differences that had plagued him so long.
"Go on!" he ordered hoarsely. "Move!"
There was neither answer nor result. He broke off an end of loosened wire and jabbed her rear. Ida gasped and crawled on.
Up and up they went, chilled, wet, bleeding, pain-racked, exhausted. Never had Roddie felt so thoroughly the defects of his peculiar non-mechanical construction.
Without realizing it, he acquired a new purpose, a duty as compelling as that of any soldier or fire-watcher. He had to keep that trembling body of his alive, mount to the tall rust tower overhead.
He climbed and he made Ida climb, till, at nightmare's end, the fog thinned and they came into clear, windswept air and clawed up the last hundred feet to sanctuary.
They were completely spent. Without word or thought they crept within the tower, huddled together for warmth on its dank steel deck, and slept for several hours.
Roddie awoke as Ida finished struggling free of his unconscious grip. Limping, he joined her painful walk around the tower. From its openings they looked out on a strange and isolated world.
To the north, where Ida seemed drawn as though by instinct, Mount Tamalpais reared its brushy head, a looming island above a billowy white sea of fog. To the south were the Twin Peaks, a pair of buttons on a cotton sheet. Eastward lay Mount Diablo, bald and brooding, tallest of the peaks and most forbidding.
But westward over the ocean lay the land of gold—of all the kinds of gold there are, from brightest yellow to deepest orange. Only a small portion of the setting sun glared above the fog-bank; the rest seemed to have been broken off and smeared around by a child in love with its color.
Fascinated, Roddie stared for minutes, but turned when Ida showed no interest. She was intent on the tower itself. Following her eyes, Roddie saw his duty made suddenly clear.
Easy to make out even in the fading light was the route by which Invaders could cross to the foot of this tower on the remaining ruins of the road, climb to where he now stood, and then descend the cable over the bridge's gap and catch the city unaware. Easy to estimate was the advantage of even this perilous route over things that scattered on the water and prevented a landing in strength. Easy to see was the need to kill Ida before she carried home this knowledge.
Roddie took the hammer from his waist.
"Don't! Oh, don't!" Ida screamed. She burst into tears and covered her face with scratched and bloodied hands.
Surprised, Roddie withheld the blow. He had wept, as a child, and, weeping, had for the first time learned he differed from his friends. Ida's tears disturbed him, bringing unhappy memories.
"Why should you cry?" he asked comfortingly. "You know your people will come back to avenge you and will destroy my friends."
"But—but my people are your people, too," Ida wailed. "It's so senseless, now, after all our struggle to escape. Don't you see? Your friends are only machines, built by our ancestors. We are Men—and the city is ours, not theirs!"
"It can't be," Roddie objected. "The city surely belongs to those who are superior, and my friends are superior to your people, even to me. Each of us has a purpose, though, while you Invaders seem to be aimless. Each of us helps preserve the city; you only try to rob and end it by destroying it. My people must be the true Men, because they're so much more rational than yours.... And it isn't rational to let you escape."
Ida had turned up her tear-streaked face to stare at him.
"Rational! What's rational about murdering a defenseless girl in cold blood? Don't you realize we're the same sort of being, we two? Don't—don't you remember how we've been with each other all day?"
She paused. Roddie noticed that her eyes were dark and frightened, yet somehow soft, over scarlet cheeks. He had to look away. But he said nothing.
"Never mind!" Ida said viciously. "You can't make me beg. Go ahead and kill—see if it proves you're superior. My people will take over the city regardless of you and me, and regardless of your jumping-jack friends, too! Men can accomplish anything!"
Scornfully she turned and looked toward the western twilight. It was Roddie's turn to stand and stare.
"Purpose!" Ida flung at him over her shoulder. "Logic! Women hear so much of that from men! You're a man, all right! Men always call it logic when they want to destroy! Loyalty to your own sort, kindness, affection—all emotional, aren't they? Not a bit logical. Emotion is for creating, and it's so much more logical to destroy, isn't it?"
She whirled back toward him, advancing as if she wanted to sink her teeth into his throat. "Go ahead. Get it over with—if you have the courage."
It was hard for Roddie to look away from that wrath-crimsoned face, but it was even harder to keep staring into the blaze of her eyes. He compromised by gazing out an opening at the gathering dusk. He thought for a long time before he decided to tuck his hammer away.
"It isn't reasonable to kill you now," he said. "Too dark. You can't possibly get down that half-ruined manway tonight, so let's see how I feel in the morning."
Ida began to weep again, and Roddie found it necessary to comfort her.
And by morning he knew he was a Man.
Question:
Who is Ida and what are her characteristics?
Answer:
|
[
"Ida is a human girl that Roddie first encounters when she is hiding in the manhole that he frequents himself. She appears to have come into the android-ridden city on her own with the altruistic desire to help the wounded. She is selfless and persistent in her mission. She is inexperienced with the android world as demonstrated by her fright when the pair encountered a soldier, who only walked away after Roddie confronted it. Similarly, Roddie had to guide her around the city and help her with access to resources like shelter and food. \n\nIda is loyal and brave as well. Despite Roddie threatening to kill her at the end of the story, Ida insists on the idea that they are both human and that Roddie’s way of thinking was incorrect. In the end, she is able to discourage him from killing her and he ends up comforting her. \n\n",
"Ida is short and lean, wearing a doeskin dress. Her legs are slender, and her tiny bare feet wear nothing. Her face is tanned and ruddy, with a full mouth and dark eyes. She is friendly to Roddie when she guesses he is lost from the boat. Ida is brilliant as she figures out Roddie’s identity after his interaction with an android and his familiarity with the surrounding areas and baby food. She is also brave as she suppresses her fear and manages her way to escape from Roddie after knowing his intention to catch her. She is dedicated as her purpose in ruins is to help her fellows in every way possible. Roddie sees her as purposeless and impulsive. She is weaker than Roddie. She is nervous and scared when they walk towards the bridge, being furtive and close behind Roddie. She is emotional, and she considers it a good thing because she is angry at Roddie’s claim of the superiority of being rational.",
"Ida is a girl that traversed illegally into San Francisco in order to help men get supplies and fight the robots that patrolled the city. Women weren’t allowed to go into the city, so she snuck into one of the boats in order to help the wounded men who were fighting. She is described as small and thin, but that allows her to be quick and agile. When Ida meets Roddie, she wants to bring him back to the humans so he can learn where he comes from, and that he doesn’t belong with the robots. She is very brave, because she wasn’t afraid of being killed by Roddie or the robots. ",
"Ida is a young girl, one of the Invaders living outside the city. The fact that she followed Roddie’s footprints and found his hideout seems to indicate her intelligence. She is brave and compassionate - Ida was ready to secretly leave her safe community and come to the city to help the wounded. She is emotional: we see that when she unexpectedly kisses Roddie or when she starts crying at the end. Ida also has a strong sense of justice - she considers returning the city to men a necessity, she thinks San Francisco belongs to them. Ida also doesn’t seem to like violence or destructive behavior - this is what she says to Roddie at the end. \n"
] |
51241
|
Bridge Crossing
BY DAVE DRYFOOS
Illustrated by HARRISON
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction May 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
He knew the city was organized for his individual defense, for it had been that way since he was born. But who was his enemy?
In 1849, the mist that sometimes rolled through the Golden Gate was known as fog. In 2149, it had become far more frequent, and was known as smog. By 2349, it was fog again.
But tonight there was smoke mixed with the fog. Roddie could smell it. Somewhere in the forested ruins, fire was burning.
He wasn't worried. The small blaze that smoldered behind him on the cracked concrete floor had consumed everything burnable within blocks; what remained of the gutted concrete office building from which he peered was fire-proof.
But Roddie was himself aflame with anger. As always when Invaders broke in from the north, he'd been left behind with his nurse, Molly, while the soldiers went out to fight.
And nowadays Molly's presence wasn't the comfort it used to be. He felt almost ready to jump out of his skin, the way she rocked and knitted in that grating ruined chair, saying over and over again, "The soldiers don't want little boys. The soldiers don't want little boys. The soldiers don't—"
"I'm not a little boy!" Roddie suddenly shouted. "I'm full-grown and I've never even seen an Invader. Why won't you let me go and fight?"
Fiercely he crossed the bare, gritty floor and shook Molly's shoulder. She rattled under his jarring hand, and abruptly changed the subject.
"A is for Atom, B is for Bomb, C is for Corpse—" she chanted.
Roddie reached into her shapeless dress and pinched. Lately that had helped her over these spells. But this time, though it stopped the kindergarten song, the treatment only started something worse.
"Wuzzums hungry?" Molly cooed, still rocking.
Utterly disgusted, Roddie ripped her head off her neck.
It was a completely futile gesture. The complicated mind that had cared for him and taught him speech and the alphabet hadn't made him a mechanic, and his only tool was a broken-handled screwdriver.
He was still tinkering when the soldiers came in. While they lined up along the wall, he put Molly's head back on her neck.
She gaped coyly at the new arrivals. "Hello, boys," she simpered.
"Looking for a good time?"
Roddie slapped her to silence, reflecting briefly that there were many things he didn't know about Molly. But there was work to be done. Carefully he framed the ritual words she'd taught him: "Soldiers, come to attention and report!"
There were eleven of them, six feet tall, with four limbs and eight extremities. They stood uniformly, the thumbs on each pair of hands touching along the center line of the legs, front feet turned out at an angle of forty-five degrees, rear feet turned inward at thirty degrees.
"Sir," they chorused, "we have met the enemy and he is ours."
He inspected them. All were scratched and dented, but one in particular seemed badly damaged. His left arm was almost severed at the shoulder.
"Come here, fellow," Roddie said. "Let's see if I can fix that."
The soldier took a step forward, lurched suddenly, stopped, and whipped out a bayonet.
"Death to Invaders!" he yelled, and charged crazily.
Molly stepped in front of him.
"You aren't being very nice to my baby," she murmured, and thrust her knitting needles into his eyes.
Roddie jumped behind him, knocked off his helmet, and pressed a soft spot on his conical skull. The soldier collapsed to the floor.
Roddie salvaged and returned Molly's needles. Then he examined the patient, tearing him apart as a boy dismembers an alarm clock.
It was lucky he did. The left arm's pair of hands suddenly writhed off the floor in an effort to choke him. But because the arm was detached at the shoulder and therefore blind, he escaped the clutching onslaught and could goad the reflexing hands into assaulting one another harmlessly.
Meanwhile, the other soldiers left, except for one, apparently another casualty, who stumbled on his way out and fell into the fire. By the time Roddie had hauled him clear, damage was beyond repair. Roddie swore, then decided to try combining parts of this casualty with pieces of the other to make a whole one.
To get more light for the operation, he poked up the fire. Roddie was new at his work, and took it seriously. It alarmed him to watch the soldiers melt away, gradually succumbing to battle damage, shamed him to see the empty ruins burn section by section as the Invaders repeatedly broke through and had to be burned out.
Soon there would be nothing left of the Private Property Keep Out that, according to Molly's bedtime story, the Owners had entrusted to them when driven away by radioactivity. Soon the soldiers themselves would be gone. None would remain to guard the city but a few strayed servants like Molly, and an occasional Civil Defender.
And himself, Roddie reflected, spitting savagely into the fire. He might remain. But how he fitted into the picture, he didn't know. And Molly, who claimed to have found him in the ruins after a fight with Invaders twenty years before, couldn't or wouldn't say.
Well, for as long as possible, Roddie decided, he'd do his duty as the others did theirs—single-mindedly. Eventually the soldiers might accept him as one of themselves; meanwhile, this newly attempted first aid was useful to them.
He gave the fire a final poke and then paused, wondering if, when heated, his screwdriver could make an unfastened end of wire stick on the grayish spot where it seemed to belong.
Stretching prone to blow the embers hot so he could try out his new idea, Roddie got too close to the flames. Instantly the room filled with the stench of singed hair. Roddie drew angrily back, beating out the sparks in his uncut blond mane.
As he stood slapping his head and muttering, a deranged Civil Defense firefighter popped into the doorway and covered him with carbon dioxide foam.
Roddie fled. His life-long friends were not merely wearing out, they were unbearably wearing.
In the street, even before he'd wiped off the foam, he regretted his flight. The fire was back home. And here in the cold of this fog-shrouded canyon, a mere trail between heaped-up walls of rubble, the diaper he wore felt inadequate against the pre-dawn cold. His cherished weapon, a magnetic tack-hammer, was chill beneath the diaper's top, and the broken, radium-dialed wristwatch suspended from a string around his neck hung clammy against his chest. He stood irresolute on numbing bare feet, and considered returning to the more familiar bedlam.
But colder than cold was his shame at being cold. Molly never was, though she knew how to keep him warm, nor were the others. Hunger, thirst, pain and coldness were sensations never experienced by his friends. Like the growth he'd been undergoing till recently, these were things of ignominy, to be hidden as far as possible from inquiring eyes. Cold as it was, he'd have to hide.
Temporarily, the darkness concealed him, though it was not quite complete. From above the fog, the moon played vaguely deceptive light on the splinters of architecture looming toward it. Some distance off, an owl hooted, but here nocturnal rodents felt free to squeak and rustle as they scampered.
The world seemed ghostly. Yet it wasn't dead; it merely lurked. And as an irrepressible yawn reminded Roddie of his absurd need for sleep even in the midst of danger, he concluded for the thousandth time that the One who'd built him must have been an apprentice.
For just such reasons he'd developed the hideout toward which he now walked. It had been the haven of his adolescence, when the discovery of how much he differed from his friends had been a shock, and the shock itself a difference to be hidden.
His hiding place was a manhole, dead center in the dead street. A weathered bronze bar, carefully placed in the cover's slotted rim, was the levering key that opened its door.
Everything was wrong tonight! He couldn't even find the bar. Of course that spoiled things, because the bar was a roller on which to move the heavy cover from below, and a support that held it ajar for ventilation.
But the example of his friends had taught him above all else to carry out every purpose. Molly was a nurse; she had raised him despite all obstacles. The soldiers were guards; they protected the ruins against everything larger than a rat. The firefighter had put even him out when he was aflame....
Anyhow, the manhole cover had been loosened by his frequent handling. He lifted it aside by main strength, then flattened himself to the street, and felt with his feet for the top rung.
Halfway down the iron ladder, something made him pause. He looked, but saw only blackness. He listened, sniffed, found nothing. What could have entered through the iron cover?
He sneered at his own timidity and jumped to the bottom.
It was warm! The dry bottom of the hole had the temperature of body heat, as if a large animal had recently rested there!
Quickly, Roddie drew the hammer from his waist. Then, with weapon ready for an instantaneous blow, he stretched his left hand through the darkness. He touched something warm, softish. Gingerly he felt over that curving surface for identifying features.
While Roddie investigated by touch, his long fingers were suddenly seized and bitten. At the same time, his right shin received a savage kick. And his own retaliatory blow was checked in mid-swing by an unexpected voice.
"Get your filthy hands off me!" it whispered angrily. "Who do you think you are?"
Startled, he dropped his hammer. "I'm Roddie," he said, squatting to fumble for it. "Who do you think you are?"
"I'm Ida, naturally! Just how many girls are there in this raiding party?"
His first Invader—and he had dropped his weapon!
Scrabbling fearfully in the dust for his hammer, Roddie paused suddenly. This girl—whatever that was—seemed to think him one of her own kind. There was a chance, not much, but worth taking, to turn delay to advantage. Maybe he could learn something of value before he killed her. That would make the soldiers accept him!
He stalled, seeking a gambit. "How would I know how many girls there are?"
Half expecting a blow, he got instead an apology. "I'm sorry," the girl said. "I should have known. Never even heard your name before, either. Roddie.... Whose boat did you come in, Roddie?"
Boat? What was a boat? "How would I know?" he repeated, voice tight with fear of discovery.
If she noticed the tension, she didn't show it. Certainly her whisper was friendly enough. "Oh, you're one of the fellows from Bodega, then. They shoved a boy into our boat at the last minute, too. Tough, wasn't it, getting separated in the fog and tide like that? If only we didn't have to use boats.... But, say, how are we going to get away from here?"
"I wouldn't know," Roddie said, closing his fingers on the hammer, and rising. "How did you get in?"
"Followed your footprints. It was sundown and I saw human tracks in the dust and they led me here. Where were you?"
"Scouting around," Roddie said vaguely. "How did you know I was a man when I came back?"
"Because you couldn't see me, silly! You know perfectly well these androids are heat-sensitive and can locate us in the dark!"
Indeed he did know! Many times he'd felt ashamed that Molly could find him whenever she wanted to, even here in the manhole. But perhaps the manhole would help him now to redeem himself....
"I'd like to get a look at you," he said.
The girl laughed self-consciously. "It's getting gray out. You'll see me soon enough."
But she'd see him , Roddie realized. He had to talk fast.
"What'll we do when it's light?" he asked.
"Well, I guess the boats have gone," Ida said. "You could swim the Gate, I guess—you seem tall and strong enough. But I couldn't. You'll think it's crazy, but I've given this some thought, and even looked it over from the other side. I expect to try the Golden Gate Bridge!"
Now he was getting somewhere! The bridge was ruined, impassable. Even her own people had crossed the Strait by other means. But if there were a way over the bridge....
"It's broken," he said. "How in the world can we cross it?"
"Oh, you'll find out, if you take me up there. I—I don't want to be alone, Roddie. Will you go with me? Now?"
Well, she could be made to point out the route before he killed her— if nothing happened when she saw him.
Uneasy, Roddie hefted the hammer in his hand.
A giggle broke the pause. "It's nice of you to wait and let me go first up the ladder," the girl said. "But where the heck is the rusty old thing?"
"I'll go first," said Roddie. He might need the advantage. "The ladder's right behind me."
He climbed with hammer in teeth, and stretched his left hand from street level to grasp and neutralize the girl's right. Then, nervously fingering his weapon, he stared at her in the thin gray dawn.
She was short and lean, except for roundnesses here and there. From her shapeless doeskin dress stretched slender legs that tapered to feet that were bare, tiny, and, like her hands, only two in number.
Roddie was pleased. They were evenly matched as to members, and that would make things easy when the time came.
He looked into her face. It smiled at him, tanned and ruddy, with a full mouth and bright dark eyes that hid under long lashes when he looked too long.
Startling, those wary eyes. Concealing. For a moment he felt a rush of fear, but she gave his hand a squeeze before twisting loose, and burst into sudden laughter.
"Diapers!" she chortled, struggling to keep her voice low. "My big, strong, blond and blue-eyed hero goes into battle wearing diapers, and carrying only a hammer to fight with! You're the most unforgettable character I have ever known!"
He'd passed inspection, then—so far. He expelled his withheld breath, and said, "I think you'll find me a little odd, in some ways."
"Oh, not at all," Ida replied quickly. "Different, yes, but I wouldn't say odd."
When they started down the street, she was nervous despite Roddie's assertion that he knew where the soldiers were posted. He wondered if she felt some of the doubt he'd tried to conceal, shared his visions of what the soldiers might do if they found him brazenly strolling with an Invader. They might not believe he was only questioning a prisoner.
Every day, his friends were becoming more unpredictable.
For that very reason, because he didn't know what precautions would do any good, he took a chance and walked openly to the bridge by the most direct route. In time this apparent assurance stilled Ida's fears, and she began to talk.
Many of the things she said were beyond his experience and meaningless to him, but he did note with interest how effective the soldiers had been.
"It's awful," Ida said. "So few young men are left, so many casualties....
"But why do you—we—keep up the fight?" Roddie asked. "I mean, the soldiers will never leave the city; their purpose is to guard it and they can't leave, so they won't attack. Let them alone, and there'll be plenty of young men."
"Well!" said Ida, sharply. "You need indoctrination! Didn't they ever tell you that the city is our home, even if the stupid androids do keep us out? Don't you know how dependent we are on these raids for all our tools and things?"
She sounded suspicious. Roddie shot her a furtive, startled glance. But she wasn't standing off to fight him. On the contrary, she was too close for both comfort and combat. She bumped him hip and shoulder every few steps, and if he edged away, she followed.
He went on with his questioning. "Why are you here? I mean, sure, the others are after tools and things, but what's your purpose?"
Ida shrugged. "I'll admit no girl has ever done it before," she said,
"but I thought I could help with the wounded. That's why I have no weapon."
She hesitated, glanced covertly up at him, and went on with a rush of words. "It's the lack of men, I guess. All the girls are kind of bored and hopeless, so I got this bright idea and stowed away on one of the boats when it was dark and the fog had settled down. Do you think I was being silly?"
"No, but you do seem a little purposeless."
In silence they trudged through a vast area of charred wood and concrete foundations on the northern end of the city. Thick fog over the water hid Alcatraz, but in-shore visibility was better, and they could see the beginning of the bridge approach.
A stone rattled nearby. There was a clink of metal. Ida gasped, and clung to Roddie's arm.
"Behind me!" he whispered urgently. "Get behind me and hold on!"
He felt Ida's arms encircling his waist, her chin digging into his back below the left shoulder. Facing them, a hundred feet away, stood a soldier. He looked contemptuous, hostile.
"It's all right," Roddie said, his voice breaking.
There was a long, sullen, heart-stopping stare. Then the soldier turned and walked away.
Ida's grip loosened, and he could feel her sag behind him. Roddie turned and held her. With eyes closed, she pressed cold blue lips to his. He grimaced and turned away his head.
Ida's response was quick. "Forgive me," she breathed, and slipped from his arms, but she held herself erect. "I was so scared. And then we've had no sleep, no food or water."
Roddie was familiar with these signs of weakness, proud of appearing to deny his own humiliating needs.
"I guess you're not as strong as me," he said smugly. "I'll take care of you. Of course we can't sleep now, but I'll get food and water."
Leaving her to follow, he turned left to the ruins of a supermarket he had previously visited, demonstrating his superior strength by setting a pace Ida couldn't match. By the time she caught up with him, he had grubbed out a few cans of the special size that Molly always chose. Picking two that were neither dented, swollen, nor rusted, he smashed an end of each with his hammer, and gave Ida her choice of strained spinach or squash.
"Baby food!" she muttered. "Maybe it's just what we need, but to eat baby food with a man wearing a diaper.... Tell me, Roddie, how did you happen to know where to find it?"
"Well, this is the northern end of the city," he answered, shrugging.
"I've been here before."
"Why did the soldier let us go?"
"This watch," he said, touching the radium dial. "It's a talisman."
But Ida's eyes had widened, and the color was gone from her face. She was silent, too, except when asking him to fill his fast-emptied can with rain-water. She didn't finish her own portion, but lay back in the rubble with feet higher than her head, obviously trying to renew her strength.
And when they resumed their walk, her sullen, fear-clouded face showed plainly that he'd given himself away.
But to kill her now, before learning how she planned to cross the supposedly impassable bridge, seemed as purposeless and impulsive as Ida herself. Roddie didn't think, in any case, that her death would satisfy the soldiers. With new and useful information to offer, he might join them as an equal at last. But if his dalliance with this enemy seemed pointless, not even Molly's knitting needles could protect him.
He was sure the soldiers must be tracking the mysterious emanations of his watch dial, and had trouble to keep from glancing over his shoulder at every step. But arrival at the bridge approach ended the need for this self-restraint. Here, difficult going demanded full attention.
He'd never gone as far as the bridge before, not having wanted to look as if he might be leaving the city. The approach was a jungle of concrete with an underbrush of reinforcing-steel that reached for the unwary with rusted spines. Frequently they had to balance on cracked girders, and inch over roadless spots high off the ground.
Here Ida took the lead. When they got to where three approach roads made a clover-leaf, she led him down a side road and into a forest.
Roddie stopped, and seized her arm.
"What are you trying to do?" he demanded.
"I'm taking you with me," Ida said firmly. "Taking you where you belong!"
"No!" he blurted, drawing his hammer. "I can't go, nor let you go. I belong here!"
Ida gasped, twisted loose, and ran. Roddie ran after her.
She wasn't so easily caught. Like a frightened doe, she dashed in and out among the trees, leaped to the bridge's underpinnings where they thrust rustedly from a cliff, and scrambled up the ramp.
Roddie sighed and slowed down. The pavement ended just beyond the cable anchors. From there to the south tower, only an occasional dangling support wire showed where the actual bridge had been suspended. Ida was trapped.
He could take his time. Let the soldiers come up, as they undoubtedly would, to finish the job....
But Ida didn't seem to realize she was trapped. Without hesitation she dashed up the main left-hand suspension cable and ran along its curved steel surface.
For a moment, Roddie thought of letting her go, letting her run up the ever-steepening catenary until—because there were no guard-ropes or handgrips—she simply fell. That would solve his problem.
Except it wouldn't be his solution. Her death wouldn't prove him to his friends.
He set out quickly, before Ida was lost to sight in the thick fog that billowed in straight from the ocean. At first he ran erect along the top of the yard-wide cylinder of twisted metal, but soon the curve steepened. He had to go on all fours, clinging palm and sole.
Blood was on the cable where she'd passed. More blood stained it when he'd followed.
But because his friends knew neither pain nor fatigue, Roddie would admit none either. Nor would he give in to the fear that dizzied him at every downward look. He scrambled on like an automaton, watching only his holds, till he rammed Ida's rear with his head.
She had stopped, trembling and gasping. Roddie clung just below her and looked dazedly around. There was nothing in sight but fog, pierced by the rapier of rusted wire supporting them. Neither end of it was in sight.
Upward lay success, if death were not nearer on the cable. No soldier had ever come even this far, for soldiers, as he'd told Ida, never left the city, were not built to do so. But he was here; with luck, he could capitalize on the differences that had plagued him so long.
"Go on!" he ordered hoarsely. "Move!"
There was neither answer nor result. He broke off an end of loosened wire and jabbed her rear. Ida gasped and crawled on.
Up and up they went, chilled, wet, bleeding, pain-racked, exhausted. Never had Roddie felt so thoroughly the defects of his peculiar non-mechanical construction.
Without realizing it, he acquired a new purpose, a duty as compelling as that of any soldier or fire-watcher. He had to keep that trembling body of his alive, mount to the tall rust tower overhead.
He climbed and he made Ida climb, till, at nightmare's end, the fog thinned and they came into clear, windswept air and clawed up the last hundred feet to sanctuary.
They were completely spent. Without word or thought they crept within the tower, huddled together for warmth on its dank steel deck, and slept for several hours.
Roddie awoke as Ida finished struggling free of his unconscious grip. Limping, he joined her painful walk around the tower. From its openings they looked out on a strange and isolated world.
To the north, where Ida seemed drawn as though by instinct, Mount Tamalpais reared its brushy head, a looming island above a billowy white sea of fog. To the south were the Twin Peaks, a pair of buttons on a cotton sheet. Eastward lay Mount Diablo, bald and brooding, tallest of the peaks and most forbidding.
But westward over the ocean lay the land of gold—of all the kinds of gold there are, from brightest yellow to deepest orange. Only a small portion of the setting sun glared above the fog-bank; the rest seemed to have been broken off and smeared around by a child in love with its color.
Fascinated, Roddie stared for minutes, but turned when Ida showed no interest. She was intent on the tower itself. Following her eyes, Roddie saw his duty made suddenly clear.
Easy to make out even in the fading light was the route by which Invaders could cross to the foot of this tower on the remaining ruins of the road, climb to where he now stood, and then descend the cable over the bridge's gap and catch the city unaware. Easy to estimate was the advantage of even this perilous route over things that scattered on the water and prevented a landing in strength. Easy to see was the need to kill Ida before she carried home this knowledge.
Roddie took the hammer from his waist.
"Don't! Oh, don't!" Ida screamed. She burst into tears and covered her face with scratched and bloodied hands.
Surprised, Roddie withheld the blow. He had wept, as a child, and, weeping, had for the first time learned he differed from his friends. Ida's tears disturbed him, bringing unhappy memories.
"Why should you cry?" he asked comfortingly. "You know your people will come back to avenge you and will destroy my friends."
"But—but my people are your people, too," Ida wailed. "It's so senseless, now, after all our struggle to escape. Don't you see? Your friends are only machines, built by our ancestors. We are Men—and the city is ours, not theirs!"
"It can't be," Roddie objected. "The city surely belongs to those who are superior, and my friends are superior to your people, even to me. Each of us has a purpose, though, while you Invaders seem to be aimless. Each of us helps preserve the city; you only try to rob and end it by destroying it. My people must be the true Men, because they're so much more rational than yours.... And it isn't rational to let you escape."
Ida had turned up her tear-streaked face to stare at him.
"Rational! What's rational about murdering a defenseless girl in cold blood? Don't you realize we're the same sort of being, we two? Don't—don't you remember how we've been with each other all day?"
She paused. Roddie noticed that her eyes were dark and frightened, yet somehow soft, over scarlet cheeks. He had to look away. But he said nothing.
"Never mind!" Ida said viciously. "You can't make me beg. Go ahead and kill—see if it proves you're superior. My people will take over the city regardless of you and me, and regardless of your jumping-jack friends, too! Men can accomplish anything!"
Scornfully she turned and looked toward the western twilight. It was Roddie's turn to stand and stare.
"Purpose!" Ida flung at him over her shoulder. "Logic! Women hear so much of that from men! You're a man, all right! Men always call it logic when they want to destroy! Loyalty to your own sort, kindness, affection—all emotional, aren't they? Not a bit logical. Emotion is for creating, and it's so much more logical to destroy, isn't it?"
She whirled back toward him, advancing as if she wanted to sink her teeth into his throat. "Go ahead. Get it over with—if you have the courage."
It was hard for Roddie to look away from that wrath-crimsoned face, but it was even harder to keep staring into the blaze of her eyes. He compromised by gazing out an opening at the gathering dusk. He thought for a long time before he decided to tuck his hammer away.
"It isn't reasonable to kill you now," he said. "Too dark. You can't possibly get down that half-ruined manway tonight, so let's see how I feel in the morning."
Ida began to weep again, and Roddie found it necessary to comfort her.
And by morning he knew he was a Man.
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What happens to Terrence throughout the story?
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After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about The Highest Mountain by Bryce Walton.
Relevant chunks:
THE HIGHEST MOUNTAIN
By BRYCE WALTON
Illustrated by BOB HAYES
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
First one up this tallest summit in the Solar System was a rotten egg ... a very rotten egg!
Bruce heard their feet on the gravel outside and got up reluctantly to open the door for them. He'd been reading some of Byron's poems he'd sneaked aboard the ship; after that he had been on the point of dozing off, and now one of those strangely realistic dreams would have to be postponed for a while. Funny, those dreams. There were faces in them of human beings, or of ghosts, and other forms that weren't human at all, but seemed real and alive—except that they were also just parts of a last unconscious desire to escape death. Maybe that was it.
"'Oh that my young life were a lasting dream, my spirit not awakening till the beam of an eternity should bring the 'morrow," Bruce said. He smiled without feeling much of anything and added, "Thanks, Mr. Poe."
Jacobs and Anhauser stood outside. The icy wind cut through and into Bruce, but he didn't seem to notice. Anhauser's bulk loomed even larger in the special cold-resisting suiting. Jacobs' thin face frowned slyly at Bruce.
"Come on in, boys, and get warm," Bruce invited.
"Hey, poet, you're still here!" Anhauser said, looking astonished.
"We thought you'd be running off somewhere," Jacobs said.
Bruce reached for the suit on its hook, started climbing into it.
"Where?" he asked. "Mars looks alike wherever you go. Where did you think I'd be running to?"
"Any place just so it was away from here and us," Anhauser said.
"I don't have to do that. You are going away from me. That takes care of that, doesn't it?"
"Ah, come on, get the hell out of there," Jacobs said. He pulled the revolver from its holster and pointed it at Bruce. "We got to get some sleep. We're starting up that mountain at five in the morning."
"I know," Bruce said. "I'll be glad to see you climb the mountain."
Outside, in the weird light of the double moons, Bruce looked up at the gigantic overhang of the mountain. It was unbelievable. The mountain didn't seem to belong here. He'd thought so when they'd first hit Mars eight months back and discovered the other four rockets that had never got back to Earth—all lying side by side under the mountain's shadow, like little white chalk marks on a tallyboard.
They'd estimated its height at over 45,000 feet, which was a lot higher than any mountain on Earth. Yet Mars was much older, geologically. The entire face of the planet was smoothed into soft, undulating red hills by erosion. And there in the middle of barren nothingness rose that one incredible mountain. On certain nights when the stars were right, it had seemed to Bruce as though it were pointing an accusing finger at Earth—or a warning one.
With Jacobs and Anhauser and the remainder of the crew of the ship, Mars V , seven judges sat in a semi-circle and Bruce stood there in front of them for the inquest.
In the middle of the half-moon of inquisition, with his long legs stretched out and his hands folded on his belly, sat Captain Terrence. His uniform was black. On his arm was the silver fist insignia of the Conqueror Corps. Marsha Rennels sat on the extreme right and now there was no emotion at all on her trim, neat face.
He remembered her as she had been years ago, but at the moment he wasn't looking very hard to see anything on her face. It was too late. They had gotten her young and it was too late.
Terrence's big, square face frowned a little. Bruce was aware suddenly of the sound of the bleak, never-ending wind against the plastilene shelter. He remembered the strange misty shapes that had come to him in his dreams, the voices that had called to him, and how disappointed he had been when he woke from them.
"This is a mere formality," Terrence finally said, "since we all know you killed Lieutenant Doran a few hours ago. Marsha saw you kill him. Whatever you say goes on the record, of course."
"For whom?" Bruce asked.
"What kind of question is that? For the authorities on Earth when we get back."
"When you get back? Like the crews of those other four ships out there?" Bruce laughed without much humor.
Terrence rubbed a palm across his lips, dropped the hand quickly again to his belly. "You want to make a statement or not? You shot Doran in the head with a rifle. No provocation for the attack. You've wasted enough of my time with your damn arguments and anti-social behavior. This is a democratic group. Everyone has his say. But you've said too much, and done too much. Freedom doesn't allow you to go around killing fellow crew-members!"
"Any idea that there was any democracy or freedom left died on Venus," Bruce said.
"Now we get another lecture!" Terrence exploded. He leaned forward.
"You're sick, Bruce. They did a bad psych job on you. They should never have sent you on this trip. We need strength, all the strength we can find. You don't belong here."
"I know," Bruce agreed indifferently. "I was drafted for this trip. I told them I shouldn't be brought along. I said I didn't want any part of it."
"Because you're afraid. You're not Conqueror material. That's why you backed down when we all voted to climb the mountain. And what the devil does Venus—?"
Max Drexel's freckles slipped into the creases across his high forehead. "Haven't you heard him expounding on the injustice done to the Venusian aborigines, Captain? If you haven't, you aren't thoroughly educated to the crackpot idealism still infecting certain people."
"I haven't heard it," Terrence admitted. "What injustice?"
Bruce said, "I guess it couldn't really be considered an injustice any longer. Values have changed too much. Doran and I were part of the crew of that first ship to hit Venus, five years ago. Remember? One of the New Era's more infamous dates. Drexel says the Venusians were aborigines. No one ever got a chance to find out. We ran into this village. No one knows how old it was. There were intelligent beings there. One community left on the whole planet, maybe a few thousand inhabitants. They made their last mistake when they came out to greet us. Without even an attempt at communication, they were wiped out. The village was burned and everything alive in it was destroyed."
Bruce felt the old weakness coming into his knees, the sweat beginning to run down his face. He took a deep breath and stood there before the cold nihilistic stares of fourteen eyes.
"No," Bruce said. "I apologize. None of you know what I'm talking about."
Terrence nodded. "You're psycho. It's as simple as that. They pick the most capable for these conquests. Even the flights are processes of elimination. Eventually we get the very best, the most resilient, the real conquering blood. You just don't pass, Bruce. Listen, what do you think gives you the right to stand here in judgment against the laws of the whole Solar System?"
"There are plenty on Earth who agree with me," Bruce said. "I can say what I think now because you can't do more than kill me and you'll do that regardless...."
He stopped. This was ridiculous, a waste of his time. And theirs. They had established a kind of final totalitarianism since the New Era. The psychologists, the Pavlovian Reflex boys, had done that. If you didn't want to be reconditioned to fit into the social machine like a human vacuum tube, you kept your mouth shut. And for many, when the mouth was kept shut long enough, the mind pretty well forgot what it had wanted to open the mouth for in the first place.
A minority in both segments of a world split into two factions. Both had been warring diplomatically and sometimes physically, for centuries, clung to old ideas of freedom, democracy, self-determinism, individualism. To most, the words had no meaning now. It was a question of which set of conquering heroes could conquer the most space first. So far, only Venus had fallen. They had done a good, thorough job there. Four ships had come to Mars and their crews had disappeared. This was the fifth attempt—
Terrence said, "why did you shoot Doran?"
"I didn't like him enough to take the nonsense he was handing me, and when he shot the—" Bruce hesitated.
"What? When he shot what?"
Bruce felt an odd tingling in his stomach. The wind's voice seemed to sharpen and rise to a kind of wail.
"All right, I'll tell you. I was sleeping, having a dream. Doran woke me up. Marsha was with him. I'd forgotten about that geological job we were supposed to be working on. I've had these dreams ever since we got here."
"What kind of dreams?"
Someone laughed.
"Just fantastic stuff. Ask your Pavlovian there," Bruce said. "People talk to me, and there are other things in the dreams. Voices and some kind of shapes that aren't what you would call human at all."
Someone coughed. There was obvious embarrassment in the room.
"It's peculiar, but many faces and voices are those of crew members of some of the ships out there, the ones that never got back to Earth."
Terrence grinned. "Ghosts, Bruce?"
"Maybe. This planet may not be a dead ball of clay. I've had a feeling there's something real in the dreams, but I can't figure it out. You're still interested?"
Terrence nodded and glanced to either side.
"We've seen no indication of any kind of life whatsoever," Bruce pointed out. "Not even an insect, or any kind of plant life except some fungi and lichen down in the crevices. That never seemed logical to me from the start. We've covered the planet everywhere except one place—"
"The mountain," Terrence said. "You've been afraid even to talk about scaling it."
"Not afraid," Bruce objected. "I don't see any need to climb it. Coming to Mars, conquering space, isn't that enough? It happens that the crew of the first ship here decided to climb the mountain, and that set a precedent. Every ship that has come here has had to climb it. Why? Because they had to accept the challenge. And what's happened to them? Like you, they all had the necessary equipment to make a successful climb, but no one's ever come back down. No contact with anything up there.
"Captain, I'm not accepting a ridiculous challenge like that. Why should I? I didn't come here to conquer anything, even a mountain. The challenge of coming to Mars, of going on to where ever you guys intend going before something bigger than you are stops you—it doesn't interest me."
"Nothing's bigger than the destiny of Earth!" Terrence said, sitting up straight and rigid.
"I know," Bruce said. "Anyway, I got off the track. As I was saying, I woke up from this dream and Marsha and Doran were there. Doran was shaking me. But I didn't seem to have gotten entirely awake; either that or some part of the dream was real, because I looked out the window—something was out there, looking at me. It was late, and at first I thought it might be a shadow. But it wasn't. It was misty, almost translucent, but I think it was something alive. I had a feeling it was intelligent, maybe very intelligent. I could feel something in my mind. A kind of beauty and softness and warmth. I kept looking—"
His throat was getting tight. He had difficulty talking. "Doran asked me what I was looking at, and I told him. He laughed. But he looked. Then I realized that maybe I wasn't still dreaming. Doran saw it, too, or thought he did. He kept looking and finally he jumped and grabbed up his rifle and ran outside. I yelled at him. I kept on yelling and ran after him. 'It's intelligent, whatever it is!' I kept saying. 'How do you know it means any harm?' But I heard Doran's rifle go off before I could get to him. And whatever it was we saw, I didn't see it any more. Neither did Doran. Maybe he killed it. I don't know. He had to kill it. That's the way you think."
"What? Explain that remark."
"That's the philosophy of conquest—don't take any chances with aliens. They might hinder our advance across the Universe. So we kill everything. Doran acted without thinking at all. Conditioned to kill everything that doesn't look like us. So I hit Doran and took the gun away from him and killed him. I felt sick, crazy with rage. Maybe that's part of it. All I know is that I thought he deserved to die and that I had to kill him, so I did."
"Is that all, Bruce?"
"That's about all. Except that I'd like to kill all of you. And I would if I had the chance."
"That's what I figured." Terrence turned to the psychologist, a small wiry man who sat there constantly fingering his ear. "Stromberg, what do you think of this gobbledegook? We know he's crazy. But what hit him? You said his record was good up until a year ago."
Stromberg's voice was monotonous, like a voice off of a tape.
"Schizophrenia with mingled delusions of persecution. The schizophrenia is caused by inner conflict—indecision between the older values and our present ones which he hasn't been able to accept. A complete case history would tell why he can't accept our present attitudes. I would say that he has an incipient fear of personal inadequacy, which is why he fears our desire for conquest. He's rationalized, built up a defense which he's structured with his idealism, foundationed with Old Era values. Retreat into the past, an escape from his own present feelings of inadequacy. Also, he escapes into these dream fantasies."
"Yes," Terrence said. "But how does that account for Doran's action? Doran must have seen something—"
"Doran's charts show high suggestibility under stress. Another weak personality eliminated. Let's regard it that way. He imagined he saw something." He glanced at Marsha. "Did you see anything?"
She hesitated, avoiding Bruce's eyes. "Nothing at all. There wasn't anything out there to see, except the dust and rocks. That's all there is to see here. We could stay a million years and never see anything else. A shadow maybe—"
"All right," Terrence interrupted. "Now, Bruce, you know the law regulating the treatment of serious psycho cases in space?"
"Yes. Execution."
"No facilities for handling such cases en route back to Earth."
"I understand. No apologies necessary, Captain."
Terrence shifted his position. "However, we've voted to grant you a kind of leniency. In exchange for a little further service from you, you can remain here on Mars after we leave. You'll be left food-concentrates to last a long time."
"What kind of service?"
"Stay by the radio and take down what we report as we go up the mountain."
"Why not?" Bruce said. "You aren't certain you're coming back, then?"
"We might not," Terrence admitted calmly. "Something's happened to the others. We're going to find out what and we want it recorded. None of us want to back down and stay here. You can take our reports as they come in."
"I'll do that," Bruce said. "It should be interesting."
Bruce watched them go, away and up and around the immediate face of the mountain in the bleak cold of the Martian morning. He watched them disappear behind a high ledge, tied together with plastic rope like convicts.
He stayed by the radio. He lost track of time and didn't care much if he did. Sometimes he took a heavy sedative and slept. The sedative prevented the dreams. He had an idea that the dreams might be so pleasant that he wouldn't wake up. He wanted to listen to Terrence as long as the captain had anything to say. It was nothing but curiosity.
At fifteen thousand feet, Terrence reported only that they were climbing.
At twenty thousand feet, Terrence said, "We're still climbing, and that's all I can report, Bruce. It's worth coming to Mars for—to accept a challenge like this!"
At twenty-five thousand feet, Terrence reported, "We've put on oxygen masks. Jacobs and Drexel have developed some kind of altitude sickness and we're taking a little time out. It's a magnificent sight up here. I can imagine plenty of tourists coming to Mars one of these days, just to climb this mountain! Mt. Everest is a pimple compared with this! What a feeling of power, Bruce!"
From forty thousand feet, Terrence said, "We gauged this mountain at forty-five thousand. But here we are at forty and there doesn't seem to be any top. We can see up and up and the mountain keeps on going. I don't understand how we could have made such an error in our computations. I talked with Burton. He doesn't see how a mountain this high could still be here when the rest of the planet has been worn so smooth."
And then from fifty-three thousand feet, Terrence said with a voice that seemed slightly strained: "No sign of any of the crew of the other four ships yet. Ten in each crew, that makes fifty. Not a sign of any of them so far, but then we seem to have a long way left to climb—"
Bruce listened and noted and took sedatives and opened cans of food concentrates. He smoked and ate and slept. He had plenty of time. He had only time and the dreams which he knew he could utilize later to take care of the time.
From sixty thousand feet, Terrence reported, "I had to shoot Anhauser a few minutes ago! He was dissenting. Hear that, Bruce? One of my most dependable men. We took a vote. A mere formality, of course, whether we should continue climbing or not. We knew we'd all vote to keep on climbing. And then Anhauser dissented. He was hysterical. He refused to accept the majority decision. 'I'm going back down!' he yelled. So I had to shoot him. Imagine a man of his apparent caliber turning anti-democratic like that! This mountain will be a great tester for us in the future. We'll test everybody, find out quickly who the weaklings are."
Bruce listened to the wind. It seemed to rise higher and higher. Terrence, who had climbed still higher, was calling. "Think of it! What a conquest! No man's ever done a thing like this. Like Stromberg says, it's symbolic! We can build spaceships and reach other planets, but that's not actual physical conquest. We feel like gods up here. We can see what we are now. We can see how it's going to be—"
Once in a while Terrence demanded that Bruce say something to prove he was still there taking down what Terrence said. Bruce obliged. A long time passed, the way time does when no one cares. Bruce stopped taking the sedatives finally. The dreams came back and became, somehow, more real each time. He needed the companionship of the dreams.
It was very lonely sitting there without the dreams, with nothing but Terrence's voice ranting excitedly on and on. Terrence didn't seem real any more; certainly not as real as the dreams.
The problem of where to put the line between dream and reality began to worry Bruce. He would wake up and listen and take down what Terrence was saying, and then go to sleep again with increasing expectancy. His dream took on continuity. He could return to the point where he had left it, and it was the same—allowing even for the time difference necessitated by his periods of sleep.
He met people in the dreams, two girls and a man. They had names: Pietro, Marlene, Helene.
Helene he had seen from the beginning, but she became more real to him all the time, until he could talk with her. After that, he could also talk with Marlene and Pietro, and the conversations made sense. Consistently, they made sense.
The Martian landscape was entirely different in the dreams. Green valleys and rivers, or actually wide canals, with odd trees trailing their branches on the slow, peacefully gliding currents. Here and there were pastel-colored cities and there were things drifting through them that were alive and intelligent and soft and warm and wonderful to know.
' ... dreams, in their vivid coloring of life, as in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife of semblance with reality which brings to the delirious eye more lovely things of paradise and love—and all our own!—than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known.... '
So sometimes he read poetry, but even that was hardly equal to the dreams.
And then he would wake up and listen to Terrence's voice. He would look out the window over the barren frigid land where there was nothing but seams of worn land, like scabs under the brazen sky.
"If I had a choice," he thought, "I wouldn't ever wake up at all again. The dreams may not be more real, but they're preferable."
Dreams were supposed to be wishful thinking, primarily, but he couldn't live in them very long. His body would dry up and he would die. He had to stay awake enough to put a little energy back into himself. Of course, if he died and lost the dreams, there would be one compensation—he would also be free of Terrence and the rest of them who had learned that the only value in life lay in killing one's way across the Cosmos.
But then he had a feeling Terrence's voice wouldn't be annoying him much more anyway. The voice was unreal, coming out of some void. He could switch off Terrence any time now, but he was still curious.
"Bruce—Bruce, you still there? Listen, we're up here at what we figure to be five hundred thousand feet! It is impossible. We keep climbing and now we look up and we can see up and up and there the mountain is going up and up—"
And some time later: "Bruce, Marsha's dying! We don't know what's the matter. We can't find any reason for it. She's lying here and she keeps laughing and calling your name. She's a woman, so that's probably it. Women don't have real guts."
Bruce bent toward the radio. Outside the shelter, the wind whistled softly at the door.
"Marsha," he said.
"Bruce—"
She hadn't said his name that way for a long time.
"Marsha, remember how we used to talk about human values? I remember how you seemed to have something maybe different from the others. I never thought you'd really buy this will to conquer, and now it doesn't matter...."
He listened to her voice, first the crazy laughter, and then a whisper.
"Bruce, hello down there." Her voice was all mixed up with fear and hysteria and mockery. "Bruce darling, are you lonely down there? I wish I were with you, safe ... free ... warm. I love you. Do you hear that? I really love you, after all. After all...."
Her voice drifted away, came back to him. "We're climbing the highest mountain. What are you doing there, relaxing where it's peaceful and warm and sane? You always were such a calm guy. I remember now. What are you doing—reading poetry while we climb the mountain? What was that, Bruce—that one about the mountain you tried to quote to me last night before you ... I can't remember it now. Darling, what...?"
He stared at the radio. He hesitated, reached out and switched on the mike. He got through to her.
"Hello, hello, darling," he whispered. "Marsha, can you hear me?"
"Yes, yes. You down there, all warm and cozy, reading poetry, darling. Where you can see both ways instead of just up and down, up and down."
He tried to imagine where she was now as he spoke to her, how she looked. He thought of Earth and how it had been there, years ago, with Marsha. Things had seemed so different then. There was something of that hope in his voice now as he spoke to her, yet not directly to her, as he looked out the window at the naked frigid sky and the barren rocks.
"'... and there is nowhere to go from the top of a mountain,
But down, my dear;
And the springs that flow on the floor of the valley
Will never seem fresh or clear
For thinking of the glitter of the mountain water
In the feathery green of the year....'"
The wind stormed over the shelter in a burst of power, buried the sound of his own voice.
"Marsha, are you still there?"
"What the devil's the idea, poetry at a time like this, or any time?" Terrence demanded. "Listen, you taking this down? We haven't run into any signs of the others. Six hundred thousand feet, Bruce! We feel our destiny. We conquer the Solar System. And we'll go out and out, and we'll climb the highest mountain, the highest mountain anywhere. We're going up and up. We've voted on it. Unanimous. We go on. On to the top, Bruce! Nothing can stop us. If it takes ten years, a hundred, a thousand years, we'll find it. We'll find the top! Not the top of this world—the top of everything . The top of the
UNIVERSE
!"
Later, Terrence's voice broke off in the middle of something or other—Bruce couldn't make any sense out of it at all—and turned into crazy yells that faded out and never came back.
Bruce figured the others might still be climbing somewhere, or maybe they were dead. Either way it wouldn't make any difference to him. He knew they would never come back down.
He was switching off the radio for good when he saw the coloration break over the window. It was the same as the dream, but for an instant, dream and reality seemed fused like two superimposed film negatives.
He went to the window and looked out. The comfortable little city was out there, and the canal flowing past through a pleasantly cool yet sunny afternoon. Purple mist blanketed the knees of low hills and there was a valley, green and rich with the trees high and full beside the softly flowing canal water.
The filmy shapes that seemed alive, that were partly translucent, drifted along the water's edge, and birds as delicate as colored glass wavered down the wind.
He opened the shelter door and went out. The shelter looked the same, but useless now. How did the shelter of that bleak world get into this one, where the air was warm and fragrant, where there was no cold, from that world into this one of his dreams?
The girl—Helene—was standing there leaning against a tree, smoking a cigarette.
He walked toward her, and stopped. In the dream it had been easy, but now he was embarrassed, in spite of the intimacy that had grown between them. She wore the same casual slacks and sandals. Her hair was brown. She was not particularly beautiful, but she was comfortable to look at because she seemed so peaceful. Content, happy with what was and only what was.
He turned quickly. The shelter was still there, and behind it the row of spaceships—not like chalk marks on a tallyboard now, but like odd relics that didn't belong there in the thick green grass. Five ships instead of four.
There was his own individual shelter beyond the headquarters building, and the other buildings. He looked up.
There was no mountain.
For one shivery moment he knew fear. And then the fear went away, and he was ashamed of what he had felt. What he had feared was gone now, and he knew it was gone for good and he would never have to fear it again.
"Look here, Bruce. I wondered how long it would take to get it through that thick poetic head of yours!"
"Get what?" He began to suspect what it was all about now, but he wasn't quite sure yet.
"Smoke?" she said.
He took one of the cigarettes and she lighted it for him and put the lighter back into her pocket.
"It's real nice here," she said. "Isn't it?"
"I guess it's about perfect."
"It'll be easy. Staying here, I mean. We won't be going to Earth ever again, you know."
"I didn't know that, but I didn't think we ever would again."
"We wouldn't want to anyway, would we, Bruce?"
"No."
He kept on looking at the place where the mountain had been. Or maybe it still was; he couldn't make up his mind yet. Which was and which was not? That barren icy world without life, or this?
"' Is all that we see or seem ,'" he whispered, half to himself, "' but a dream within a dream? '"
She laughed softly. "Poe was ahead of his time," she said. "You still don't get it, do you? You don't know what's been happening?"
"Maybe I don't."
She shrugged, and looked in the direction of the ships. "Poor guys. I can't feel much hatred toward them now. The Martians give you a lot of understanding of the human mind—after they've accepted you, and after you've lived with them awhile. But the mountain climbers—we can see now—it's just luck, chance, we weren't like them. A deviant is a child of chance."
"Yes," Bruce said. "There's a lot of people like us on Earth, but they'll never get the chance—the chance we seem to have here, to live decently...."
"You're beginning to see now which was the dream," she said and smiled. "But don't be pessimistic. Those people on Earth will get their chance, too, one of these fine days. The Conquerors aren't getting far. Venus, and then Mars, and Mars is where they stop. They'll keep coming here and climbing the mountain and finally there won't be any more. It won't take so long."
She rose to her toes and waved and yelled. Bruce saw Pietro and Marlene walking hand in hand up the other side of the canal. They waved back and called and then pushed off into the water in a small boat, and drifted away and out of sight around a gentle turn.
She took his arm and they walked along the canal toward where the mountain had been, or still was—he didn't know.
A quarter of a mile beyond the canal, he saw the high mound of red, naked hill, corroded and ugly, rising up like a scar of the surrounding green.
She wasn't smiling now. There were shadows on her face as the pressure on his arm stopped him.
"I was on the first ship and Marlene on the second. None like us on the third, and on the fourth ship was Pietro. All the others had to climb the mountain—" She stopped talking for a moment, and then he felt the pressure of her fingers on his arm. "I'm very glad you came on the fifth," she whispered. "Are you glad now?"
"I'm very glad," he said.
"The Martians tested us," she explained. "They're masters of the mind. I guess they've been grinding along through the evolutionary mill a darn long time, longer than we could estimate now. They learned the horror we're capable of from the first ship—the Conquerors, the climbers. The Martians knew more like them would come and go on into space, killing, destroying for no other reason than their own sickness. Being masters of the mind, the Martians are also capable of hypnosis—no, that's not really the word, only the closest our language comes to naming it. Suggestion so deep and strong that it seems real to one human or a million or a billion; there's no limit to the number that can be influenced. What the people who came off those ships saw wasn't real. It was partly what the Martians wanted them to see and feel—but most of it, like the desire to climb the mountain, was as much a part of the Conquerors' own psychic drive as it was the suggestion of the Martians."
She waved her arm slowly to describe a peak. "The Martians made the mountain real. So real that it could be seen from space, measured by instruments ... even photographed and chipped for rock samples. But you'll see how that was done, Bruce, and realize that this and not the mountain of the Conquerors is the reality of Mars. This is the Mars no Conqueror will ever see."
They walked toward the ugly red mound that jutted above the green. When they came close enough, he saw the bodies lying there ... the remains, actually, of what had once been bodies. He felt too sickened to go on walking.
"It may seem cruel now," she said, "but the Martians realized that there is no cure for the will to conquer. There is no safety from it, either, as the people of Earth and Venus discovered, unless it is given an impossible obstacle to overcome. So the Martians provided the Conquerors with a mountain. They themselves wanted to climb. They had to."
He was hardly listening as he walked away from Helene toward the eroded hills. The crew members of the first four ships were skeletons tied together with imperishably strong rope about their waists. Far beyond them were those from Mars V , too freshly dead to have decayed much ... Anhauser with his rope cut, a bullet in his head; Jacobs and Marsha and the others ... Terrence much past them all. He had managed to climb higher than anyone else and he lay with his arms stretched out, his fingers still clutching at rock outcroppings.
The trail they left wound over the ground, chipped in places for holds, red elsewhere with blood from torn hands. Terrence was more than twelve miles from the ship—horizontally.
Bruce lifted Marsha and carried her back over the rocky dust, into the fresh fragrance of the high grass, and across it to the shade and peace beside the canal.
He put her down. She looked peaceful enough, more peaceful than that other time, years ago, when the two of them seemed to have shared so much, when the future had not yet destroyed her. He saw the shadow of Helene bend across Marsha's face against the background of the silently flowing water of the cool, green canal.
"You loved her?"
"Once," Bruce said. "She might have been sane. They got her when she was young. Too young to fight. But she would have, I think, if she'd been older when they got her."
He sat looking down at Marsha's face, and then at the water with the leaves floating down it.
"'... And the springs that flow on the floor of the valley will never seem fresh or clear for thinking of the glitter of the mountain water in the feathery green of the year....'"
He stood up, walked back with Helene along the canal toward the calm city. He didn't look back.
"They've all been dead quite a while," Bruce said wonderingly. "Yet I seemed to be hearing from Terrence until only a short time ago. Are—are the climbers still climbing—somewhere, Helene?"
"Who knows?" Helene answered softly. "Maybe. I doubt if even the Martians have the answer to that."
They entered the city.
Question:
What happens to Terrence throughout the story?
Answer:
|
[
"Terrence is the ship’s captain. At the beginning, he serves as a judge when he interrogates Bruce, who killed the other crew member Doran. Terrence listens to the story about Venus and claims that Bruce is not a true conqueror and is simply a psycho. He then asks a question about Bruce’s dreams and later hears the story of Doran's death. Stromberg then concludes that Bruce has schizophrenia caused by inner conflict. He also supposes that Doran imagined the strange creature after Terrence asks him to explain the actions of the killed crew member. Finally, instead of killing Bruce, Terrence orders him to sit by the radio and write down everything they report while climbing. He reports that they are at fifteen and then twenty-five thousand feet and are to take a little time out. At forty thousand feet, he tells Bruce that the mountain is way higher than they thought - their computations are wrong. At sixty thousand feet, he shoots Anhauser after the latter starts dissenting and becomes hysterical and claims the mountain to be a tester for the real conquerors. Eventually, they reach the mark of five hundred thousand feet, and the captain is shocked. Later, Marsha unexpectedly starts dying, and Terrence concludes that women don’t have real guts for such undertakings. At six hundred thousand feet, he starts declaring that they will soon find the top of the universe. Terrence made it farther than any other crew member of the five ships. He dies with his fingers still clutching the rock outcroppings. In reality, he’s just over twelve miles away from the spaceship horizontally. \n",
"Captain Terrence is initially present for Bruce’s trial. He does not understand how the other man thinks, believing that nothing is more important than the destiny of Earth. He is a great believer of the totalitarian thought, finding no problem killing whatever stands in their way of ultimate conquest. He decides to scale the mountain with the other members of the crew, leaving Bruce behind to take care of the radio. On the mountain, Terrence excitedly documents his journey, talking about how far they have gotten. However, he does have to shoot Anhauser because the other man does not want to climb anymore. He shouts a few more reports to Bruce before disappearing completely, having died. Terrence is the one who tries to climb the furthest after everybody else dies, wanting to be the one who conquers the mountain and brings the glory back to Earth. In reality, he had completely been trapped in the illusion and lays dead at the end with his arms stretched out.",
"In the beginning of the story, Terrence leads the inquisition against Bruce for killing Lieutenant Doran without provocation. He has already determined Bruce's fate - an execution - but grants the inquest to understand his motivations. He often explodes in anger as Bruce only appears to give philosophical lectures about morality. When Terrence agrees to hear Bruce's supposed dreams out, he disagrees with Bruce's disinterest in climbing the mountain and concludes him to be a psycho. However, he agrees to let Bruce live only to note down the crew's upcoming climb to the mountain, for records. \n\nIn the latter half of the story, Terrence and his crew begin the climb up the mountain. Terrence often gives Bruce updates on the altitude of their climb, and sometimes request his response to make sure he is still there. Terrence also reported he had to shoot Anhauser for dissenting, as the latter wanted to descend back down the mountain. Upwards of an ascent of five hundred thousand feet, Terrence begins to go mad as he yells of his domination of the mountain and conquest of the Solar System. As his crazy yells fade, he is presumed to be dead, which is confirmed later on. ",
"Terrence wears a black uniform, and he is the captain of Mars V, a rocket that lands on Mars. Terrence presides over Bruce’s trial that Bruce kills Lieutenant Doran. When they argue with each other, Terrence insists on the importance of the twisted democracy and the strength of a conqueror, which, according to Bruce, is totalitarianism disguised under democracy. Terrence regards Bruce as a psycho, deciding his fate of staying while he and all the other crewmembers climb the mountain. When they start to climb the mountain, Terrence reports to Bruce through the radio while climbing, showing his conquering feeling of climbing the highest mountain and belittling everything else, even the universe. Terrence kills Anhauser because he dissents to keep climbing. Terrence becomes more and more enthusiastic about climbing and conquering the mountain. When Marsha is talking to Bruce, Terrence interrupts them, expresses his ambition, and dies. He manages to climb to the highest but still dies."
] |
50868
|
THE HIGHEST MOUNTAIN
By BRYCE WALTON
Illustrated by BOB HAYES
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
First one up this tallest summit in the Solar System was a rotten egg ... a very rotten egg!
Bruce heard their feet on the gravel outside and got up reluctantly to open the door for them. He'd been reading some of Byron's poems he'd sneaked aboard the ship; after that he had been on the point of dozing off, and now one of those strangely realistic dreams would have to be postponed for a while. Funny, those dreams. There were faces in them of human beings, or of ghosts, and other forms that weren't human at all, but seemed real and alive—except that they were also just parts of a last unconscious desire to escape death. Maybe that was it.
"'Oh that my young life were a lasting dream, my spirit not awakening till the beam of an eternity should bring the 'morrow," Bruce said. He smiled without feeling much of anything and added, "Thanks, Mr. Poe."
Jacobs and Anhauser stood outside. The icy wind cut through and into Bruce, but he didn't seem to notice. Anhauser's bulk loomed even larger in the special cold-resisting suiting. Jacobs' thin face frowned slyly at Bruce.
"Come on in, boys, and get warm," Bruce invited.
"Hey, poet, you're still here!" Anhauser said, looking astonished.
"We thought you'd be running off somewhere," Jacobs said.
Bruce reached for the suit on its hook, started climbing into it.
"Where?" he asked. "Mars looks alike wherever you go. Where did you think I'd be running to?"
"Any place just so it was away from here and us," Anhauser said.
"I don't have to do that. You are going away from me. That takes care of that, doesn't it?"
"Ah, come on, get the hell out of there," Jacobs said. He pulled the revolver from its holster and pointed it at Bruce. "We got to get some sleep. We're starting up that mountain at five in the morning."
"I know," Bruce said. "I'll be glad to see you climb the mountain."
Outside, in the weird light of the double moons, Bruce looked up at the gigantic overhang of the mountain. It was unbelievable. The mountain didn't seem to belong here. He'd thought so when they'd first hit Mars eight months back and discovered the other four rockets that had never got back to Earth—all lying side by side under the mountain's shadow, like little white chalk marks on a tallyboard.
They'd estimated its height at over 45,000 feet, which was a lot higher than any mountain on Earth. Yet Mars was much older, geologically. The entire face of the planet was smoothed into soft, undulating red hills by erosion. And there in the middle of barren nothingness rose that one incredible mountain. On certain nights when the stars were right, it had seemed to Bruce as though it were pointing an accusing finger at Earth—or a warning one.
With Jacobs and Anhauser and the remainder of the crew of the ship, Mars V , seven judges sat in a semi-circle and Bruce stood there in front of them for the inquest.
In the middle of the half-moon of inquisition, with his long legs stretched out and his hands folded on his belly, sat Captain Terrence. His uniform was black. On his arm was the silver fist insignia of the Conqueror Corps. Marsha Rennels sat on the extreme right and now there was no emotion at all on her trim, neat face.
He remembered her as she had been years ago, but at the moment he wasn't looking very hard to see anything on her face. It was too late. They had gotten her young and it was too late.
Terrence's big, square face frowned a little. Bruce was aware suddenly of the sound of the bleak, never-ending wind against the plastilene shelter. He remembered the strange misty shapes that had come to him in his dreams, the voices that had called to him, and how disappointed he had been when he woke from them.
"This is a mere formality," Terrence finally said, "since we all know you killed Lieutenant Doran a few hours ago. Marsha saw you kill him. Whatever you say goes on the record, of course."
"For whom?" Bruce asked.
"What kind of question is that? For the authorities on Earth when we get back."
"When you get back? Like the crews of those other four ships out there?" Bruce laughed without much humor.
Terrence rubbed a palm across his lips, dropped the hand quickly again to his belly. "You want to make a statement or not? You shot Doran in the head with a rifle. No provocation for the attack. You've wasted enough of my time with your damn arguments and anti-social behavior. This is a democratic group. Everyone has his say. But you've said too much, and done too much. Freedom doesn't allow you to go around killing fellow crew-members!"
"Any idea that there was any democracy or freedom left died on Venus," Bruce said.
"Now we get another lecture!" Terrence exploded. He leaned forward.
"You're sick, Bruce. They did a bad psych job on you. They should never have sent you on this trip. We need strength, all the strength we can find. You don't belong here."
"I know," Bruce agreed indifferently. "I was drafted for this trip. I told them I shouldn't be brought along. I said I didn't want any part of it."
"Because you're afraid. You're not Conqueror material. That's why you backed down when we all voted to climb the mountain. And what the devil does Venus—?"
Max Drexel's freckles slipped into the creases across his high forehead. "Haven't you heard him expounding on the injustice done to the Venusian aborigines, Captain? If you haven't, you aren't thoroughly educated to the crackpot idealism still infecting certain people."
"I haven't heard it," Terrence admitted. "What injustice?"
Bruce said, "I guess it couldn't really be considered an injustice any longer. Values have changed too much. Doran and I were part of the crew of that first ship to hit Venus, five years ago. Remember? One of the New Era's more infamous dates. Drexel says the Venusians were aborigines. No one ever got a chance to find out. We ran into this village. No one knows how old it was. There were intelligent beings there. One community left on the whole planet, maybe a few thousand inhabitants. They made their last mistake when they came out to greet us. Without even an attempt at communication, they were wiped out. The village was burned and everything alive in it was destroyed."
Bruce felt the old weakness coming into his knees, the sweat beginning to run down his face. He took a deep breath and stood there before the cold nihilistic stares of fourteen eyes.
"No," Bruce said. "I apologize. None of you know what I'm talking about."
Terrence nodded. "You're psycho. It's as simple as that. They pick the most capable for these conquests. Even the flights are processes of elimination. Eventually we get the very best, the most resilient, the real conquering blood. You just don't pass, Bruce. Listen, what do you think gives you the right to stand here in judgment against the laws of the whole Solar System?"
"There are plenty on Earth who agree with me," Bruce said. "I can say what I think now because you can't do more than kill me and you'll do that regardless...."
He stopped. This was ridiculous, a waste of his time. And theirs. They had established a kind of final totalitarianism since the New Era. The psychologists, the Pavlovian Reflex boys, had done that. If you didn't want to be reconditioned to fit into the social machine like a human vacuum tube, you kept your mouth shut. And for many, when the mouth was kept shut long enough, the mind pretty well forgot what it had wanted to open the mouth for in the first place.
A minority in both segments of a world split into two factions. Both had been warring diplomatically and sometimes physically, for centuries, clung to old ideas of freedom, democracy, self-determinism, individualism. To most, the words had no meaning now. It was a question of which set of conquering heroes could conquer the most space first. So far, only Venus had fallen. They had done a good, thorough job there. Four ships had come to Mars and their crews had disappeared. This was the fifth attempt—
Terrence said, "why did you shoot Doran?"
"I didn't like him enough to take the nonsense he was handing me, and when he shot the—" Bruce hesitated.
"What? When he shot what?"
Bruce felt an odd tingling in his stomach. The wind's voice seemed to sharpen and rise to a kind of wail.
"All right, I'll tell you. I was sleeping, having a dream. Doran woke me up. Marsha was with him. I'd forgotten about that geological job we were supposed to be working on. I've had these dreams ever since we got here."
"What kind of dreams?"
Someone laughed.
"Just fantastic stuff. Ask your Pavlovian there," Bruce said. "People talk to me, and there are other things in the dreams. Voices and some kind of shapes that aren't what you would call human at all."
Someone coughed. There was obvious embarrassment in the room.
"It's peculiar, but many faces and voices are those of crew members of some of the ships out there, the ones that never got back to Earth."
Terrence grinned. "Ghosts, Bruce?"
"Maybe. This planet may not be a dead ball of clay. I've had a feeling there's something real in the dreams, but I can't figure it out. You're still interested?"
Terrence nodded and glanced to either side.
"We've seen no indication of any kind of life whatsoever," Bruce pointed out. "Not even an insect, or any kind of plant life except some fungi and lichen down in the crevices. That never seemed logical to me from the start. We've covered the planet everywhere except one place—"
"The mountain," Terrence said. "You've been afraid even to talk about scaling it."
"Not afraid," Bruce objected. "I don't see any need to climb it. Coming to Mars, conquering space, isn't that enough? It happens that the crew of the first ship here decided to climb the mountain, and that set a precedent. Every ship that has come here has had to climb it. Why? Because they had to accept the challenge. And what's happened to them? Like you, they all had the necessary equipment to make a successful climb, but no one's ever come back down. No contact with anything up there.
"Captain, I'm not accepting a ridiculous challenge like that. Why should I? I didn't come here to conquer anything, even a mountain. The challenge of coming to Mars, of going on to where ever you guys intend going before something bigger than you are stops you—it doesn't interest me."
"Nothing's bigger than the destiny of Earth!" Terrence said, sitting up straight and rigid.
"I know," Bruce said. "Anyway, I got off the track. As I was saying, I woke up from this dream and Marsha and Doran were there. Doran was shaking me. But I didn't seem to have gotten entirely awake; either that or some part of the dream was real, because I looked out the window—something was out there, looking at me. It was late, and at first I thought it might be a shadow. But it wasn't. It was misty, almost translucent, but I think it was something alive. I had a feeling it was intelligent, maybe very intelligent. I could feel something in my mind. A kind of beauty and softness and warmth. I kept looking—"
His throat was getting tight. He had difficulty talking. "Doran asked me what I was looking at, and I told him. He laughed. But he looked. Then I realized that maybe I wasn't still dreaming. Doran saw it, too, or thought he did. He kept looking and finally he jumped and grabbed up his rifle and ran outside. I yelled at him. I kept on yelling and ran after him. 'It's intelligent, whatever it is!' I kept saying. 'How do you know it means any harm?' But I heard Doran's rifle go off before I could get to him. And whatever it was we saw, I didn't see it any more. Neither did Doran. Maybe he killed it. I don't know. He had to kill it. That's the way you think."
"What? Explain that remark."
"That's the philosophy of conquest—don't take any chances with aliens. They might hinder our advance across the Universe. So we kill everything. Doran acted without thinking at all. Conditioned to kill everything that doesn't look like us. So I hit Doran and took the gun away from him and killed him. I felt sick, crazy with rage. Maybe that's part of it. All I know is that I thought he deserved to die and that I had to kill him, so I did."
"Is that all, Bruce?"
"That's about all. Except that I'd like to kill all of you. And I would if I had the chance."
"That's what I figured." Terrence turned to the psychologist, a small wiry man who sat there constantly fingering his ear. "Stromberg, what do you think of this gobbledegook? We know he's crazy. But what hit him? You said his record was good up until a year ago."
Stromberg's voice was monotonous, like a voice off of a tape.
"Schizophrenia with mingled delusions of persecution. The schizophrenia is caused by inner conflict—indecision between the older values and our present ones which he hasn't been able to accept. A complete case history would tell why he can't accept our present attitudes. I would say that he has an incipient fear of personal inadequacy, which is why he fears our desire for conquest. He's rationalized, built up a defense which he's structured with his idealism, foundationed with Old Era values. Retreat into the past, an escape from his own present feelings of inadequacy. Also, he escapes into these dream fantasies."
"Yes," Terrence said. "But how does that account for Doran's action? Doran must have seen something—"
"Doran's charts show high suggestibility under stress. Another weak personality eliminated. Let's regard it that way. He imagined he saw something." He glanced at Marsha. "Did you see anything?"
She hesitated, avoiding Bruce's eyes. "Nothing at all. There wasn't anything out there to see, except the dust and rocks. That's all there is to see here. We could stay a million years and never see anything else. A shadow maybe—"
"All right," Terrence interrupted. "Now, Bruce, you know the law regulating the treatment of serious psycho cases in space?"
"Yes. Execution."
"No facilities for handling such cases en route back to Earth."
"I understand. No apologies necessary, Captain."
Terrence shifted his position. "However, we've voted to grant you a kind of leniency. In exchange for a little further service from you, you can remain here on Mars after we leave. You'll be left food-concentrates to last a long time."
"What kind of service?"
"Stay by the radio and take down what we report as we go up the mountain."
"Why not?" Bruce said. "You aren't certain you're coming back, then?"
"We might not," Terrence admitted calmly. "Something's happened to the others. We're going to find out what and we want it recorded. None of us want to back down and stay here. You can take our reports as they come in."
"I'll do that," Bruce said. "It should be interesting."
Bruce watched them go, away and up and around the immediate face of the mountain in the bleak cold of the Martian morning. He watched them disappear behind a high ledge, tied together with plastic rope like convicts.
He stayed by the radio. He lost track of time and didn't care much if he did. Sometimes he took a heavy sedative and slept. The sedative prevented the dreams. He had an idea that the dreams might be so pleasant that he wouldn't wake up. He wanted to listen to Terrence as long as the captain had anything to say. It was nothing but curiosity.
At fifteen thousand feet, Terrence reported only that they were climbing.
At twenty thousand feet, Terrence said, "We're still climbing, and that's all I can report, Bruce. It's worth coming to Mars for—to accept a challenge like this!"
At twenty-five thousand feet, Terrence reported, "We've put on oxygen masks. Jacobs and Drexel have developed some kind of altitude sickness and we're taking a little time out. It's a magnificent sight up here. I can imagine plenty of tourists coming to Mars one of these days, just to climb this mountain! Mt. Everest is a pimple compared with this! What a feeling of power, Bruce!"
From forty thousand feet, Terrence said, "We gauged this mountain at forty-five thousand. But here we are at forty and there doesn't seem to be any top. We can see up and up and the mountain keeps on going. I don't understand how we could have made such an error in our computations. I talked with Burton. He doesn't see how a mountain this high could still be here when the rest of the planet has been worn so smooth."
And then from fifty-three thousand feet, Terrence said with a voice that seemed slightly strained: "No sign of any of the crew of the other four ships yet. Ten in each crew, that makes fifty. Not a sign of any of them so far, but then we seem to have a long way left to climb—"
Bruce listened and noted and took sedatives and opened cans of food concentrates. He smoked and ate and slept. He had plenty of time. He had only time and the dreams which he knew he could utilize later to take care of the time.
From sixty thousand feet, Terrence reported, "I had to shoot Anhauser a few minutes ago! He was dissenting. Hear that, Bruce? One of my most dependable men. We took a vote. A mere formality, of course, whether we should continue climbing or not. We knew we'd all vote to keep on climbing. And then Anhauser dissented. He was hysterical. He refused to accept the majority decision. 'I'm going back down!' he yelled. So I had to shoot him. Imagine a man of his apparent caliber turning anti-democratic like that! This mountain will be a great tester for us in the future. We'll test everybody, find out quickly who the weaklings are."
Bruce listened to the wind. It seemed to rise higher and higher. Terrence, who had climbed still higher, was calling. "Think of it! What a conquest! No man's ever done a thing like this. Like Stromberg says, it's symbolic! We can build spaceships and reach other planets, but that's not actual physical conquest. We feel like gods up here. We can see what we are now. We can see how it's going to be—"
Once in a while Terrence demanded that Bruce say something to prove he was still there taking down what Terrence said. Bruce obliged. A long time passed, the way time does when no one cares. Bruce stopped taking the sedatives finally. The dreams came back and became, somehow, more real each time. He needed the companionship of the dreams.
It was very lonely sitting there without the dreams, with nothing but Terrence's voice ranting excitedly on and on. Terrence didn't seem real any more; certainly not as real as the dreams.
The problem of where to put the line between dream and reality began to worry Bruce. He would wake up and listen and take down what Terrence was saying, and then go to sleep again with increasing expectancy. His dream took on continuity. He could return to the point where he had left it, and it was the same—allowing even for the time difference necessitated by his periods of sleep.
He met people in the dreams, two girls and a man. They had names: Pietro, Marlene, Helene.
Helene he had seen from the beginning, but she became more real to him all the time, until he could talk with her. After that, he could also talk with Marlene and Pietro, and the conversations made sense. Consistently, they made sense.
The Martian landscape was entirely different in the dreams. Green valleys and rivers, or actually wide canals, with odd trees trailing their branches on the slow, peacefully gliding currents. Here and there were pastel-colored cities and there were things drifting through them that were alive and intelligent and soft and warm and wonderful to know.
' ... dreams, in their vivid coloring of life, as in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife of semblance with reality which brings to the delirious eye more lovely things of paradise and love—and all our own!—than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known.... '
So sometimes he read poetry, but even that was hardly equal to the dreams.
And then he would wake up and listen to Terrence's voice. He would look out the window over the barren frigid land where there was nothing but seams of worn land, like scabs under the brazen sky.
"If I had a choice," he thought, "I wouldn't ever wake up at all again. The dreams may not be more real, but they're preferable."
Dreams were supposed to be wishful thinking, primarily, but he couldn't live in them very long. His body would dry up and he would die. He had to stay awake enough to put a little energy back into himself. Of course, if he died and lost the dreams, there would be one compensation—he would also be free of Terrence and the rest of them who had learned that the only value in life lay in killing one's way across the Cosmos.
But then he had a feeling Terrence's voice wouldn't be annoying him much more anyway. The voice was unreal, coming out of some void. He could switch off Terrence any time now, but he was still curious.
"Bruce—Bruce, you still there? Listen, we're up here at what we figure to be five hundred thousand feet! It is impossible. We keep climbing and now we look up and we can see up and up and there the mountain is going up and up—"
And some time later: "Bruce, Marsha's dying! We don't know what's the matter. We can't find any reason for it. She's lying here and she keeps laughing and calling your name. She's a woman, so that's probably it. Women don't have real guts."
Bruce bent toward the radio. Outside the shelter, the wind whistled softly at the door.
"Marsha," he said.
"Bruce—"
She hadn't said his name that way for a long time.
"Marsha, remember how we used to talk about human values? I remember how you seemed to have something maybe different from the others. I never thought you'd really buy this will to conquer, and now it doesn't matter...."
He listened to her voice, first the crazy laughter, and then a whisper.
"Bruce, hello down there." Her voice was all mixed up with fear and hysteria and mockery. "Bruce darling, are you lonely down there? I wish I were with you, safe ... free ... warm. I love you. Do you hear that? I really love you, after all. After all...."
Her voice drifted away, came back to him. "We're climbing the highest mountain. What are you doing there, relaxing where it's peaceful and warm and sane? You always were such a calm guy. I remember now. What are you doing—reading poetry while we climb the mountain? What was that, Bruce—that one about the mountain you tried to quote to me last night before you ... I can't remember it now. Darling, what...?"
He stared at the radio. He hesitated, reached out and switched on the mike. He got through to her.
"Hello, hello, darling," he whispered. "Marsha, can you hear me?"
"Yes, yes. You down there, all warm and cozy, reading poetry, darling. Where you can see both ways instead of just up and down, up and down."
He tried to imagine where she was now as he spoke to her, how she looked. He thought of Earth and how it had been there, years ago, with Marsha. Things had seemed so different then. There was something of that hope in his voice now as he spoke to her, yet not directly to her, as he looked out the window at the naked frigid sky and the barren rocks.
"'... and there is nowhere to go from the top of a mountain,
But down, my dear;
And the springs that flow on the floor of the valley
Will never seem fresh or clear
For thinking of the glitter of the mountain water
In the feathery green of the year....'"
The wind stormed over the shelter in a burst of power, buried the sound of his own voice.
"Marsha, are you still there?"
"What the devil's the idea, poetry at a time like this, or any time?" Terrence demanded. "Listen, you taking this down? We haven't run into any signs of the others. Six hundred thousand feet, Bruce! We feel our destiny. We conquer the Solar System. And we'll go out and out, and we'll climb the highest mountain, the highest mountain anywhere. We're going up and up. We've voted on it. Unanimous. We go on. On to the top, Bruce! Nothing can stop us. If it takes ten years, a hundred, a thousand years, we'll find it. We'll find the top! Not the top of this world—the top of everything . The top of the
UNIVERSE
!"
Later, Terrence's voice broke off in the middle of something or other—Bruce couldn't make any sense out of it at all—and turned into crazy yells that faded out and never came back.
Bruce figured the others might still be climbing somewhere, or maybe they were dead. Either way it wouldn't make any difference to him. He knew they would never come back down.
He was switching off the radio for good when he saw the coloration break over the window. It was the same as the dream, but for an instant, dream and reality seemed fused like two superimposed film negatives.
He went to the window and looked out. The comfortable little city was out there, and the canal flowing past through a pleasantly cool yet sunny afternoon. Purple mist blanketed the knees of low hills and there was a valley, green and rich with the trees high and full beside the softly flowing canal water.
The filmy shapes that seemed alive, that were partly translucent, drifted along the water's edge, and birds as delicate as colored glass wavered down the wind.
He opened the shelter door and went out. The shelter looked the same, but useless now. How did the shelter of that bleak world get into this one, where the air was warm and fragrant, where there was no cold, from that world into this one of his dreams?
The girl—Helene—was standing there leaning against a tree, smoking a cigarette.
He walked toward her, and stopped. In the dream it had been easy, but now he was embarrassed, in spite of the intimacy that had grown between them. She wore the same casual slacks and sandals. Her hair was brown. She was not particularly beautiful, but she was comfortable to look at because she seemed so peaceful. Content, happy with what was and only what was.
He turned quickly. The shelter was still there, and behind it the row of spaceships—not like chalk marks on a tallyboard now, but like odd relics that didn't belong there in the thick green grass. Five ships instead of four.
There was his own individual shelter beyond the headquarters building, and the other buildings. He looked up.
There was no mountain.
For one shivery moment he knew fear. And then the fear went away, and he was ashamed of what he had felt. What he had feared was gone now, and he knew it was gone for good and he would never have to fear it again.
"Look here, Bruce. I wondered how long it would take to get it through that thick poetic head of yours!"
"Get what?" He began to suspect what it was all about now, but he wasn't quite sure yet.
"Smoke?" she said.
He took one of the cigarettes and she lighted it for him and put the lighter back into her pocket.
"It's real nice here," she said. "Isn't it?"
"I guess it's about perfect."
"It'll be easy. Staying here, I mean. We won't be going to Earth ever again, you know."
"I didn't know that, but I didn't think we ever would again."
"We wouldn't want to anyway, would we, Bruce?"
"No."
He kept on looking at the place where the mountain had been. Or maybe it still was; he couldn't make up his mind yet. Which was and which was not? That barren icy world without life, or this?
"' Is all that we see or seem ,'" he whispered, half to himself, "' but a dream within a dream? '"
She laughed softly. "Poe was ahead of his time," she said. "You still don't get it, do you? You don't know what's been happening?"
"Maybe I don't."
She shrugged, and looked in the direction of the ships. "Poor guys. I can't feel much hatred toward them now. The Martians give you a lot of understanding of the human mind—after they've accepted you, and after you've lived with them awhile. But the mountain climbers—we can see now—it's just luck, chance, we weren't like them. A deviant is a child of chance."
"Yes," Bruce said. "There's a lot of people like us on Earth, but they'll never get the chance—the chance we seem to have here, to live decently...."
"You're beginning to see now which was the dream," she said and smiled. "But don't be pessimistic. Those people on Earth will get their chance, too, one of these fine days. The Conquerors aren't getting far. Venus, and then Mars, and Mars is where they stop. They'll keep coming here and climbing the mountain and finally there won't be any more. It won't take so long."
She rose to her toes and waved and yelled. Bruce saw Pietro and Marlene walking hand in hand up the other side of the canal. They waved back and called and then pushed off into the water in a small boat, and drifted away and out of sight around a gentle turn.
She took his arm and they walked along the canal toward where the mountain had been, or still was—he didn't know.
A quarter of a mile beyond the canal, he saw the high mound of red, naked hill, corroded and ugly, rising up like a scar of the surrounding green.
She wasn't smiling now. There were shadows on her face as the pressure on his arm stopped him.
"I was on the first ship and Marlene on the second. None like us on the third, and on the fourth ship was Pietro. All the others had to climb the mountain—" She stopped talking for a moment, and then he felt the pressure of her fingers on his arm. "I'm very glad you came on the fifth," she whispered. "Are you glad now?"
"I'm very glad," he said.
"The Martians tested us," she explained. "They're masters of the mind. I guess they've been grinding along through the evolutionary mill a darn long time, longer than we could estimate now. They learned the horror we're capable of from the first ship—the Conquerors, the climbers. The Martians knew more like them would come and go on into space, killing, destroying for no other reason than their own sickness. Being masters of the mind, the Martians are also capable of hypnosis—no, that's not really the word, only the closest our language comes to naming it. Suggestion so deep and strong that it seems real to one human or a million or a billion; there's no limit to the number that can be influenced. What the people who came off those ships saw wasn't real. It was partly what the Martians wanted them to see and feel—but most of it, like the desire to climb the mountain, was as much a part of the Conquerors' own psychic drive as it was the suggestion of the Martians."
She waved her arm slowly to describe a peak. "The Martians made the mountain real. So real that it could be seen from space, measured by instruments ... even photographed and chipped for rock samples. But you'll see how that was done, Bruce, and realize that this and not the mountain of the Conquerors is the reality of Mars. This is the Mars no Conqueror will ever see."
They walked toward the ugly red mound that jutted above the green. When they came close enough, he saw the bodies lying there ... the remains, actually, of what had once been bodies. He felt too sickened to go on walking.
"It may seem cruel now," she said, "but the Martians realized that there is no cure for the will to conquer. There is no safety from it, either, as the people of Earth and Venus discovered, unless it is given an impossible obstacle to overcome. So the Martians provided the Conquerors with a mountain. They themselves wanted to climb. They had to."
He was hardly listening as he walked away from Helene toward the eroded hills. The crew members of the first four ships were skeletons tied together with imperishably strong rope about their waists. Far beyond them were those from Mars V , too freshly dead to have decayed much ... Anhauser with his rope cut, a bullet in his head; Jacobs and Marsha and the others ... Terrence much past them all. He had managed to climb higher than anyone else and he lay with his arms stretched out, his fingers still clutching at rock outcroppings.
The trail they left wound over the ground, chipped in places for holds, red elsewhere with blood from torn hands. Terrence was more than twelve miles from the ship—horizontally.
Bruce lifted Marsha and carried her back over the rocky dust, into the fresh fragrance of the high grass, and across it to the shade and peace beside the canal.
He put her down. She looked peaceful enough, more peaceful than that other time, years ago, when the two of them seemed to have shared so much, when the future had not yet destroyed her. He saw the shadow of Helene bend across Marsha's face against the background of the silently flowing water of the cool, green canal.
"You loved her?"
"Once," Bruce said. "She might have been sane. They got her when she was young. Too young to fight. But she would have, I think, if she'd been older when they got her."
He sat looking down at Marsha's face, and then at the water with the leaves floating down it.
"'... And the springs that flow on the floor of the valley will never seem fresh or clear for thinking of the glitter of the mountain water in the feathery green of the year....'"
He stood up, walked back with Helene along the canal toward the calm city. He didn't look back.
"They've all been dead quite a while," Bruce said wonderingly. "Yet I seemed to be hearing from Terrence until only a short time ago. Are—are the climbers still climbing—somewhere, Helene?"
"Who knows?" Helene answered softly. "Maybe. I doubt if even the Martians have the answer to that."
They entered the city.
|
Describe the setting of the story.
|
After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about Orphans of the Void by Michael Shaara.
Relevant chunks:
Orphans of the Void
By MICHAEL SHAARA
Illustrated by EMSH
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Finding a cause worth dying for is no great trick—the Universe is full of them. Finding one worth living for is the genuine problem!
In the region of the Coal Sack Nebula, on the dead fourth planet of a star called Tyban, Captain Steffens of the Mapping Command stood counting buildings. Eleven. No, twelve. He wondered if there was any significance in the number. He had no idea.
"What do you make of it?" he asked.
Lieutenant Ball, the executive officer of the ship, almost tried to scratch his head before he remembered that he was wearing a spacesuit.
"Looks like a temporary camp," Ball said. "Very few buildings, and all built out of native materials, the only stuff available. Castaways, maybe?"
Steffens was silent as he walked up onto the rise. The flat weathered stone jutted out of the sand before him.
"No inscriptions," he pointed out.
"They would have been worn away. See the wind grooves? Anyway, there's not another building on the whole damn planet. You wouldn't call it much of a civilization."
"You don't think these are native?"
Ball said he didn't. Steffens nodded.
Standing there and gazing at the stone, Steffens felt the awe of great age. He had a hunch, deep and intuitive, that this was old— too old. He reached out a gloved hand, ran it gently over the smooth stone ridges of the wall. Although the atmosphere was very thin, he noticed that the buildings had no airlocks.
Ball's voice sounded in his helmet: "Want to set up shop, Skipper?"
Steffens paused. "All right, if you think it will do any good."
"You never can tell. Excavation probably won't be much use. These things are on a raised rock foundation, swept clean by the wind. And you can see that the rock itself is native—" he indicated the ledge beneath their feet—"and was cut out a long while back."
"How long?"
Ball toed the sand uncomfortably. "I wouldn't like to say off-hand."
"Make a rough estimate."
Ball looked at the captain, knowing what was in his mind. He smiled wryly and said: "Five thousand years? Ten thousand? I don't know."
Steffens whistled.
Ball pointed again at the wall. "Look at the striations. You can tell from that alone. It would take even a brisk Earth wind at least several thousand years to cut that deep, and the wind here has only a fraction of that force."
The two men stood for a long moment in silence. Man had been in interstellar space for three hundred years and this was the first uncovered evidence of an advanced, space-crossing, alien race. It was an historic moment, but neither of them was thinking about history.
Man had been in space for only three hundred years. Whatever had built these had been in space for thousands of years.
Which ought to give them , thought Steffens uncomfortably, one hell of a good head-start.
While the excav crew worked steadily, turning up nothing, Steffens remained alone among the buildings. Ball came out to him, looked dryly at the walls.
"Well," he said, "whoever they were, we haven't heard from them since."
"No? How can you be sure?" Steffens grunted. "A space-borne race was roaming this part of the Galaxy while men were still pitching spears at each other, that long ago. And this planet is only a parsec from Varius II, a civilization as old as Earth's. Did whoever built these get to Varius? Or did they get to Earth? How can you know?"
He kicked at the sand distractedly. "And most important, where are they now? A race with several thousand years...."
"Fifteen thousand," Ball said. When Steffens looked up, he added:
"That's what the geology boys say. Fifteen thousand, at the least."
Steffens turned to stare unhappily at the buildings. When he realized now how really old they were, a sudden thought struck him.
"But why buildings? Why did they have to build in stone, to last? There's something wrong with that. They shouldn't have had a need to build, unless they were castaways. And castaways would have left something behind. The only reason they would need a camp would be—"
"If the ship left and some of them stayed."
Steffens nodded. "But then the ship must have come back. Where did it go?" He ceased kicking at the sand and looked up into the blue-black midday sky. "We'll never know."
"How about the other planets?" Ball asked.
"The report was negative. Inner too hot, outer too heavy and cold. The third planet is the only one with a decent temperature range, but it has a CO
2
atmosphere."
"How about moons?"
Steffens shrugged. "We could try them and find out."
The third planet was a blank, gleaming ball until they were in close, and then the blankness resolved into folds and piling clouds and dimly, in places, the surface showed through. The ship went down through the clouds, falling the last few miles on her brakers. They came into the misty gas below, leveled off and moved along the edge of the twilight zone.
The moons of this solar system had yielded nothing. The third planet, a hot, heavy world which had no free oxygen and from which the monitors had detected nothing, was all that was left. Steffens expected nothing, but he had to try.
At a height of several miles, the ship moved up the zone, scanning, moving in the familiar slow spiral of the Mapping Command. Faint dark outlines of bare rocks and hills moved by below.
Steffens turned the screen to full magnification and watched silently.
After a while he saw a city.
The main screen being on, the whole crew saw it. Someone shouted and they stopped to stare, and Steffens was about to call for altitude when he saw that the city was dead.
He looked down on splintered walls that were like cloudy glass pieces rising above a plain, rising in a shattered circle. Near the center of the city, there was a huge, charred hole at least three miles in diameter and very deep. In all the piled rubble, nothing moved.
Steffens went down low to make sure, then brought the ship around and headed out across the main continent into the bright area of the sun. The rocks rolled by below, there was no vegetation at all, and then there were more cities—all with the black depression, the circular stamp that blotted away and fused the buildings into nothing.
No one on the ship had anything to say. None had ever seen a war, for there had not been war on Earth or near it for more than three hundred years.
The ship circled around to the dark side of the planet. When they were down below a mile, the radiation counters began to react. It became apparent, from the dials, that there could be nothing alive.
After a while Ball said: "Well, which do you figure? Did our friends from the fourth planet do this, or were they the same people as these?"
Steffens did not take his eyes from the screen. They were coming around to the daylight side.
"We'll go down and look for the answer," he said. "Break out the radiation suits."
He paused, thinking. If the ones on the fourth planet were alien to this world, they were from outer space, could not have come from one of the other planets here. They had starships and were warlike. Then, thousands of years ago. He began to realize how important it really was that Ball's question be answered.
When the ship had gone very low, looking for a landing site, Steffens was still by the screen. It was Steffens, then, who saw the thing move.
Down far below, it had been a still black shadow, and then it moved. Steffens froze. And he knew, even at that distance, that it was a robot.
Tiny and black, a mass of hanging arms and legs, the thing went gliding down the slope of a hill. Steffens saw it clearly for a full second, saw the dull ball of its head tilt upward as the ship came over, and then the hill was past.
Quickly Steffens called for height. The ship bucked beneath him and blasted straight up; some of the crew went crashing to the deck. Steffens remained by the screen, increasing the magnification as the ship drew away. And he saw another, then two, then a black gliding group, all matched with bunches of hanging arms.
Nothing alive but robots, he thought, robots . He adjusted to full close up as quickly as he could and the picture focused on the screen. Behind him he heard a crewman grunt in amazement.
A band of clear, plasticlike stuff ran round the head—it would be the eye, a band of eye that saw all ways. On the top of the head was a single round spot of the plastic, and the rest was black metal, joined, he realized, with fantastic perfection. The angle of sight was now almost perpendicular. He could see very little of the branching arms of the trunk, but what had been on the screen was enough. They were the most perfect robots he had ever seen.
The ship leveled off. Steffens had no idea what to do; the sudden sight of the moving things had unnerved him. He had already sounded the alert, flicked out the defense screens. Now he had nothing to do. He tried to concentrate on what the League Law would have him do.
The Law was no help. Contact with planet-bound races was forbidden under any circumstances. But could a bunch of robots be called a race? The Law said nothing about robots because Earthmen had none. The building of imaginative robots was expressly forbidden. But at any rate, Steffens thought, he had made contact already.
While Steffens stood by the screen, completely bewildered for the first time in his space career, Lieutenant Ball came up, hobbling slightly. From the bright new bruise on his cheek, Steffens guessed that the sudden climb had caught him unaware. The exec was pale with surprise.
"What were they?" he said blankly. "Lord, they looked like robots!"
"They were."
Ball stared confoundedly at the screen. The things were now a confusion of dots in the mist.
"Almost humanoid," Steffens said, "but not quite."
Ball was slowly absorbing the situation. He turned to gaze inquiringly at Steffens.
"Well, what do we do now?"
Steffens shrugged. "They saw us. We could leave now and let them quite possibly make a ... a legend out of our visit, or we could go down and see if they tie in with the buildings on Tyban IV."
" Can we go down?"
"Legally? I don't know. If they are robots, yes, since robots cannot constitute a race. But there's another possibility." He tapped his fingers on the screen confusedly. "They don't have to be robots at all. They could be the natives."
Ball gulped. "I don't follow you."
"They could be the original inhabitants of this planet—the brains of them, at least, protected in radiation-proof metal. Anyway," he added,
"they're the most perfect mechanicals I've ever seen."
Ball shook his head, sat down abruptly. Steffens turned from the screen, strode nervously across the Main Deck, thinking.
The Mapping Command, they called it. Theoretically, all he was supposed to do was make a closeup examination of unexplored systems, checking for the presence of life-forms as well as for the possibilities of human colonization. Make a check and nothing else. But he knew very clearly that if he returned to Sirius base without investigating this robot situation, he could very well be court-martialed one way or the other, either for breaking the Law of Contact or for dereliction of duty.
And there was also the possibility, which abruptly occurred to him, that the robots might well be prepared to blow his ship to hell and gone.
He stopped in the center of the deck. A whole new line of thought opened up. If the robots were armed and ready ... could this be an outpost?
An outpost!
He turned and raced for the bridge. If he went in and landed and was lost, then the League might never know in time. If he went in and stirred up trouble....
The thought in his mind was scattered suddenly, like a mist blown away. A voice was speaking in his mind, a deep calm voice that seemed to say:
" Greetings. Do not be alarmed. We do not wish you to be alarmed. Our desire is only to serve.... "
"Greetings, it said! Greetings!" Ball was mumbling incredulously through shocked lips.
Everyone on the ship had heard the voice. When it spoke again, Steffens was not sure whether it was just one voice or many voices.
"We await your coming," it said gravely, and repeated: "Our desire is only to serve."
And then the robots sent a picture .
As perfect and as clear as a tridim movie, a rectangular plate took shape in Steffens' mind. On the face of the plate, standing alone against a background of red-brown, bare rocks, was one of the robots. With slow, perfect movement, the robot carefully lifted one of the hanging arms of its side, of its right side, and extended it toward Steffens, a graciously offered hand.
Steffens felt a peculiar, compelling urge to take the hand, realized right away that the urge to take the hand was not entirely his. The robot mind had helped.
When the picture vanished, he knew that the others had seen it. He waited for a while; there was no further contact, but the feeling of the robot's urging was still strong within him. He had an idea that, if they wanted to, the robots could control his mind. So when nothing more happened, he began to lose his fear.
While the crew watched in fascination, Steffens tried to talk back. He concentrated hard on what he was saying, said it aloud for good measure, then held his own hand extended in the robot manner of shaking hands.
"Greetings," he said, because it was what they had said, and explained: "We have come from the stars."
It was overly dramatic, but so was the whole situation. He wondered baffledly if he should have let the Alien Contact crew handle it. Order someone to stand there, feeling like a fool, and think a message?
No, it was his responsibility; he had to go on:
"We request—we respectfully request permission to land upon your planet."
Steffens had not realized that there were so many.
They had been gathering since his ship was first seen, and now there were hundreds of them clustered upon the hill. Others were arriving even as the skiff landed; they glided in over the rocky hills with fantastic ease and power, so that Steffens felt a momentary anxiety. Most of the robots were standing with the silent immobility of metal. Others threaded their way to the fore and came near the skiff, but none touched it, and a circle was cleared for Steffens when he came out.
One of the near robots came forward alone, moving, as Steffens now saw, on a number of short, incredibly strong and agile legs. The black thing paused before him, extended a hand as it had done in the picture. Steffens took it, he hoped, warmly; felt the power of the metal through the glove of his suit.
"Welcome," the robot said, speaking again to his mind, and now Steffens detected a peculiar alteration in the robot's tone. It was less friendly now, less—Steffens could not understand—somehow less interested , as if the robot had been—expecting someone else.
"Thank you," Steffens said. "We are deeply grateful for your permission to land."
"Our desire," the robot repeated mechanically, "is only to serve."
Suddenly, Steffens began to feel alone, surrounded by machines. He tried to push the thought out of his mind, because he knew that they should seem inhuman. But....
"Will the others come down?" asked the robot, still mechanically.
Steffens felt his embarrassment. The ship lay high in the mist above, jets throbbing gently.
"They must remain with the ship," Steffens said aloud, trusting to the robot's formality not to ask him why. Although, if they could read his mind, there was no need to ask.
For a long while, neither spoke, long enough for Steffens to grow tense and uncomfortable. He could not think of a thing to say, the robot was obviously waiting, and so, in desperation, he signaled the Aliencon men to come on out of the skiff.
They came, wonderingly, and the ring of robots widened. Steffens heard the one robot speak again. The voice was now much more friendly.
"We hope you will forgive us for intruding upon your thought. It is our—custom—not to communicate unless we are called upon. But when we observed that you were in ignorance of our real—nature—and were about to leave our planet, we decided to put aside our custom, so that you might base your decision upon sufficient data."
Steffens replied haltingly that he appreciated their action.
"We perceive," the robot went on, "that you are unaware of our complete access to your mind, and would perhaps be—dismayed—to learn that we have been gathering information from you. We must—apologize. Our only purpose was so that we could communicate with you. Only that information was taken which is necessary for communication and—understanding. We will enter your minds henceforth only at your request."
Steffens did not react to the news that his mind was being probed as violently as he might have. Nevertheless it was a shock, and he retreated into observant silence as the Aliencon men went to work.
The robot which seemed to have been doing the speaking was in no way different from any of the others in the group. Since each of the robots was immediately aware of all that was being said or thought, Steffens guessed that they had sent one forward just for appearance's sake, because they perceived that the Earthmen would feel more at home. The picture of the extended hand, the characteristic handshake of Earthmen, had probably been borrowed, too, for the same purpose of making him and the others feel at ease. The one jarring note was the robot's momentary lapse, those unexplainable few seconds when the things had seemed almost disappointed. Steffens gave up wondering about that and began to examine the first robot in detail.
It was not very tall, being at least a foot shorter than the Earthmen. The most peculiar thing about it, except for the circling eye-band of the head, was a mass of symbols which were apparently engraved upon the metal chest. Symbols in row upon row—numbers, perhaps—were upon the chest, and repeated again below the level of the arms, and continued in orderly rows across the front of the robot, all the way down to the base of the trunk. If they were numbers, Steffens thought, then it was a remarkably complicated system. But he noticed the same pattern on the nearer robots, all apparently identical. He was forced to conclude that the symbols were merely decoration and let it go tentatively at that, although the answer seemed illogical.
It wasn't until he was on his way home that Steffens remembered the symbols again. And only then did he realized what they were.
After a while, convinced that there was no danger, Steffens had the ship brought down. When the crew came out of the airlock, they were met by the robots, and each man found himself with a robot at his side, humbly requesting to be of service. There were literally thousands of the robots now, come from all over the barren horizon. The mass of them stood apart, immobile on a plain near the ship, glinting in the sun like a vast, metallic field of black wheat.
The robots had obviously been built to serve. Steffens began to feel their pleasure, to sense it in spite of the blank, expressionless faces. They were almost like children in their eagerness, yet they were still reserved. Whoever had built them, Steffens thought in wonder, had built them well.
Ball came to join Steffens, staring at the robots through the clear plastic of his helmet with baffledly widened eyes. A robot moved out from the mass in the field, allied itself to him. The first to speak had remained with Steffens.
Realizing that the robot could hear every word he was saying, Ball was for a while apprehensive. But the sheer unreality of standing and talking with a multi-limbed, intelligent hunk of dead metal upon the bare rock of a dead, ancient world, the unreality of it slowly died. It was impossible not to like the things. There was something in their very lines which was pleasant and relaxing.
Their builders, Steffens thought, had probably thought of that, too.
"There's no harm in them," said Ball at last, openly, not minding if the robots heard. "They seem actually glad we're here. My God, whoever heard of a robot being glad?"
Steffens, embarrassed, spoke quickly to the nearest mechanical: "I hope you will forgive us our curiosity, but—yours is a remarkable race. We have never before made contact with a race like yours." It was said haltingly, but it was the best he could do.
The robot made a singularly human nodding motion of its head.
"I perceive that the nature of our construction is unfamiliar to you. Your question is whether or not we are entirely 'mechanical.' I am not exactly certain as to what the word 'mechanical' is intended to convey—I would have to examine your thought more fully—but I believe that there is fundamental similarity between our structures."
The robot paused. Steffens had a distinct impression that it was disconcerted.
"I must tell you," the thing went on, "that we ourselves are—curious." It stopped suddenly, struggling with a word it could not comprehend. Steffens waited, listening with absolute interest. It said at length:
"We know of only two types of living structure. Ours, which is largely metallic, and that of the Makers , which would appear to be somewhat more like yours. I am not a—doctor—and therefore cannot acquaint you with the specific details of the Makers' composition, but if you are interested I will have a doctor brought forward. It will be glad to be of assistance."
It was Steffens' turn to struggle, and the robot waited patiently while Ball and the second robot looked on in silence. The Makers, obviously, were whoever or whatever had built the robots, and the "doctors," Steffens decided, were probably just that—doctor-robots, designed specifically to care for the apparently flesh-bodies of the Makers.
The efficiency of the things continued to amaze him, but the question he had been waiting to ask came out now with a rush:
"Can you tell us where the Makers are?"
Both robots stood motionless. It occurred to Steffens that he couldn't really be sure which was speaking. The voice that came to him spoke with difficulty.
"The Makers—are not here."
Steffens stared in puzzlement. The robot detected his confusion and went on:
"The Makers have gone away. They have been gone for a very long time."
Could that be pain in its voice, Steffens wondered, and then the spectre of the ruined cities rose harsh in his mind.
War. The Makers had all been killed in that war. And these had not been killed.
He tried to grasp it, but he couldn't. There were robots here in the midst of a radiation so lethal that nothing , nothing could live; robots on a dead planet, living in an atmosphere of carbon dioxide.
The carbon dioxide brought him up sharp.
If there had been life here once, there would have been plant life as well, and therefore oxygen. If the war had been so long ago that the free oxygen had since gone out of the atmosphere—good God, how old were the robots? Steffens looked at Ball, then at the silent robots, then out across the field to where the rest of them stood. The black wheat. Steffens felt a deep chill.
Were they immortal?
"Would you like to see a doctor?"
Steffens jumped at the familiar words, then realized to what the robot was referring.
"No, not yet," he said, "thank you." He swallowed hard as the robots continued waiting patiently.
"Could you tell me," he said at last, "how old you are? Individually?"
"By your reckoning," said his robot, and paused to make the calculation, "I am forty-four years, seven months, and eighteen days of age, with ten years and approximately nine months yet to be alive."
Steffens tried to understand that.
"It would perhaps simplify our conversations," said the robot, "if you were to refer to me by a name, as is your custom. Using the first—letters—of my designation, my name would translate as Elb."
"Glad to meet you," Steffens mumbled.
"You are called 'Stef,'" said the robot obligingly. Then it added, pointing an arm at the robot near Ball: "The age of—Peb—is seventeen years, one month and four days. Peb has therefore remaining some thirty-eight years."
Steffens was trying to keep up. Then the life span was obviously about fifty-five years. But the cities, and the carbon dioxide? The robot, Elb, had said that the Makers were similar to him, and therefore oxygen and plant life would have been needed. Unless—
He remembered the buildings on Tyban IV.
Unless the Makers had not come from this planet at all.
His mind helplessly began to revolve. It was Ball who restored order.
"Do you build yourselves?" the exec asked.
Peb answered quickly, that faint note of happiness again apparent, as if the robot was glad for the opportunity of answering.
"No, we do not build ourselves. We are made by the—" another pause for a word—"by the Factory ."
"The Factory?"
"Yes. It was built by the Makers. Would you care to see it?"
Both of the Earthmen nodded dumbly.
"Would you prefer to use your—skiff? It is quite a long way from here."
It was indeed a long way, even by skiff. Some of the Aliencon crew went along with them. And near the edge of the twilight zone, on the other side of the world, they saw the Factory outlined in the dim light of dusk. A huge, fantastic block, wrought of gray and cloudy metal, lay in a valley between two worn mountains. Steffens went down low, circling in the skiff, stared in awe at the size of the building. Robots moved outside the thing, little black bugs in the distance—moving around their birthplace.
The Earthmen remained for several weeks. During that time, Steffens was usually with Elb, talking now as often as he listened, and the Aliencon team roamed the planet freely, investigating what was certainly the strangest culture in history. There was still the mystery of those buildings on Tyban IV; that, as well as the robots' origin, would have to be cleared up before they could leave.
Surprisingly, Steffens did not think about the future. Whenever he came near a robot, he sensed such a general, comfortable air of good feeling that it warmed him, and he was so preoccupied with watching the robots that he did little thinking.
Something he had not realized at the beginning was that he was as unusual to the robots as they were to him. It came to him with a great shock that not one of the robots had ever seen a living thing. Not a bug, a worm, a leaf. They did not know what flesh was. Only the doctors knew that, and none of them could readily understand what was meant by the words "organic matter." It had taken them some time to recognize that the Earthmen wore suits which were not parts of their bodies, and it was even more difficult for them to understand why the suits were needed.
But when they did understand, the robots did a surprising thing.
At first, because of the excessive radiation, none of the Earthmen could remain outside the ship for long, even in radiation suits. And one morning, when Steffens came out of the ship, it was to discover that hundreds of the robots, working through the night, had effectively decontaminated the entire area.
It was at this point that Steffens asked how many robots there were. He learned to his amazement that there were more than nine million. The great mass of them had politely remained a great distance from the ship, spread out over the planet, since they were highly radioactive.
Steffens, meanwhile, courteously allowed Elb to probe into his mind. The robot extracted all the knowledge of matter that Steffens held, pondered over the knowledge and tried to digest it, and passed it on to the other robots. Steffens, in turn, had a difficult time picturing the mind of a thing that had never known life.
He had a vague idea of the robot's history—more, perhaps, then they knew themselves—but he refrained from forming an opinion until Aliencon made its report. What fascinated him was Elb's amazing philosophy, the only outlook, really, that the robot could have had.
"What do you do ?" Steffens asked.
Elb replied quickly, with characteristic simplicity: "We can do very little. A certain amount of physical knowledge was imparted to us at birth by the Makers. We spend the main part of our time expanding that knowledge wherever possible. We have made some progress in the natural sciences, and some in mathematics. Our purpose in being, you see, is to serve the Makers. Any ability we can acquire will make us that much more fit to serve when the Makers return."
"When they return?" It had not occurred to Steffens until now that the robots expected the Makers to do so.
Elb regarded him out of the band of the circling eye. "I see you had surmised that the Makers were not coming back."
If the robot could have laughed, Steffens thought it would have, then. But it just stood there, motionless, its tone politely emphatic.
"It has always been our belief that the Makers would return. Why else would we have been built?"
Steffens thought the robot would go on, but it didn't. The question, to Elb, was no question at all.
Although Steffens knew already what the robot could not possibly have known—that the Makers were gone and would never come back—he was a long time understanding. What he did was push this speculation into the back of his mind, to keep it from Elb. He had no desire to destroy a faith.
But it created a problem in him. He had begun to picture for Elb the structure of human society, and the robot—a machine which did not eat or sleep—listened gravely and tried to understand. One day Steffens mentioned God.
"God?" the robot repeated without comprehension. "What is God?"
Steffens explained briefly, and the robot answered:
"It is a matter which has troubled us. We thought at first that you were the Makers returning—" Steffens remembered the brief lapse, the seeming disappointment he had sensed—"but then we probed your minds and found that you were not, that you were another kind of being, unlike either the Makers or ourselves. You were not even—" Elb caught himself—"you did not happen to be telepaths. Therefore we troubled over who made you. We did detect the word 'Maker' in your theology, but it seemed to have a peculiar—" Elb paused for a long while—"an untouchable, intangible meaning which varies among you."
Steffens understood. He nodded.
The Makers were the robots' God, were all the God they needed. The Makers had built them, the planet, the universe. If he were to ask them who made the Makers, it would be like their asking him who made God.
It was an ironic parallel, and he smiled to himself.
But on that planet, it was the last time he smiled.
Question:
Describe the setting of the story.
Answer:
|
[
"The story opens in the Coal Sack Nebula, on the uninhabited fourth planet of a star called Tyban. There are twelve 15,000 year old stone buildings on the dusty uninhabitable planet, the first evidence of another advanced space-crossing alien race.\nSteffens and his crew travel to the Third planet in the Tyban solar system which seems uninhabited as well, with the cities obliterated into black holes in the ground that are at least three miles wide. The Third planet is Earth-like, with continents, hills and deserts, and of a suitable temperature for life, but with absolutely no vegetation, deathly radiation for humans, and a CO2 atmosphere. They see splintered walls and wreckage, but no life - until their discovery of the robots. There are nine million black, plastic robots slightly shorter than humans on the planet, and they have a huge, grey block building Factory near the edge of the twilight zone in a valley between two mountains where they are produced. Their desire for their human-like Makers to return to them, and their use of telepathic communication and mind-probing sets an eerie vibe over the humans’ exploration of the planet.\n",
"Orphans of the World by Michael Shaara takes place on two different planets in the Coal Sack Nebula. The first is Tyban IV. There, Steffens and his crew discover the remnants of an ancient, alien civilization from at least over 15,000 years ago. They built stone buildings, worn away with time, out of the native materials sourced on the planet. The next planet they visited was hot and radioactive, absolutely unable to support any humanoid life form. However, when they got closer to the surface, Steffens and his crew noticed a giant hole in the center, charred and burnt. All the buildings within had perished in the explosion and nothing remained but a pile of rubble. The planet itself was hot and dry without any plants or wildlife. There is also a Factory on it, a large, gray building, where the robots are created. ",
"This story takes place in space, where a group of humans is traveling on a ship in the Coal Sack Nebula. The star Tyban is the \"sun\", so to speak, of the relevant planets, and the humans start their journey on the fourth planet of this system, standing in the ruins of a destroyed city that did not leave them many details to learn from. The third planet of the system, one in from the first one they were on, had more information for them. There was a city abandoned much like the one they had found on the fourth planet, but the huge scorch mark that covered the city made it look like its destruction had been very violent. On this third planet, there was no oxygen, a lot of heat, and it didn't seem like it would be able to support any kind of life, especially since it had high levels of radiation. There was a valley with the factory in it, far away from the city. Much to the surprise of the human crew, there is a large swarm of black robots that seem to be the only connection to the planet. ",
"\n\tThe story is set in the Coal Sack Nebula on the dead fourth and third planets of a star named Tyban. The fourth planet, Tyban IV, is only one parsec from Varius II and has 12 stone buildings with no airlocks, despite the thin atmosphere, or inscriptions—any that were made would have presumably been removed by the winds blowing across the planet. The stones themselves have worn smooth, so based on the timeframe for wind erosion on Earth, Captain Steffens estimates the buildings might be 10 to 15 thousand years old. This discovery is significant because humans have been exploring space for 300 years, and this is the first sighting of an advanced, space-crossing, alien race. The planet has a sandy surface and a blue-black mid-day sky. Of the other three planets, the inner is too hot for habitation and the outer too heavy and cold. \nThe third planet has a decent temperature range but a carbon dioxide atmosphere. The planet is surrounded by a layer of clouds and a misty gas; it is a heavy planet with no free oxygen, but there are several dead cities, each destroyed by a blast in the center, leaving a deep hole three miles wide and shattered, splintered walls. There is no vegetation, and the planet has lethal radiation levels that would prevent any life. The surface features rocky hills. This planet, however, has millions of active robots produced in a factory that is still operational. The robots have telepathic abilities and communicate with the people on the ship, inviting them to land. The robot factory was built by what the robots refer to as Makers, who have since left the planet and not returned. The robots have the ability to decontaminate the radiation and are slightly radioactive themselves.\n"
] |
50827
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Orphans of the Void
By MICHAEL SHAARA
Illustrated by EMSH
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Finding a cause worth dying for is no great trick—the Universe is full of them. Finding one worth living for is the genuine problem!
In the region of the Coal Sack Nebula, on the dead fourth planet of a star called Tyban, Captain Steffens of the Mapping Command stood counting buildings. Eleven. No, twelve. He wondered if there was any significance in the number. He had no idea.
"What do you make of it?" he asked.
Lieutenant Ball, the executive officer of the ship, almost tried to scratch his head before he remembered that he was wearing a spacesuit.
"Looks like a temporary camp," Ball said. "Very few buildings, and all built out of native materials, the only stuff available. Castaways, maybe?"
Steffens was silent as he walked up onto the rise. The flat weathered stone jutted out of the sand before him.
"No inscriptions," he pointed out.
"They would have been worn away. See the wind grooves? Anyway, there's not another building on the whole damn planet. You wouldn't call it much of a civilization."
"You don't think these are native?"
Ball said he didn't. Steffens nodded.
Standing there and gazing at the stone, Steffens felt the awe of great age. He had a hunch, deep and intuitive, that this was old— too old. He reached out a gloved hand, ran it gently over the smooth stone ridges of the wall. Although the atmosphere was very thin, he noticed that the buildings had no airlocks.
Ball's voice sounded in his helmet: "Want to set up shop, Skipper?"
Steffens paused. "All right, if you think it will do any good."
"You never can tell. Excavation probably won't be much use. These things are on a raised rock foundation, swept clean by the wind. And you can see that the rock itself is native—" he indicated the ledge beneath their feet—"and was cut out a long while back."
"How long?"
Ball toed the sand uncomfortably. "I wouldn't like to say off-hand."
"Make a rough estimate."
Ball looked at the captain, knowing what was in his mind. He smiled wryly and said: "Five thousand years? Ten thousand? I don't know."
Steffens whistled.
Ball pointed again at the wall. "Look at the striations. You can tell from that alone. It would take even a brisk Earth wind at least several thousand years to cut that deep, and the wind here has only a fraction of that force."
The two men stood for a long moment in silence. Man had been in interstellar space for three hundred years and this was the first uncovered evidence of an advanced, space-crossing, alien race. It was an historic moment, but neither of them was thinking about history.
Man had been in space for only three hundred years. Whatever had built these had been in space for thousands of years.
Which ought to give them , thought Steffens uncomfortably, one hell of a good head-start.
While the excav crew worked steadily, turning up nothing, Steffens remained alone among the buildings. Ball came out to him, looked dryly at the walls.
"Well," he said, "whoever they were, we haven't heard from them since."
"No? How can you be sure?" Steffens grunted. "A space-borne race was roaming this part of the Galaxy while men were still pitching spears at each other, that long ago. And this planet is only a parsec from Varius II, a civilization as old as Earth's. Did whoever built these get to Varius? Or did they get to Earth? How can you know?"
He kicked at the sand distractedly. "And most important, where are they now? A race with several thousand years...."
"Fifteen thousand," Ball said. When Steffens looked up, he added:
"That's what the geology boys say. Fifteen thousand, at the least."
Steffens turned to stare unhappily at the buildings. When he realized now how really old they were, a sudden thought struck him.
"But why buildings? Why did they have to build in stone, to last? There's something wrong with that. They shouldn't have had a need to build, unless they were castaways. And castaways would have left something behind. The only reason they would need a camp would be—"
"If the ship left and some of them stayed."
Steffens nodded. "But then the ship must have come back. Where did it go?" He ceased kicking at the sand and looked up into the blue-black midday sky. "We'll never know."
"How about the other planets?" Ball asked.
"The report was negative. Inner too hot, outer too heavy and cold. The third planet is the only one with a decent temperature range, but it has a CO
2
atmosphere."
"How about moons?"
Steffens shrugged. "We could try them and find out."
The third planet was a blank, gleaming ball until they were in close, and then the blankness resolved into folds and piling clouds and dimly, in places, the surface showed through. The ship went down through the clouds, falling the last few miles on her brakers. They came into the misty gas below, leveled off and moved along the edge of the twilight zone.
The moons of this solar system had yielded nothing. The third planet, a hot, heavy world which had no free oxygen and from which the monitors had detected nothing, was all that was left. Steffens expected nothing, but he had to try.
At a height of several miles, the ship moved up the zone, scanning, moving in the familiar slow spiral of the Mapping Command. Faint dark outlines of bare rocks and hills moved by below.
Steffens turned the screen to full magnification and watched silently.
After a while he saw a city.
The main screen being on, the whole crew saw it. Someone shouted and they stopped to stare, and Steffens was about to call for altitude when he saw that the city was dead.
He looked down on splintered walls that were like cloudy glass pieces rising above a plain, rising in a shattered circle. Near the center of the city, there was a huge, charred hole at least three miles in diameter and very deep. In all the piled rubble, nothing moved.
Steffens went down low to make sure, then brought the ship around and headed out across the main continent into the bright area of the sun. The rocks rolled by below, there was no vegetation at all, and then there were more cities—all with the black depression, the circular stamp that blotted away and fused the buildings into nothing.
No one on the ship had anything to say. None had ever seen a war, for there had not been war on Earth or near it for more than three hundred years.
The ship circled around to the dark side of the planet. When they were down below a mile, the radiation counters began to react. It became apparent, from the dials, that there could be nothing alive.
After a while Ball said: "Well, which do you figure? Did our friends from the fourth planet do this, or were they the same people as these?"
Steffens did not take his eyes from the screen. They were coming around to the daylight side.
"We'll go down and look for the answer," he said. "Break out the radiation suits."
He paused, thinking. If the ones on the fourth planet were alien to this world, they were from outer space, could not have come from one of the other planets here. They had starships and were warlike. Then, thousands of years ago. He began to realize how important it really was that Ball's question be answered.
When the ship had gone very low, looking for a landing site, Steffens was still by the screen. It was Steffens, then, who saw the thing move.
Down far below, it had been a still black shadow, and then it moved. Steffens froze. And he knew, even at that distance, that it was a robot.
Tiny and black, a mass of hanging arms and legs, the thing went gliding down the slope of a hill. Steffens saw it clearly for a full second, saw the dull ball of its head tilt upward as the ship came over, and then the hill was past.
Quickly Steffens called for height. The ship bucked beneath him and blasted straight up; some of the crew went crashing to the deck. Steffens remained by the screen, increasing the magnification as the ship drew away. And he saw another, then two, then a black gliding group, all matched with bunches of hanging arms.
Nothing alive but robots, he thought, robots . He adjusted to full close up as quickly as he could and the picture focused on the screen. Behind him he heard a crewman grunt in amazement.
A band of clear, plasticlike stuff ran round the head—it would be the eye, a band of eye that saw all ways. On the top of the head was a single round spot of the plastic, and the rest was black metal, joined, he realized, with fantastic perfection. The angle of sight was now almost perpendicular. He could see very little of the branching arms of the trunk, but what had been on the screen was enough. They were the most perfect robots he had ever seen.
The ship leveled off. Steffens had no idea what to do; the sudden sight of the moving things had unnerved him. He had already sounded the alert, flicked out the defense screens. Now he had nothing to do. He tried to concentrate on what the League Law would have him do.
The Law was no help. Contact with planet-bound races was forbidden under any circumstances. But could a bunch of robots be called a race? The Law said nothing about robots because Earthmen had none. The building of imaginative robots was expressly forbidden. But at any rate, Steffens thought, he had made contact already.
While Steffens stood by the screen, completely bewildered for the first time in his space career, Lieutenant Ball came up, hobbling slightly. From the bright new bruise on his cheek, Steffens guessed that the sudden climb had caught him unaware. The exec was pale with surprise.
"What were they?" he said blankly. "Lord, they looked like robots!"
"They were."
Ball stared confoundedly at the screen. The things were now a confusion of dots in the mist.
"Almost humanoid," Steffens said, "but not quite."
Ball was slowly absorbing the situation. He turned to gaze inquiringly at Steffens.
"Well, what do we do now?"
Steffens shrugged. "They saw us. We could leave now and let them quite possibly make a ... a legend out of our visit, or we could go down and see if they tie in with the buildings on Tyban IV."
" Can we go down?"
"Legally? I don't know. If they are robots, yes, since robots cannot constitute a race. But there's another possibility." He tapped his fingers on the screen confusedly. "They don't have to be robots at all. They could be the natives."
Ball gulped. "I don't follow you."
"They could be the original inhabitants of this planet—the brains of them, at least, protected in radiation-proof metal. Anyway," he added,
"they're the most perfect mechanicals I've ever seen."
Ball shook his head, sat down abruptly. Steffens turned from the screen, strode nervously across the Main Deck, thinking.
The Mapping Command, they called it. Theoretically, all he was supposed to do was make a closeup examination of unexplored systems, checking for the presence of life-forms as well as for the possibilities of human colonization. Make a check and nothing else. But he knew very clearly that if he returned to Sirius base without investigating this robot situation, he could very well be court-martialed one way or the other, either for breaking the Law of Contact or for dereliction of duty.
And there was also the possibility, which abruptly occurred to him, that the robots might well be prepared to blow his ship to hell and gone.
He stopped in the center of the deck. A whole new line of thought opened up. If the robots were armed and ready ... could this be an outpost?
An outpost!
He turned and raced for the bridge. If he went in and landed and was lost, then the League might never know in time. If he went in and stirred up trouble....
The thought in his mind was scattered suddenly, like a mist blown away. A voice was speaking in his mind, a deep calm voice that seemed to say:
" Greetings. Do not be alarmed. We do not wish you to be alarmed. Our desire is only to serve.... "
"Greetings, it said! Greetings!" Ball was mumbling incredulously through shocked lips.
Everyone on the ship had heard the voice. When it spoke again, Steffens was not sure whether it was just one voice or many voices.
"We await your coming," it said gravely, and repeated: "Our desire is only to serve."
And then the robots sent a picture .
As perfect and as clear as a tridim movie, a rectangular plate took shape in Steffens' mind. On the face of the plate, standing alone against a background of red-brown, bare rocks, was one of the robots. With slow, perfect movement, the robot carefully lifted one of the hanging arms of its side, of its right side, and extended it toward Steffens, a graciously offered hand.
Steffens felt a peculiar, compelling urge to take the hand, realized right away that the urge to take the hand was not entirely his. The robot mind had helped.
When the picture vanished, he knew that the others had seen it. He waited for a while; there was no further contact, but the feeling of the robot's urging was still strong within him. He had an idea that, if they wanted to, the robots could control his mind. So when nothing more happened, he began to lose his fear.
While the crew watched in fascination, Steffens tried to talk back. He concentrated hard on what he was saying, said it aloud for good measure, then held his own hand extended in the robot manner of shaking hands.
"Greetings," he said, because it was what they had said, and explained: "We have come from the stars."
It was overly dramatic, but so was the whole situation. He wondered baffledly if he should have let the Alien Contact crew handle it. Order someone to stand there, feeling like a fool, and think a message?
No, it was his responsibility; he had to go on:
"We request—we respectfully request permission to land upon your planet."
Steffens had not realized that there were so many.
They had been gathering since his ship was first seen, and now there were hundreds of them clustered upon the hill. Others were arriving even as the skiff landed; they glided in over the rocky hills with fantastic ease and power, so that Steffens felt a momentary anxiety. Most of the robots were standing with the silent immobility of metal. Others threaded their way to the fore and came near the skiff, but none touched it, and a circle was cleared for Steffens when he came out.
One of the near robots came forward alone, moving, as Steffens now saw, on a number of short, incredibly strong and agile legs. The black thing paused before him, extended a hand as it had done in the picture. Steffens took it, he hoped, warmly; felt the power of the metal through the glove of his suit.
"Welcome," the robot said, speaking again to his mind, and now Steffens detected a peculiar alteration in the robot's tone. It was less friendly now, less—Steffens could not understand—somehow less interested , as if the robot had been—expecting someone else.
"Thank you," Steffens said. "We are deeply grateful for your permission to land."
"Our desire," the robot repeated mechanically, "is only to serve."
Suddenly, Steffens began to feel alone, surrounded by machines. He tried to push the thought out of his mind, because he knew that they should seem inhuman. But....
"Will the others come down?" asked the robot, still mechanically.
Steffens felt his embarrassment. The ship lay high in the mist above, jets throbbing gently.
"They must remain with the ship," Steffens said aloud, trusting to the robot's formality not to ask him why. Although, if they could read his mind, there was no need to ask.
For a long while, neither spoke, long enough for Steffens to grow tense and uncomfortable. He could not think of a thing to say, the robot was obviously waiting, and so, in desperation, he signaled the Aliencon men to come on out of the skiff.
They came, wonderingly, and the ring of robots widened. Steffens heard the one robot speak again. The voice was now much more friendly.
"We hope you will forgive us for intruding upon your thought. It is our—custom—not to communicate unless we are called upon. But when we observed that you were in ignorance of our real—nature—and were about to leave our planet, we decided to put aside our custom, so that you might base your decision upon sufficient data."
Steffens replied haltingly that he appreciated their action.
"We perceive," the robot went on, "that you are unaware of our complete access to your mind, and would perhaps be—dismayed—to learn that we have been gathering information from you. We must—apologize. Our only purpose was so that we could communicate with you. Only that information was taken which is necessary for communication and—understanding. We will enter your minds henceforth only at your request."
Steffens did not react to the news that his mind was being probed as violently as he might have. Nevertheless it was a shock, and he retreated into observant silence as the Aliencon men went to work.
The robot which seemed to have been doing the speaking was in no way different from any of the others in the group. Since each of the robots was immediately aware of all that was being said or thought, Steffens guessed that they had sent one forward just for appearance's sake, because they perceived that the Earthmen would feel more at home. The picture of the extended hand, the characteristic handshake of Earthmen, had probably been borrowed, too, for the same purpose of making him and the others feel at ease. The one jarring note was the robot's momentary lapse, those unexplainable few seconds when the things had seemed almost disappointed. Steffens gave up wondering about that and began to examine the first robot in detail.
It was not very tall, being at least a foot shorter than the Earthmen. The most peculiar thing about it, except for the circling eye-band of the head, was a mass of symbols which were apparently engraved upon the metal chest. Symbols in row upon row—numbers, perhaps—were upon the chest, and repeated again below the level of the arms, and continued in orderly rows across the front of the robot, all the way down to the base of the trunk. If they were numbers, Steffens thought, then it was a remarkably complicated system. But he noticed the same pattern on the nearer robots, all apparently identical. He was forced to conclude that the symbols were merely decoration and let it go tentatively at that, although the answer seemed illogical.
It wasn't until he was on his way home that Steffens remembered the symbols again. And only then did he realized what they were.
After a while, convinced that there was no danger, Steffens had the ship brought down. When the crew came out of the airlock, they were met by the robots, and each man found himself with a robot at his side, humbly requesting to be of service. There were literally thousands of the robots now, come from all over the barren horizon. The mass of them stood apart, immobile on a plain near the ship, glinting in the sun like a vast, metallic field of black wheat.
The robots had obviously been built to serve. Steffens began to feel their pleasure, to sense it in spite of the blank, expressionless faces. They were almost like children in their eagerness, yet they were still reserved. Whoever had built them, Steffens thought in wonder, had built them well.
Ball came to join Steffens, staring at the robots through the clear plastic of his helmet with baffledly widened eyes. A robot moved out from the mass in the field, allied itself to him. The first to speak had remained with Steffens.
Realizing that the robot could hear every word he was saying, Ball was for a while apprehensive. But the sheer unreality of standing and talking with a multi-limbed, intelligent hunk of dead metal upon the bare rock of a dead, ancient world, the unreality of it slowly died. It was impossible not to like the things. There was something in their very lines which was pleasant and relaxing.
Their builders, Steffens thought, had probably thought of that, too.
"There's no harm in them," said Ball at last, openly, not minding if the robots heard. "They seem actually glad we're here. My God, whoever heard of a robot being glad?"
Steffens, embarrassed, spoke quickly to the nearest mechanical: "I hope you will forgive us our curiosity, but—yours is a remarkable race. We have never before made contact with a race like yours." It was said haltingly, but it was the best he could do.
The robot made a singularly human nodding motion of its head.
"I perceive that the nature of our construction is unfamiliar to you. Your question is whether or not we are entirely 'mechanical.' I am not exactly certain as to what the word 'mechanical' is intended to convey—I would have to examine your thought more fully—but I believe that there is fundamental similarity between our structures."
The robot paused. Steffens had a distinct impression that it was disconcerted.
"I must tell you," the thing went on, "that we ourselves are—curious." It stopped suddenly, struggling with a word it could not comprehend. Steffens waited, listening with absolute interest. It said at length:
"We know of only two types of living structure. Ours, which is largely metallic, and that of the Makers , which would appear to be somewhat more like yours. I am not a—doctor—and therefore cannot acquaint you with the specific details of the Makers' composition, but if you are interested I will have a doctor brought forward. It will be glad to be of assistance."
It was Steffens' turn to struggle, and the robot waited patiently while Ball and the second robot looked on in silence. The Makers, obviously, were whoever or whatever had built the robots, and the "doctors," Steffens decided, were probably just that—doctor-robots, designed specifically to care for the apparently flesh-bodies of the Makers.
The efficiency of the things continued to amaze him, but the question he had been waiting to ask came out now with a rush:
"Can you tell us where the Makers are?"
Both robots stood motionless. It occurred to Steffens that he couldn't really be sure which was speaking. The voice that came to him spoke with difficulty.
"The Makers—are not here."
Steffens stared in puzzlement. The robot detected his confusion and went on:
"The Makers have gone away. They have been gone for a very long time."
Could that be pain in its voice, Steffens wondered, and then the spectre of the ruined cities rose harsh in his mind.
War. The Makers had all been killed in that war. And these had not been killed.
He tried to grasp it, but he couldn't. There were robots here in the midst of a radiation so lethal that nothing , nothing could live; robots on a dead planet, living in an atmosphere of carbon dioxide.
The carbon dioxide brought him up sharp.
If there had been life here once, there would have been plant life as well, and therefore oxygen. If the war had been so long ago that the free oxygen had since gone out of the atmosphere—good God, how old were the robots? Steffens looked at Ball, then at the silent robots, then out across the field to where the rest of them stood. The black wheat. Steffens felt a deep chill.
Were they immortal?
"Would you like to see a doctor?"
Steffens jumped at the familiar words, then realized to what the robot was referring.
"No, not yet," he said, "thank you." He swallowed hard as the robots continued waiting patiently.
"Could you tell me," he said at last, "how old you are? Individually?"
"By your reckoning," said his robot, and paused to make the calculation, "I am forty-four years, seven months, and eighteen days of age, with ten years and approximately nine months yet to be alive."
Steffens tried to understand that.
"It would perhaps simplify our conversations," said the robot, "if you were to refer to me by a name, as is your custom. Using the first—letters—of my designation, my name would translate as Elb."
"Glad to meet you," Steffens mumbled.
"You are called 'Stef,'" said the robot obligingly. Then it added, pointing an arm at the robot near Ball: "The age of—Peb—is seventeen years, one month and four days. Peb has therefore remaining some thirty-eight years."
Steffens was trying to keep up. Then the life span was obviously about fifty-five years. But the cities, and the carbon dioxide? The robot, Elb, had said that the Makers were similar to him, and therefore oxygen and plant life would have been needed. Unless—
He remembered the buildings on Tyban IV.
Unless the Makers had not come from this planet at all.
His mind helplessly began to revolve. It was Ball who restored order.
"Do you build yourselves?" the exec asked.
Peb answered quickly, that faint note of happiness again apparent, as if the robot was glad for the opportunity of answering.
"No, we do not build ourselves. We are made by the—" another pause for a word—"by the Factory ."
"The Factory?"
"Yes. It was built by the Makers. Would you care to see it?"
Both of the Earthmen nodded dumbly.
"Would you prefer to use your—skiff? It is quite a long way from here."
It was indeed a long way, even by skiff. Some of the Aliencon crew went along with them. And near the edge of the twilight zone, on the other side of the world, they saw the Factory outlined in the dim light of dusk. A huge, fantastic block, wrought of gray and cloudy metal, lay in a valley between two worn mountains. Steffens went down low, circling in the skiff, stared in awe at the size of the building. Robots moved outside the thing, little black bugs in the distance—moving around their birthplace.
The Earthmen remained for several weeks. During that time, Steffens was usually with Elb, talking now as often as he listened, and the Aliencon team roamed the planet freely, investigating what was certainly the strangest culture in history. There was still the mystery of those buildings on Tyban IV; that, as well as the robots' origin, would have to be cleared up before they could leave.
Surprisingly, Steffens did not think about the future. Whenever he came near a robot, he sensed such a general, comfortable air of good feeling that it warmed him, and he was so preoccupied with watching the robots that he did little thinking.
Something he had not realized at the beginning was that he was as unusual to the robots as they were to him. It came to him with a great shock that not one of the robots had ever seen a living thing. Not a bug, a worm, a leaf. They did not know what flesh was. Only the doctors knew that, and none of them could readily understand what was meant by the words "organic matter." It had taken them some time to recognize that the Earthmen wore suits which were not parts of their bodies, and it was even more difficult for them to understand why the suits were needed.
But when they did understand, the robots did a surprising thing.
At first, because of the excessive radiation, none of the Earthmen could remain outside the ship for long, even in radiation suits. And one morning, when Steffens came out of the ship, it was to discover that hundreds of the robots, working through the night, had effectively decontaminated the entire area.
It was at this point that Steffens asked how many robots there were. He learned to his amazement that there were more than nine million. The great mass of them had politely remained a great distance from the ship, spread out over the planet, since they were highly radioactive.
Steffens, meanwhile, courteously allowed Elb to probe into his mind. The robot extracted all the knowledge of matter that Steffens held, pondered over the knowledge and tried to digest it, and passed it on to the other robots. Steffens, in turn, had a difficult time picturing the mind of a thing that had never known life.
He had a vague idea of the robot's history—more, perhaps, then they knew themselves—but he refrained from forming an opinion until Aliencon made its report. What fascinated him was Elb's amazing philosophy, the only outlook, really, that the robot could have had.
"What do you do ?" Steffens asked.
Elb replied quickly, with characteristic simplicity: "We can do very little. A certain amount of physical knowledge was imparted to us at birth by the Makers. We spend the main part of our time expanding that knowledge wherever possible. We have made some progress in the natural sciences, and some in mathematics. Our purpose in being, you see, is to serve the Makers. Any ability we can acquire will make us that much more fit to serve when the Makers return."
"When they return?" It had not occurred to Steffens until now that the robots expected the Makers to do so.
Elb regarded him out of the band of the circling eye. "I see you had surmised that the Makers were not coming back."
If the robot could have laughed, Steffens thought it would have, then. But it just stood there, motionless, its tone politely emphatic.
"It has always been our belief that the Makers would return. Why else would we have been built?"
Steffens thought the robot would go on, but it didn't. The question, to Elb, was no question at all.
Although Steffens knew already what the robot could not possibly have known—that the Makers were gone and would never come back—he was a long time understanding. What he did was push this speculation into the back of his mind, to keep it from Elb. He had no desire to destroy a faith.
But it created a problem in him. He had begun to picture for Elb the structure of human society, and the robot—a machine which did not eat or sleep—listened gravely and tried to understand. One day Steffens mentioned God.
"God?" the robot repeated without comprehension. "What is God?"
Steffens explained briefly, and the robot answered:
"It is a matter which has troubled us. We thought at first that you were the Makers returning—" Steffens remembered the brief lapse, the seeming disappointment he had sensed—"but then we probed your minds and found that you were not, that you were another kind of being, unlike either the Makers or ourselves. You were not even—" Elb caught himself—"you did not happen to be telepaths. Therefore we troubled over who made you. We did detect the word 'Maker' in your theology, but it seemed to have a peculiar—" Elb paused for a long while—"an untouchable, intangible meaning which varies among you."
Steffens understood. He nodded.
The Makers were the robots' God, were all the God they needed. The Makers had built them, the planet, the universe. If he were to ask them who made the Makers, it would be like their asking him who made God.
It was an ironic parallel, and he smiled to himself.
But on that planet, it was the last time he smiled.
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What happens to the "chicken colonel" throughout the story?
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After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about The Plague by Teddy Keller.
Relevant chunks:
THE PLAGUE
By TEDDY KELLER
Suppose a strictly one hundred per cent American plague showed up.... One that attacked only people within the political borders of the United States!
Illustrated by Schoenherr
Sergeant Major Andrew McCloud ignored the jangling telephones and the excited jabber of a room full of brass, and lit a cigarette. Somebody had to keep his head in this mess. Everybody was about to flip.
Like the telephone. Two days ago Corporal Bettijean Baker had been answering the rare call on the single line—in that friendly, husky voice that gave even generals pause—by saying, "Good morning. Office of the Civil Health and Germ Warfare Protection Co-ordinator." Now there was a switchboard out in the hall with a web of lines running to a dozen girls at a half dozen desks wedged into the outer office. And now the harried girls answered with a hasty, "Germ War Protection."
All the brass hats in Washington had suddenly discovered this office deep in the recesses of the Pentagon. And none of them could quite comprehend what had happened. The situation might have been funny, or at least pathetic, if it hadn't been so desperate. Even so, Andy McCloud's nerves and patience had frayed thin.
"I told you, general," he snapped to the flustered brigadier, "Colonel Patterson was retired ten days ago. I don't know what happened. Maybe this replacement sawbones got strangled in red tape. Anyhow, the brand-new lieutenant hasn't showed up here. As far as I know, I'm in charge."
"But this is incredible," a two-star general wailed. "A mysterious epidemic is sweeping the country, possibly an insidious germ attack timed to precede an all-out invasion, and a noncom is sitting on top of the whole powder keg."
Andy's big hands clenched into fists and he had to wait a moment before he could speak safely. Doggone the freckles and the unruly mop of hair that give him such a boyish look. "May I remind you, general," he said, "that I've been entombed here for two years. My staff and I know what to do. If you'll give us some co-operation and a priority, we'll try to figure this thing out."
"But good heavens," a chicken colonel moaned, "this is all so irregular. A noncom!" He said it like a dirty word.
"Irregular, hell," the brigadier snorted, the message getting through.
"There're ways. Gentlemen, I suggest we clear out of here and let the sergeant get to work." He took a step toward the door, and the other officers, protesting and complaining, moved along after him. As they drifted out, he turned and said, "We'll clear your office for top priority." Then dead serious, he added, "Son, a whole nation could panic at any moment. You've got to come through."
Andy didn't waste time standing. He merely nodded to the general, snubbed out his cigarette, and buzzed the intercom. "Bettijean, will you bring me all the latest reports, please?" Then he peeled out of his be-ribboned blouse and rolled up his sleeves. He allowed himself one moment to enjoy the sight of the slim, black-headed corporal who entered his office.
Bettijean crossed briskly to his desk. She gave him a motherly smile as she put down a thick sheaf of papers. "You look beat," she said.
"Brass give you much trouble?"
"Not much. We're top priority now." He ran fingers through the thick, brown hair and massaged his scalp, trying to generate stimulation to his wary and confused brain. "What's new?"
"I've gone though some of these," she said. "Tried to save you a little time."
"Thanks. Sit down."
She pulled up a chair and thumbed through the papers. "So far, no fatalities. That's why there's no panic yet, I guess. But it's spreading like ... well, like a plague." Fear flickered deep in her dark eyes.
"Any water reports?" Andy asked.
"Wichita O.K., Indianapolis O.K., Tulsa O.K., Buffalo O.K.,—and a bunch more. No indication there. Except"—she fished out a one-page report—"some little town in Tennessee. Yesterday there was a campaign for everybody to write their congressman about some deal and today they were to vote on a new water system. Hardly anybody showed up at the polls. They've all got it."
Andy shrugged. "You can drink water, but don't vote for it. Oh, that's a big help." He rummaged through the clutter on his desk and came up with a crude chart. "Any trends yet?"
"It's hitting everybody," Bettijean said helplessly. "Not many kids so far, thank heavens. But housewives, businessmen, office workers, teachers, preachers—rich, poor—from Florida to Alaska. Just when you called me in, one of the girls thought she had a trend. The isolated mountain areas of the West and South. But reports are too fragmentary."
"What is it?" he cried suddenly, banging the desk. "People deathly ill, but nobody dying. And doctors can't identify the poison until they have a fatality for an autopsy. People stricken in every part of the country, but the water systems are pure. How does it spread?"
"In food?"
"How? There must be hundreds of canneries and dairies and packing plants over the country. How could they all goof at the same time—even if it was sabotage?"
"On the wind?"
"But who could accurately predict every wind over the entire country—even Alaska and Hawaii—without hitting Canada or Mexico? And why wouldn't everybody get it in a given area?"
Bettijean's smooth brow furrowed and she reached across the desk to grip his icy, sweating hands. "Andy, do ... do you think it's ... well, an enemy?"
"I don't know," he said. "I just don't know."
For a long moment he sat there, trying to draw strength from her, punishing his brain for the glimmer of an idea. Finally, shaking his head, he pushed back into his chair and reached for the sheaf of papers.
"We've got to find a clue—a trend—an inkling of something." He nodded toward the outer office. "Stop all in-coming calls. Get those girls on lines to hospitals in every city and town in the country. Have them contact individual doctors in rural areas. Then line up another relief crew, and get somebody carting in more coffee and sandwiches. And on those calls, be sure we learn the sex, age, and occupation of the victims. You and I'll start with Washington."
Bettijean snapped to her feet, grinned her encouragement and strode from the room. Andy could hear her crisp instructions to the girls on the phones. Sucking air through his teeth, he reached for his phone and directory.
He dialed until every finger of his right hand was sore. He spoke to worried doctors and frantic hospital administrators and hysterical nurses. His firm, fine penmanship deteriorated to a barely legible scrawl as writer's cramp knotted his hand and arm. His voice burned down to a rasping whisper. But columns climbed up his rough chart and broken lines pointed vaguely to trends.
It was hours later when Bettijean came back into the office with another stack of papers. Andy hung up his phone and reached for a cigarette. At that moment the door banged open. Nerves raw, Bettijean cried out. Andy's cigarette tumbled from his trembling fingers.
"Sergeant," the chicken colonel barked, parading into the office.
Andy swore under his breath and eyed the two young officers who trailed after the colonel. Emotionally exhausted, he had to clamp his jaw against a huge laugh that struggled up in his throat. For just an instant there, the colonel had reminded him of a movie version of General Rommel strutting up and down before his tanks. But it wasn't a swagger stick the colonel had tucked under his arm. It was a folded newspaper. Opening it, the colonel flung it down on Andy's desk.
"RED PLAGUE SWEEPS NATION," the scare headline screamed. Andy's first glance caught such phrases as "alleged Russian plot" and "germ warfare" and "authorities hopelessly baffled."
Snatching the paper, Andy balled it and hurled it from him. "That'll help a lot," he growled hoarsely.
"Well, then, Sergeant." The colonel tried to relax his square face, but tension rode every weathered wrinkle and fear glinted behind the pale gray eyes. "So you finally recognize the gravity of the situation."
Andy's head snapped up, heated words searing towards his lips. Bettijean stepped quickly around the desk and laid a steady hand on his shoulder.
"Colonel," she said levelly, "you should know better than that."
A shocked young captain exploded, "Corporal. Maybe you'd better report to—"
"All right," Andy said sharply.
For a long moment he stared at his clenched fists. Then he exhaled slowly and, to the colonel, flatly and without apology, he said,
"You'll have to excuse the people in this office if they overlook some of the G.I. niceties. We've been without sleep for two days, we're surviving on sandwiches and coffee, and we're fighting a war here that makes every other one look like a Sunday School picnic." He felt Bettijean's hand tighten reassuringly on his shoulder and he gave her a tired smile. Then he hunched forward and picked up a report. "So say what you came here to say and let us get back to work."
"Sergeant," the captain said, as if reading from a manual,
"insubordination cannot be tolerated, even under emergency conditions. Your conduct here will be noted and—"
"Oh, good heavens!" Bettijean cried, her fingers biting into Andy's shoulder. "Do you have to come in here trying to throw your weight around when this man—"
"That's enough," the colonel snapped. "I had hoped that you two would co-operate, but...." He let the sentence trail off as he swelled up a bit with his own importance. "I have turned Washington upside down to get these two officers from the surgeon general's office. Sergeant. Corporal. You are relieved of your duties as of this moment. You will report to my office at once for suitable disciplinary action."
Bettijean sucked in a strained breath and her hand flew to her mouth.
"But you can't—"
"Let's go," Andy said, pushing up from his chair. Ignoring the brass, he turned to her and brushed his lips across hers. "Let them sweat a while. Let 'em have the whole stinking business. Whatever they do to us, at least we can get some sleep."
"But you can't quit now," Bettijean protested. "These brass hats don't know from—"
"Corporal!" the colonel roared.
And from the door, an icy voice said, "Yes, colonel?"
The colonel and his captains wheeled, stared and saluted. "Oh, general," the colonel said. "I was just—"
"I know," the brigadier said, stepping into the room. "I've been listening to you. And I thought I suggested that everybody leave the sergeant and his staff alone."
"But, general, I—"
The general showed the colonel his back and motioned Andy into his chair. He glanced to Bettijean and a smile warmed his wedge face.
"Corporal, were you speaking just then as a woman or as a soldier?"
Crimson erupted into Bettijean's face and her tight laugh said many things. She shrugged. "Both I guess."
The general waved her to a chair and, oblivious of the colonel, pulled up a chair for himself. The last trace of humor drained from his face as he leaned elbows on the desk. "Andy, this is even worse than we had feared."
Andy fumbled for a cigarette and Bettijean passed him a match. A captain opened his mouth to speak, but the colonel shushed him.
"I've just come from Intelligence," the general said. "We haven't had a report—nothing from our agents, from the Diplomatic Corps, from the civilian newspapermen—not a word from any Iron Curtain country for a day and half. Everybody's frantic. The last item we had—it was a coded message the Reds'd tried to censor—was an indication of something big in the works."
"A day and half ago," Andy mused. "Just about the time we knew we had an epidemic. And about the time they knew it."
"It could be just propaganda," Bettijean said hopefully, "proving that they could cripple us from within."
The general nodded. "Or it could be the softening up for an all-out effort. Every American base in the world is alerted and every serviceman is being issued live ammunition. If we're wrong, we've still got an epidemic and panic that could touch it off. If we're right ... well, we've got to know. What can you do?"
Andy dropped his haggard face into his hands. His voice came through muffled. "I can sit here and cry." For an eternity he sat there, futility piling on helplessness, aware of Bettijean's hand on his arm. He heard the colonel try to speak and sensed the general's movement that silenced him.
Suddenly he sat upright and slapped a palm down on the desk. "We'll find your answers, sir. All we ask is co-operation."
The general gave both Andy and Bettijean a long, sober look, then launched himself from the chair. Pivoting, he said, "Colonel, you and your captains will be stationed by that switchboard out there. For the duration of this emergency, you will take orders only from the sergeant and the corporal here."
"But, general," the colonel wailed, "a noncom? I'm assigned—"
The general snorted. "Insubordination cannot be tolerated—unless you find a two-star general to outrank me. Now, as I said before, let's get out of here and let these people work."
The brass exited wordlessly. Bettijean sighed noisily. Andy found his cigarette dead and lit another. He fancied a tiny lever in his brain and he shifted gears to direct his thinking back into the proper channel. Abruptly his fatigue began to lift. He picked up the new pile of reports Bettijean had brought in.
She move around the desk and sat, noting the phone book he had used, studying the names he had crossed off. "Did you learn anything?" she asked.
Andy coughed, trying to clear his raw throat. "It's crazy," he said.
"From the Senate and House on down, I haven't found a single government worker sick."
"I found a few," she said. "Over in a Virginia hospital."
"But I did find," Andy said, flipping through pages of his own scrawl, "a society matron and her social secretary, a whole flock of office workers—business, not government—and new parents and newly engaged girls and...." He shrugged.
"Did you notice anything significant about those office workers?"
Andy nodded. "I was going to ask you the same, since I was just guessing. I hadn't had time to check it out."
"Well, I checked some. Practically none of my victims came from big offices, either business or industry. They were all out of one and two-girl offices or small businesses."
"That was my guess. And do you know that I didn't find a doctor, dentist or attorney?"
"Nor a single postal worker."
Andy tried to smile. "One thing we do know. It's not a communicable thing. Thank heaven for—"
He broke off as a cute blonde entered and put stacks of reports before both Andy and Bettijean. The girl hesitated, fidgeting, fingers to her teeth. Then, without speaking, she hurried out.
Andy stared at the top sheet and groaned. "This may be something. Half the adult population of Aspen, Colorado, is down."
"What?" Bettijean frowned over the report in her hands. "It's the same thing—only not quite as severe—in Taos and Santa Fe, New Mexico."
"Writers?"
"Mostly. Some artists, too, and musicians. And poets are among the hard hit."
"This is insane," Andy muttered. "Doctors and dentists are fine—writers and poets are sick. Make sense out of that."
Bettijean held up a paper and managed a confused smile. "Here's a country doctor in Tennessee. He doesn't even know what it's all about. Nobody's sick in his valley."
"Somebody in our outer office is organized," Andy said, pulling at his cigarette. "Here're reports from a dozen military installations all lumped together."
"What does it show?"
"Black-out. By order of somebody higher up—no medical releases. Must mean they've got it." He scratched the growing stubble on his chin.
"If this were a fifth column setup, wouldn't the armed forces be the first hit?"
"Sure," Bettijean brightened, then sobered. "Maybe not. The brass could keep it secret if an epidemic hit an army camp. And they could slap a control condition on any military area. But the panic will come from the general public."
"Here's another batch," Andy said. "Small college towns under twenty-five thousand population. All hard hit."
"Well, it's not split intellectually. Small colleges and small offices and writers get it. Doctors don't and dentists don't. But we can't tell who's got it on the military bases."
"And it's not geographical. Look, remember those two reports from Tennessee? That place where they voted on water bonds or something, everybody had it. But the country doctor in another section hadn't even heard of it." Andy could only shake his head.
Bettijean heaved herself up from the chair and trudged back to the outer office. She returned momentarily with a tray of food. Putting a paper cup of coffee and a sandwich in front of Andy, she sat down and nibbled at her snack like an exhausted chipmunk.
Andy banged a fist at his desk again. Coffee splashed over the rim of his cup onto the clutter of papers. "It's here," he said angrily.
"It's here somewhere, but we can't find it."
"The answer?"
"Of course. What is it that girls in small offices do or eat or drink or wear that girls in large offices don't do or eat or drink or wear? What do writers and doctors do differently? Or poets and dentists? What are we missing? What—"
In the outer office a girl cried out. A body thumped against a desk, then a chair, then to the floor. Two girls screamed.
Andy bolted up from his chair. Racing to the door, he shouted back to Bettijean, "Get a staff doctor and a chemist from the lab."
It was the girl who had been so nervous in his office earlier. Now she lay in a pathetic little heap between her desk and chair, whimpering, shivering, eyes wide with horror. The other girls clustered at the hall door, plainly ready to stampede.
"It's not contagious," Andy growled. "Find some blankets or coats to cover her. And get a glass of water."
The other girls, glad for the excuse, dashed away. Andy scooped up the fallen girl and put her down gently on the close-jammed desks. He used a chair cushion for a pillow. By then the other girls were back with a blanket and the glass of water. He covered the girl, gave her a sip of water and heard somebody murmur, "Poor Janis."
"Now," Andy said brightly, "how's that, Janis?"
She mustered a smile, and breathed, "Better. I ... I was so scared. Fever and dizzy ... symptoms like the epidemic."
"Now you know there's nothing to be afraid of," Andy said, feeling suddenly and ridiculously like a pill roller with a practiced bedside manner. "You know you may feel pretty miserable, but nobody's conked out with this stuff yet."
Janis breathed out and her taut body relaxed.
"Don't hurry," Andy said, "but I want you to tell me everything that you did—everything you ate or drank—in the last ... oh, twelve hours." He felt a pressure behind him and swiveled his head to see Bettijean standing there. He tried to smile.
"What time is it?" Janis asked weakly.
Andy glanced to a wall clock, then gave it a double take.
One of the girls said, "It's three o'clock in the morning." She edged nearer Andy, obviously eager to replace Janis as the center of attention. Andy ignored her.
"I ... I've been here since ... golly, yesterday morning at nine," Janis said. "I came to work as usual and...."
Slowly, haltingly, she recited the routine of a routine work day, then told about the quick snack that sufficed for supper and about staying on her phone and typewriter for another five hours. "It was about eleven when the relief crew came in."
"What did you do then?" Andy asked.
"I ... I took a break and...." Her ivory skin reddened, the color spreading into the roots of her fluffy curls, and she turned her face away from Andy. "And I had a sandwich and some coffee and got a little nap in the ladies' lounge and ... and that's all."
"And that's not all," Andy prompted. "What else?"
"Nothing," Janis said too quickly.
Andy shook his head. "Tell it all and maybe it'll help."
"But ... but...."
"Was it something against regulations?"
"I ... I don't know. I think...."
"I'll vouch for your job in this office."
"Well...." She seemed on the verge of tears and her pleading glance sought out Andy, then Bettijean, then her co-workers. Finally, resigned, she said, "I ... I wrote a letter to my mother."
Andy swallowed against his groan of disappointment. "And you told her about what we were doing here."
Janis nodded, and tears welled into her wide eyes.
"Did you mail it?"
"Y ... yes."
"You didn't use a government envelope to save a stamp?"
"Oh, no. I always carry a few stamps with me." She choked down a sob.
"Did I do wrong?"
"No, I don't think so," Andy said, patting her shoulder. "There's certainly nothing secret about this epidemic. Now you just take it easy and—. Oh, here's a doctor now."
The doctor, a white-headed Air Force major, bustled into the room. A lab technician in a white smock was close behind. Andy could only shrug and indicate the girl.
Turning away, lighting a cigarette, he tried to focus on the tangle of thoughts that spun through his head. Doctors, writers, society matrons, office workers—Aspen, Taos and college towns—thousands of people sick—but none in that valley in Tennessee—and few government workers—just one girl in his office—and she was sicker and more frightened about a letter—and....
"Hey, wait!" Andy yelled.
Everyone in the room froze as Andy spun around, dashed to Bettijean's desk and yanked out the wide, top drawer. He pawed through it, straightened, then leaped across to the desk Janis had used. He snatched open drawer after drawer. In a bottom one he found her purse. Ripping it open, he dumped the contents on the desk and clawed through the pile until he found what he wanted. Handing it to the lab technician, he said, "Get me a report. Fast."
The technician darted out.
Andy wheeled to Bettijean. "Get the brass in here. And call the general first." To the doctor, he said, "Give that girl the best of everything."
Then he ducked back to his own office and to the pile of reports. He was still poring over them when the general arrived. Half a dozen other brass hats, none of whom had been to bed, were close behind. The lab technician arrived a minute later. He shook his head as he handed his hastily scribbled report to Andy.
It was Bettijean who squeezed into the office and broke the brittle silence. "Andy, for heaven's sake, what is it?" Then she moved around the desk to stand behind him as he faced the officers.
"Have you got something?" the brigadier asked. "Some girl outside was babbling about writers and doctors, and dentists and college students, and little secretaries and big secretaries. Have you established a trend?"
Andy glanced at the lab report and his smile was as relieved as it was weary. "Our problem," he said, "was in figuring out what a writer does that a doctor doesn't—why girls from small offices were sick—and why senators and postal workers weren't—why college students caught the bug and people in a Tennessee community didn't.
"The lab report isn't complete. They haven't had time to isolate the poison and prescribe medication. But"—he held up a four-cent stamp—"here's the villain, gentlemen."
The big brass stood stunned and shocked. Mouths flapped open and eyes bugged at Andy, at the stamp.
Bettijean said, "Sure. College kids and engaged girls and new parents and especially writers and artists and poets—they'd all lick lots of stamps. Professional men have secretaries. Big offices have postage-meter machines. And government offices have free franking. And"—she threw her arms around the sergeant's neck—"Andy, you're wonderful."
"The old American ingenuity," the colonel said, reaching for Andy's phone. "I knew we could lick it. Now all we have to do—"
"At ease, colonel," the brigadier said sharply. He waited until the colonel had retreated, then addressed Andy. "It's your show. What do you suggest?"
"Get somebody—maybe even the President—on all radio and TV networks. Explain frankly about the four-centers and warn against licking any stamps. Then—"
He broke off as his phone rang. Answering, he listened for a moment, then hung up and said, "But before the big announcement, get somebody checking on the security clearances at whatever plant it is where they print stamps. This's a big deal. Somebody may've been planted years ago for this operation. It shouldn't be too hard.
"But there's no evidence it was a plot yet. Could be pure accident—some chemical in the stickum spoiled. Do they keep the stickum in barrels? Find out who had access. And ... oh, the phone call. That was the lab. The antidote's simple and the cure should be quick. They can phone or broadcast the medical information to doctors. The man on the phone said they could start emptying hospitals in six hours. And maybe we should release some propaganda. "United States whips mystery virus," or something like that. And we could send the Kremlin a stamp collection and.... Aw, you take it, sir. I'm pooped."
The general wheeled to fire a salvo of commands. Officers poured into the corridor. Only the brigadier remained, a puzzled frown crinkling his granite brow.
"But you said that postal workers weren't getting sick."
Andy chucked. "That's right. Did you ever see a post office clerk lick a stamp? They always use a sponge."
The general looked to Bettijean, to Andy, to the stamp. He grinned and the grin became a rumbling laugh. "How would you two like a thirty-day furlough to rest up—or to get better acquainted?"
Bettijean squealed. Andy reached for her hand.
"And while you're gone," the general continued, "I'll see what strings I can pull. If I can't wangle you a couple of battlefield commissions, I'll zip you both through O.C.S. so fast you won't even have time to pin on the bars."
But neither Andy nor Bettijean had heard a word after the mention of furlough. Like a pair of puppy-lovers, they were sinking into the depths of each other's eyes.
And the general was still chuckling as he picked up the lone four-cent stamp in his left hand, made a gun of his right hand, and marched the stamp out of the office under guard.
THE END
Question:
What happens to the "chicken colonel" throughout the story?
Answer:
|
[
"From the start, the colonel does not approve of Sergeant Andrew McCloud. His gray eyes carry disapproval and irritation in them. As a member of the brass, the colonel strives for everything to be official and approved of, unlike the sergeant’s recent promotion. The replacement for the retired colonel had not yet arrived, and the chicken colonel is not thrilled. To have a noncom, defined as a noncommissioned officer, in charge of this office while in the midst of a national epidemic is ludicrous, in his eyes. \n\tDespite voicing his doubts and grievances, Sergeant Andy is allowed to continue working as the head-of-office, at least for the time being. The colonel steals away and plots his next move. \n\tSeveral hours later, he returns, this time with two officers in tow. He walks into Sergeant Andy’s office where he and Corporal Bettijean were looking through a stack of papers. With a defiant stride, the colonel tosses a newspaper onto the Sergeant’s desk. Andy reads it and quickly throws it across the room. The article tells the tale of a red plague taking over America, a possible plot from Russia, and baffled government officials. The colonel brought in the article--and possibly helped write it--to convey the seriousness of the situation, but Andy takes it as an offense instead. \n\tHis colleague, Corporal Bettijean, defends Andy and reprimands the colonel at the same time. The captain behind him scolds her in return. After Sergeant Andy recites a list of excuses for his office, the colonel tells him that his insubordination will not be allowed. He calls for his removal, as well as Corporal Bettijean's, and promotes the two officers from the surgeon general’s office to take their positions. \n\tAfter some fight, Andy relents and stands up, releasing himself of his duty. He kisses his colleague once, before she tries to fight back again. The general walks in and quickly demotes the colonel and his men to working at the switchboard, where the reader can assume they stay for the rest of the story. \n",
"Andy’s first impression of the colonel (at least in terms of this story) is of the colonel whining about Andy being in charge, insistent that only officers in combat roles should be in charge of a situation as large as a nationwide epidemic. After Andy is able to work through some reports with Bettiejean, the colonel returns to throw a newspaper on Andy’s desk to show the headlines, proving that the public panic has started. In this very tense encounter, the colonel continued to insist that Andy needed to understand the gravity of the situation, without recognizing that of course Andy knew that the issue was serious. He and a young captain overreacted to Bettiejean trying to calm the situation, citing insubordination, and the colonel tries to relieve Andy and Bettiejean of their duties before he is interrupted by a general. This general then assigns the colonel to report to Andy and Bettiejean for the remainder of the crisis, which makes the colonel even more upset. Near the end of the story, after the lab has a report about the toxin on the stamps, the colonel is already trying to take charge again. He reaches for Andy’s phone to start making calls even though Andy is the one in charge of the office, and is the point-person for the epidemic. The colonel is again put in his place by his general, and is eventually sent out of the building with the rest of the officers.",
"The chicken colonel (slang for a full colonel--an officer with an eagle as an insignia) is an individual who is preoccupied with rank and traditional military chain-of-command formality. The fact that Andy is a noncommissioned officer operating without direct commissioned officer oversight is unacceptable to him.\n\nWhile the brigadier general sees Andy's expertise and places him in charge of the investigation, the chicken colonel immediately acts to try to undermine Andy's command. He arrives with two young officers to take over the Germ Protection Division but is stopped by an even higher ranking officer--the brigadier. The chicken colonel and his subordinates are assigned to work the phones in a humiliating defeat.",
"Chicken colonel comes into McCloud’s office and demonstrates his dismay with McCloud’s handling of the crisis thus far by slamming a newspaper on the desk. When McCloud and Bettlejean dismiss his criticisms and explain that they have been awake for days, working around the clock, chicken does not bat an eye. Instead, he excuses them from their work to discipline them. \n\nHowever, he is swiftly interrupted by the general who insists that McCloud be in charge of the entire operation, regardless of his rank. He sends chicken colonel to man the phone lines with the rest of his staff. \n\nWhen McCloud announces that he believes American postage stamps have been poisoned, chicken colonel immediately picks up his phone and tries to take the lead once more. The general tells him to stop because McCloud is in charge of what the next steps are. \n\n\n\n\n\n"
] |
30062
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THE PLAGUE
By TEDDY KELLER
Suppose a strictly one hundred per cent American plague showed up.... One that attacked only people within the political borders of the United States!
Illustrated by Schoenherr
Sergeant Major Andrew McCloud ignored the jangling telephones and the excited jabber of a room full of brass, and lit a cigarette. Somebody had to keep his head in this mess. Everybody was about to flip.
Like the telephone. Two days ago Corporal Bettijean Baker had been answering the rare call on the single line—in that friendly, husky voice that gave even generals pause—by saying, "Good morning. Office of the Civil Health and Germ Warfare Protection Co-ordinator." Now there was a switchboard out in the hall with a web of lines running to a dozen girls at a half dozen desks wedged into the outer office. And now the harried girls answered with a hasty, "Germ War Protection."
All the brass hats in Washington had suddenly discovered this office deep in the recesses of the Pentagon. And none of them could quite comprehend what had happened. The situation might have been funny, or at least pathetic, if it hadn't been so desperate. Even so, Andy McCloud's nerves and patience had frayed thin.
"I told you, general," he snapped to the flustered brigadier, "Colonel Patterson was retired ten days ago. I don't know what happened. Maybe this replacement sawbones got strangled in red tape. Anyhow, the brand-new lieutenant hasn't showed up here. As far as I know, I'm in charge."
"But this is incredible," a two-star general wailed. "A mysterious epidemic is sweeping the country, possibly an insidious germ attack timed to precede an all-out invasion, and a noncom is sitting on top of the whole powder keg."
Andy's big hands clenched into fists and he had to wait a moment before he could speak safely. Doggone the freckles and the unruly mop of hair that give him such a boyish look. "May I remind you, general," he said, "that I've been entombed here for two years. My staff and I know what to do. If you'll give us some co-operation and a priority, we'll try to figure this thing out."
"But good heavens," a chicken colonel moaned, "this is all so irregular. A noncom!" He said it like a dirty word.
"Irregular, hell," the brigadier snorted, the message getting through.
"There're ways. Gentlemen, I suggest we clear out of here and let the sergeant get to work." He took a step toward the door, and the other officers, protesting and complaining, moved along after him. As they drifted out, he turned and said, "We'll clear your office for top priority." Then dead serious, he added, "Son, a whole nation could panic at any moment. You've got to come through."
Andy didn't waste time standing. He merely nodded to the general, snubbed out his cigarette, and buzzed the intercom. "Bettijean, will you bring me all the latest reports, please?" Then he peeled out of his be-ribboned blouse and rolled up his sleeves. He allowed himself one moment to enjoy the sight of the slim, black-headed corporal who entered his office.
Bettijean crossed briskly to his desk. She gave him a motherly smile as she put down a thick sheaf of papers. "You look beat," she said.
"Brass give you much trouble?"
"Not much. We're top priority now." He ran fingers through the thick, brown hair and massaged his scalp, trying to generate stimulation to his wary and confused brain. "What's new?"
"I've gone though some of these," she said. "Tried to save you a little time."
"Thanks. Sit down."
She pulled up a chair and thumbed through the papers. "So far, no fatalities. That's why there's no panic yet, I guess. But it's spreading like ... well, like a plague." Fear flickered deep in her dark eyes.
"Any water reports?" Andy asked.
"Wichita O.K., Indianapolis O.K., Tulsa O.K., Buffalo O.K.,—and a bunch more. No indication there. Except"—she fished out a one-page report—"some little town in Tennessee. Yesterday there was a campaign for everybody to write their congressman about some deal and today they were to vote on a new water system. Hardly anybody showed up at the polls. They've all got it."
Andy shrugged. "You can drink water, but don't vote for it. Oh, that's a big help." He rummaged through the clutter on his desk and came up with a crude chart. "Any trends yet?"
"It's hitting everybody," Bettijean said helplessly. "Not many kids so far, thank heavens. But housewives, businessmen, office workers, teachers, preachers—rich, poor—from Florida to Alaska. Just when you called me in, one of the girls thought she had a trend. The isolated mountain areas of the West and South. But reports are too fragmentary."
"What is it?" he cried suddenly, banging the desk. "People deathly ill, but nobody dying. And doctors can't identify the poison until they have a fatality for an autopsy. People stricken in every part of the country, but the water systems are pure. How does it spread?"
"In food?"
"How? There must be hundreds of canneries and dairies and packing plants over the country. How could they all goof at the same time—even if it was sabotage?"
"On the wind?"
"But who could accurately predict every wind over the entire country—even Alaska and Hawaii—without hitting Canada or Mexico? And why wouldn't everybody get it in a given area?"
Bettijean's smooth brow furrowed and she reached across the desk to grip his icy, sweating hands. "Andy, do ... do you think it's ... well, an enemy?"
"I don't know," he said. "I just don't know."
For a long moment he sat there, trying to draw strength from her, punishing his brain for the glimmer of an idea. Finally, shaking his head, he pushed back into his chair and reached for the sheaf of papers.
"We've got to find a clue—a trend—an inkling of something." He nodded toward the outer office. "Stop all in-coming calls. Get those girls on lines to hospitals in every city and town in the country. Have them contact individual doctors in rural areas. Then line up another relief crew, and get somebody carting in more coffee and sandwiches. And on those calls, be sure we learn the sex, age, and occupation of the victims. You and I'll start with Washington."
Bettijean snapped to her feet, grinned her encouragement and strode from the room. Andy could hear her crisp instructions to the girls on the phones. Sucking air through his teeth, he reached for his phone and directory.
He dialed until every finger of his right hand was sore. He spoke to worried doctors and frantic hospital administrators and hysterical nurses. His firm, fine penmanship deteriorated to a barely legible scrawl as writer's cramp knotted his hand and arm. His voice burned down to a rasping whisper. But columns climbed up his rough chart and broken lines pointed vaguely to trends.
It was hours later when Bettijean came back into the office with another stack of papers. Andy hung up his phone and reached for a cigarette. At that moment the door banged open. Nerves raw, Bettijean cried out. Andy's cigarette tumbled from his trembling fingers.
"Sergeant," the chicken colonel barked, parading into the office.
Andy swore under his breath and eyed the two young officers who trailed after the colonel. Emotionally exhausted, he had to clamp his jaw against a huge laugh that struggled up in his throat. For just an instant there, the colonel had reminded him of a movie version of General Rommel strutting up and down before his tanks. But it wasn't a swagger stick the colonel had tucked under his arm. It was a folded newspaper. Opening it, the colonel flung it down on Andy's desk.
"RED PLAGUE SWEEPS NATION," the scare headline screamed. Andy's first glance caught such phrases as "alleged Russian plot" and "germ warfare" and "authorities hopelessly baffled."
Snatching the paper, Andy balled it and hurled it from him. "That'll help a lot," he growled hoarsely.
"Well, then, Sergeant." The colonel tried to relax his square face, but tension rode every weathered wrinkle and fear glinted behind the pale gray eyes. "So you finally recognize the gravity of the situation."
Andy's head snapped up, heated words searing towards his lips. Bettijean stepped quickly around the desk and laid a steady hand on his shoulder.
"Colonel," she said levelly, "you should know better than that."
A shocked young captain exploded, "Corporal. Maybe you'd better report to—"
"All right," Andy said sharply.
For a long moment he stared at his clenched fists. Then he exhaled slowly and, to the colonel, flatly and without apology, he said,
"You'll have to excuse the people in this office if they overlook some of the G.I. niceties. We've been without sleep for two days, we're surviving on sandwiches and coffee, and we're fighting a war here that makes every other one look like a Sunday School picnic." He felt Bettijean's hand tighten reassuringly on his shoulder and he gave her a tired smile. Then he hunched forward and picked up a report. "So say what you came here to say and let us get back to work."
"Sergeant," the captain said, as if reading from a manual,
"insubordination cannot be tolerated, even under emergency conditions. Your conduct here will be noted and—"
"Oh, good heavens!" Bettijean cried, her fingers biting into Andy's shoulder. "Do you have to come in here trying to throw your weight around when this man—"
"That's enough," the colonel snapped. "I had hoped that you two would co-operate, but...." He let the sentence trail off as he swelled up a bit with his own importance. "I have turned Washington upside down to get these two officers from the surgeon general's office. Sergeant. Corporal. You are relieved of your duties as of this moment. You will report to my office at once for suitable disciplinary action."
Bettijean sucked in a strained breath and her hand flew to her mouth.
"But you can't—"
"Let's go," Andy said, pushing up from his chair. Ignoring the brass, he turned to her and brushed his lips across hers. "Let them sweat a while. Let 'em have the whole stinking business. Whatever they do to us, at least we can get some sleep."
"But you can't quit now," Bettijean protested. "These brass hats don't know from—"
"Corporal!" the colonel roared.
And from the door, an icy voice said, "Yes, colonel?"
The colonel and his captains wheeled, stared and saluted. "Oh, general," the colonel said. "I was just—"
"I know," the brigadier said, stepping into the room. "I've been listening to you. And I thought I suggested that everybody leave the sergeant and his staff alone."
"But, general, I—"
The general showed the colonel his back and motioned Andy into his chair. He glanced to Bettijean and a smile warmed his wedge face.
"Corporal, were you speaking just then as a woman or as a soldier?"
Crimson erupted into Bettijean's face and her tight laugh said many things. She shrugged. "Both I guess."
The general waved her to a chair and, oblivious of the colonel, pulled up a chair for himself. The last trace of humor drained from his face as he leaned elbows on the desk. "Andy, this is even worse than we had feared."
Andy fumbled for a cigarette and Bettijean passed him a match. A captain opened his mouth to speak, but the colonel shushed him.
"I've just come from Intelligence," the general said. "We haven't had a report—nothing from our agents, from the Diplomatic Corps, from the civilian newspapermen—not a word from any Iron Curtain country for a day and half. Everybody's frantic. The last item we had—it was a coded message the Reds'd tried to censor—was an indication of something big in the works."
"A day and half ago," Andy mused. "Just about the time we knew we had an epidemic. And about the time they knew it."
"It could be just propaganda," Bettijean said hopefully, "proving that they could cripple us from within."
The general nodded. "Or it could be the softening up for an all-out effort. Every American base in the world is alerted and every serviceman is being issued live ammunition. If we're wrong, we've still got an epidemic and panic that could touch it off. If we're right ... well, we've got to know. What can you do?"
Andy dropped his haggard face into his hands. His voice came through muffled. "I can sit here and cry." For an eternity he sat there, futility piling on helplessness, aware of Bettijean's hand on his arm. He heard the colonel try to speak and sensed the general's movement that silenced him.
Suddenly he sat upright and slapped a palm down on the desk. "We'll find your answers, sir. All we ask is co-operation."
The general gave both Andy and Bettijean a long, sober look, then launched himself from the chair. Pivoting, he said, "Colonel, you and your captains will be stationed by that switchboard out there. For the duration of this emergency, you will take orders only from the sergeant and the corporal here."
"But, general," the colonel wailed, "a noncom? I'm assigned—"
The general snorted. "Insubordination cannot be tolerated—unless you find a two-star general to outrank me. Now, as I said before, let's get out of here and let these people work."
The brass exited wordlessly. Bettijean sighed noisily. Andy found his cigarette dead and lit another. He fancied a tiny lever in his brain and he shifted gears to direct his thinking back into the proper channel. Abruptly his fatigue began to lift. He picked up the new pile of reports Bettijean had brought in.
She move around the desk and sat, noting the phone book he had used, studying the names he had crossed off. "Did you learn anything?" she asked.
Andy coughed, trying to clear his raw throat. "It's crazy," he said.
"From the Senate and House on down, I haven't found a single government worker sick."
"I found a few," she said. "Over in a Virginia hospital."
"But I did find," Andy said, flipping through pages of his own scrawl, "a society matron and her social secretary, a whole flock of office workers—business, not government—and new parents and newly engaged girls and...." He shrugged.
"Did you notice anything significant about those office workers?"
Andy nodded. "I was going to ask you the same, since I was just guessing. I hadn't had time to check it out."
"Well, I checked some. Practically none of my victims came from big offices, either business or industry. They were all out of one and two-girl offices or small businesses."
"That was my guess. And do you know that I didn't find a doctor, dentist or attorney?"
"Nor a single postal worker."
Andy tried to smile. "One thing we do know. It's not a communicable thing. Thank heaven for—"
He broke off as a cute blonde entered and put stacks of reports before both Andy and Bettijean. The girl hesitated, fidgeting, fingers to her teeth. Then, without speaking, she hurried out.
Andy stared at the top sheet and groaned. "This may be something. Half the adult population of Aspen, Colorado, is down."
"What?" Bettijean frowned over the report in her hands. "It's the same thing—only not quite as severe—in Taos and Santa Fe, New Mexico."
"Writers?"
"Mostly. Some artists, too, and musicians. And poets are among the hard hit."
"This is insane," Andy muttered. "Doctors and dentists are fine—writers and poets are sick. Make sense out of that."
Bettijean held up a paper and managed a confused smile. "Here's a country doctor in Tennessee. He doesn't even know what it's all about. Nobody's sick in his valley."
"Somebody in our outer office is organized," Andy said, pulling at his cigarette. "Here're reports from a dozen military installations all lumped together."
"What does it show?"
"Black-out. By order of somebody higher up—no medical releases. Must mean they've got it." He scratched the growing stubble on his chin.
"If this were a fifth column setup, wouldn't the armed forces be the first hit?"
"Sure," Bettijean brightened, then sobered. "Maybe not. The brass could keep it secret if an epidemic hit an army camp. And they could slap a control condition on any military area. But the panic will come from the general public."
"Here's another batch," Andy said. "Small college towns under twenty-five thousand population. All hard hit."
"Well, it's not split intellectually. Small colleges and small offices and writers get it. Doctors don't and dentists don't. But we can't tell who's got it on the military bases."
"And it's not geographical. Look, remember those two reports from Tennessee? That place where they voted on water bonds or something, everybody had it. But the country doctor in another section hadn't even heard of it." Andy could only shake his head.
Bettijean heaved herself up from the chair and trudged back to the outer office. She returned momentarily with a tray of food. Putting a paper cup of coffee and a sandwich in front of Andy, she sat down and nibbled at her snack like an exhausted chipmunk.
Andy banged a fist at his desk again. Coffee splashed over the rim of his cup onto the clutter of papers. "It's here," he said angrily.
"It's here somewhere, but we can't find it."
"The answer?"
"Of course. What is it that girls in small offices do or eat or drink or wear that girls in large offices don't do or eat or drink or wear? What do writers and doctors do differently? Or poets and dentists? What are we missing? What—"
In the outer office a girl cried out. A body thumped against a desk, then a chair, then to the floor. Two girls screamed.
Andy bolted up from his chair. Racing to the door, he shouted back to Bettijean, "Get a staff doctor and a chemist from the lab."
It was the girl who had been so nervous in his office earlier. Now she lay in a pathetic little heap between her desk and chair, whimpering, shivering, eyes wide with horror. The other girls clustered at the hall door, plainly ready to stampede.
"It's not contagious," Andy growled. "Find some blankets or coats to cover her. And get a glass of water."
The other girls, glad for the excuse, dashed away. Andy scooped up the fallen girl and put her down gently on the close-jammed desks. He used a chair cushion for a pillow. By then the other girls were back with a blanket and the glass of water. He covered the girl, gave her a sip of water and heard somebody murmur, "Poor Janis."
"Now," Andy said brightly, "how's that, Janis?"
She mustered a smile, and breathed, "Better. I ... I was so scared. Fever and dizzy ... symptoms like the epidemic."
"Now you know there's nothing to be afraid of," Andy said, feeling suddenly and ridiculously like a pill roller with a practiced bedside manner. "You know you may feel pretty miserable, but nobody's conked out with this stuff yet."
Janis breathed out and her taut body relaxed.
"Don't hurry," Andy said, "but I want you to tell me everything that you did—everything you ate or drank—in the last ... oh, twelve hours." He felt a pressure behind him and swiveled his head to see Bettijean standing there. He tried to smile.
"What time is it?" Janis asked weakly.
Andy glanced to a wall clock, then gave it a double take.
One of the girls said, "It's three o'clock in the morning." She edged nearer Andy, obviously eager to replace Janis as the center of attention. Andy ignored her.
"I ... I've been here since ... golly, yesterday morning at nine," Janis said. "I came to work as usual and...."
Slowly, haltingly, she recited the routine of a routine work day, then told about the quick snack that sufficed for supper and about staying on her phone and typewriter for another five hours. "It was about eleven when the relief crew came in."
"What did you do then?" Andy asked.
"I ... I took a break and...." Her ivory skin reddened, the color spreading into the roots of her fluffy curls, and she turned her face away from Andy. "And I had a sandwich and some coffee and got a little nap in the ladies' lounge and ... and that's all."
"And that's not all," Andy prompted. "What else?"
"Nothing," Janis said too quickly.
Andy shook his head. "Tell it all and maybe it'll help."
"But ... but...."
"Was it something against regulations?"
"I ... I don't know. I think...."
"I'll vouch for your job in this office."
"Well...." She seemed on the verge of tears and her pleading glance sought out Andy, then Bettijean, then her co-workers. Finally, resigned, she said, "I ... I wrote a letter to my mother."
Andy swallowed against his groan of disappointment. "And you told her about what we were doing here."
Janis nodded, and tears welled into her wide eyes.
"Did you mail it?"
"Y ... yes."
"You didn't use a government envelope to save a stamp?"
"Oh, no. I always carry a few stamps with me." She choked down a sob.
"Did I do wrong?"
"No, I don't think so," Andy said, patting her shoulder. "There's certainly nothing secret about this epidemic. Now you just take it easy and—. Oh, here's a doctor now."
The doctor, a white-headed Air Force major, bustled into the room. A lab technician in a white smock was close behind. Andy could only shrug and indicate the girl.
Turning away, lighting a cigarette, he tried to focus on the tangle of thoughts that spun through his head. Doctors, writers, society matrons, office workers—Aspen, Taos and college towns—thousands of people sick—but none in that valley in Tennessee—and few government workers—just one girl in his office—and she was sicker and more frightened about a letter—and....
"Hey, wait!" Andy yelled.
Everyone in the room froze as Andy spun around, dashed to Bettijean's desk and yanked out the wide, top drawer. He pawed through it, straightened, then leaped across to the desk Janis had used. He snatched open drawer after drawer. In a bottom one he found her purse. Ripping it open, he dumped the contents on the desk and clawed through the pile until he found what he wanted. Handing it to the lab technician, he said, "Get me a report. Fast."
The technician darted out.
Andy wheeled to Bettijean. "Get the brass in here. And call the general first." To the doctor, he said, "Give that girl the best of everything."
Then he ducked back to his own office and to the pile of reports. He was still poring over them when the general arrived. Half a dozen other brass hats, none of whom had been to bed, were close behind. The lab technician arrived a minute later. He shook his head as he handed his hastily scribbled report to Andy.
It was Bettijean who squeezed into the office and broke the brittle silence. "Andy, for heaven's sake, what is it?" Then she moved around the desk to stand behind him as he faced the officers.
"Have you got something?" the brigadier asked. "Some girl outside was babbling about writers and doctors, and dentists and college students, and little secretaries and big secretaries. Have you established a trend?"
Andy glanced at the lab report and his smile was as relieved as it was weary. "Our problem," he said, "was in figuring out what a writer does that a doctor doesn't—why girls from small offices were sick—and why senators and postal workers weren't—why college students caught the bug and people in a Tennessee community didn't.
"The lab report isn't complete. They haven't had time to isolate the poison and prescribe medication. But"—he held up a four-cent stamp—"here's the villain, gentlemen."
The big brass stood stunned and shocked. Mouths flapped open and eyes bugged at Andy, at the stamp.
Bettijean said, "Sure. College kids and engaged girls and new parents and especially writers and artists and poets—they'd all lick lots of stamps. Professional men have secretaries. Big offices have postage-meter machines. And government offices have free franking. And"—she threw her arms around the sergeant's neck—"Andy, you're wonderful."
"The old American ingenuity," the colonel said, reaching for Andy's phone. "I knew we could lick it. Now all we have to do—"
"At ease, colonel," the brigadier said sharply. He waited until the colonel had retreated, then addressed Andy. "It's your show. What do you suggest?"
"Get somebody—maybe even the President—on all radio and TV networks. Explain frankly about the four-centers and warn against licking any stamps. Then—"
He broke off as his phone rang. Answering, he listened for a moment, then hung up and said, "But before the big announcement, get somebody checking on the security clearances at whatever plant it is where they print stamps. This's a big deal. Somebody may've been planted years ago for this operation. It shouldn't be too hard.
"But there's no evidence it was a plot yet. Could be pure accident—some chemical in the stickum spoiled. Do they keep the stickum in barrels? Find out who had access. And ... oh, the phone call. That was the lab. The antidote's simple and the cure should be quick. They can phone or broadcast the medical information to doctors. The man on the phone said they could start emptying hospitals in six hours. And maybe we should release some propaganda. "United States whips mystery virus," or something like that. And we could send the Kremlin a stamp collection and.... Aw, you take it, sir. I'm pooped."
The general wheeled to fire a salvo of commands. Officers poured into the corridor. Only the brigadier remained, a puzzled frown crinkling his granite brow.
"But you said that postal workers weren't getting sick."
Andy chucked. "That's right. Did you ever see a post office clerk lick a stamp? They always use a sponge."
The general looked to Bettijean, to Andy, to the stamp. He grinned and the grin became a rumbling laugh. "How would you two like a thirty-day furlough to rest up—or to get better acquainted?"
Bettijean squealed. Andy reached for her hand.
"And while you're gone," the general continued, "I'll see what strings I can pull. If I can't wangle you a couple of battlefield commissions, I'll zip you both through O.C.S. so fast you won't even have time to pin on the bars."
But neither Andy nor Bettijean had heard a word after the mention of furlough. Like a pair of puppy-lovers, they were sinking into the depths of each other's eyes.
And the general was still chuckling as he picked up the lone four-cent stamp in his left hand, made a gun of his right hand, and marched the stamp out of the office under guard.
THE END
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Who is Johnny Haldane and what happens to him throughout the story?
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After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about The Lorelei Death by Nelson S. Bond.
Relevant chunks:
THE LORELEI DEATH
by NELSON S. BOND
Far out in limitless Space she plied her deadly trade ... a Lorelei of the void, beckoning spacemen to death and destruction with her beautiful siren lure.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Winter 1941. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Chip Warren stood before an oblong of glass set into one wall of the spaceship Chickadee II , stared at what he saw reflected therefrom—and frowned. He didn't like it. Not a bit! It was too—too—
He turned away angrily, ripped the offending article from about his neck, and chose another necktie from the rack. This one was brighter, gaudier, much more in keeping with the gaiety of his mood. He emitted a grunt of satisfaction, spun from the mirror to face his two companions triumphantly.
"There! How do you like that ?"
Syd Palmer, short and chubby, tow-headed and liquid-blue of eye, always languid save when engaged in the solution of some engineering problem concerned with the space vessel he mothered like a brooding hen, moaned insultingly and forced a shudder.
"Sunspots! Novae! Flying comets! And he wears 'em around his neck!"
"You," Chip told him serenely, "have no appreciation of beauty. What do you think of it, Padre?"
"Salvation" Smith, a tall, gangling scarecrow garbed in rusty black, a lean-jawed, hawkeyed man with tumbled locks of silver framing his weathered cheeks like a halo, concealed his grin poorly. "Well, my boy," he admitted, "there is some Biblical precedent for your—ahem!—clamorous raiment. 'So Joseph made for himself a coat which was of many colors—'"
"Both of you," declared Chip, "give me a pain in the pants! Stick-in-the-muds! Here we are in port for the first time in months, cargo-bins loaded to the gunwales with enough ekalastron to make us rich for life—and you sit here like a pair of stuffed owls!
"Well, not me! I'm going to take a night off, throw myself a party the likes of which was never seen around these parts. Put a candle in the window, chilluns, 'cause li'l' Chip won't be home till the wee, sma' hours!"
Syd chuckled.
"O.Q., big shot. But don't get too cozy with any of those joy-joint entertainers. Remember what happened to poor old Dougal MacNeer!"
Salvation said soberly, "Syd's just fooling, my boy. But I would be careful if I were you. We're in the Belt, you know. The forces of law and order do not always govern these wild outposts of civilization as well as might be hoped. The planetoids are dens of iniquity, violent and unheeding the words of Him who rules all—"
The old man's lips etched a straight line, reminding Chip that Salvation Smith was not one of those milk-and-water missionaries who espoused the principle of "turning the other cheek" to evildoers. Salvation was not the ordained emissary of any church. A devoutly religious man with the heart of an adventurer, he had taken upon himself the mission of carrying to outland tribes the story of the God he worshipped.
That his God was the fierce Yahveh of the Old Testament, a God of anger and retribution, was made evident by the methods Salvation sometimes employed in winning his converts. For not only was Salvation acknowledged the most pious man in space; he was also conceded to be the best hand with a gun!
Now Chip gave quiet answer. "I know, Padre: I'll be careful. Well, Syd—sure you won't change your mind and come along?"
"No can do, chum. The spaceport repair crew's still smearing this jalopy with ek. Got to stay and watch 'em."
"O.Q. I'm off alone, then. See you later!"
And, whistling, Chip Warren stepped through the lock of the Chickadee onto the soil of the asteroid Danae.
Danae was, thought Chip as he strolled along briskly toward the town beyond the spaceport, a most presentable hunk of rock. Nice lucentite Dome ... good atmo ... a fine artificial grav system based on Terra normal. It seemed to be a popular little fueling-stop, too, for its cradle-bins were laden with vessels from every planet in the System, and as he gained the main drag he found himself rubbing shoulders with citizens of every known world. Lumbering, albino Venusians, petal-headed Martians, Jovian runts, greenies from far Uranus, Earthman—all were here.
Quite a likely place, he thought happily, to chuck a brawl. A brilliantly gleaming xenon sign before him welcomed visitors to:
XU'UL'S SOLAREST Barroom—Casino—Dancing 100—Lovely Hostesses—100
He entered, and was immediately deluged by a bevy of charm-gals vying for the privilege of: (1) helping him beat the roulette wheel; (2) helping him drink the house dry, and/or (3) separating him as swiftly as possible from the credits in his money belt.
Chip shook them off, gently but firmly. He wanted a good time, true; but he wanted it solo. The main cabaret was too crowded; he passed through it and another equally blatant room wherein twoscore Venusians were straining the structure with a native "sing-stomp," and ended up finally, with a sigh of relief, in a small, dimly-lighted private bar unfrequented by anyone save a bored and listless Martian bartender.
The chrysanthemum-pated son of the desertland roused himself as Chip entered, rustled his petals and piped a ready greeting.
"Welcoom, ssirr! Trrink, pleasse?"
This was more like it! Chip grinned.
"Scotch," he said. " Old Spaceman. And let's have a new bottle, Curly. None of that doctored swill."
"Of courrsse, ssirr!" piped the bar-keep aggrievedly. He pushed a bottle across the mahogany; Chip flipped a golden credit-token back at him.
"Tell me when I've guzzled this, and I'll start work on another." He took a deep, appreciative sniff. "And don't let any of those dizzy dolls in here," he ordered. "I've got a lot of back drinking to catch up on, and I don't want to be disturbed— Hey! "
In his alarm, he almost dropped the bottle. For the door suddenly burst open, and in its frame loomed a figure in Space Patrol blues. A finger pointed in Chip's direction and a bull-o'-Bashan voice roared:
" Stop! Bartender—grab that man! He's a desperate criminal, wanted on four planets for murder!"
Shock momentarily immobilized Chip. Not so the bartender. He was, it seemed, an ardent pacifist. With a bleat of panic fear he scampered from his post, his metallic stilts clattering off in the distance. Chip's accuser moved forward from the shadows; dim light illumined his features. And—
" Johnny! " Chip's voice lifted in a note of jubilant surprise.
"Johnny Haldane—you old scoundrel! Where in the void did you drop from?"
The S.S.P. man chuckled and returned Chip's greeting with a bone-grinding handclasp.
"I might ask the same of you, chum! Lord, it's been ages since we've crossed 'jectory! When I saw you meandering across the Casino, you could have knocked me down with a jetblast! What's new? Is old Syd still with you?"
"We're still shipmates. But he's back at the spaceport. The jerry-crew is plating our crate with ek, and—"
"Ek! Plating a private cruiser!" Haldane stared at him in astonishment, then whistled. "Sweet Sacred Stars, you must be filthy with credits to be able to coat an entire ship with ekalastron!"
"You," boasted Chip, "ain't heard nothing yet!" And he told him how they had discovered an entire mountain of the previous new element, No.
97 in the periodic table, on frigid Titania, satellite of far Uranus.
"It was touch-and-go for a while," he admitted, "whether we'd be the luckiest three guys in space—or the deadest! But we passed through the flaming caverns like old Shadrach in the Bible—remember?—and here we are!"
[1]
Haldane was exuberant. "A mountain of ekalastron!" he gloated.
"That's the greatest contribution to spaceflight since Biggs' velocity-intensifier!" It was no overstatement. "Element No. 97 was a metal so light that a man could carry in one hand enough to coat the entire hull of a battleship—yet so adamant that a gossamer film of it would deflect a meteor! A metal strong enough to crush diamonds to ash—but so resilient that, when properly treated, it would rebound like rubber! What are you going to do with it, Chip? Put it on the open market?"
Warren shook his head.
"Not exactly. We talked it over carefully—Syd and Salvation and I—and we decided there are some space-rats to whom it shouldn't be made available. Privateers and outlaws, you know. So we turned control of the mines over to the Space Patrol at Uranus, and visiphoned the Earth authorities we were bringing in one cargo—"
"Visiphoned!" interrupted Haldane sharply. "Did you say visiphoned?"
"Why—why, yes."
"From where?"
"Oh, just before we reached the Belt. We don't have a very strong transmitter, you know. Sa-a-ay, what's all the excitement, pal? Did we do something that was wrong?"
Haldane frowned worriedly. "I don't know, Chip. It wasn't anything wrong , but what you did was damned dangerous. For if your message was intercepted, you may have played into the very hands of—the Lorelei!"
Chip stared at his friend bewilderedly for a moment. Then he grinned.
"Hey—I must be getting slightly whacky in my old age. I stand here with an unopened bottle in my hands and hear things! For a minute I thought you said 'Lorelei.' The Lorelei, my space-cop friend, is a myth. An old Teutonic myth about a beautiful damsel who sits out in the middle of a sea on a treacherous rock, combing her golden locks, warbling and luring her fascinated admirers to destruction."
He grunted. "A dirty trick, if you ask me. Catch a snort of this alleged Scotch, pal, and I'll torture your eardrums with the whole, sad story." He started to sing. "' Ich weiss nicht was soll es bedeuten —'"
The Patrolman laid a hand on his arm, silenced him.
"It's not funny, Chip. You've described the Lorelei exactly. That's how she got her name. An incredibly beautiful woman who wantonly lures space-mariners to their death.
"The only difference is that her 'rock' is an asteroid somewhere in the Belt—and she does not sing, she calls! She began exercising her vicious appeal about two months ago, Earth reckoning. Since then, no less than a dozen spacecraft—freighters, liners, even one Patrolship—have fallen prey to her wiles. Their crews have been brutally murdered, their cargos stolen."
"Wait a minute!" interrupted Chip shrewdly. "How do you know about her if the crews have been murdered?"
"She has a habit of locking the controls," explained Haldane, "and setting ravaged ships adrift. Apparently there is no room on her hideout—wherever it is—for empty hulks. One of these ships was salvaged by a courageous cabin-boy who hid from the Lorelei and her pirate band beneath a closetful of soiled linens in the laundry. He described her. His description goes perfectly with less accurate glimpses seen over the visiphones of several score spacecraft!"
Chip said soberly, "So it's no joke, eh, pal? Sorry I popped off. I thought you were pulling my leg. Where do I come into this mess, though?"
"Ekalastron!" grunted Johnny succinctly. "A jackpot prize for any corsair! And you advertised a cargo of it over the etherwaves! The Lorelei will be waiting for you with her tongue hanging out. The only thing for you to do, kid, is go back to Jupiter or Io as fast as you can get there. Make the Patrol give you a convoy—"
A sudden light danced in Chip Warren's eyes. It was a light Syd Palmer would have groaned to see—for it usually presaged trouble. It was a bright, hard, reckless light.
"Hold your jets, Johnny!" drawled Chip. "Aren't you forgetting one thing? In a couple more hours, I can face the Lorelei and her whole mob—and be damned to them! She can't touch the Chickadee , because it's being plated right now!"
Haldane snapped his fingers in quick remembrance.
"By thunder, you're right! Her shells will ricochet off the Chickadee's hull like hail off a tin roof. Chip, are you in any hurry to reach Earth? I thought not. What do you say we go after the Lorelei together ! I'll swear you in as a Deputy Patrolman; we'll take the Chickadee and—"
"It's a deal!" declared Chip promptly. "You got any idea where this Lorelei's hangout is?"
"That's why I'm here on Danae. I got a tip that one of the Lorelei's men put in here for supplies. I hoped maybe I could single him out somehow, follow him when he jetted for his base, and in that way— Chip! Look out! "
Haldane shouted and moved at the same time. His arm lashed out wildly, thrusting, smashing Chip to the floor in a sprawling heap. The as-yet unopened bottle was now violently opened; it splintered into a thousand shards against a wall.
Bruised and shaken, Chip lifted his head to see what had caused Johnny's alarm. Even as he did so, the dull gloom of the bar was blazoned with searing effulgence. A lancet of flame leaped from the dark, rearward doorway, burst in Johnny Haldane's face!
The Patrolman cried once, a choking cry that died in a mewling whimper. His unused pistol slipped from slackening fingers, and he sagged to the floor. Again crimson lightning laced the shadows; Haldane's body jerked, and the air was raw with the hot, sickening stench of charred flesh.
With an instinct born of bitter years, Chip had come to his knees behind the shelter of the mahogany bar. But now his own flame-pistol was in his hand, and a dreadful rage was mingled with the agony in his heart. Reckless of results, he sprang to his feet, gun spewing livid death into the shadows.
His blast found a mark. For an instant flame haloed a human face drawn in inhuman pain. A heavy, sultry, bestial face, already puckered with one long, ugly scar that ran from right temple to jawbone, now newly scarred with the red brand of Chip's marksmanship.
Then, before Chip could fire again, came the rasp of pounding footsteps. The man turned and fled. Chip bent over his fallen friend, seeking, with hands that did not even feel the heat, fluttering life beneath still smoldering cloth.
He felt—nothing. Johnny was dead.
A snarl of sheer animal rage burst from Chip's lips. Someone would pay for this; pay dearly! Help was coming now. He himself would lead the hue-and-cry that would track a foul murderer to his lair. He spun as the footsteps drew nearer.
"Hurry!" he cried. "This way! Follow me—"
In a bound, he hurdled the bar, lingered at the door only long enough to let the others mark his course. For they had burst into the room, now, a full score of them. Excited, hard-bitten dogs of space, quick-triggered and willing. Once more he cried for help.
"After him! Come on! He—"
And then—disaster struck! For a reedy voice broke from the van of the mob. The voice of the Martian bartender.
"That's him!" he piped sibilantly. "That's the man! He's a desperate criminal, wanted on four planets for murder! The Patrolman came to arrest him— and now he's murdered the Spacie !"
II
The stunning injustice of that accusation came close to costing Chip Warren his life. For a split second he stood motionless in the doorway, gaping lips forming denial. Words which were never to be uttered, for suddenly a raw-boned miner wrenched a Moeller from its holster, leveled and fired.
The hot tongue of death licked hungrily at the young spaceman's cheek, scorched air crackled in his eardrums. Now was no time to squander in vain argument. Chip ducked, spun, and hurled himself through the doorway. There still remained one hope. That he might catch the real murderer, and in that way clear himself....
But the door led to a small, deserted vestibule, and it to an alleyway behind Xu'ul's Solarest. Viewing that maze of byways and passages, Chip knew his hope was futile. There remained but one thing to do. Get out of here. But quick!
It was no hard task. The labyrinth swallowed him as it had engulfed the scarred killer; in a few minutes even the footsteps of his pursuers could no longer be heard. And Chip worked his cautious way back to the spaceport, and to the bin wherein was cradled the Chickadee .
Syd Palmer looked up in surprise as Chip let himself in the electro-lock. The chubby engineer gasped, "Salvation, look what the cat drug in! His high-flying Nibs! What's the matter, Chip? Night-life too much for you?"
"Never mind that now!" panted Chip. "Is this tin can ready to roll? Warm the hypos. We're lifting gravs—"
Palmer said anxiously, "Now, wait a minute! The men haven't quite finished plating the hull, Chip!"
"Can't help that! We've got important business. In a very few minutes— Ahh! There he goes now!" Chip had gone to the perilens the moment he entered the ship; now he saw in its reflector that which he had expected. The gushing orange spume of a spaceship roaring from its cradle. "Hurry, Syd!"
There were a lot of things Syd Palmer wanted to ask. He wanted to know who went where ; he was bursting with curiosity about the "important business" which had brought his pal back from town in such a rush; his keen eye also had detected a needle-gun burn on Chip's coat-sleeve. But he was too good a companion to waste time now on such trivia.
"O.Q.," he snapped. "It's your pigeon!"
And he disappeared. They heard his voice calling to the workmen, the scuff of equipment being disengaged from the Chickadee's hull, the thin, high whine of warming hypatomics. Salvation looked at Warren quizzically.
"It smells," he ventured gently, "like trouble."
"It is trouble," Chip told him. "Plenty trouble!"
"In that case—" said the old man mildly—"I guess I'd better get the rotor stripped for action." He stepped to the gunnery turret, dropped the fore-irons and stripped their weapon for action. "'Be ye men of peace,'" he intoned, "'but gird firmly thy loins for righteous battle!' Thus saith the Lord God which is Jehovah. Selah!"
Then came Syd's cry from the depths of the hyporoom.
"All set, Chip! Lift gravs!"
Warren's finger found a stud. And with a gusty roar the Chickadee rocketed into space on a pillar of flame.
Two hours later, Chip was still following the bright pinpoint of scarlet which marked the course of his quarry.
In the time that had elapsed since their take-off, he had told his friends the whole story. When he told about the Lorelei, Salvation Smith's seamy old features screwed up in a perplexed grimace. "A woman pirate in the Belt, son? I find it hard to believe. Yet—" And when he described the death of Johnny Haldane, anger smoldered in the missionary's eyes, and Syd Palmer's hands knotted into tight, white fists. Said Syd, "A man with a scar, eh? Well, we'll catch him sooner or later. And when we do—" His tone boded no good to the man who had slain an old and loved friend.
"As a matter of fact," offered Salvation, "we've got him now. Any time you say the word, Chip. We're faster than he is. We can close in on him in five minutes."
"I know," nodded Warren grimly. "But we won't do it—yet. I'm borrowing a bit of Johnny's strategy. I've been plotting his course. As soon as I'm sure of his destination, we'll take care of him . But our first and most vital problem is to locate the Lorelei's hideaway."
Syd said, "That's all right with me, chum. I like a good scrap as much as the next guy. Better, maybe. But this isn't our concern, strictly speaking. What we ought to do is report this matter to the Space Patrol, let them take care of it."
Salvation shook his head.
"That's where you're mistaken, Sydney. This is very much our concern. So much so, in fact, that we dare not make port again until it's cleared up. I think you have forgotten that it is not the scar-faced man who is wanted for the killing of Haldane—but Chip!"
"B-but—" gasped Palmer—"b-but that's ridiculous! Chip and Johnny were old buddies. Lifelong friends!"
"Nevertheless, the circumstantial evidence indicates Chip's guilt. Twenty men saw him standing over Johnny's dead body, with a flame-pistol in his hand. And the barkeep heard Johnny 'arrest' Chip and accuse him of murder!"
Chip said ruefully, "That's right, Syd. It was only a joke, but it backfired. The bartender thought Johnny meant it. He scooted out of there like a bat out of Hades. I'm in it up to my neck unless we can bring back evidence that Scarface actually did the killing. And that may not be so easy."
He stirred restlessly. "But we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Right now our job is to keep this rat in sight. We've gone farther already than I expected we would." He turned to the old preacher.
"Where do you think we're going, Padre? Out of the Belt entirely?"
"I've been wondering that myself, son. I don't know for sure, of course, but it looks to me as if we're going for the Bog. If so, you'd better keep a weather-eye peeled."
"The Bog!" Chip had never penetrated the planetoids so deeply before, but he knew of the Bog by hearsay. All men did. A treacherous region of tightly packed asteroids, a mad and whirling scramble of the gigantic rocks which, aeons ago, had been a planet. Few spacemen dared penetrate the Bog. Of those who did dare, few returned to tell the tale. "The Bog! Say! I'd better keep a sharp lookout!"
He turned to the perilens once more, fastened an eye to its lens. And then—
"Syd!" he cried. "Salvation! Look! She—she—!"
He pressed the plunger that transferred the perilens image to the central viewscreen. And as he did so, a phantom filled the area which should have revealed yawning space, gay with the spangles of a myriad glowing orbs. The vision of an unbelievably beautiful girl, the golden-crowned embodiment of a man's fondest dreaming, eyes wide with an indistinguishable emotion, arms stretched wide in mute appeal.
And from the throats of all came simultaneous recognition.
" The Lorelei! "
At the same moment came a plea from the enchantress of space through a second medium. For no reason anyone could explain, the ship's telaudio wakened to life; over it came to their ears the actual words of the girl:
" Help! Oh, help! Can anyone hear me? Help —"
Even though he knew this to be only a ruse, a deliberate, dastardly trap set for the unwary, Chip Warren's pulse leaped in hot response to that desperate plea. Even with the warning of Johnny Haldane fresh in his memory, some gallantry deep within him spurred him to the aid of this lovely vision. Here was a woman a man could live for, fight for, die for! A woman like no other in the universe.
Then common sense came to his rescue. He wrenched his gaze from the tempting shadow, cried: "Kill that wavelength! Tune the lens on another beam, Syd!"
Palmer, bedazzled but obedient, spun the dial of the perilens . Despite his vastly improved science Man had never yet succeeded in devising a transparent medium through which to view the void wherein he soared; the perilens was a device which translated impinging light-waves into a picture of that which lay outside the ship's hull. When or where electrical disturbances existed in space, its frequency could be changed for greater clarity. This was what Syd now attempted.
But to no avail! For it mattered not which cycle he tuned to—the image persisted. Still on the viewscreen that pleading figure beckoned piteously. And still the cabin rang to the prayers of that heart-tugging voice:
" Help! Oh, help! Can anyone hear me? Help —"
Gone, now, was any fascination that thrilling vision might previously have held for Chip Warren. Understanding of their plight dawned coldly upon him, and his brow became dark with anger.
" We're blanketed! Flying blind! Salvation, radio a general alarm! Syd, jazz the hypos to max. Shift trajectory to fourteen-oh-three North and loft ... fire No. 3 jet...."
He had hurled himself into the bucket-shaped pilot's seat; now his fingers played the controls like those of a mad organist. The Chickadee groaned from prow to stern, trembled like a tortured thing as he thrust it into a rising spiral.
It was a desperate chance he was taking. Increasing his speed thus, it was certain he would be spotted by the man he had been following; the flaming jets of the Chickadee must form a crimson arch against black space visible for hundreds—thousands!—of miles. Nor was there any way of knowing what lay in the path Chip thus blindly chose. Titanic death might loom on every side. But they had to fight clear of this spot of blindness, clear their instruments....
And then it came! A jarring concussion that smashed against the prow of the Chickadee like a battering ram. Chip flew headlong out of his bucket to spreadeagle on the heaving iron floor. He heard, above the grinding plaint of shattered steel the bellowing prayer of Salvation Smith:
"We've crashed! 'Into Thy hands, O Lord of old—'"
Then Syd's angry cry, "Crashed, hell! He's smashed us with a tractor-blast!"
Chip stared at his companion numbly.
"But—but that's impossible! We're plated with ek! A tractor-cannon couldn't hurt us—"
" Half-plated! " howled Syd savagely. "And those damn fools started working from the stern of the Chickadee ! We're vulnerable up front, and that's where he got us! In a minute this can will be leaking like a sieve. I'll get out bulgers. Hold 'er to her course, Chip!"
He dove for the lockers wherein were hung the space-suits, tore them hastily from their hangers. Chip again spun the perilens vernier. No good! No space ... no stars ... just a beautiful phantom crying them to certain doom. By now he was aware that from a dozen sprung plates air was seeping, but he fought down despair. While there remained hope, a man had to keep on fighting.
He scrambled back into the bucket-seat, experimented with controls that answered sluggishly. Salvation had sprung to the rotor-gun, was now angrily jerking its lanyard, lacing the void with death-dealing bursts that had no mark. The old man's eyes were brands of fire, his white hair clung wetly to his forehead. His rage was terrible to behold.
"'Yes, truly shall I destroy them!'" he cried, "'who loose their stealth upon me like a thief from the night—'"
Then suddenly there came a second and more frightful blow. The straining Chickadee stopped as though pole-axed by a gigantic fist. Stopped and shuddered and screamed in metal agony. This time inertia flung Chip headlong, helpless, into the control racks. Brazen studs took the impact of his body; crushing pain banded about his temples, and a red wetness ran into his eyes, blurring and blinding him, burning.
For an instant there flamed before him a universe of incandescent stars, weaving, shimmering, merging. The vision of a woman whose hair was a golden glory....
After that—nothing!
III
From a billion miles away, from a bourne unguessable thousands of light-years distant, came the faint, far whisper of a voice. Nearer and nearer it came, and ever faster, till it throbbed upon Chip's eardrums with booming savagery.
"—coming to, now. Good! We'll soon find out—"
Chip opened his eyes, too dazed, at first, to understand the situation in which he found himself. Gone was the familiar control-turret of the Chickadee , gone the bulger into which he had so hastily clambered. He lay on the parched, rocky soil of a—a something. A planetoid, perhaps. And he was surrounded by a motley crew of strangers: scum of all the planets that circle the Sun....
Then recollection flooded back upon him, sudden and complete. The chase ... the call of the fateful Lorelei ... the crash! New strength, born of anger, surged through him. He lifted his head.
"My—my companions?" he demanded weakly.
The leader of those who encircled him, a mighty hulk of a man, massive of shoulder and thigh, black-haired, with an unshaven blue jaw, raven-bright eyes and a jutting, aquiline nose like the beak of a hawk, loosed a satisfied grunt.
"Ah! Back to normal, eh, sailor? Damn near time!"
Climbing to his feet sent a swift wave of giddiness through Chip—but he managed it. He fought down the vertigo which threatened to overwhelm him, and confronted the big man boldly.
"What," he stormed, "is the meaning of this?"
The giant stared at him for a moment, his jaw slack. Then his raven-bright eyes glittered; he slapped a trunklike thigh and guffawed in boisterous mirth.
"Hear that?" he roared to his companions. "Quite a guy, ain't he?
'What's the meanin' o' this?' he asks! Game little fightin' cock, hey?" Then he sobered abruptly, and a grim light replaced the amusement in his eyes. Here was not a man to be trifled with, Chip realized. His tone assumed a biting edge. "The meanin' is, my bucko," he answered mirthlessly, "that you've run afoul o' your last reef. Unless you have a sane head on your shoulders, and you're willing to talk fast and straight!"
"Talk?"
"Don't stall. We've already unloaded your bins. We found it. And a nice haul, too. Thanks for lettin' us know it was on the way." The burly one chuckled coarsely. "We'd have took it, anyway, but you helped matters out by comin' to us."
Johnny Haldane had been right, then. Chip remembered his friend's ominous warning. "—if your message was intercepted, you may have played into the hands of—" He said slowly, "Then you are the Lorelei's men?"
"The who? Never mind that, bucko, just talk. That ekalastron—where did it come from?"
And it occurred to Warren suddenly that although the big man did hold the whip hand, he was still not in possession of the most important secret of all! While the location of the ekalastron mine remained a secret, a deadlock existed.
"And if I won't tell—?" he countered shrewdly.
"Why, then, sailor—" The pirate leader's hamlike fists tightened, and a cold light glinted in his eyes—"why, then I guess maybe I'll have to beat it out o' you!"
Question:
Who is Johnny Haldane and what happens to him throughout the story?
Answer:
|
[
"Johnny Haldane is a member of the Space Patrol and one of Chip’s old friends. They talk briefly about their previous adventures and running into each other all across space, which speaks highly of their close bond. He arrives on Dandae to track one of the Lorelei’s crew, hoping to follow him all the way back to their hideout. However, while there, he runs into Chip and makes a grand entrance, accusing him of murder. This causes the bartender to scurry away, so they sit and talk in private while nursing a bottle of scotch. After chatting for a bit, Chip reveals to Johnny that his crew found a mountain of ekalastron and they gave it back to the Space Patrol, as private users might have abused the material. All is well and good until Johnny hears that Chip used his visiphone to get in touch with Earth authorities, which Johnny immediately protests. Evidently, the Lorelei tracks people through visiphone messages and could have intercepted his. They decide to take on the Lorelei together, tracking the crew member back to their base and using Chip’s newly-plated ship for protection. However, before they can move, a man comes in with a scar on his face and shoots at the two of them. Johnny saves Chip’s life by pushing him out of the way but is killed by the blast. ",
"Johnny Haldane is a type of space-cop who is following a lead about the Lorelei, which has brought him to the asteroid Danae in an attempt to intercept a supply run. He is friends with Chip, though they have not seen each other in some time. However, they have a friendly rapport, as he was the one who burst into the bar at the beginning of the story, accusing Chip of murder and calling for his arrest as a way to get his attention. He explains everything he knows about the recent attacks that the Loreli has been accused of recently, and they two of them decide to pursue the case together in Chip's fancy newly-protected ship before Johnny dies in a skirmish at the bar by the hand of a man with a scar on his face. Besides the information about the Lorelei, the other lasting impact he has on his story is his false accusation of Chip when he greets him: because everyone else took this seriously, it means Chip is being chased and accused of murder for the duration of the story. \n",
"Johnny Haldane is a member of the Space Patrol and an old friend of Chip Warren. He is a strong, brave man with a sense of humor. He startles Chip by bursting into the bar and jokingly yelling for someone to grab Chip because he’s wanted for murder. Haldane is impressed to learn that Chip is plating his cruiser with ekalastron and learning of his cargo, asks if Chip will sell it on the open market. When Chip explains they turned the mines over to the Space Patrol at Uranus and visiphoned Earth about their cargo, Haldane informs Chip that he might be in serious danger from the Lorelei. At first, Chip thinks Haldane is talking about the myth, but Haldane explains about the Lorelei image luring ships that are then taken by pirates. The pirates take the cargo and murder everyone on board. Since it started two months ago, the sting has captured a dozen ships. Haldane urges Chip to change his plans and go to Jupiter or Io instead of Earth. But when Chip reminds him his ship is being plated with ekalastron, Haldane offers to deputize Chip to go after the Lorelei together. Haldane explains that one of the Lorelei’s men is on the asteroid now picking up supplies; Haldane is trying to find him so he can follow him back to his base. Suddenly, Haldane thrusts Chip aside, and a flame shot smashes Chip’s drink bottle on the bar. Another shot is fired into Haldane’s face, killing him.\n\tLater, though, Chip’s memories of Haldane help him. He remembers Haldane’s strategy of plotting his prey’s course, and when he is sure of the destination, taking care of him. Chip applies this strategy to the assailant he is chasing, rather than racing up and overtaking him. He wants to find the Lorelei and destroy it to protect everyone in space, in addition to capturing the assailant who can clear his name. It is also Haldane’s warning of the Lorelei that enables Chip to respond without being drawn in by her beckoning. He knows the fate that awaits them if they approach her and immediately takes action that he hopes will prevent them from falling into the pirates’ clutches.\n",
"Johnny is a space cop with Space Patrol and an old friend of Chip Warren. He speaks with a deep voice, has a powerful handshake, and dresses in the blue uniform of Space Patrol. Johnny is in the casino when he sees Chip walking to the private bar, so he follows him there so the two can catch up. When Johnny enters the bar, he jokes that Chip is a murderer wanted on four planets, a joke the Martian bartender takes to heart after Johnny's death. When Chip and Johnny reunite, Johnny is impressed by Chip's discovery of ekalastron, and even more excited later when Chip offers to use his ek-coated ship to pursue Lorelei and her crew. Johnny comes to Donae in pursuit of one of Lorelei's men after receiving a tip about him traveling there on a supply run. After Johnny provides Chip with information about the truth of Lorelei's existence as well as her violent recent history in space, the two strike up the aforementioned plan to join forces and bring Lorelei to justice. No sooner is this plan hatched, than an unknown assailant--presumably Lorelei's crew member Johnny had been pursuing--begins shooting at the two men in the bar. Johnny sustains a blast to the face and immediately dies. Because of the joke Johnny had told earlier about Chip being a murderer, the Martian bartender believes Chip has killed Johnny. Angered and shaken, Chip pursues Johnny's killer with a horde of men close on heels who believe Chip is the actual killer."
] |
62039
|
THE LORELEI DEATH
by NELSON S. BOND
Far out in limitless Space she plied her deadly trade ... a Lorelei of the void, beckoning spacemen to death and destruction with her beautiful siren lure.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Winter 1941. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Chip Warren stood before an oblong of glass set into one wall of the spaceship Chickadee II , stared at what he saw reflected therefrom—and frowned. He didn't like it. Not a bit! It was too—too—
He turned away angrily, ripped the offending article from about his neck, and chose another necktie from the rack. This one was brighter, gaudier, much more in keeping with the gaiety of his mood. He emitted a grunt of satisfaction, spun from the mirror to face his two companions triumphantly.
"There! How do you like that ?"
Syd Palmer, short and chubby, tow-headed and liquid-blue of eye, always languid save when engaged in the solution of some engineering problem concerned with the space vessel he mothered like a brooding hen, moaned insultingly and forced a shudder.
"Sunspots! Novae! Flying comets! And he wears 'em around his neck!"
"You," Chip told him serenely, "have no appreciation of beauty. What do you think of it, Padre?"
"Salvation" Smith, a tall, gangling scarecrow garbed in rusty black, a lean-jawed, hawkeyed man with tumbled locks of silver framing his weathered cheeks like a halo, concealed his grin poorly. "Well, my boy," he admitted, "there is some Biblical precedent for your—ahem!—clamorous raiment. 'So Joseph made for himself a coat which was of many colors—'"
"Both of you," declared Chip, "give me a pain in the pants! Stick-in-the-muds! Here we are in port for the first time in months, cargo-bins loaded to the gunwales with enough ekalastron to make us rich for life—and you sit here like a pair of stuffed owls!
"Well, not me! I'm going to take a night off, throw myself a party the likes of which was never seen around these parts. Put a candle in the window, chilluns, 'cause li'l' Chip won't be home till the wee, sma' hours!"
Syd chuckled.
"O.Q., big shot. But don't get too cozy with any of those joy-joint entertainers. Remember what happened to poor old Dougal MacNeer!"
Salvation said soberly, "Syd's just fooling, my boy. But I would be careful if I were you. We're in the Belt, you know. The forces of law and order do not always govern these wild outposts of civilization as well as might be hoped. The planetoids are dens of iniquity, violent and unheeding the words of Him who rules all—"
The old man's lips etched a straight line, reminding Chip that Salvation Smith was not one of those milk-and-water missionaries who espoused the principle of "turning the other cheek" to evildoers. Salvation was not the ordained emissary of any church. A devoutly religious man with the heart of an adventurer, he had taken upon himself the mission of carrying to outland tribes the story of the God he worshipped.
That his God was the fierce Yahveh of the Old Testament, a God of anger and retribution, was made evident by the methods Salvation sometimes employed in winning his converts. For not only was Salvation acknowledged the most pious man in space; he was also conceded to be the best hand with a gun!
Now Chip gave quiet answer. "I know, Padre: I'll be careful. Well, Syd—sure you won't change your mind and come along?"
"No can do, chum. The spaceport repair crew's still smearing this jalopy with ek. Got to stay and watch 'em."
"O.Q. I'm off alone, then. See you later!"
And, whistling, Chip Warren stepped through the lock of the Chickadee onto the soil of the asteroid Danae.
Danae was, thought Chip as he strolled along briskly toward the town beyond the spaceport, a most presentable hunk of rock. Nice lucentite Dome ... good atmo ... a fine artificial grav system based on Terra normal. It seemed to be a popular little fueling-stop, too, for its cradle-bins were laden with vessels from every planet in the System, and as he gained the main drag he found himself rubbing shoulders with citizens of every known world. Lumbering, albino Venusians, petal-headed Martians, Jovian runts, greenies from far Uranus, Earthman—all were here.
Quite a likely place, he thought happily, to chuck a brawl. A brilliantly gleaming xenon sign before him welcomed visitors to:
XU'UL'S SOLAREST Barroom—Casino—Dancing 100—Lovely Hostesses—100
He entered, and was immediately deluged by a bevy of charm-gals vying for the privilege of: (1) helping him beat the roulette wheel; (2) helping him drink the house dry, and/or (3) separating him as swiftly as possible from the credits in his money belt.
Chip shook them off, gently but firmly. He wanted a good time, true; but he wanted it solo. The main cabaret was too crowded; he passed through it and another equally blatant room wherein twoscore Venusians were straining the structure with a native "sing-stomp," and ended up finally, with a sigh of relief, in a small, dimly-lighted private bar unfrequented by anyone save a bored and listless Martian bartender.
The chrysanthemum-pated son of the desertland roused himself as Chip entered, rustled his petals and piped a ready greeting.
"Welcoom, ssirr! Trrink, pleasse?"
This was more like it! Chip grinned.
"Scotch," he said. " Old Spaceman. And let's have a new bottle, Curly. None of that doctored swill."
"Of courrsse, ssirr!" piped the bar-keep aggrievedly. He pushed a bottle across the mahogany; Chip flipped a golden credit-token back at him.
"Tell me when I've guzzled this, and I'll start work on another." He took a deep, appreciative sniff. "And don't let any of those dizzy dolls in here," he ordered. "I've got a lot of back drinking to catch up on, and I don't want to be disturbed— Hey! "
In his alarm, he almost dropped the bottle. For the door suddenly burst open, and in its frame loomed a figure in Space Patrol blues. A finger pointed in Chip's direction and a bull-o'-Bashan voice roared:
" Stop! Bartender—grab that man! He's a desperate criminal, wanted on four planets for murder!"
Shock momentarily immobilized Chip. Not so the bartender. He was, it seemed, an ardent pacifist. With a bleat of panic fear he scampered from his post, his metallic stilts clattering off in the distance. Chip's accuser moved forward from the shadows; dim light illumined his features. And—
" Johnny! " Chip's voice lifted in a note of jubilant surprise.
"Johnny Haldane—you old scoundrel! Where in the void did you drop from?"
The S.S.P. man chuckled and returned Chip's greeting with a bone-grinding handclasp.
"I might ask the same of you, chum! Lord, it's been ages since we've crossed 'jectory! When I saw you meandering across the Casino, you could have knocked me down with a jetblast! What's new? Is old Syd still with you?"
"We're still shipmates. But he's back at the spaceport. The jerry-crew is plating our crate with ek, and—"
"Ek! Plating a private cruiser!" Haldane stared at him in astonishment, then whistled. "Sweet Sacred Stars, you must be filthy with credits to be able to coat an entire ship with ekalastron!"
"You," boasted Chip, "ain't heard nothing yet!" And he told him how they had discovered an entire mountain of the previous new element, No.
97 in the periodic table, on frigid Titania, satellite of far Uranus.
"It was touch-and-go for a while," he admitted, "whether we'd be the luckiest three guys in space—or the deadest! But we passed through the flaming caverns like old Shadrach in the Bible—remember?—and here we are!"
[1]
Haldane was exuberant. "A mountain of ekalastron!" he gloated.
"That's the greatest contribution to spaceflight since Biggs' velocity-intensifier!" It was no overstatement. "Element No. 97 was a metal so light that a man could carry in one hand enough to coat the entire hull of a battleship—yet so adamant that a gossamer film of it would deflect a meteor! A metal strong enough to crush diamonds to ash—but so resilient that, when properly treated, it would rebound like rubber! What are you going to do with it, Chip? Put it on the open market?"
Warren shook his head.
"Not exactly. We talked it over carefully—Syd and Salvation and I—and we decided there are some space-rats to whom it shouldn't be made available. Privateers and outlaws, you know. So we turned control of the mines over to the Space Patrol at Uranus, and visiphoned the Earth authorities we were bringing in one cargo—"
"Visiphoned!" interrupted Haldane sharply. "Did you say visiphoned?"
"Why—why, yes."
"From where?"
"Oh, just before we reached the Belt. We don't have a very strong transmitter, you know. Sa-a-ay, what's all the excitement, pal? Did we do something that was wrong?"
Haldane frowned worriedly. "I don't know, Chip. It wasn't anything wrong , but what you did was damned dangerous. For if your message was intercepted, you may have played into the very hands of—the Lorelei!"
Chip stared at his friend bewilderedly for a moment. Then he grinned.
"Hey—I must be getting slightly whacky in my old age. I stand here with an unopened bottle in my hands and hear things! For a minute I thought you said 'Lorelei.' The Lorelei, my space-cop friend, is a myth. An old Teutonic myth about a beautiful damsel who sits out in the middle of a sea on a treacherous rock, combing her golden locks, warbling and luring her fascinated admirers to destruction."
He grunted. "A dirty trick, if you ask me. Catch a snort of this alleged Scotch, pal, and I'll torture your eardrums with the whole, sad story." He started to sing. "' Ich weiss nicht was soll es bedeuten —'"
The Patrolman laid a hand on his arm, silenced him.
"It's not funny, Chip. You've described the Lorelei exactly. That's how she got her name. An incredibly beautiful woman who wantonly lures space-mariners to their death.
"The only difference is that her 'rock' is an asteroid somewhere in the Belt—and she does not sing, she calls! She began exercising her vicious appeal about two months ago, Earth reckoning. Since then, no less than a dozen spacecraft—freighters, liners, even one Patrolship—have fallen prey to her wiles. Their crews have been brutally murdered, their cargos stolen."
"Wait a minute!" interrupted Chip shrewdly. "How do you know about her if the crews have been murdered?"
"She has a habit of locking the controls," explained Haldane, "and setting ravaged ships adrift. Apparently there is no room on her hideout—wherever it is—for empty hulks. One of these ships was salvaged by a courageous cabin-boy who hid from the Lorelei and her pirate band beneath a closetful of soiled linens in the laundry. He described her. His description goes perfectly with less accurate glimpses seen over the visiphones of several score spacecraft!"
Chip said soberly, "So it's no joke, eh, pal? Sorry I popped off. I thought you were pulling my leg. Where do I come into this mess, though?"
"Ekalastron!" grunted Johnny succinctly. "A jackpot prize for any corsair! And you advertised a cargo of it over the etherwaves! The Lorelei will be waiting for you with her tongue hanging out. The only thing for you to do, kid, is go back to Jupiter or Io as fast as you can get there. Make the Patrol give you a convoy—"
A sudden light danced in Chip Warren's eyes. It was a light Syd Palmer would have groaned to see—for it usually presaged trouble. It was a bright, hard, reckless light.
"Hold your jets, Johnny!" drawled Chip. "Aren't you forgetting one thing? In a couple more hours, I can face the Lorelei and her whole mob—and be damned to them! She can't touch the Chickadee , because it's being plated right now!"
Haldane snapped his fingers in quick remembrance.
"By thunder, you're right! Her shells will ricochet off the Chickadee's hull like hail off a tin roof. Chip, are you in any hurry to reach Earth? I thought not. What do you say we go after the Lorelei together ! I'll swear you in as a Deputy Patrolman; we'll take the Chickadee and—"
"It's a deal!" declared Chip promptly. "You got any idea where this Lorelei's hangout is?"
"That's why I'm here on Danae. I got a tip that one of the Lorelei's men put in here for supplies. I hoped maybe I could single him out somehow, follow him when he jetted for his base, and in that way— Chip! Look out! "
Haldane shouted and moved at the same time. His arm lashed out wildly, thrusting, smashing Chip to the floor in a sprawling heap. The as-yet unopened bottle was now violently opened; it splintered into a thousand shards against a wall.
Bruised and shaken, Chip lifted his head to see what had caused Johnny's alarm. Even as he did so, the dull gloom of the bar was blazoned with searing effulgence. A lancet of flame leaped from the dark, rearward doorway, burst in Johnny Haldane's face!
The Patrolman cried once, a choking cry that died in a mewling whimper. His unused pistol slipped from slackening fingers, and he sagged to the floor. Again crimson lightning laced the shadows; Haldane's body jerked, and the air was raw with the hot, sickening stench of charred flesh.
With an instinct born of bitter years, Chip had come to his knees behind the shelter of the mahogany bar. But now his own flame-pistol was in his hand, and a dreadful rage was mingled with the agony in his heart. Reckless of results, he sprang to his feet, gun spewing livid death into the shadows.
His blast found a mark. For an instant flame haloed a human face drawn in inhuman pain. A heavy, sultry, bestial face, already puckered with one long, ugly scar that ran from right temple to jawbone, now newly scarred with the red brand of Chip's marksmanship.
Then, before Chip could fire again, came the rasp of pounding footsteps. The man turned and fled. Chip bent over his fallen friend, seeking, with hands that did not even feel the heat, fluttering life beneath still smoldering cloth.
He felt—nothing. Johnny was dead.
A snarl of sheer animal rage burst from Chip's lips. Someone would pay for this; pay dearly! Help was coming now. He himself would lead the hue-and-cry that would track a foul murderer to his lair. He spun as the footsteps drew nearer.
"Hurry!" he cried. "This way! Follow me—"
In a bound, he hurdled the bar, lingered at the door only long enough to let the others mark his course. For they had burst into the room, now, a full score of them. Excited, hard-bitten dogs of space, quick-triggered and willing. Once more he cried for help.
"After him! Come on! He—"
And then—disaster struck! For a reedy voice broke from the van of the mob. The voice of the Martian bartender.
"That's him!" he piped sibilantly. "That's the man! He's a desperate criminal, wanted on four planets for murder! The Patrolman came to arrest him— and now he's murdered the Spacie !"
II
The stunning injustice of that accusation came close to costing Chip Warren his life. For a split second he stood motionless in the doorway, gaping lips forming denial. Words which were never to be uttered, for suddenly a raw-boned miner wrenched a Moeller from its holster, leveled and fired.
The hot tongue of death licked hungrily at the young spaceman's cheek, scorched air crackled in his eardrums. Now was no time to squander in vain argument. Chip ducked, spun, and hurled himself through the doorway. There still remained one hope. That he might catch the real murderer, and in that way clear himself....
But the door led to a small, deserted vestibule, and it to an alleyway behind Xu'ul's Solarest. Viewing that maze of byways and passages, Chip knew his hope was futile. There remained but one thing to do. Get out of here. But quick!
It was no hard task. The labyrinth swallowed him as it had engulfed the scarred killer; in a few minutes even the footsteps of his pursuers could no longer be heard. And Chip worked his cautious way back to the spaceport, and to the bin wherein was cradled the Chickadee .
Syd Palmer looked up in surprise as Chip let himself in the electro-lock. The chubby engineer gasped, "Salvation, look what the cat drug in! His high-flying Nibs! What's the matter, Chip? Night-life too much for you?"
"Never mind that now!" panted Chip. "Is this tin can ready to roll? Warm the hypos. We're lifting gravs—"
Palmer said anxiously, "Now, wait a minute! The men haven't quite finished plating the hull, Chip!"
"Can't help that! We've got important business. In a very few minutes— Ahh! There he goes now!" Chip had gone to the perilens the moment he entered the ship; now he saw in its reflector that which he had expected. The gushing orange spume of a spaceship roaring from its cradle. "Hurry, Syd!"
There were a lot of things Syd Palmer wanted to ask. He wanted to know who went where ; he was bursting with curiosity about the "important business" which had brought his pal back from town in such a rush; his keen eye also had detected a needle-gun burn on Chip's coat-sleeve. But he was too good a companion to waste time now on such trivia.
"O.Q.," he snapped. "It's your pigeon!"
And he disappeared. They heard his voice calling to the workmen, the scuff of equipment being disengaged from the Chickadee's hull, the thin, high whine of warming hypatomics. Salvation looked at Warren quizzically.
"It smells," he ventured gently, "like trouble."
"It is trouble," Chip told him. "Plenty trouble!"
"In that case—" said the old man mildly—"I guess I'd better get the rotor stripped for action." He stepped to the gunnery turret, dropped the fore-irons and stripped their weapon for action. "'Be ye men of peace,'" he intoned, "'but gird firmly thy loins for righteous battle!' Thus saith the Lord God which is Jehovah. Selah!"
Then came Syd's cry from the depths of the hyporoom.
"All set, Chip! Lift gravs!"
Warren's finger found a stud. And with a gusty roar the Chickadee rocketed into space on a pillar of flame.
Two hours later, Chip was still following the bright pinpoint of scarlet which marked the course of his quarry.
In the time that had elapsed since their take-off, he had told his friends the whole story. When he told about the Lorelei, Salvation Smith's seamy old features screwed up in a perplexed grimace. "A woman pirate in the Belt, son? I find it hard to believe. Yet—" And when he described the death of Johnny Haldane, anger smoldered in the missionary's eyes, and Syd Palmer's hands knotted into tight, white fists. Said Syd, "A man with a scar, eh? Well, we'll catch him sooner or later. And when we do—" His tone boded no good to the man who had slain an old and loved friend.
"As a matter of fact," offered Salvation, "we've got him now. Any time you say the word, Chip. We're faster than he is. We can close in on him in five minutes."
"I know," nodded Warren grimly. "But we won't do it—yet. I'm borrowing a bit of Johnny's strategy. I've been plotting his course. As soon as I'm sure of his destination, we'll take care of him . But our first and most vital problem is to locate the Lorelei's hideaway."
Syd said, "That's all right with me, chum. I like a good scrap as much as the next guy. Better, maybe. But this isn't our concern, strictly speaking. What we ought to do is report this matter to the Space Patrol, let them take care of it."
Salvation shook his head.
"That's where you're mistaken, Sydney. This is very much our concern. So much so, in fact, that we dare not make port again until it's cleared up. I think you have forgotten that it is not the scar-faced man who is wanted for the killing of Haldane—but Chip!"
"B-but—" gasped Palmer—"b-but that's ridiculous! Chip and Johnny were old buddies. Lifelong friends!"
"Nevertheless, the circumstantial evidence indicates Chip's guilt. Twenty men saw him standing over Johnny's dead body, with a flame-pistol in his hand. And the barkeep heard Johnny 'arrest' Chip and accuse him of murder!"
Chip said ruefully, "That's right, Syd. It was only a joke, but it backfired. The bartender thought Johnny meant it. He scooted out of there like a bat out of Hades. I'm in it up to my neck unless we can bring back evidence that Scarface actually did the killing. And that may not be so easy."
He stirred restlessly. "But we'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Right now our job is to keep this rat in sight. We've gone farther already than I expected we would." He turned to the old preacher.
"Where do you think we're going, Padre? Out of the Belt entirely?"
"I've been wondering that myself, son. I don't know for sure, of course, but it looks to me as if we're going for the Bog. If so, you'd better keep a weather-eye peeled."
"The Bog!" Chip had never penetrated the planetoids so deeply before, but he knew of the Bog by hearsay. All men did. A treacherous region of tightly packed asteroids, a mad and whirling scramble of the gigantic rocks which, aeons ago, had been a planet. Few spacemen dared penetrate the Bog. Of those who did dare, few returned to tell the tale. "The Bog! Say! I'd better keep a sharp lookout!"
He turned to the perilens once more, fastened an eye to its lens. And then—
"Syd!" he cried. "Salvation! Look! She—she—!"
He pressed the plunger that transferred the perilens image to the central viewscreen. And as he did so, a phantom filled the area which should have revealed yawning space, gay with the spangles of a myriad glowing orbs. The vision of an unbelievably beautiful girl, the golden-crowned embodiment of a man's fondest dreaming, eyes wide with an indistinguishable emotion, arms stretched wide in mute appeal.
And from the throats of all came simultaneous recognition.
" The Lorelei! "
At the same moment came a plea from the enchantress of space through a second medium. For no reason anyone could explain, the ship's telaudio wakened to life; over it came to their ears the actual words of the girl:
" Help! Oh, help! Can anyone hear me? Help —"
Even though he knew this to be only a ruse, a deliberate, dastardly trap set for the unwary, Chip Warren's pulse leaped in hot response to that desperate plea. Even with the warning of Johnny Haldane fresh in his memory, some gallantry deep within him spurred him to the aid of this lovely vision. Here was a woman a man could live for, fight for, die for! A woman like no other in the universe.
Then common sense came to his rescue. He wrenched his gaze from the tempting shadow, cried: "Kill that wavelength! Tune the lens on another beam, Syd!"
Palmer, bedazzled but obedient, spun the dial of the perilens . Despite his vastly improved science Man had never yet succeeded in devising a transparent medium through which to view the void wherein he soared; the perilens was a device which translated impinging light-waves into a picture of that which lay outside the ship's hull. When or where electrical disturbances existed in space, its frequency could be changed for greater clarity. This was what Syd now attempted.
But to no avail! For it mattered not which cycle he tuned to—the image persisted. Still on the viewscreen that pleading figure beckoned piteously. And still the cabin rang to the prayers of that heart-tugging voice:
" Help! Oh, help! Can anyone hear me? Help —"
Gone, now, was any fascination that thrilling vision might previously have held for Chip Warren. Understanding of their plight dawned coldly upon him, and his brow became dark with anger.
" We're blanketed! Flying blind! Salvation, radio a general alarm! Syd, jazz the hypos to max. Shift trajectory to fourteen-oh-three North and loft ... fire No. 3 jet...."
He had hurled himself into the bucket-shaped pilot's seat; now his fingers played the controls like those of a mad organist. The Chickadee groaned from prow to stern, trembled like a tortured thing as he thrust it into a rising spiral.
It was a desperate chance he was taking. Increasing his speed thus, it was certain he would be spotted by the man he had been following; the flaming jets of the Chickadee must form a crimson arch against black space visible for hundreds—thousands!—of miles. Nor was there any way of knowing what lay in the path Chip thus blindly chose. Titanic death might loom on every side. But they had to fight clear of this spot of blindness, clear their instruments....
And then it came! A jarring concussion that smashed against the prow of the Chickadee like a battering ram. Chip flew headlong out of his bucket to spreadeagle on the heaving iron floor. He heard, above the grinding plaint of shattered steel the bellowing prayer of Salvation Smith:
"We've crashed! 'Into Thy hands, O Lord of old—'"
Then Syd's angry cry, "Crashed, hell! He's smashed us with a tractor-blast!"
Chip stared at his companion numbly.
"But—but that's impossible! We're plated with ek! A tractor-cannon couldn't hurt us—"
" Half-plated! " howled Syd savagely. "And those damn fools started working from the stern of the Chickadee ! We're vulnerable up front, and that's where he got us! In a minute this can will be leaking like a sieve. I'll get out bulgers. Hold 'er to her course, Chip!"
He dove for the lockers wherein were hung the space-suits, tore them hastily from their hangers. Chip again spun the perilens vernier. No good! No space ... no stars ... just a beautiful phantom crying them to certain doom. By now he was aware that from a dozen sprung plates air was seeping, but he fought down despair. While there remained hope, a man had to keep on fighting.
He scrambled back into the bucket-seat, experimented with controls that answered sluggishly. Salvation had sprung to the rotor-gun, was now angrily jerking its lanyard, lacing the void with death-dealing bursts that had no mark. The old man's eyes were brands of fire, his white hair clung wetly to his forehead. His rage was terrible to behold.
"'Yes, truly shall I destroy them!'" he cried, "'who loose their stealth upon me like a thief from the night—'"
Then suddenly there came a second and more frightful blow. The straining Chickadee stopped as though pole-axed by a gigantic fist. Stopped and shuddered and screamed in metal agony. This time inertia flung Chip headlong, helpless, into the control racks. Brazen studs took the impact of his body; crushing pain banded about his temples, and a red wetness ran into his eyes, blurring and blinding him, burning.
For an instant there flamed before him a universe of incandescent stars, weaving, shimmering, merging. The vision of a woman whose hair was a golden glory....
After that—nothing!
III
From a billion miles away, from a bourne unguessable thousands of light-years distant, came the faint, far whisper of a voice. Nearer and nearer it came, and ever faster, till it throbbed upon Chip's eardrums with booming savagery.
"—coming to, now. Good! We'll soon find out—"
Chip opened his eyes, too dazed, at first, to understand the situation in which he found himself. Gone was the familiar control-turret of the Chickadee , gone the bulger into which he had so hastily clambered. He lay on the parched, rocky soil of a—a something. A planetoid, perhaps. And he was surrounded by a motley crew of strangers: scum of all the planets that circle the Sun....
Then recollection flooded back upon him, sudden and complete. The chase ... the call of the fateful Lorelei ... the crash! New strength, born of anger, surged through him. He lifted his head.
"My—my companions?" he demanded weakly.
The leader of those who encircled him, a mighty hulk of a man, massive of shoulder and thigh, black-haired, with an unshaven blue jaw, raven-bright eyes and a jutting, aquiline nose like the beak of a hawk, loosed a satisfied grunt.
"Ah! Back to normal, eh, sailor? Damn near time!"
Climbing to his feet sent a swift wave of giddiness through Chip—but he managed it. He fought down the vertigo which threatened to overwhelm him, and confronted the big man boldly.
"What," he stormed, "is the meaning of this?"
The giant stared at him for a moment, his jaw slack. Then his raven-bright eyes glittered; he slapped a trunklike thigh and guffawed in boisterous mirth.
"Hear that?" he roared to his companions. "Quite a guy, ain't he?
'What's the meanin' o' this?' he asks! Game little fightin' cock, hey?" Then he sobered abruptly, and a grim light replaced the amusement in his eyes. Here was not a man to be trifled with, Chip realized. His tone assumed a biting edge. "The meanin' is, my bucko," he answered mirthlessly, "that you've run afoul o' your last reef. Unless you have a sane head on your shoulders, and you're willing to talk fast and straight!"
"Talk?"
"Don't stall. We've already unloaded your bins. We found it. And a nice haul, too. Thanks for lettin' us know it was on the way." The burly one chuckled coarsely. "We'd have took it, anyway, but you helped matters out by comin' to us."
Johnny Haldane had been right, then. Chip remembered his friend's ominous warning. "—if your message was intercepted, you may have played into the hands of—" He said slowly, "Then you are the Lorelei's men?"
"The who? Never mind that, bucko, just talk. That ekalastron—where did it come from?"
And it occurred to Warren suddenly that although the big man did hold the whip hand, he was still not in possession of the most important secret of all! While the location of the ekalastron mine remained a secret, a deadlock existed.
"And if I won't tell—?" he countered shrewdly.
"Why, then, sailor—" The pirate leader's hamlike fists tightened, and a cold light glinted in his eyes—"why, then I guess maybe I'll have to beat it out o' you!"
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What is the plot of the story?
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After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about The Girls From Earth by Frank M. Robinson.
Relevant chunks:
THE GIRLS FROM EARTH
By FRANK M. ROBINSON
Illustrated by EMSH
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction January 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Problem: How can you arrange marriages with men in one solar system, women in another—and neither willing to leave his own world?
I
"The beasts aren't much help, are they?"
Karl Allen snatched a breath of air and gave another heave on the line tied to the raft of parampa logs bobbing in the middle of the river.
"No," he grunted, "they're not. They always balk at a time like this, when they can see it'll be hard work."
Joseph Hill wiped his plump face and coiled some of the rope's slack around his thick waist.
"Together now, Karl. One! Two! "
They stood knee-deep in mud on the bank, pulling and straining on the rope, while some few yards distant, in the shade of a grove of trees, their tiny yllumphs nibbled grass and watched them critically, but made no effort to come closer.
"If we're late for ship's landing, Joe, we'll get crossed off the list."
Hill puffed and wheezed and took another hitch on the rope.
"That's what I've been thinking about," he said, worried.
They took a deep breath and hauled mightily on the raft rope. The raft bobbed nearer. For a moment the swift waters of the Karazoo threatened to tear it out of their grasp, and then it was beached, most of it solidly, on the muddy bank. One end of it still lay in the gurgling, rushing waters, but that didn't matter. They'd be back in ten hours or so, long before the heavy raft could be washed free.
"How much time have we got, Karl?"
The ground was thick with shadows, and Karl cast a critical eye at them. He estimated that even with the refusal of their yllumphs to help beach the raft, they still had a good two hours before the rocket put down at Landing City.
"Two hours, maybe a little more," he stated hastily when Hill looked more worried. "Time enough to get to Landing City and put in for our numbers on the list."
He turned back to the raft, untied the leather and horn saddles, and threw them over the backs of their reluctant mounts. He cinched his saddle and tied on some robes and furs behind it.
Hill watched him curiously. "What are you taking the furs for? This isn't the trading rocket."
"I know. I thought that when we come back tonight, it might be cold and maybe she'll appreciate the coverings then."
"You never would have thought of it yourself," Hill grunted. "Grundy must have told you to do it, the old fool. If you ask me, the less you give them, the less they'll come to expect. Once you spoil them, they'll expect you to do all the trapping and the farming and the family-raising yourself."
"You didn't have to sign up," Karl pointed out. "You could have applied for a wife from some different planet."
"One's probably just as good as another. They'll all have to work the farms and raise families."
Karl laughed and aimed a friendly blow at Hill. They finished saddling up and headed into the thick forest.
It was quiet as Karl guided his mount along the dimly marked trail and he caught himself thinking of the return trip he would be making that night. It would be nice to have somebody new to talk to. And it would be good to have somebody to help with the trapping and tanning, somebody who could tend the small vegetable garden at the rear of his shack and mend his socks and wash his clothes and cook his meals.
And it was time, he thought soberly, that he started to raise a family. He was mid-twenty now, old enough to want a wife and children.
"You going to raise a litter, Joe?"
Hill started. Karl realized that he had probably been thinking of the same thing.
"One of these days I'll need help around the sawmill," Hill answered defensively. "Need some kids to cut the trees, a couple more to pole them down the river, some to run the mill itself and maybe one to sell the lumber in Landing City. Can't do it all myself."
He paused a moment, thinking over something that had just occurred to him.
"I've been thinking of your plans for a garden, Karl. Maybe I ought to have one for my wife to take care of, too."
Karl chuckled. "I don't think she'll have the time!"
They left the leafy expanse of the forest and entered the grasslands that sloped toward Landing City. He could even see Landing City itself on the horizon, a smudge of rusting, corrugated steel shacks, muddy streets, and the small rocket port—a scorched thirty acres or so fenced off with barbed wire.
Karl looked out of the corner of his eye at Hill and felt a vague wave of uneasiness. Hill was a big, thick man wearing the soiled clothes and bristly stubble of a man who was used to living alone and who liked it. But once he took a wife, he would probably have to keep himself in clean clothes and shave every few days. It was even possible that the woman might object to Hill letting his yllumph share the hut.
The path was getting crowded, more of the colonists coming onto the main path from the small side trails.
Hill broke the silence first. "I wonder what they'll be like."
Karl looked wise and nodded knowingly. "They're Earthwomen, Joe. Earth! "
It was easy to act as though he had some inside information, but Karl had to admit to himself that he actually knew very little about it. He was a Second System colonist and had never even seen an Earthwoman. He had heard tales, though, and even discounting a large percentage of them, some of them must have been true. Old Grundy at the rocket office, who should know about these things if anybody did, seemed disturbingly lacking on definite information, though he had hinted broadly enough. He'd whistle softly and wink an eye and repeat the stories that Karl had already heard; but he had nothing definite to offer, no real facts at all.
Some of the other colonists whom they hadn't seen for the last few months shouted greetings, and Karl began to feel some of the carnival spirit. There was Jenkins, who had another trapping line fifty miles farther up the Karazoo; Leonard, who had the biggest farm on Midplanet; and then the fellow who specialized in catching and breaking in yllumphs, whose name Karl couldn't remember.
"They say they're good workers," Hill said.
Karl nodded. "Pretty, too."
They threaded their way through the crowded and muddy streets. Landing City wasn't big, compared to some of the cities on Altair, where he had been raised, but Karl was proud of it. Some day it would be as big as any city on any planet—maybe even have a population of ten thousand people or more.
"Joe," Karl said suddenly, "what's supposed to make women from Earth better than women from any other world?"
Hill located a faint itch and frowned. "I don't know, Karl. It's hard to say. They're—well, sophisticated, glamorous."
Karl absorbed this in silence. Those particular qualities were, he thought, rather hard to define.
The battered shack that served as rocket port office and headquarters for the colonial office on Midplanet loomed up in front of them. There was a crowd gathered in front of the building and they forced their way through to see what had caused it.
"We saw this the last time we were here," Hill said.
"I know," Karl agreed, "but I want to take another look." He was anxious to glean all the information that he could.
It was a poster of a beautiful woman leaning toward the viewer. The edges of the poster were curling and the colors had faded during the last six months, but the girl's smile seemed just as inviting as ever. She held a long-stemmed goblet in one hand and was blowing a kiss to her audience with the other. Her green eyes sparkled, her smile was provocative. A quoted sentence read: "I'm from Earth !" There was nothing more except a printed list of the different solar systems to which the colonial office was sending the women.
She was real pretty, Karl thought. A little on the thin side, maybe, and the dress she was wearing would hardly be practical on Midplanet, but she had a certain something. Glamour, maybe?
A loudspeaker blared.
"All colonists waiting for the wife draft assemble for your numbers! All colonists...."
There was a jostling for places and then they were in the rapidly moving line. Grundy, fat and important-looking, was handing out little blue slips with numbers on them, pausing every now and then to tell them some entertaining bit of information about the women. He had a great imagination, nothing else.
Karl drew the number 53 and hurried to the grassy lot beside the landing field that had been decorated with bunting and huge welcome signs for the new arrivals. A table was loaded with government pamphlets meant to be helpful to newly married colonists. Karl went over and stuffed a few in his pockets. Other tables had been set out and were loaded with luncheon food, fixed by the few colonial women in the community. Karl caught himself eyeing the women closely, wondering how the girls from Earth would compare with them.
He fingered the ticket in his pocket. What would the woman be like who had drawn the companion number 53 aboard the rocket? For when it landed, they would pair up by numbers. The method had its drawbacks, of course, but time was much too short to allow even a few days of getting acquainted. He'd have to get back to his trapping lines and he imagined that Hill would have to get back to his sawmill and the others to their farms. What the hell, you never knew what you were getting either way, till it was too late.
"Sandwich, mister? Pop?"
Karl flipped the boy a coin, picked up some food and a drink, and wandered over to the landing field with Hill. There were still ten minutes or so to go before the rocket landed, but he caught himself straining his sight at the blue sky, trying to see a telltale flicker of exhaust flame.
The field was crowded and he caught some of the buzzing conversation.
"... never knew one myself, but let me tell you...."
"... knew a fellow once who married one, never had a moment's rest afterward...."
"... no comparison with colonial women. They got culture...."
"... I'd give a lot to know the girl who's got number twenty-five...."
"Let's meet back here with the girls who have picked our numbers," Hill said. "Maybe we could trade."
Karl nodded, though privately he felt that the number system was just as good as depending on first impressions.
There was a murmur from the crowd and he found his gaze riveted overhead. High above, in the misty blue sky, was a sudden twinkle of fire.
He reached up and wiped his sweaty face with a muddy hand and brushed aside a straggly lock of tangled hair. It wouldn't hurt to try to look his best.
The twinkling fire came nearer.
II
"A Mr. Macdonald to see you, Mr. Escher."
Claude Escher flipped the intercom switch.
"Please send him right in."
That was entirely superfluous, he thought, because MacDonald would come in whether Escher wanted him to or not.
The door opened and shut with a slightly harder bang than usual and Escher mentally braced himself. He had a good hunch what the problem was going to be and why it was being thrown in their laps.
MacDonald made himself comfortable and sat there for a few minutes, just looking grim and not saying anything. Escher knew the psychology by heart. A short preliminary silence is always more effective in browbeating subordinates than an initial furious bluster.
He lit a cigarette and tried to outwait MacDonald. It wasn't easy—MacDonald had great staying powers, which was probably why he was the head of the department.
Escher gave in first. "Okay, Mac, what's the trouble? What do we have tossed in our laps now?"
"You know the one—colonization problem. You know that when we first started to colonize, quite a large percentage of the male population took to the stars, as the saying goes. The adventuresome, the gamblers, the frontier type all decided they wanted to head for other worlds, to get away from it all. The male of the species is far more adventuresome than the female; the men left—but the women didn't. At least, not in nearly the same large numbers.
"Well, you see the problem. The ratio of women to men here on Earth is now something like five to three. If you don't know what that means, ask any man with a daughter. Or any psychiatrist. Husband-hunting isn't just a pleasant pastime on Earth. It's an earnest cutthroat business and I'm not just using a literary phrase."
He threw a paper on Escher's desk. "You'll find most of the statistics about it in that, Claude. Notice the increase in crimes peculiar to women. Shoplifting, badger games, poisonings, that kind of thing. It's quite a list. You'll also notice the huge increase in petty crimes, a lot of which wouldn't have bothered the courts before. In fact, they wouldn't even have been considered crimes. You know why they are now?"
Escher shook his head blankly.
"Most of the girls in the past who didn't catch a husband," MacDonald continued, "grew up to be the type of old maid who's dedicated to improving the morals and what-not of the rest of the population. We've got more puritanical societies now than we ever had, and we have more silly little laws on the books as a result. You can be thrown in the pokey for things like violating a woman's privacy—whatever that means—and she's the one who decides whether what you say or do is a violation or not."
Escher looked bored. "Not to mention the new prohibition which forbids the use of alcohol in everything from cough medicines to hair tonics. Or the cleaned up moral code that reeks—if you'll pardon the expression—of purity. Sure, I know what you mean. And you know the solution. All we have to do is get the women to colonize."
MacDonald ran his fingers nervously through his hair.
"But it won't be easy, and that's why it's been given to us. It's your baby, Claude. Give it a lot of thought. Nothing's impossible, you know."
"Perpetual motion machines are," Escher said quietly. "And pulling yourself up by your boot-straps. But I get the point. Nevertheless, women just don't want to colonize. And who can blame them? Why should they give up living in a luxury civilization, with as many modern conveniences as this one, to go homesteading on some wild, unexplored planet where they have to work their fingers to the bone and play footsie with wild animals and savages who would just as soon skin them alive as not?"
"What do you advise I do, then?" MacDonald demanded. "Go back to the Board and tell them the problem is not solvable, that we can't think of anything?"
Escher looked hurt. "Did I say that? I just said it wouldn't be easy."
"The Board is giving you a blank check. Do anything you think will pay off. We have to stay within the letter of the law, of course, but not necessarily the spirit."
"When do they have to have a solution?"
"As soon as possible. At least within the year. By that time the situation will be very serious. The psychologists say that what will happen then won't be good."
"All right, by then we'll have the answer."
MacDonald stopped at the door. "There's another reason why they want it worked out. The number of men applying to the Colonization Board for emigration to the colony planets is falling off."
"How come?"
MacDonald smiled. "On the basis of statistics alone, would you want to emigrate from a planet where the women outnumber the men five to three?"
When MacDonald had gone, Escher settled back in his chair and idly tapped his fingers on the desk-top. It was lucky that the Colonization Board worked on two levels. One was the well-publicized, idealistic level where nothing was too good and every deal was 99 and 44/100 per cent pure. But when things got too difficult for it to handle on that level, they went to Escher and MacDonald's department. The coal mine level. Nothing was too low, so long as it worked. Of course, if it didn't work, you took the lumps, too.
He rummaged around in his drawer and found a list of the qualifications set up by the Board for potential colonists. He read the list slowly and frowned. You had to be physically fit for the rigors of space travel, naturally, but some of the qualifications were obviously silly. You couldn't guarantee physical perfection in the second generation, anyway.
He tore the qualification list in shreds and dropped it in the disposal chute. That would have to be the first to go.
There were other things that could be done immediately. For one thing, as it stood now, you were supposed to be financially able to colonize. Obviously a stupid and unappealing law. That would have to go next.
He picked up the sheet of statistics that MacDonald had left and read it carefully. The Board could legalize polygamy, but that was no solution in the long run. Probably cause more problems than it would solve. Even with women as easy to handle as they were nowadays, one was still enough.
Which still left him with the main problem of how to get people to colonize who didn't want to colonize.
The first point was to convince them that they wanted to. The second point was that it might not matter whether they wanted to or not.
No, it shouldn't be hard to solve at all—provided you held your nose, silenced your conscience, and were willing to forget that there was such a thing as a moral code.
III
Phyllis Hanson put the cover over her typewriter and locked the correspondence drawer. Another day was done, another evening about to begin.
She filed into the washroom with the other girls and carefully redid her face. It was getting hard to disguise the worry lines, to paint away the faint crow's-feet around her eyes.
She wasn't, she admitted to herself for the thousandth time, what you would call beautiful. She inspected herself carefully in her compact mirror. In a sudden flash of honesty, she had to admit that she wasn't even what you would call pretty. Her face was too broad, her nose a fraction too long, and her hair was dull. Not homely, exactly—but not pretty, either.
Conversation hummed around her, most of it from the little group in the corner, where the extreme few who were married sat as practically a race apart. Their advice was sought, their suggestions avidly followed.
"Going out tonight, Phyl?"
She hesitated a moment, then slowly painted on the rest of her mouth. The question was technically a privacy violator, but she thought she would sidestep it this time, instead of refusing to answer point-blank.
"I thought I'd stay home tonight. Have a few things I want to rinse out."
The black-haired girl next to her nodded sympathetically. "Sure, Phyl, I know what you mean. Just like the rest of us—waiting for the phone to ring."
Phyllis finished washing up and then left the office, carefully noting the girl who was waiting for the boss. The girl was beautiful in a hard sort of way, a platinum blonde with an entertainer's busty figure. Waiting for a plump, middle-aged man like a stagestruck kid outside a theatre.
At home, in her small two-room bachelor-girl apartment, she stripped and took a hot, sudsing shower, then stepped out and toweled herself in front of a mirror. She frowned slightly. You didn't know whether you should keep yourself in trim just on some off-chance, or give up and let yourself go.
She fixed dinner, took a moderately long time doing the dishes, and went through the standard routine of getting a book and curling up on the sofa. It was a good book of the boot-legged variety—scientifically written with enough surplus heroes and heroines and lushly described love affairs to hold anybody's interest.
It held hers for ten pages and then she threw the book across the room, getting a savage delight at the way the pages ripped and fluttered to the floor.
What was the use of kidding herself any longer, of trying to live vicariously and hoping that some day she would have a home and a husband? She was thirty now; the phone hadn't rung in the last three years. She might as well spend this evening as she had spent so many others—call up the girls for a bridge game and a little gossip, though heaven knew you always ended up envying the people you were gossiping about.
Perhaps she should have joined one of the organizations at the office that did something like that seven nights out of every seven. A bridge game or a benefit for some school or a talk on art. Or she could have joined the Lecture of the Week club, or the YWCA, or any one of the other government-sponsored clubs designed to fill the void in a woman's life.
But bridge games and benefits and lectures didn't take the place of a husband and family. She was kidding herself again.
She got up and retrieved the battered book, then went over to the mail slot. She hadn't had time to open her mail that morning; most of the time it wasn't worth the effort. Advertisements for book clubs, lecture clubs, how to win at bridge and canasta....
Her fingers sprang the metal tabs on a large envelope and she took out the contents and spread it wide.
She gasped. It was a large poster, about a yard square. A man was on it, straddling a tiny city and a small panorama of farms and forests at his feet. He was a handsome specimen, with wavy blond hair and blue eyes and a curly mat on his bare chest that was just enough to be attractive without being apelike. He held an axe in his hands and was eyeing her with a clearly inviting look of brazen self-confidence.
It was definitely a privacy violator and she should notify the authorities immediately!
Bright lettering at the top of the poster shrieked: "Come to the Colonies, the Planets of Romance!"
Whoever had mailed it should be arrested and imprisoned! Preying on....
The smaller print at the bottom was mostly full of facts and figures. The need for women out on the colony planets, the percentage of men to women—a startling disproportion—the comfortable cities that weren't nearly as primitive as people had imagined, and the recently reduced qualifications.
She caught herself admiring the man on the poster. Naturally, it was an artist's conception, but even so....
And the cities were far in advance of the frontier settlements, where you had to battle disease and dirty savages.
It was all a dream. She had never done anything like this and she wouldn't think of doing it now. And had any of her friends seen the poster? Of course, they probably wouldn't tell her even if they had.
But the poster was a violation of privacy. Whoever had sent it had taken advantage of information that was none of their business. It was up to her to notify the authorities!
She took another look at the poster.
The letter she finally finished writing was very short. She addressed it to the box number in the upper left-hand corner of the plain wrapper that the poster had come in.
IV
The dress lay on the counter, a small corner of it trailing off the edge. It was a beautiful thing, sheer sheen satin trimmed in gold nylon thread. It was the kind of gown that would make anybody who wore it look beautiful. The price was high, much too high for her to pay. She knew she would never be able to buy it.
But she didn't intend to buy it.
She looked casually around and noted that nobody was watching her. There was another woman a few counters down and a man, obviously embarrassed, at the lingerie counter. Nobody else was in sight. It was a perfect time. The clerk had left to look up a difficult item that she had purposely asked for and probably wouldn't be back for five minutes.
Time enough, at any rate.
The dress was lying loose, so she didn't have to pry it off any hangers. She took another quick look around, then hurriedly bundled it up and dropped it in her shopping bag.
She had taken two self-assured steps away from the counter when she felt a hand on her shoulder. The grip was firm and muscular and she knew she had lost the game. She also knew that she had to play it out to the end, to grasp any straw.
"Let go of me!" she ordered in a frostily offended voice.
"Sorry, miss," the man said politely, "but I think we have a short trip to take."
She thought for a moment of brazening it out further and then gave up. She'd get a few weeks or months in the local detention building, a probing into her background for the psychological reasons that prompted her to steal, and then she'd be out again.
They couldn't do anything to her that mattered.
She shrugged and followed the detective calmly. None of the shoppers had looked up. None seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary.
In the detention building she thanked her good luck that she was facing a man for the sentence, instead of one of the puritanical old biddies who served on the bench. She even found a certain satisfaction in the presence of the cigar smoke and the blunt, earthy language that floated in from the corridor.
"Why did you steal it?" the judge asked. He held up the dress, which, she noted furiously, didn't look nearly as nice as it had under the department store lights.
"I don't have anything to say," she said. "I want to see a lawyer."
She could imagine what he was thinking. Another tough one, another plain jane who was shoplifting for a thrill.
And she probably was. You had to do something nowadays. You couldn't just sit home and chew your fingernails, or run out and listen to the endless boring lectures on art and culture.
"Name?" he asked in a tired voice.
She knew the statistics he wanted. "Ruby Johnson, 32, 145 pounds, brown hair and green eyes. Prints on file."
The judge leaned down and mentioned something to the bailiff, who left and presently came back with a ledger. The judge opened it and ran his fingers down one of the pages.
The sentence would probably be the usual, she thought—six months and a fine, or perhaps a little more when they found out she had a record for shoplifting.
A stranger in the courtroom in the official linens of the government suddenly stepped up beside the judge and looked at the page. She could hear a little of what he said:
"... anxiety neurosis ... obvious feeling of not being wanted ... probably steals to attract attention ... recommend emigration."
"In view of some complicating factors, we're going to give you a choice," the judge finally said. "You can either go to the penitentiary for ten years and pay a $10,000 fine, or you can ship out to the colony planets and receive a five-hundred-dollar immigration bonus."
She thought for a minute that she hadn't heard right. Ten thousand dollars and ten years! It was obvious that the state was interested in neither the fine nor in paying her room and board for ten years. She could recognize a squeeze play when she saw it, but there was nothing she could do about it.
"I wouldn't call that a choice," she said sourly. "I'll ship out."
V
Suzanne was proud of the apartment. It had all the modern conveniences, like the needle shower with the perfume dispenser, the built-in soft-drink bar in the library, the all-communications set, and the electrical massager. It was a nice, comfortable setup, an illusion of security in an ever-changing world.
She lit a cigarette and chuckled. Mrs. Burger, the fat old landlady, thought she kept up the apartment by working as a buyer for one of the downtown stores.
Well, maybe some day she would.
But not today. And not tonight.
The phone rang and she answered in a casual tone. She talked for a minute, then let a trace of sultriness creep into her voice. The conversation wasn't long.
She let the receiver fall back on the base and went into the bedroom to get a hat box. She wouldn't need much; she'd probably be back that same night.
It was a nice night and since the address was only a few blocks away, she decided to walk it. She blithely ignored the curious stares from other pedestrians, attracted by the sharp, clicking sound of her heels on the sidewalk.
The address was a brownstone that looked more like an office building than anything else, but then you could never tell. She pressed the buzzer and waited a moment for the sound to echo back and forth on the inside. She pressed it again and a moment later a suave young man appeared in the doorway.
"Miss Carstens?"
She smiled pertly.
"We've been expecting you."
She wondered a little at the "we," but dutifully smiled and followed him in.
The glare of the lights inside the office blinded her for a moment. When she could focus them again, her smile became slightly blurry at the edges and then disappeared entirely. She wasn't alone. There was a battery of chairs against one side of the room. She recognized most of the girls sitting in them.
She forced a smile to her lips and tried to laugh.
"I'm sure there's been some mistake! Why, I never...."
The young man coughed politely. "I'm afraid there's been no mistake. Full name, please."
"Suzanne Carstens," she said grimly, and gave the other statistics he wanted. She idly wondered what stoolie had peddled the phone numbers.
"Suzanne Carstens," the young man noted, and slowly shook his head.
"A very pretty name, but no doubt not your own. It actually doesn't matter, though. Take a seat over there."
She did as he asked and he faced the entire group.
"I and the other gentlemen here represent the Colonization Board. We've interceded with the local authorities in order to offer you a choice. We would like to ship you out to the colony planets. Naturally, we will pay you the standard emigration bonus of five hundred dollars. The colonists need wives; they offer you—security."
He stressed the word slightly.
"Now, of course, if you don't prefer the colony planets, you can stay behind and face the penalties of ten years in jail and a fine of ten thousand dollars."
Suzanne felt that her lower jaw needed support. Ten thousand dollars and ten years! And in either case she'd lose the apartment she had worked so hard for, her symbol of security.
"Well, what do you say?" There was a dead silence. The young man from the Colonization Board turned to Suzanne. "How about you, Miss Carstens?"
She smiled sickly and nodded her head. "I love to travel!" she said.
It didn't sound at all witty even to herself.
Question:
What is the plot of the story?
Answer:
|
[
"The story starts with Karl Allen, a Second System colonist, and Joe dragging their raft from the water, hoping that they will make it in time to put their names on the list. Later we learned that the list is used to pair up the females that are coming to their colony – planet – as husbands and wives. After Karl and Joe Hill finish, they still have about two hours left before the rocket lands at Landing City. On their way towards the Landing City, Karl caught himself wondering about the trip back with a girl whom he will be paired with. Apparently, they have never seen an Earthwoman, but tales seems to cherish them as hardworking and beautiful. The speaker announces that it’s time to draw their numbers. Karl draws 53. Later, Joe and Karl agrees to meet later to see if they want to trade the girls that has their numbers. \n\nMacDonald and Claude Escher meet to discuss matters regarding the ratios between male and female at the colonies. Currently, there are not as many females on the colonized planets. From the beginning of the colonization, there were more adventuresome males than females, they headed for the new world but most of the females stayed behind. Thus, there are five females for every three males on Earth, while the colonies have more males. Thus those girls needs to be brought from their original planet, in this case the Earth, to colonies for those males there. Another problem, states MacDonald, is the number of men applying for emigration to colonized planets have been dropping. MacDonald considers this reasonable since it seems illogical for a male to move away from a place that has more females than males. Escher then disregards the qualification for colonization and decides to focus on making the people that don’t want to colonize to colonize, whether it is through convincing or forcing. \n\nPhyllis Hanson is a thirty years old woman who desires a husband. The government’s supplement offering cannot replace a husband and family. Then in her mail today, she gets a poster that tells her to come to the colonies. Though she admires the man on the poster, she thought the poster is a violation of privacy. Then we see Ruby Johnson stealing a beautiful gown from the store and then getting caught. Ruby thinks that she will simply face a small fine along with a few weeks or months in detention and that’s it. She seems to have shoplifted many times that she even knows the information that the officers want. However, to her surprised, she will be charged with a 10,000 dollar fine along with ten years in prison, or she can choose to go to a colony planet and get a five-hundred-dollar bonus. She was shocked, but chooses the latter. Similarly, Suzanne is given a similar choice between shipping out to the colony or going to jail. She also chooses the colony planet. ",
"Karl Allen and Joseph Hill are doing hard work on a boat and complaining about the lack of help they are receiving. After finishing her work, Karl begins to walk along a trail and thinks about the wife draft. They continue along the trail towards Landing City where they have to walk through varying crowds and navigate the muddy streets of the city. Karl and Joseph eventually see a crowd of people in front of the rocket port office and go to inspect what is causing the commotion. The familiar poster shows a beautiful woman from Earth being advertised on the poster. They hear an announcement and follow its instructions to assemble in a line with their numbers for the wife draft. \n\nThe story switches to MacDonald and Claude Escher. MacDonald enters Escher’s office and tells Escher that the departure of men from Earth to the different colonized planets has caused the ratio of women to be much higher than men, causing various issues on Earth. Escher thinks of a plan and decides that the strict qualifications for travels and need to be financially stable need to be removed. He considers using immoral methods as a solution to convince women to colonize other planets. \n\nThe story focuses on Phyliss Hanson. Phyllis finishes her job and heads to her home. She acknowledges to herself that she is not attractive while she looks at her reflection. She grows frustrated as she is 30 and longs to have a husband but she has no prospects. She receives a letter in the mail that presents an opportunity for her to solve her problem. She mails a reply to the return address in hopes of being matched with a husband. \n\nThe story then takes a look at Ruby Johnson. She sees an absolutely gorgeous gown in a store and enacts a plan to steal it. She is immediately caught by security when she steals it. She goes through the motions of the court which she has previous experience with doing. She expects a light sentence. The judge then informs her that she has 2 choices for her sentence: emigrate to a colony planet or go to jail for 10 years with a hefty fine attached. This is an example of the immoral method Escher is enacting. While shocked, she recognizes she is being played and agrees to go to a colony planet. \n\nSuzanne is the next woman-focused upon in the story. While admiring her apartment, she gets a call. Prompted by the call, she finishes getting dressed and leaves. She walks into a brownstone after being greeted by a young man. She is surprised and unhappy to see a group of women she recognizes sitting in a room. She sits down as instructed and the man addresses the room. The man presents a similar choice as the judge did to Ruby Johnson. When asked by the man, Suzanne tries to wittingly reply that she loves to travel, indicating she chooses to emigrate. \n",
"Karl Allen and Joseph Hill are working with parampa logs by heaving them up the river. They discuss how much time is left before they go to Landing City and register for a number on the list. They start talking about the possibilities with their future wives, including raising a family and taking care of a garden. None of them have ever met an Earthwoman, but there are many stories about the pretty women. Once in Landing City, they go to the rocket port office and headquarters for the colonial office on Midplanet. Karl draws the number 53 and gets a few pamphlets with helpful information. He gets a sandwich and Pop from a boy before wandering back to the main field to wait for the rocket as it arrives. The story cuts to a conversation between Claude Escher and Mr. MacDonald. They discuss the growing ratio between women and men. Women are now turning to more petty crime because they believe it will help them catch a husband on Earth. They discuss more problems, especially how women do not want to colonize and men do not want to emigrate to the colonies. Once MacDonald leaves, Escher goes through the rules set up by the Board and tries to think of a better solution. The story then cuts to Phyllis Hansen, who goes to the washroom to clean up after a day at work. She then heads home and is worried about not finding a husband. There are alternatives to spending her evenings, such as bridge, gossiping, or a similar organization to fill the void. As she goes through the mail, Phyllis receives a poster advertising for women to go to the colonies to find a husband. She is offended and believes it is a violation of privacy. However, later, she writes a letter to the address on the poster. After, the story cuts to Ruby Johnson stealing a dress from a shop. She believes that the coast is clear but is caught by a detective. The male judge at the detention center asks why she stole it, but she refuses to tell him. Ruby gives out her statistics to the judge; he tells her that she can either go to the penitentiary for ten years and pay a ten thousand dollar fine or go to one of the colonies for a five-hundred-dollar immigration bonus. Ruby agrees to be shipped out. The final woman is Suzanne Carstens, who rents her apartment by tricking her old landlady into believing she works as a buyer in one of the downtown stores. She receives a call and goes to the address promptly. Once she steps inside, she realizes that most of the women sitting in the chairs in the building are ones that she recognizes. Suzanne tries to explain herself, but even her name is fake. However, she is offered to be shipped out to the colonies for security or to face jail time. With no choice, she accepts the offer. \n",
"This story takes place in multiple facets of the same storyline. In the first part of the story, we meet Karl Allen and Joseph Hill, who are on one of the planets that have been colonised by Earth. They are waiting for the arrival of a shipment of women from Earth, who will become their future brides. There are more men in the colonies than there are women, and so the government has sent these shipments of women from Earth to marry these men. \nIn the second part of the story, Mr. Macdonald and Mr. Escher of the colonisation board try to come up with a plan on how to convince women to leave Earth, to go and live on these worlds that are just beginning to become civilised, and marry men they've never met. They eventually come up with the idea that the method they use to entrap these women into their plan does not have to be technically all that moral, and they may be able to cross a legal grey area. \nIn the third part of the story, Phyllis Hanson, a woman of Earth, returns home from work. She is in her thirties, and probably destined to be alone and unmarried for the rest of her life at this stage. That is until she receives a poster from an unknown source, with a picture of a strapping man, telling her to \"come to the colonies, the planets of romance\". She sends a letter to the address at the bottom of the poster. \nRuby Johnson is caught stealing a dress from a department store. At her criminal hearing, a judge sentences her to either ten years in prison, with a ten thousand dollar fine to work off, or a chance to go to the colonies, and get a five hundred dollar bonus. \nSuzanne Carstens leaves her gorgeous apartment one night to meet a blind date (or a John) it seems. She goes to an address that looks like an office building, where a young man greets her. She is taken into a room where she is held, along with many other women. They are all given the same ultimatum as Ruby Johnson. \nTHE END."
] |
51268
|
THE GIRLS FROM EARTH
By FRANK M. ROBINSON
Illustrated by EMSH
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction January 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Problem: How can you arrange marriages with men in one solar system, women in another—and neither willing to leave his own world?
I
"The beasts aren't much help, are they?"
Karl Allen snatched a breath of air and gave another heave on the line tied to the raft of parampa logs bobbing in the middle of the river.
"No," he grunted, "they're not. They always balk at a time like this, when they can see it'll be hard work."
Joseph Hill wiped his plump face and coiled some of the rope's slack around his thick waist.
"Together now, Karl. One! Two! "
They stood knee-deep in mud on the bank, pulling and straining on the rope, while some few yards distant, in the shade of a grove of trees, their tiny yllumphs nibbled grass and watched them critically, but made no effort to come closer.
"If we're late for ship's landing, Joe, we'll get crossed off the list."
Hill puffed and wheezed and took another hitch on the rope.
"That's what I've been thinking about," he said, worried.
They took a deep breath and hauled mightily on the raft rope. The raft bobbed nearer. For a moment the swift waters of the Karazoo threatened to tear it out of their grasp, and then it was beached, most of it solidly, on the muddy bank. One end of it still lay in the gurgling, rushing waters, but that didn't matter. They'd be back in ten hours or so, long before the heavy raft could be washed free.
"How much time have we got, Karl?"
The ground was thick with shadows, and Karl cast a critical eye at them. He estimated that even with the refusal of their yllumphs to help beach the raft, they still had a good two hours before the rocket put down at Landing City.
"Two hours, maybe a little more," he stated hastily when Hill looked more worried. "Time enough to get to Landing City and put in for our numbers on the list."
He turned back to the raft, untied the leather and horn saddles, and threw them over the backs of their reluctant mounts. He cinched his saddle and tied on some robes and furs behind it.
Hill watched him curiously. "What are you taking the furs for? This isn't the trading rocket."
"I know. I thought that when we come back tonight, it might be cold and maybe she'll appreciate the coverings then."
"You never would have thought of it yourself," Hill grunted. "Grundy must have told you to do it, the old fool. If you ask me, the less you give them, the less they'll come to expect. Once you spoil them, they'll expect you to do all the trapping and the farming and the family-raising yourself."
"You didn't have to sign up," Karl pointed out. "You could have applied for a wife from some different planet."
"One's probably just as good as another. They'll all have to work the farms and raise families."
Karl laughed and aimed a friendly blow at Hill. They finished saddling up and headed into the thick forest.
It was quiet as Karl guided his mount along the dimly marked trail and he caught himself thinking of the return trip he would be making that night. It would be nice to have somebody new to talk to. And it would be good to have somebody to help with the trapping and tanning, somebody who could tend the small vegetable garden at the rear of his shack and mend his socks and wash his clothes and cook his meals.
And it was time, he thought soberly, that he started to raise a family. He was mid-twenty now, old enough to want a wife and children.
"You going to raise a litter, Joe?"
Hill started. Karl realized that he had probably been thinking of the same thing.
"One of these days I'll need help around the sawmill," Hill answered defensively. "Need some kids to cut the trees, a couple more to pole them down the river, some to run the mill itself and maybe one to sell the lumber in Landing City. Can't do it all myself."
He paused a moment, thinking over something that had just occurred to him.
"I've been thinking of your plans for a garden, Karl. Maybe I ought to have one for my wife to take care of, too."
Karl chuckled. "I don't think she'll have the time!"
They left the leafy expanse of the forest and entered the grasslands that sloped toward Landing City. He could even see Landing City itself on the horizon, a smudge of rusting, corrugated steel shacks, muddy streets, and the small rocket port—a scorched thirty acres or so fenced off with barbed wire.
Karl looked out of the corner of his eye at Hill and felt a vague wave of uneasiness. Hill was a big, thick man wearing the soiled clothes and bristly stubble of a man who was used to living alone and who liked it. But once he took a wife, he would probably have to keep himself in clean clothes and shave every few days. It was even possible that the woman might object to Hill letting his yllumph share the hut.
The path was getting crowded, more of the colonists coming onto the main path from the small side trails.
Hill broke the silence first. "I wonder what they'll be like."
Karl looked wise and nodded knowingly. "They're Earthwomen, Joe. Earth! "
It was easy to act as though he had some inside information, but Karl had to admit to himself that he actually knew very little about it. He was a Second System colonist and had never even seen an Earthwoman. He had heard tales, though, and even discounting a large percentage of them, some of them must have been true. Old Grundy at the rocket office, who should know about these things if anybody did, seemed disturbingly lacking on definite information, though he had hinted broadly enough. He'd whistle softly and wink an eye and repeat the stories that Karl had already heard; but he had nothing definite to offer, no real facts at all.
Some of the other colonists whom they hadn't seen for the last few months shouted greetings, and Karl began to feel some of the carnival spirit. There was Jenkins, who had another trapping line fifty miles farther up the Karazoo; Leonard, who had the biggest farm on Midplanet; and then the fellow who specialized in catching and breaking in yllumphs, whose name Karl couldn't remember.
"They say they're good workers," Hill said.
Karl nodded. "Pretty, too."
They threaded their way through the crowded and muddy streets. Landing City wasn't big, compared to some of the cities on Altair, where he had been raised, but Karl was proud of it. Some day it would be as big as any city on any planet—maybe even have a population of ten thousand people or more.
"Joe," Karl said suddenly, "what's supposed to make women from Earth better than women from any other world?"
Hill located a faint itch and frowned. "I don't know, Karl. It's hard to say. They're—well, sophisticated, glamorous."
Karl absorbed this in silence. Those particular qualities were, he thought, rather hard to define.
The battered shack that served as rocket port office and headquarters for the colonial office on Midplanet loomed up in front of them. There was a crowd gathered in front of the building and they forced their way through to see what had caused it.
"We saw this the last time we were here," Hill said.
"I know," Karl agreed, "but I want to take another look." He was anxious to glean all the information that he could.
It was a poster of a beautiful woman leaning toward the viewer. The edges of the poster were curling and the colors had faded during the last six months, but the girl's smile seemed just as inviting as ever. She held a long-stemmed goblet in one hand and was blowing a kiss to her audience with the other. Her green eyes sparkled, her smile was provocative. A quoted sentence read: "I'm from Earth !" There was nothing more except a printed list of the different solar systems to which the colonial office was sending the women.
She was real pretty, Karl thought. A little on the thin side, maybe, and the dress she was wearing would hardly be practical on Midplanet, but she had a certain something. Glamour, maybe?
A loudspeaker blared.
"All colonists waiting for the wife draft assemble for your numbers! All colonists...."
There was a jostling for places and then they were in the rapidly moving line. Grundy, fat and important-looking, was handing out little blue slips with numbers on them, pausing every now and then to tell them some entertaining bit of information about the women. He had a great imagination, nothing else.
Karl drew the number 53 and hurried to the grassy lot beside the landing field that had been decorated with bunting and huge welcome signs for the new arrivals. A table was loaded with government pamphlets meant to be helpful to newly married colonists. Karl went over and stuffed a few in his pockets. Other tables had been set out and were loaded with luncheon food, fixed by the few colonial women in the community. Karl caught himself eyeing the women closely, wondering how the girls from Earth would compare with them.
He fingered the ticket in his pocket. What would the woman be like who had drawn the companion number 53 aboard the rocket? For when it landed, they would pair up by numbers. The method had its drawbacks, of course, but time was much too short to allow even a few days of getting acquainted. He'd have to get back to his trapping lines and he imagined that Hill would have to get back to his sawmill and the others to their farms. What the hell, you never knew what you were getting either way, till it was too late.
"Sandwich, mister? Pop?"
Karl flipped the boy a coin, picked up some food and a drink, and wandered over to the landing field with Hill. There were still ten minutes or so to go before the rocket landed, but he caught himself straining his sight at the blue sky, trying to see a telltale flicker of exhaust flame.
The field was crowded and he caught some of the buzzing conversation.
"... never knew one myself, but let me tell you...."
"... knew a fellow once who married one, never had a moment's rest afterward...."
"... no comparison with colonial women. They got culture...."
"... I'd give a lot to know the girl who's got number twenty-five...."
"Let's meet back here with the girls who have picked our numbers," Hill said. "Maybe we could trade."
Karl nodded, though privately he felt that the number system was just as good as depending on first impressions.
There was a murmur from the crowd and he found his gaze riveted overhead. High above, in the misty blue sky, was a sudden twinkle of fire.
He reached up and wiped his sweaty face with a muddy hand and brushed aside a straggly lock of tangled hair. It wouldn't hurt to try to look his best.
The twinkling fire came nearer.
II
"A Mr. Macdonald to see you, Mr. Escher."
Claude Escher flipped the intercom switch.
"Please send him right in."
That was entirely superfluous, he thought, because MacDonald would come in whether Escher wanted him to or not.
The door opened and shut with a slightly harder bang than usual and Escher mentally braced himself. He had a good hunch what the problem was going to be and why it was being thrown in their laps.
MacDonald made himself comfortable and sat there for a few minutes, just looking grim and not saying anything. Escher knew the psychology by heart. A short preliminary silence is always more effective in browbeating subordinates than an initial furious bluster.
He lit a cigarette and tried to outwait MacDonald. It wasn't easy—MacDonald had great staying powers, which was probably why he was the head of the department.
Escher gave in first. "Okay, Mac, what's the trouble? What do we have tossed in our laps now?"
"You know the one—colonization problem. You know that when we first started to colonize, quite a large percentage of the male population took to the stars, as the saying goes. The adventuresome, the gamblers, the frontier type all decided they wanted to head for other worlds, to get away from it all. The male of the species is far more adventuresome than the female; the men left—but the women didn't. At least, not in nearly the same large numbers.
"Well, you see the problem. The ratio of women to men here on Earth is now something like five to three. If you don't know what that means, ask any man with a daughter. Or any psychiatrist. Husband-hunting isn't just a pleasant pastime on Earth. It's an earnest cutthroat business and I'm not just using a literary phrase."
He threw a paper on Escher's desk. "You'll find most of the statistics about it in that, Claude. Notice the increase in crimes peculiar to women. Shoplifting, badger games, poisonings, that kind of thing. It's quite a list. You'll also notice the huge increase in petty crimes, a lot of which wouldn't have bothered the courts before. In fact, they wouldn't even have been considered crimes. You know why they are now?"
Escher shook his head blankly.
"Most of the girls in the past who didn't catch a husband," MacDonald continued, "grew up to be the type of old maid who's dedicated to improving the morals and what-not of the rest of the population. We've got more puritanical societies now than we ever had, and we have more silly little laws on the books as a result. You can be thrown in the pokey for things like violating a woman's privacy—whatever that means—and she's the one who decides whether what you say or do is a violation or not."
Escher looked bored. "Not to mention the new prohibition which forbids the use of alcohol in everything from cough medicines to hair tonics. Or the cleaned up moral code that reeks—if you'll pardon the expression—of purity. Sure, I know what you mean. And you know the solution. All we have to do is get the women to colonize."
MacDonald ran his fingers nervously through his hair.
"But it won't be easy, and that's why it's been given to us. It's your baby, Claude. Give it a lot of thought. Nothing's impossible, you know."
"Perpetual motion machines are," Escher said quietly. "And pulling yourself up by your boot-straps. But I get the point. Nevertheless, women just don't want to colonize. And who can blame them? Why should they give up living in a luxury civilization, with as many modern conveniences as this one, to go homesteading on some wild, unexplored planet where they have to work their fingers to the bone and play footsie with wild animals and savages who would just as soon skin them alive as not?"
"What do you advise I do, then?" MacDonald demanded. "Go back to the Board and tell them the problem is not solvable, that we can't think of anything?"
Escher looked hurt. "Did I say that? I just said it wouldn't be easy."
"The Board is giving you a blank check. Do anything you think will pay off. We have to stay within the letter of the law, of course, but not necessarily the spirit."
"When do they have to have a solution?"
"As soon as possible. At least within the year. By that time the situation will be very serious. The psychologists say that what will happen then won't be good."
"All right, by then we'll have the answer."
MacDonald stopped at the door. "There's another reason why they want it worked out. The number of men applying to the Colonization Board for emigration to the colony planets is falling off."
"How come?"
MacDonald smiled. "On the basis of statistics alone, would you want to emigrate from a planet where the women outnumber the men five to three?"
When MacDonald had gone, Escher settled back in his chair and idly tapped his fingers on the desk-top. It was lucky that the Colonization Board worked on two levels. One was the well-publicized, idealistic level where nothing was too good and every deal was 99 and 44/100 per cent pure. But when things got too difficult for it to handle on that level, they went to Escher and MacDonald's department. The coal mine level. Nothing was too low, so long as it worked. Of course, if it didn't work, you took the lumps, too.
He rummaged around in his drawer and found a list of the qualifications set up by the Board for potential colonists. He read the list slowly and frowned. You had to be physically fit for the rigors of space travel, naturally, but some of the qualifications were obviously silly. You couldn't guarantee physical perfection in the second generation, anyway.
He tore the qualification list in shreds and dropped it in the disposal chute. That would have to be the first to go.
There were other things that could be done immediately. For one thing, as it stood now, you were supposed to be financially able to colonize. Obviously a stupid and unappealing law. That would have to go next.
He picked up the sheet of statistics that MacDonald had left and read it carefully. The Board could legalize polygamy, but that was no solution in the long run. Probably cause more problems than it would solve. Even with women as easy to handle as they were nowadays, one was still enough.
Which still left him with the main problem of how to get people to colonize who didn't want to colonize.
The first point was to convince them that they wanted to. The second point was that it might not matter whether they wanted to or not.
No, it shouldn't be hard to solve at all—provided you held your nose, silenced your conscience, and were willing to forget that there was such a thing as a moral code.
III
Phyllis Hanson put the cover over her typewriter and locked the correspondence drawer. Another day was done, another evening about to begin.
She filed into the washroom with the other girls and carefully redid her face. It was getting hard to disguise the worry lines, to paint away the faint crow's-feet around her eyes.
She wasn't, she admitted to herself for the thousandth time, what you would call beautiful. She inspected herself carefully in her compact mirror. In a sudden flash of honesty, she had to admit that she wasn't even what you would call pretty. Her face was too broad, her nose a fraction too long, and her hair was dull. Not homely, exactly—but not pretty, either.
Conversation hummed around her, most of it from the little group in the corner, where the extreme few who were married sat as practically a race apart. Their advice was sought, their suggestions avidly followed.
"Going out tonight, Phyl?"
She hesitated a moment, then slowly painted on the rest of her mouth. The question was technically a privacy violator, but she thought she would sidestep it this time, instead of refusing to answer point-blank.
"I thought I'd stay home tonight. Have a few things I want to rinse out."
The black-haired girl next to her nodded sympathetically. "Sure, Phyl, I know what you mean. Just like the rest of us—waiting for the phone to ring."
Phyllis finished washing up and then left the office, carefully noting the girl who was waiting for the boss. The girl was beautiful in a hard sort of way, a platinum blonde with an entertainer's busty figure. Waiting for a plump, middle-aged man like a stagestruck kid outside a theatre.
At home, in her small two-room bachelor-girl apartment, she stripped and took a hot, sudsing shower, then stepped out and toweled herself in front of a mirror. She frowned slightly. You didn't know whether you should keep yourself in trim just on some off-chance, or give up and let yourself go.
She fixed dinner, took a moderately long time doing the dishes, and went through the standard routine of getting a book and curling up on the sofa. It was a good book of the boot-legged variety—scientifically written with enough surplus heroes and heroines and lushly described love affairs to hold anybody's interest.
It held hers for ten pages and then she threw the book across the room, getting a savage delight at the way the pages ripped and fluttered to the floor.
What was the use of kidding herself any longer, of trying to live vicariously and hoping that some day she would have a home and a husband? She was thirty now; the phone hadn't rung in the last three years. She might as well spend this evening as she had spent so many others—call up the girls for a bridge game and a little gossip, though heaven knew you always ended up envying the people you were gossiping about.
Perhaps she should have joined one of the organizations at the office that did something like that seven nights out of every seven. A bridge game or a benefit for some school or a talk on art. Or she could have joined the Lecture of the Week club, or the YWCA, or any one of the other government-sponsored clubs designed to fill the void in a woman's life.
But bridge games and benefits and lectures didn't take the place of a husband and family. She was kidding herself again.
She got up and retrieved the battered book, then went over to the mail slot. She hadn't had time to open her mail that morning; most of the time it wasn't worth the effort. Advertisements for book clubs, lecture clubs, how to win at bridge and canasta....
Her fingers sprang the metal tabs on a large envelope and she took out the contents and spread it wide.
She gasped. It was a large poster, about a yard square. A man was on it, straddling a tiny city and a small panorama of farms and forests at his feet. He was a handsome specimen, with wavy blond hair and blue eyes and a curly mat on his bare chest that was just enough to be attractive without being apelike. He held an axe in his hands and was eyeing her with a clearly inviting look of brazen self-confidence.
It was definitely a privacy violator and she should notify the authorities immediately!
Bright lettering at the top of the poster shrieked: "Come to the Colonies, the Planets of Romance!"
Whoever had mailed it should be arrested and imprisoned! Preying on....
The smaller print at the bottom was mostly full of facts and figures. The need for women out on the colony planets, the percentage of men to women—a startling disproportion—the comfortable cities that weren't nearly as primitive as people had imagined, and the recently reduced qualifications.
She caught herself admiring the man on the poster. Naturally, it was an artist's conception, but even so....
And the cities were far in advance of the frontier settlements, where you had to battle disease and dirty savages.
It was all a dream. She had never done anything like this and she wouldn't think of doing it now. And had any of her friends seen the poster? Of course, they probably wouldn't tell her even if they had.
But the poster was a violation of privacy. Whoever had sent it had taken advantage of information that was none of their business. It was up to her to notify the authorities!
She took another look at the poster.
The letter she finally finished writing was very short. She addressed it to the box number in the upper left-hand corner of the plain wrapper that the poster had come in.
IV
The dress lay on the counter, a small corner of it trailing off the edge. It was a beautiful thing, sheer sheen satin trimmed in gold nylon thread. It was the kind of gown that would make anybody who wore it look beautiful. The price was high, much too high for her to pay. She knew she would never be able to buy it.
But she didn't intend to buy it.
She looked casually around and noted that nobody was watching her. There was another woman a few counters down and a man, obviously embarrassed, at the lingerie counter. Nobody else was in sight. It was a perfect time. The clerk had left to look up a difficult item that she had purposely asked for and probably wouldn't be back for five minutes.
Time enough, at any rate.
The dress was lying loose, so she didn't have to pry it off any hangers. She took another quick look around, then hurriedly bundled it up and dropped it in her shopping bag.
She had taken two self-assured steps away from the counter when she felt a hand on her shoulder. The grip was firm and muscular and she knew she had lost the game. She also knew that she had to play it out to the end, to grasp any straw.
"Let go of me!" she ordered in a frostily offended voice.
"Sorry, miss," the man said politely, "but I think we have a short trip to take."
She thought for a moment of brazening it out further and then gave up. She'd get a few weeks or months in the local detention building, a probing into her background for the psychological reasons that prompted her to steal, and then she'd be out again.
They couldn't do anything to her that mattered.
She shrugged and followed the detective calmly. None of the shoppers had looked up. None seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary.
In the detention building she thanked her good luck that she was facing a man for the sentence, instead of one of the puritanical old biddies who served on the bench. She even found a certain satisfaction in the presence of the cigar smoke and the blunt, earthy language that floated in from the corridor.
"Why did you steal it?" the judge asked. He held up the dress, which, she noted furiously, didn't look nearly as nice as it had under the department store lights.
"I don't have anything to say," she said. "I want to see a lawyer."
She could imagine what he was thinking. Another tough one, another plain jane who was shoplifting for a thrill.
And she probably was. You had to do something nowadays. You couldn't just sit home and chew your fingernails, or run out and listen to the endless boring lectures on art and culture.
"Name?" he asked in a tired voice.
She knew the statistics he wanted. "Ruby Johnson, 32, 145 pounds, brown hair and green eyes. Prints on file."
The judge leaned down and mentioned something to the bailiff, who left and presently came back with a ledger. The judge opened it and ran his fingers down one of the pages.
The sentence would probably be the usual, she thought—six months and a fine, or perhaps a little more when they found out she had a record for shoplifting.
A stranger in the courtroom in the official linens of the government suddenly stepped up beside the judge and looked at the page. She could hear a little of what he said:
"... anxiety neurosis ... obvious feeling of not being wanted ... probably steals to attract attention ... recommend emigration."
"In view of some complicating factors, we're going to give you a choice," the judge finally said. "You can either go to the penitentiary for ten years and pay a $10,000 fine, or you can ship out to the colony planets and receive a five-hundred-dollar immigration bonus."
She thought for a minute that she hadn't heard right. Ten thousand dollars and ten years! It was obvious that the state was interested in neither the fine nor in paying her room and board for ten years. She could recognize a squeeze play when she saw it, but there was nothing she could do about it.
"I wouldn't call that a choice," she said sourly. "I'll ship out."
V
Suzanne was proud of the apartment. It had all the modern conveniences, like the needle shower with the perfume dispenser, the built-in soft-drink bar in the library, the all-communications set, and the electrical massager. It was a nice, comfortable setup, an illusion of security in an ever-changing world.
She lit a cigarette and chuckled. Mrs. Burger, the fat old landlady, thought she kept up the apartment by working as a buyer for one of the downtown stores.
Well, maybe some day she would.
But not today. And not tonight.
The phone rang and she answered in a casual tone. She talked for a minute, then let a trace of sultriness creep into her voice. The conversation wasn't long.
She let the receiver fall back on the base and went into the bedroom to get a hat box. She wouldn't need much; she'd probably be back that same night.
It was a nice night and since the address was only a few blocks away, she decided to walk it. She blithely ignored the curious stares from other pedestrians, attracted by the sharp, clicking sound of her heels on the sidewalk.
The address was a brownstone that looked more like an office building than anything else, but then you could never tell. She pressed the buzzer and waited a moment for the sound to echo back and forth on the inside. She pressed it again and a moment later a suave young man appeared in the doorway.
"Miss Carstens?"
She smiled pertly.
"We've been expecting you."
She wondered a little at the "we," but dutifully smiled and followed him in.
The glare of the lights inside the office blinded her for a moment. When she could focus them again, her smile became slightly blurry at the edges and then disappeared entirely. She wasn't alone. There was a battery of chairs against one side of the room. She recognized most of the girls sitting in them.
She forced a smile to her lips and tried to laugh.
"I'm sure there's been some mistake! Why, I never...."
The young man coughed politely. "I'm afraid there's been no mistake. Full name, please."
"Suzanne Carstens," she said grimly, and gave the other statistics he wanted. She idly wondered what stoolie had peddled the phone numbers.
"Suzanne Carstens," the young man noted, and slowly shook his head.
"A very pretty name, but no doubt not your own. It actually doesn't matter, though. Take a seat over there."
She did as he asked and he faced the entire group.
"I and the other gentlemen here represent the Colonization Board. We've interceded with the local authorities in order to offer you a choice. We would like to ship you out to the colony planets. Naturally, we will pay you the standard emigration bonus of five hundred dollars. The colonists need wives; they offer you—security."
He stressed the word slightly.
"Now, of course, if you don't prefer the colony planets, you can stay behind and face the penalties of ten years in jail and a fine of ten thousand dollars."
Suzanne felt that her lower jaw needed support. Ten thousand dollars and ten years! And in either case she'd lose the apartment she had worked so hard for, her symbol of security.
"Well, what do you say?" There was a dead silence. The young man from the Colonization Board turned to Suzanne. "How about you, Miss Carstens?"
She smiled sickly and nodded her head. "I love to travel!" she said.
It didn't sound at all witty even to herself.
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Describe the relationship between Captain Midas and Mister Spinelli.
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After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about Captain Midas by Alfred Coppel.
Relevant chunks:
CAPTAIN MIDAS
By ALFRED COPPEL, JR.
The captain of the Martian Maid stared avidly at the torn derelict floating against the velvet void. Here was treasure beyond his wildest dreams! How could he know his dreams should have been nightmares?
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Gold! A magic word, even today, isn't it? Lust and gold ... they go hand in hand. Like the horsemen of the Apocalypse. And, of course, there's another word needed to make up the trilogy. You don't get any thing for nothing. So add this: Cost. Or you might call it pain, sorrow, agony. Call it what you like. It's what you pay for great treasure....
These things were true when fabled Jason sailed the Argo beyond Colchis seeking the Fleece. They were true when men sailed the southern oceans in wooden ships. And the conquest of space hasn't changed us a bit. We're still a greedy lot....
I'm a queer one to be saying these things, but then, who has more right? Look at me. My hair is gray and my face ... my face is a mask. The flesh hangs on my bones like a yellow cloth on a rickety frame. I am old, old. And I wait here on my hospital cot—wait for the weight of years I never lived to drag me under and let me forget the awful things my eyes have seen.
I'm poor, too, or else I wouldn't be here in this place of dying for old spacemen. I haven't a dime except for the pittance the Holcomb Foundation calls a spaceman's pension. Yet I had millions in my hands. Treasure beyond your wildest dreams! Cursed treasure....
You smile. You are thinking that I'm just an old man, beached earthside, spinning tall tales to impress the youngsters. Maybe, thinking about the kind of spacemen my generation produced, you have the idea that if ever we'd so much as laid a hand on anything of value out in space we'd not let go until Hell froze over! Well, you're right about that. We didn't seek the spaceways for the advancement of civilization or any of that Foundation bushwah, you can be certain of that. We did it for us ... for Number One. That's the kind of men we were, and we were proud of it. We hung onto what we found because the risks were high and we were entitled to keep what we could out there. But there are strange things in the sky. Things that don't respond to all of our neat little Laws and Theories. There are things that are no part of the world of men, thick with danger—and horror.
If you doubt that—and I can see you do—just look at me. I suppose you've never heard of the Martian Maid, and so you don't know the story of what happened to her crew or her skipper. I can give you this much of an answer. I was her skipper. And her crew? They ride high in the sky ... dust by this time. And all because they were men, and men are greedy and hasty and full of an unreasoning, unthinking love for gold. They ride a golden ship that they paid for with all the years of their lives. It's all theirs now. Bought and paid for.
It wasn't too long ago that I lifted the Maid off Solis Lacus on that last flight. Not many of you will remember her class of ship, so many advances have been made in the last few years. The Maid was two hundred feet from tip to tail, and as sleek a spacer as ever came out of the Foundation Yards. Chemical fueled, she was nothing at all like the spherical hyperdrives we see today. She was armed, too. The Foundation still thought of space as a possible stamping ground for alien creatures though no evidence of any extra-terrestrial life had ever been found ... then.
My crew was a rough bunch, like all those early crews. I remember them so well. Lean, hungry men with hell in their eyes and a great lust for high pay and hard living. Spinelli, Shelley, Cohn, Marvin, Zaleski. There wasn't a man on board who wouldn't have traded his immortal soul for a few solar dollars, and I don't claim that I was any different. That's the kind of men that opened up the spaceways, too. Don't believe all this talk about the noble pioneering spirit of man. That's tripe. There never has been such a thing as a noble pioneer. Not in space or anywhere else. It is the malcontent and the adventuring mercenary that pushes the frontier outward.
I didn't know, that night as I stood in the valve of the Maid, watching the loading cranes pull away, that I was starting out on my last flight. I don't think any of the others could have guessed, either. It was the sort of night that you only see on Mars. The sort of night that makes a spaceman wonder why in hell he wants to leave the relative security of the Earth-Mars-Venus Triangle to go jetting across the belt into deep space and the drab desolation of the outer System.
I stood there, watching the lights of Canalopolis in the distance. For just a moment I was ... well, touched. It looked beautiful and unreal under the racing moons. The lights of the gin mills and houses made a sparkling filigree pattern on the dark waters of the ancient canal, and the moons cast their shifting shadows across the silted banks. I was too far away to see the space-fevered bums and smell the shanties, and for a little while I felt the wonder of standing on the soil of a world that man had made his own with his rapacity and his sheer guts and gimme.
I thought of our half empty cargo hold and the sweet payload we would pick up on Callisto. And I counted the extra cash my packets of snow would bring from those lonely men up there on the barren moonlets of the outer Systems. There were plenty of cargoes carried on the Maid that the Holcomb Foundation snoopers never heard about, you can be sure of that.
In those days the asteroid belt was the primary danger and menace to astrogation. For a long while it held men back from deep space, but as fuels improved a few ships were sent out over the top. A few million miles up out of the ecliptic plane brings you to a region of space that's pretty thinly strewn with asteroids, and that's the way we used to make the flight between the outer systems and the EMV Triangle. It took a long while for hyperdrives to be developed and of course atomics never panned out because of the weight problem.
So that's the orbit the Maid took on that last trip of mine. High and clear into the supra-solar void. And out there in that primeval blackness is where we found the derelict.
I didn't realize it was a derelict when Spinelli first reported it from the forward scope position. I assumed it was a Foundation ship. The Holcomb Foundation was founded for the purpose of developing spaceflight, and as the years went by it took on the whole responsibility for the building and dispatching of space ships. Never in history had there been any real evidence of extra-terrestrial intelligent life, and when the EMV Triangle proved barren, we all just assumed that the Universe was man's own particular oyster. That kind of unreasoning arrogance is as hard to explain as it is to correct.
There were plenty of ships being lost in space, and immediately that Spinelli's report from up forward got noised about the Maid every one of us started mentally counting up his share of the salvage money. All this before we were within ten thousand miles of the hulk!
All spaceships look pretty much alike, but as I sat at the telescope I saw that there was something different about this one. At such a distance I couldn't get too much detail in our small three inch glass, but I could see that the hulk was big—bigger than any ship I'd ever seen before. I had the radar fixed on her and then I retired with my slide rule to Control. It wasn't long before I discovered that the derelict ship was on a near collision course, but there was something about its orbit that was strange. I called Cohn, the Metering Officer, and showed him my figures.
"Mister Cohn," I said, chart in hand, "do these figures look right to you?"
Cohn's dark eyes lit up as they always did when he worked with figures. It didn't take him long to check me. "The math is quite correct, Captain," he said. I could see that he hadn't missed the inference of those figures on the chart.
"Assemble the ship's company, Mister Cohn," I ordered.
The assembly horn sounded throughout the Maid and I could feel the tug of the automatics taking over as the crew left their stations. Soon they were assembled in Control.
"You have all heard about Mister Spinelli's find," I said, "I have computed the orbit and inspected the object through the glass. It seems to be a spacer ... either abandoned or in distress...." Reaching into the book rack above my desk I took down a copy of the Foundation's Space Regulations and opened it to the section concerning salvage.
"Sections XVIII, Paragraph 8 of the Code Regulating Interplanetary Astrogation and Commerce," I read, "Any vessel or part of vessel found in an abandoned or totally disabled condition in any region of space not subject to the sovereignty of any planet of the Earth-Venus-Mars Triangle shall be considered to be the property of the crew of the vessel locating said abandoned or disabled vessel except in such cases as the ownership of said abandoned or disabled vessel may be readily ascertained...." I looked up and closed the book. "Simply stated, that means that if that thing ahead of us is a derelict we are entitled to claim it as salvage."
"Unless it already belongs to someone?" asked Spinelli.
"That's correct Mister Spinelli, but I don't think there is much danger of that," I replied quietly. "My figures show that hulk out there came in from the direction of Coma Berenices...."
There was a long silence before Zaleski shifted his two hundred pounds uneasily and gave a form to the muted fear inside me. "You think ... you think it came from the stars , Captain?"
"Maybe even from beyond the stars," Cohn said in a low voice.
Looking at that circle of faces I saw the beginnings of greed. The first impact of the Metering Officer's words wore off quickly and soon every man of my crew was thinking that anything from the stars would be worth money ... lots of money.
Spinelli said, "Do we look her over, Captain?"
They all looked at me, waiting for my answer. I knew it would be worth plenty, and money hunger was like a fever inside me.
"Certainly we look it over, Mister Spinelli," I said sharply.
"Certainly!"
The first thing about the derelict that struck us as we drew near was her size. No ship ever built in the Foundation Yards had ever attained such gargantuan proportions. She must have stretched a full thousand feet from bow to stern, a sleek torpedo shape of somehow unspeakable alienness. Against the backdrop of the Milky Way, she gleamed fitfully in the light of the faraway sun, the metal of her flanks grained with something like tiny, glittering whorls. It was as though the stuff were somehow unstable ... seeking balance ... maybe even alive in some strange and alien way.
It was readily apparent to all of us that she had never been built for inter-planetary flight. She was a starship. Origin unknown. An aura of mystery surrounded her like a shroud, protecting the world that gave her birth mutely but effectively. The distance she must have come was unthinkable. And the time it had taken...? Aeons. Millennia. For she was drifting, dead in space, slowly spinning end over end as she swung about Sol in a hyperbolic orbit that would soon take her out and away again into the inter-stellar deeps.
Something had wounded her ... perhaps ten million years ago ... perhaps yesterday. She was gashed deeply from stem to stern with a jagged rip that bared her mangled innards. A wandering asteroid? A meteor? We would never know. It gave me an uncomfortable feeling of things beyond the ken of men as I looked at her through the port. I would never know what killed her, or where she was going, or whence she came. Yet she was mine. It made me feel like an upstart. And it made me afraid ... but of what?
We should have reported her to the nearest EMV base, but that would have meant that we'd lose her. Scientists would be sent out. Men better equipped than we to investigate the first extrasolar artifact found by men. But I didn't report her. She was ours. She was money in the bank. Let the scientists take over after we'd put a prize crew aboard and brought her into Callisto for salvage.... That's the way I had things figured.
The Maid hove to about a hundred yards from her and hung there, dwarfed by the mighty glistening ship. I called for volunteers and we prepared a boarding party. I was thinking that her drives alone would be worth millions. Cohn took charge and he and three of the men suited up and crossed to her.
In an hour they were back, disappointment largely written on their faces.
"There's nothing left of her, Captain," Cohn reported, "Whatever hit her tore up the innards so badly we couldn't even find the drives. She's a mess inside. Nothing left but the hull and a few storage compartments that are still unbroken."
She was never built to carry humanoids he told us, and there was nothing that could give us a hint of where she had come from. The hull alone was left.
He dropped two chunks of metal on my desk. "I brought back some samples of her pressure hull," he said, "The whole thing is made of this stuff...."
"We'll still take her in," I said, hiding my disappointment. "The carcass will be worth money in Callisto. Have Mister Marvin and Zaleski assemble a spare pulse-jet. We'll jury-rig her and bring her down under her own power. You take charge of provisioning her. Check those compartments you found and install oxy-generators aboard. When it's done report to me in my quarters."
I picked up the two samples of gleaming metal and called for a metallurgical testing kit. "I'm going to try and find out if this stuff is worth anything...."
The metal was heavy—too heavy, it seemed to me, for spaceship construction. But then, who was to say what conditions existed on that distant world where this metal was made?
Under the bright fluorescent over my work-table, the chunks of metal torn from a random bulkhead of the starship gleamed like pale silver; those strange little whorls that I had noticed on the outer hull were there too, like tiny magnetic lines of force, making the surface of the metal seem to dance. I held the stuff in my bare hand. It had a yellowish tinge, and it was heavier ....
Even as I watched, the metal grew yellower, and the hand that held it grew bone weary, little tongues of fatigue licking up my forearm. Suddenly terrified, I dropped the chunk as though it were white hot. It struck the table with a dull thud and lay there, a rich yellow lump of metallic lustre.
For a long while I just sat and stared. Then I began testing, trying all the while to quiet the trembling of my hands. I weighed it on a balance. I tested it with acids. It had changed unquestionably. It was no longer the same as when I had carried it into my quarters. The whorls of force were gone. It was no longer alive with a questing vibrancy ... it was inert, stable. From somewhere, somehow, it had drawn the energy necessary for transmutation. The unknown metal—the stuff of which that whole mammoth spaceship from the stars was built—was now....
Gold!
I scarcely dared believe it, but there it was staring at me from my table-top. Gold!
I searched my mind for an explanation. Contra-terrene matter, perhaps, from some distant island universe where matter reacted differently ... drawing energy from somewhere, the energy it needed to find stability in its new environment. Stability as a terrene element—wonderfully, miraculously gold!
And outside, in the void beyond the Maid's ports there were tons of this metal that could be turned into treasure. My laughter must have been a wild sound in those moments of discovery....
A slight sound behind me made me spin around in my chair. Framed in the doorway was the heavy figure of my Third Officer, Spinelli. His black eyes were fastened hungrily on the lump of yellow metal on the table. He needed no explanation to tell him what it was, and it seemed to me that his very soul reached out for the stuff, so sharp and clear was the meaning of the expression on his heavy face.
"Mister Spinelli!" I snapped, "In the future knock before entering my quarters!"
Reluctantly his eyes left the lump of gold and met mine. "From the derelict, Captain?" There was an imperceptible pause between the last two words.
I ignored his question and made a mental note to keep a close hand on the rein with him. Spinelli was big and dangerous.
"Speak your piece, Mister," I ordered sharply.
"Mister Cohn reports the derelict ready to take aboard the prize crew ... sir," he said slowly. "I'd like to volunteer for that detail."
I might have let him go under ordinary circumstances, for he was a first class spaceman and the handling of a jury-rigged hulk would need good men. But the gold-hunger I had seen in his eyes warned me to beware. I shook my head. "You will stay on board the Maid with me, Spinelli. Cohn and Zaleski will handle the starship."
Stark suspicion leaped into his eyes. I could see the wheels turning slowly in his mind. Somehow, he was thinking, I was planning to cheat him of his rightful share of the derelict treasure ship.
"We will say nothing to the rest of the crew about the gold, Mister Spinelli," I said deliberately, "Or you'll go to Callisto in irons. Is that clear?"
"Aye, sir," murmured Spinelli. The black expression had left his face and there was a faintly scornful smile playing about his mouth as he turned away. I began wondering then what he had in mind. It wasn't like him to let it go at that.
Suddenly I became conscious of being very tired. My mind wasn't functioning quite clearly. And my arm and hand ached painfully. I rubbed the fingers to get some life back into them, still wondering about Spinelli.
Spinelli talked. I saw him murmuring something to big Zaleski, and after that there was tension in the air. Distrust.
For a few moments I pondered the advisability of making good my threat to clap Spinelli into irons, but I decided against it. In the first place I couldn't prove he had told Zaleski about the gold and in the second place I needed Spinelli to help run the Maid.
I felt that the Third Officer and Zaleski were planning something, and I was just as sure that Spinelli was watching Zaleski to see to it that there was no double-cross.
I figured that I could handle the Third Officer alone so I assigned the rest, Marvin and Chelly, to accompany Cohn and Zaleski onto the hulk. That way Zaleski would be outnumbered if he tried to skip with the treasure ship. But, of course, I couldn't risk telling them that they were to be handling a vessel practically made of gold.
I was in agony. I didn't want to let anyone get out of my sight with that starship, and at the same time I couldn't leave the Maid. Finally I had to let Cohn take command of the prize crew, but not before I had set the radar finder on the Maid's prow squarely on the derelict.
Together, Spinelli and I watched the Maid's crew vanish into the maw of the alien ship and get her under way. There was a flicker of bluish fire from her jury-rigged tubes astern, and then she was vanishing in a great arc toward the bright gleam of Jupiter, far below us. The Maid followed under a steady one G of acceleration with most of her controls on automatic.
Boats of the Martian Maid's class, you may remember, carried a six inch supersonic projector abaft the astrogation turret. These were nasty weapons for use against organic life only. They would reduce a man to jelly at fifty thousand yards. Let it be said to my credit that it wasn't I who thought of hooking the gun into the radar finder and keeping it aimed dead at the derelict. That was Spinelli's insurance against Zaleski.
When I discovered it I felt the rage mount in me. He was willing to blast every one of his shipmates into pulp should the hulk vary from the orbit we'd laid out for her. He wasn't letting anything come between him and that mountain of gold.
Then I began thinking about it. Suppose now, just suppose, that Zaleski told the rest of the crew about the gold. It wouldn't be too hard for the derelict to break away from the Maid, and there were plenty of places in the EMV Triangle where a renegade crew with a thousand tons of gold would be welcomed with open arms and no questions asked. Suspicion began to eat at me. Could Zaleski and Cohn have dreamed up a little switch to keep the treasure ship for themselves? It hadn't seemed likely before, but now—
The gun-pointer remained as it was.
As the days passed and we reached turn-over with the hulk still well within visual range, I noticed a definite decrease in the number of messages from Cohn. The Aldis Lamps no longer blinked back at the Maid eight or ten times a day, and I began to really regret not having taken the time to equip the starship with UHF radio communicators.
Each night I slept with a hunk of yellow gold under my bunk, and ridiculously I fondled the stuff and dreamed of all the things I would have when the starship was cut up and sold.
My weariness grew. It became almost chronic, and I soon wondered if I hadn't picked up a touch of space-radiation fever. The flesh of my hands seemed paler than it had been. My arms felt heavy. I determined to report myself to the Foundation medics on Callisto. There's no telling what can happen to a man in space....
Two days past turn-over the messages from the derelict came through garbled. Spinelli cursed and said that he couldn't read their signal. Taking the Aldis from him I tried to raise them and failed. Two hours later I was still failing and Spinelli's black eyes glittered with an animal suspicion.
"They're faking!"
"Like hell they are!" I snapped irritably, "Something's gone wrong...."
"Zaleski's gone wrong, that's what!"
I turned to face him, fury snapping inside of me. "Then you did disobey my orders. You told him about the gold!"
"Sure I did," he sneered. "Did you expect me to shut up and let you land the ship yourself and claim Captain's share? I found her, and she's mine!"
I fought to control my temper and said: "Let's see what's going on in her before deciding who gets what, Mister Spinelli."
Spinelli bit his thick lips and did not reply. His eyes were fixed on the image of the starship on the viewplate.
A light blinked erratically within the dark cut of its wounded side.
"Get this down, Spinelli!"
The habit of taking orders was still in him, and he muttered: "Aye ... sir."
The light was winking out a message, but feebly, as though the hand that held the lamp were shaking and the mind conceiving the words were failing.
"CONTROL ... LOST ... CAN'T ... NO ... STRENGTH ... LEFT ... SHIP ... WALLS ... ALL ... ALL GOLD ... GOLD ... SOMETHING ... HAPPENING ... CAN'T ... UNDERSTAND ... WHA...." The light stopped flashing, abruptly, in mid-word.
"What the hell?" demanded Spinelli thickly.
"Order them to heave to, Mister," I ordered.
He clicked the Aldis at them. The only response was a wild swerve in the star-ship's course. She left the orbit we had set for her as though the hands that guided her had fallen away from the control.
Spinelli dropped the Aldis and rushed to the control panel to make the corrections in the Maid's course that were needed to keep the hulk in sight.
"Those skunks! Double crossing rats!" he breathed furiously. "They won't shake loose that easy!" His hands started down for the firing console of the supersonic rifle.
I caught the movement from the corner of my eye.
" Spinelli! "
My shout hung in the still air of the control room as I knocked him away from the panel.
"Get to your quarters!" I cracked.
He didn't say a thing, but his big shoulders hunched angrily and he moved across the deck toward me, his hands opening and closing spasmodically. His eyes were wild with rage and avarice.
"You'll hang for mutiny, Spinelli!" I said.
He spat out a foul name and leaped for me. I side-stepped his charge and brought my joined fists down hard on the back of his neck. He stumbled against the bulkhead and his eyes were glazed. He charged again, roaring. I stepped aside and smashed him in the mouth with my right fist, then crossing with an open-handed left to the throat. He staggered, spun and came for me again. I sank a hard left into his stomach and nailed him on the point of the jaw with a right from my shoe-tops. He straightened up and sprawled heavily to the deck, still trying to get at me. I aimed a hard kick at his temple and let it go. My metal shod boot caught him squarely and he rolled over on his face and lay still.
I nailed him with a right from my shoe-tops.
Breathing heavily, I rolled him back face up. His eyes were open,
glassy with an implacable hate. I knelt at his side and listened for
his breathing. There was none. I knew then that I had killed him. I
felt sick inside, and dizzy.
I wasn't myself as I turned away from Spinelli's body there on the
steel deck. Some of the greed died out of me, and my exertions had
increased my sense of fatigue to an almost numbing weariness. My arms
ached terribly and my hands felt as though they had been sucked dry of
their substance. Like a man in a nightmare, I held them up before my
face and looked at them. They were wrinkled and grey, with the veins
standing out a sickly purple. And I could see that my arms were taking
on that same aged look.
I was suddenly fully aware of my fear. Nothing fought against the
flood of terror that welled through me. I was terrified of that yellow
gold in my cabin, and of that ship of devil's metal out there in space
that held my shipmates. There was something unnatural about that
contra-terrene thing ... something obscene.
I located the hulk in the radar finder and swung the Maid after it,
piling on acceleration until my vision flickered. We caught her, the
Maid and I. But we couldn't stop her short of using the rifle on her,
and I couldn't bring myself to add to my depravity by killing the rest
of my men. It would have been better if I had!
I laid the Maid alongside the thousand foot hull of the derelict and
set the controls on automatic. It was dangerous, but I was beyond
caring. Then I was struggling to get myself into a pressure suit with
my wrinkled, failing hands.... Then I was outside, headed for that dark
hole.
I sank down into the stillness of her interior, my helmet light casting
long, fey shadows across the littered decks. Decks that had a yellowish
cast ... decks that no longer danced with tiny questing force-whorls....
As I approached the airlock of the compartment set aside as living
quarters for the prize crew, the saffron of the walls deepened. Crazy
little thoughts began spinning around in my brain. Words out of the
distant past loomed up with a new and suddenly terrifying
perspective ... alchemy ... transmutation ... energy. I'm a spaceman,
not a scientist. But in those moments I think I was discovering what
had happened to my crew and why the walls were turning into yellow
metal.
The lock was closed, but I swung it open and let the pressure in the
chamber rise. I couldn't wait for it to reach fourteen pounds ...
at eleven, I swung the inner door and stumbled eagerly through. The
brilliant light, reflected from gleaming walls blinded me for a moment.
And then I saw them! They huddled, almost naked in a corner, skeletal
things with skull-like faces that leered at me with the vacuous
obscenity of old age. Even their voices were raw and cracked with the
rusty decay of years. They babbled stupidly, caressing the walls with
claw-like hands. They were old, old!
I understood then. I knew what my wrinkled aged hands meant. That
devil-metal from beyond the stars had drawn the energy it needed
from ... us !
My laughter was a crazy shriek inside my helmet. I looked wildly at the
gleaming walls that had sucked the youth and strength from these men.
The walls were stable, at rest. They were purest gold ... gold ... gold!
I ran from that place still screaming with the horror of it. My hands
burned like fire! Age was in them, creeping like molten lead through my
veins, ghastly and sure....
I reached the Maid and threw every scrap of that alien metal into space
as I streaked madly away from that golden terror in the sky and its
load of ancient evil....
On Callisto I was relieved of my command. The Admiralty Court acquitted
me of the charges of negligence, but the Foundation refused me another
ship. It was my ... illness. It spread from my hands, as you can see.
Slowly, very slowly. So what remains for me? A hospital cot and a
spaceman's pension. Those tons of gold in the sky are cursed, like most
great treasures. Somewhere, out in the deeps between the stars, the
dust of my crew guards that golden derelict. It belongs to them now ...
all of it.
But the price we pay for treasure is this. Look at me. I look eighty!
I'm thirty two. And the bitterest part of the story is that people
laugh at me when I tell what happened. They laugh and call me my
nickname. Have you heard it?
It's ... Captain Midas.
Question:
Describe the relationship between Captain Midas and Mister Spinelli.
Answer:
|
[
"Mister Spinelli is Third Officer under the command of Captain Midas and was the first to report the derelict ship and observe its potential to be claimed by the Maid. Spinelli is the first and only crew member to identify the metal from the abandoned ship as gold when he saw Captain Midas with it. The tension between Midas and Spinelli escalates and their relationship becomes antagonistic as both of them desire to benefit the most from this valuable gold and with Midas constantly pulling his authority over Spinelli. After Midas barrs him from being a part of the investigative crew, suspicion arises between the two as Spinelli suspects Midas wishes to keep the pot of gold for himself and Midas thinks that Spinelli may be telling others. This tension further escalates as Midas sees Spinelli nearly hit the trigger of the gun and in rage, the two end up fighting each other before Midas aimed a kick at his temple and killed him. \n",
"Captain Midas knows about Mister Spinelli’s hunger for money and gold. When the officer noticed the chunk of gold on Midas’ table, the captain started analyzing what the crewman could do. He refused to allow Spinelli to go aboard the derelict, and from this point, their relationship became tense. The crewman suspected the captain of an intention to take all the gold. Midas saw that Spinelli told Zaleski about gold and sent several other crew members to the derelict with Zaleski and Cohn to avoid double-crossing or mutiny. When they left, he realized that Spinelli aimed the Maid’s firing projector at the derelict and the crew members there in case they decided to betray Spinelli. Midas got angry but decided to leave this way. When their colleagues sent a message about the lost control and then stopped answering, Spinelli became mad. Midas attempted to keep Spinelli in control, but the man was already approaching the firing panel. Spinelli got an order to leave the control room, but he exploded and attacked his superior. In an aggressive fight, Midas killed his team member. ",
"The relationship between Captain Midas and Mister Spinelli changes from supportive to hostile throughout the story. When Mister Spinelli finds the massive derelict in the space, he reports back to Captain Midas. He actively suggests searching over the hulk, where his relationship with Captain Midas is superior-subordinate and obeying. However, when Captain Midas finds out that the mysterious metal sought from the derelict can somehow turn into gold, which Mister Spinelli witnesses, their greed sprouts the tension and suspicion between them as they start to suspect each other of trying to have the gold by themselves. The first tension arises when Captain Midas does not allow Mister Spinelli to move the hulk. In addition, Mister Spinelli disobeys Captain Midas’s order not to tell other crew members about the metal. The second tension arises when Mister Spinelli uses the weapon on the spaceship pointing toward the derelict to ensure no one can steal his share of the metal. Captain Midas is raged about his action at first, but he accepts that. The last tension arises when they lose the signal from other crew members, causing them to suspect the betrayal of other members. From then on, Mister Spinelli attacks Captain Midas, and they fight until Captain Midas kills Mister Spinelli. Until this point, their relationship is hostile and competitive in the sense of the ownership of the metal.",
"Captain Midas and Mister Spinelli initially get along fine. Spinelli listens to all of his orders, and the Captain considers him to be a reliable member of the crew. There is no sense of hostility between them, and he even agrees with Spinelli’s proposal to look the ship over. However, this relationship later sours once Spinelli finds out that the discovered ship is made out of gold. The captain is wary because Spinelli is big and dangerous, preferring to keep an eye on him in case anything goes wrong. Spinelli, on the other hand, is suspicious of the captain and goes off to tell Zaleski even though the captain said to not mention the gold to any of the rest of the crew. The captain threatens to clap Spinelli to irons, but this threat does not work because the Third Officer chooses to disobey his orders anyways. Later, Spinelli and the captain get into conflict again, with Spinelli accusing the captain that he was planning to keep all of the treasure for himself. Spinelli assumes that everybody is faking it to keep the ship, but the captain knocks him away. The two of them fight brutally, and Captain Midas has to end up killing Spinelli. "
] |
63867
|
CAPTAIN MIDAS
By ALFRED COPPEL, JR.
The captain of the Martian Maid stared avidly at the torn derelict floating against the velvet void. Here was treasure beyond his wildest dreams! How could he know his dreams should have been nightmares?
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Gold! A magic word, even today, isn't it? Lust and gold ... they go hand in hand. Like the horsemen of the Apocalypse. And, of course, there's another word needed to make up the trilogy. You don't get any thing for nothing. So add this: Cost. Or you might call it pain, sorrow, agony. Call it what you like. It's what you pay for great treasure....
These things were true when fabled Jason sailed the Argo beyond Colchis seeking the Fleece. They were true when men sailed the southern oceans in wooden ships. And the conquest of space hasn't changed us a bit. We're still a greedy lot....
I'm a queer one to be saying these things, but then, who has more right? Look at me. My hair is gray and my face ... my face is a mask. The flesh hangs on my bones like a yellow cloth on a rickety frame. I am old, old. And I wait here on my hospital cot—wait for the weight of years I never lived to drag me under and let me forget the awful things my eyes have seen.
I'm poor, too, or else I wouldn't be here in this place of dying for old spacemen. I haven't a dime except for the pittance the Holcomb Foundation calls a spaceman's pension. Yet I had millions in my hands. Treasure beyond your wildest dreams! Cursed treasure....
You smile. You are thinking that I'm just an old man, beached earthside, spinning tall tales to impress the youngsters. Maybe, thinking about the kind of spacemen my generation produced, you have the idea that if ever we'd so much as laid a hand on anything of value out in space we'd not let go until Hell froze over! Well, you're right about that. We didn't seek the spaceways for the advancement of civilization or any of that Foundation bushwah, you can be certain of that. We did it for us ... for Number One. That's the kind of men we were, and we were proud of it. We hung onto what we found because the risks were high and we were entitled to keep what we could out there. But there are strange things in the sky. Things that don't respond to all of our neat little Laws and Theories. There are things that are no part of the world of men, thick with danger—and horror.
If you doubt that—and I can see you do—just look at me. I suppose you've never heard of the Martian Maid, and so you don't know the story of what happened to her crew or her skipper. I can give you this much of an answer. I was her skipper. And her crew? They ride high in the sky ... dust by this time. And all because they were men, and men are greedy and hasty and full of an unreasoning, unthinking love for gold. They ride a golden ship that they paid for with all the years of their lives. It's all theirs now. Bought and paid for.
It wasn't too long ago that I lifted the Maid off Solis Lacus on that last flight. Not many of you will remember her class of ship, so many advances have been made in the last few years. The Maid was two hundred feet from tip to tail, and as sleek a spacer as ever came out of the Foundation Yards. Chemical fueled, she was nothing at all like the spherical hyperdrives we see today. She was armed, too. The Foundation still thought of space as a possible stamping ground for alien creatures though no evidence of any extra-terrestrial life had ever been found ... then.
My crew was a rough bunch, like all those early crews. I remember them so well. Lean, hungry men with hell in their eyes and a great lust for high pay and hard living. Spinelli, Shelley, Cohn, Marvin, Zaleski. There wasn't a man on board who wouldn't have traded his immortal soul for a few solar dollars, and I don't claim that I was any different. That's the kind of men that opened up the spaceways, too. Don't believe all this talk about the noble pioneering spirit of man. That's tripe. There never has been such a thing as a noble pioneer. Not in space or anywhere else. It is the malcontent and the adventuring mercenary that pushes the frontier outward.
I didn't know, that night as I stood in the valve of the Maid, watching the loading cranes pull away, that I was starting out on my last flight. I don't think any of the others could have guessed, either. It was the sort of night that you only see on Mars. The sort of night that makes a spaceman wonder why in hell he wants to leave the relative security of the Earth-Mars-Venus Triangle to go jetting across the belt into deep space and the drab desolation of the outer System.
I stood there, watching the lights of Canalopolis in the distance. For just a moment I was ... well, touched. It looked beautiful and unreal under the racing moons. The lights of the gin mills and houses made a sparkling filigree pattern on the dark waters of the ancient canal, and the moons cast their shifting shadows across the silted banks. I was too far away to see the space-fevered bums and smell the shanties, and for a little while I felt the wonder of standing on the soil of a world that man had made his own with his rapacity and his sheer guts and gimme.
I thought of our half empty cargo hold and the sweet payload we would pick up on Callisto. And I counted the extra cash my packets of snow would bring from those lonely men up there on the barren moonlets of the outer Systems. There were plenty of cargoes carried on the Maid that the Holcomb Foundation snoopers never heard about, you can be sure of that.
In those days the asteroid belt was the primary danger and menace to astrogation. For a long while it held men back from deep space, but as fuels improved a few ships were sent out over the top. A few million miles up out of the ecliptic plane brings you to a region of space that's pretty thinly strewn with asteroids, and that's the way we used to make the flight between the outer systems and the EMV Triangle. It took a long while for hyperdrives to be developed and of course atomics never panned out because of the weight problem.
So that's the orbit the Maid took on that last trip of mine. High and clear into the supra-solar void. And out there in that primeval blackness is where we found the derelict.
I didn't realize it was a derelict when Spinelli first reported it from the forward scope position. I assumed it was a Foundation ship. The Holcomb Foundation was founded for the purpose of developing spaceflight, and as the years went by it took on the whole responsibility for the building and dispatching of space ships. Never in history had there been any real evidence of extra-terrestrial intelligent life, and when the EMV Triangle proved barren, we all just assumed that the Universe was man's own particular oyster. That kind of unreasoning arrogance is as hard to explain as it is to correct.
There were plenty of ships being lost in space, and immediately that Spinelli's report from up forward got noised about the Maid every one of us started mentally counting up his share of the salvage money. All this before we were within ten thousand miles of the hulk!
All spaceships look pretty much alike, but as I sat at the telescope I saw that there was something different about this one. At such a distance I couldn't get too much detail in our small three inch glass, but I could see that the hulk was big—bigger than any ship I'd ever seen before. I had the radar fixed on her and then I retired with my slide rule to Control. It wasn't long before I discovered that the derelict ship was on a near collision course, but there was something about its orbit that was strange. I called Cohn, the Metering Officer, and showed him my figures.
"Mister Cohn," I said, chart in hand, "do these figures look right to you?"
Cohn's dark eyes lit up as they always did when he worked with figures. It didn't take him long to check me. "The math is quite correct, Captain," he said. I could see that he hadn't missed the inference of those figures on the chart.
"Assemble the ship's company, Mister Cohn," I ordered.
The assembly horn sounded throughout the Maid and I could feel the tug of the automatics taking over as the crew left their stations. Soon they were assembled in Control.
"You have all heard about Mister Spinelli's find," I said, "I have computed the orbit and inspected the object through the glass. It seems to be a spacer ... either abandoned or in distress...." Reaching into the book rack above my desk I took down a copy of the Foundation's Space Regulations and opened it to the section concerning salvage.
"Sections XVIII, Paragraph 8 of the Code Regulating Interplanetary Astrogation and Commerce," I read, "Any vessel or part of vessel found in an abandoned or totally disabled condition in any region of space not subject to the sovereignty of any planet of the Earth-Venus-Mars Triangle shall be considered to be the property of the crew of the vessel locating said abandoned or disabled vessel except in such cases as the ownership of said abandoned or disabled vessel may be readily ascertained...." I looked up and closed the book. "Simply stated, that means that if that thing ahead of us is a derelict we are entitled to claim it as salvage."
"Unless it already belongs to someone?" asked Spinelli.
"That's correct Mister Spinelli, but I don't think there is much danger of that," I replied quietly. "My figures show that hulk out there came in from the direction of Coma Berenices...."
There was a long silence before Zaleski shifted his two hundred pounds uneasily and gave a form to the muted fear inside me. "You think ... you think it came from the stars , Captain?"
"Maybe even from beyond the stars," Cohn said in a low voice.
Looking at that circle of faces I saw the beginnings of greed. The first impact of the Metering Officer's words wore off quickly and soon every man of my crew was thinking that anything from the stars would be worth money ... lots of money.
Spinelli said, "Do we look her over, Captain?"
They all looked at me, waiting for my answer. I knew it would be worth plenty, and money hunger was like a fever inside me.
"Certainly we look it over, Mister Spinelli," I said sharply.
"Certainly!"
The first thing about the derelict that struck us as we drew near was her size. No ship ever built in the Foundation Yards had ever attained such gargantuan proportions. She must have stretched a full thousand feet from bow to stern, a sleek torpedo shape of somehow unspeakable alienness. Against the backdrop of the Milky Way, she gleamed fitfully in the light of the faraway sun, the metal of her flanks grained with something like tiny, glittering whorls. It was as though the stuff were somehow unstable ... seeking balance ... maybe even alive in some strange and alien way.
It was readily apparent to all of us that she had never been built for inter-planetary flight. She was a starship. Origin unknown. An aura of mystery surrounded her like a shroud, protecting the world that gave her birth mutely but effectively. The distance she must have come was unthinkable. And the time it had taken...? Aeons. Millennia. For she was drifting, dead in space, slowly spinning end over end as she swung about Sol in a hyperbolic orbit that would soon take her out and away again into the inter-stellar deeps.
Something had wounded her ... perhaps ten million years ago ... perhaps yesterday. She was gashed deeply from stem to stern with a jagged rip that bared her mangled innards. A wandering asteroid? A meteor? We would never know. It gave me an uncomfortable feeling of things beyond the ken of men as I looked at her through the port. I would never know what killed her, or where she was going, or whence she came. Yet she was mine. It made me feel like an upstart. And it made me afraid ... but of what?
We should have reported her to the nearest EMV base, but that would have meant that we'd lose her. Scientists would be sent out. Men better equipped than we to investigate the first extrasolar artifact found by men. But I didn't report her. She was ours. She was money in the bank. Let the scientists take over after we'd put a prize crew aboard and brought her into Callisto for salvage.... That's the way I had things figured.
The Maid hove to about a hundred yards from her and hung there, dwarfed by the mighty glistening ship. I called for volunteers and we prepared a boarding party. I was thinking that her drives alone would be worth millions. Cohn took charge and he and three of the men suited up and crossed to her.
In an hour they were back, disappointment largely written on their faces.
"There's nothing left of her, Captain," Cohn reported, "Whatever hit her tore up the innards so badly we couldn't even find the drives. She's a mess inside. Nothing left but the hull and a few storage compartments that are still unbroken."
She was never built to carry humanoids he told us, and there was nothing that could give us a hint of where she had come from. The hull alone was left.
He dropped two chunks of metal on my desk. "I brought back some samples of her pressure hull," he said, "The whole thing is made of this stuff...."
"We'll still take her in," I said, hiding my disappointment. "The carcass will be worth money in Callisto. Have Mister Marvin and Zaleski assemble a spare pulse-jet. We'll jury-rig her and bring her down under her own power. You take charge of provisioning her. Check those compartments you found and install oxy-generators aboard. When it's done report to me in my quarters."
I picked up the two samples of gleaming metal and called for a metallurgical testing kit. "I'm going to try and find out if this stuff is worth anything...."
The metal was heavy—too heavy, it seemed to me, for spaceship construction. But then, who was to say what conditions existed on that distant world where this metal was made?
Under the bright fluorescent over my work-table, the chunks of metal torn from a random bulkhead of the starship gleamed like pale silver; those strange little whorls that I had noticed on the outer hull were there too, like tiny magnetic lines of force, making the surface of the metal seem to dance. I held the stuff in my bare hand. It had a yellowish tinge, and it was heavier ....
Even as I watched, the metal grew yellower, and the hand that held it grew bone weary, little tongues of fatigue licking up my forearm. Suddenly terrified, I dropped the chunk as though it were white hot. It struck the table with a dull thud and lay there, a rich yellow lump of metallic lustre.
For a long while I just sat and stared. Then I began testing, trying all the while to quiet the trembling of my hands. I weighed it on a balance. I tested it with acids. It had changed unquestionably. It was no longer the same as when I had carried it into my quarters. The whorls of force were gone. It was no longer alive with a questing vibrancy ... it was inert, stable. From somewhere, somehow, it had drawn the energy necessary for transmutation. The unknown metal—the stuff of which that whole mammoth spaceship from the stars was built—was now....
Gold!
I scarcely dared believe it, but there it was staring at me from my table-top. Gold!
I searched my mind for an explanation. Contra-terrene matter, perhaps, from some distant island universe where matter reacted differently ... drawing energy from somewhere, the energy it needed to find stability in its new environment. Stability as a terrene element—wonderfully, miraculously gold!
And outside, in the void beyond the Maid's ports there were tons of this metal that could be turned into treasure. My laughter must have been a wild sound in those moments of discovery....
A slight sound behind me made me spin around in my chair. Framed in the doorway was the heavy figure of my Third Officer, Spinelli. His black eyes were fastened hungrily on the lump of yellow metal on the table. He needed no explanation to tell him what it was, and it seemed to me that his very soul reached out for the stuff, so sharp and clear was the meaning of the expression on his heavy face.
"Mister Spinelli!" I snapped, "In the future knock before entering my quarters!"
Reluctantly his eyes left the lump of gold and met mine. "From the derelict, Captain?" There was an imperceptible pause between the last two words.
I ignored his question and made a mental note to keep a close hand on the rein with him. Spinelli was big and dangerous.
"Speak your piece, Mister," I ordered sharply.
"Mister Cohn reports the derelict ready to take aboard the prize crew ... sir," he said slowly. "I'd like to volunteer for that detail."
I might have let him go under ordinary circumstances, for he was a first class spaceman and the handling of a jury-rigged hulk would need good men. But the gold-hunger I had seen in his eyes warned me to beware. I shook my head. "You will stay on board the Maid with me, Spinelli. Cohn and Zaleski will handle the starship."
Stark suspicion leaped into his eyes. I could see the wheels turning slowly in his mind. Somehow, he was thinking, I was planning to cheat him of his rightful share of the derelict treasure ship.
"We will say nothing to the rest of the crew about the gold, Mister Spinelli," I said deliberately, "Or you'll go to Callisto in irons. Is that clear?"
"Aye, sir," murmured Spinelli. The black expression had left his face and there was a faintly scornful smile playing about his mouth as he turned away. I began wondering then what he had in mind. It wasn't like him to let it go at that.
Suddenly I became conscious of being very tired. My mind wasn't functioning quite clearly. And my arm and hand ached painfully. I rubbed the fingers to get some life back into them, still wondering about Spinelli.
Spinelli talked. I saw him murmuring something to big Zaleski, and after that there was tension in the air. Distrust.
For a few moments I pondered the advisability of making good my threat to clap Spinelli into irons, but I decided against it. In the first place I couldn't prove he had told Zaleski about the gold and in the second place I needed Spinelli to help run the Maid.
I felt that the Third Officer and Zaleski were planning something, and I was just as sure that Spinelli was watching Zaleski to see to it that there was no double-cross.
I figured that I could handle the Third Officer alone so I assigned the rest, Marvin and Chelly, to accompany Cohn and Zaleski onto the hulk. That way Zaleski would be outnumbered if he tried to skip with the treasure ship. But, of course, I couldn't risk telling them that they were to be handling a vessel practically made of gold.
I was in agony. I didn't want to let anyone get out of my sight with that starship, and at the same time I couldn't leave the Maid. Finally I had to let Cohn take command of the prize crew, but not before I had set the radar finder on the Maid's prow squarely on the derelict.
Together, Spinelli and I watched the Maid's crew vanish into the maw of the alien ship and get her under way. There was a flicker of bluish fire from her jury-rigged tubes astern, and then she was vanishing in a great arc toward the bright gleam of Jupiter, far below us. The Maid followed under a steady one G of acceleration with most of her controls on automatic.
Boats of the Martian Maid's class, you may remember, carried a six inch supersonic projector abaft the astrogation turret. These were nasty weapons for use against organic life only. They would reduce a man to jelly at fifty thousand yards. Let it be said to my credit that it wasn't I who thought of hooking the gun into the radar finder and keeping it aimed dead at the derelict. That was Spinelli's insurance against Zaleski.
When I discovered it I felt the rage mount in me. He was willing to blast every one of his shipmates into pulp should the hulk vary from the orbit we'd laid out for her. He wasn't letting anything come between him and that mountain of gold.
Then I began thinking about it. Suppose now, just suppose, that Zaleski told the rest of the crew about the gold. It wouldn't be too hard for the derelict to break away from the Maid, and there were plenty of places in the EMV Triangle where a renegade crew with a thousand tons of gold would be welcomed with open arms and no questions asked. Suspicion began to eat at me. Could Zaleski and Cohn have dreamed up a little switch to keep the treasure ship for themselves? It hadn't seemed likely before, but now—
The gun-pointer remained as it was.
As the days passed and we reached turn-over with the hulk still well within visual range, I noticed a definite decrease in the number of messages from Cohn. The Aldis Lamps no longer blinked back at the Maid eight or ten times a day, and I began to really regret not having taken the time to equip the starship with UHF radio communicators.
Each night I slept with a hunk of yellow gold under my bunk, and ridiculously I fondled the stuff and dreamed of all the things I would have when the starship was cut up and sold.
My weariness grew. It became almost chronic, and I soon wondered if I hadn't picked up a touch of space-radiation fever. The flesh of my hands seemed paler than it had been. My arms felt heavy. I determined to report myself to the Foundation medics on Callisto. There's no telling what can happen to a man in space....
Two days past turn-over the messages from the derelict came through garbled. Spinelli cursed and said that he couldn't read their signal. Taking the Aldis from him I tried to raise them and failed. Two hours later I was still failing and Spinelli's black eyes glittered with an animal suspicion.
"They're faking!"
"Like hell they are!" I snapped irritably, "Something's gone wrong...."
"Zaleski's gone wrong, that's what!"
I turned to face him, fury snapping inside of me. "Then you did disobey my orders. You told him about the gold!"
"Sure I did," he sneered. "Did you expect me to shut up and let you land the ship yourself and claim Captain's share? I found her, and she's mine!"
I fought to control my temper and said: "Let's see what's going on in her before deciding who gets what, Mister Spinelli."
Spinelli bit his thick lips and did not reply. His eyes were fixed on the image of the starship on the viewplate.
A light blinked erratically within the dark cut of its wounded side.
"Get this down, Spinelli!"
The habit of taking orders was still in him, and he muttered: "Aye ... sir."
The light was winking out a message, but feebly, as though the hand that held the lamp were shaking and the mind conceiving the words were failing.
"CONTROL ... LOST ... CAN'T ... NO ... STRENGTH ... LEFT ... SHIP ... WALLS ... ALL ... ALL GOLD ... GOLD ... SOMETHING ... HAPPENING ... CAN'T ... UNDERSTAND ... WHA...." The light stopped flashing, abruptly, in mid-word.
"What the hell?" demanded Spinelli thickly.
"Order them to heave to, Mister," I ordered.
He clicked the Aldis at them. The only response was a wild swerve in the star-ship's course. She left the orbit we had set for her as though the hands that guided her had fallen away from the control.
Spinelli dropped the Aldis and rushed to the control panel to make the corrections in the Maid's course that were needed to keep the hulk in sight.
"Those skunks! Double crossing rats!" he breathed furiously. "They won't shake loose that easy!" His hands started down for the firing console of the supersonic rifle.
I caught the movement from the corner of my eye.
" Spinelli! "
My shout hung in the still air of the control room as I knocked him away from the panel.
"Get to your quarters!" I cracked.
He didn't say a thing, but his big shoulders hunched angrily and he moved across the deck toward me, his hands opening and closing spasmodically. His eyes were wild with rage and avarice.
"You'll hang for mutiny, Spinelli!" I said.
He spat out a foul name and leaped for me. I side-stepped his charge and brought my joined fists down hard on the back of his neck. He stumbled against the bulkhead and his eyes were glazed. He charged again, roaring. I stepped aside and smashed him in the mouth with my right fist, then crossing with an open-handed left to the throat. He staggered, spun and came for me again. I sank a hard left into his stomach and nailed him on the point of the jaw with a right from my shoe-tops. He straightened up and sprawled heavily to the deck, still trying to get at me. I aimed a hard kick at his temple and let it go. My metal shod boot caught him squarely and he rolled over on his face and lay still.
I nailed him with a right from my shoe-tops.
Breathing heavily, I rolled him back face up. His eyes were open,
glassy with an implacable hate. I knelt at his side and listened for
his breathing. There was none. I knew then that I had killed him. I
felt sick inside, and dizzy.
I wasn't myself as I turned away from Spinelli's body there on the
steel deck. Some of the greed died out of me, and my exertions had
increased my sense of fatigue to an almost numbing weariness. My arms
ached terribly and my hands felt as though they had been sucked dry of
their substance. Like a man in a nightmare, I held them up before my
face and looked at them. They were wrinkled and grey, with the veins
standing out a sickly purple. And I could see that my arms were taking
on that same aged look.
I was suddenly fully aware of my fear. Nothing fought against the
flood of terror that welled through me. I was terrified of that yellow
gold in my cabin, and of that ship of devil's metal out there in space
that held my shipmates. There was something unnatural about that
contra-terrene thing ... something obscene.
I located the hulk in the radar finder and swung the Maid after it,
piling on acceleration until my vision flickered. We caught her, the
Maid and I. But we couldn't stop her short of using the rifle on her,
and I couldn't bring myself to add to my depravity by killing the rest
of my men. It would have been better if I had!
I laid the Maid alongside the thousand foot hull of the derelict and
set the controls on automatic. It was dangerous, but I was beyond
caring. Then I was struggling to get myself into a pressure suit with
my wrinkled, failing hands.... Then I was outside, headed for that dark
hole.
I sank down into the stillness of her interior, my helmet light casting
long, fey shadows across the littered decks. Decks that had a yellowish
cast ... decks that no longer danced with tiny questing force-whorls....
As I approached the airlock of the compartment set aside as living
quarters for the prize crew, the saffron of the walls deepened. Crazy
little thoughts began spinning around in my brain. Words out of the
distant past loomed up with a new and suddenly terrifying
perspective ... alchemy ... transmutation ... energy. I'm a spaceman,
not a scientist. But in those moments I think I was discovering what
had happened to my crew and why the walls were turning into yellow
metal.
The lock was closed, but I swung it open and let the pressure in the
chamber rise. I couldn't wait for it to reach fourteen pounds ...
at eleven, I swung the inner door and stumbled eagerly through. The
brilliant light, reflected from gleaming walls blinded me for a moment.
And then I saw them! They huddled, almost naked in a corner, skeletal
things with skull-like faces that leered at me with the vacuous
obscenity of old age. Even their voices were raw and cracked with the
rusty decay of years. They babbled stupidly, caressing the walls with
claw-like hands. They were old, old!
I understood then. I knew what my wrinkled aged hands meant. That
devil-metal from beyond the stars had drawn the energy it needed
from ... us !
My laughter was a crazy shriek inside my helmet. I looked wildly at the
gleaming walls that had sucked the youth and strength from these men.
The walls were stable, at rest. They were purest gold ... gold ... gold!
I ran from that place still screaming with the horror of it. My hands
burned like fire! Age was in them, creeping like molten lead through my
veins, ghastly and sure....
I reached the Maid and threw every scrap of that alien metal into space
as I streaked madly away from that golden terror in the sky and its
load of ancient evil....
On Callisto I was relieved of my command. The Admiralty Court acquitted
me of the charges of negligence, but the Foundation refused me another
ship. It was my ... illness. It spread from my hands, as you can see.
Slowly, very slowly. So what remains for me? A hospital cot and a
spaceman's pension. Those tons of gold in the sky are cursed, like most
great treasures. Somewhere, out in the deeps between the stars, the
dust of my crew guards that golden derelict. It belongs to them now ...
all of it.
But the price we pay for treasure is this. Look at me. I look eighty!
I'm thirty two. And the bitterest part of the story is that people
laugh at me when I tell what happened. They laugh and call me my
nickname. Have you heard it?
It's ... Captain Midas.
|
What is the plot of the story?
|
After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about Control Group by Roger D. Aycock.
Relevant chunks:
"Any problem posed by one group of
human beings can be resolved by any
other group." That's what the Handbook
said. But did that include primitive
humans? Or the Bees? Or a ...
CONTROL GROUP
By ROGER DEE
The
cool green disk of Alphard
Six on the screen was
infinitely welcome after the arid
desolation and stinking swamplands
of the inner planets, an
airy jewel of a world that might
have been designed specifically
for the hard-earned month of
rest ahead. Navigator Farrell,
youngest and certainly most impulsive
of the three-man Terran
Reclamations crew, would have
set the Marco Four down at
once but for the greater caution
of Stryker, nominally captain of
the group, and of Gibson, engineer,
and linguist. Xavier, the
ship's little mechanical, had—as
was usual and proper—no voice
in the matter.
"Reconnaissance spiral first,
Arthur," Stryker said firmly. He
chuckled at Farrell's instant
scowl, his little eyes twinkling
and his naked paunch quaking
over the belt of his shipboard
shorts. "Chapter One, Subsection
Five, Paragraph Twenty-seven: No planetfall on an unreclaimed
world shall be deemed
safe without proper— "
Farrell, as Stryker had expected,
interrupted with characteristic
impatience. "Do you sleep with that damned Reclamations
Handbook, Lee? Alphard Six
isn't an unreclaimed world—it
was never colonized before the
Hymenop invasion back in 3025,
so why should it be inhabited
now?"
Gibson, who for four hours
had not looked up from his interminable
chess game with
Xavier, paused with a beleaguered
knight in one blunt brown
hand.
"No point in taking chances,"
Gibson said in his neutral baritone.
He shrugged thick bare
shoulders, his humorless black-browed
face unmoved, when
Farrell included him in his
scowl. "We're two hundred twenty-six
light-years from Sol, at
the old limits of Terran expansion,
and there's no knowing
what we may turn up here. Alphard's
was one of the first systems
the Bees took over. It must
have been one of the last to be
abandoned when they pulled back
to 70 Ophiuchi."
"And I think you live for the
day," Farrell said acidly, "when
we'll stumble across a functioning
dome of live, buzzing Hymenops.
Damn it, Gib, the Bees
pulled out a hundred years ago,
before you and I were born—neither
of us ever saw a Hymenop,
and never will!"
"But I saw them," Stryker
said. "I fought them for the better
part of the century they were
here, and I learned there's no
predicting nor understanding
them. We never knew why they
came nor why they gave up and
left. How can we know whether
they'd leave a rear-guard or
booby trap here?"
He put a paternal hand on
Farrell's shoulder, understanding
the younger man's eagerness
and knowing that their close-knit
team would have been the
more poorly balanced without it.
"Gib's right," he said. He
nearly added as usual . "We're on
rest leave at the moment, yes,
but our mission is still to find
Terran colonies enslaved and
abandoned by the Bees, not to
risk our necks and a valuable
Reorientations ship by landing
blind on an unobserved planet.
We're too close already. Cut in
your shields and find a reconnaissance
spiral, will you?"
Grumbling, Farrell punched
coordinates on the Ringwave
board that lifted the Marco Four out of her descent and restored
the bluish enveloping haze of
her repellors.
Stryker's caution was justified
on the instant. The speeding
streamlined shape that had flashed
up unobserved from below
swerved sharply and exploded in
a cataclysmic blaze of atomic
fire that rocked the ship wildly
and flung the three men to the
floor in a jangling roar of
alarms.
"So the Handbook tacticians
knew what they were about,"
Stryker said minutes later. Deliberately
he adopted the smug
tone best calculated to sting Farrell
out of his first self-reproach,
and grinned when the navigator
bristled defensively. "Some of
their enjoinders seem a little
stuffy and obvious at times, but
they're eminently sensible."
When Farrell refused to be
baited Stryker turned to Gibson,
who was busily assessing the
damage done to the ship's more
fragile equipment, and to Xavier,
who searched the planet's
surface with the ship's magnoscanner.
The Marco Four , Ringwave
generators humming gently,
hung at the moment just
inside the orbit of Alphard Six's
single dun-colored moon.
Gibson put down a test meter
with an air of finality.
"Nothing damaged but the
Zero Interval Transfer computer.
I can realign that in a couple
of hours, but it'll have to be
done before we hit Transfer
again."
Stryker looked dubious.
"What if the issue is forced before
the ZIT unit is repaired?
Suppose they come up after us?"
"I doubt that they can. Any
installation crudely enough
equipped to trust in guided missiles
is hardly likely to have developed
efficient space craft."
Stryker was not reassured.
"That torpedo of theirs was
deadly enough," he said. "And
its nature reflects the nature of
the people who made it. Any race
vicious enough to use atomic
charges is too dangerous to
trifle with." Worry made comical
creases in his fat, good-humored
face. "We'll have to find
out who they are and why
they're here, you know."
"They can't be Hymenops,"
Gibson said promptly. "First,
because the Bees pinned their
faith on Ringwave energy fields,
as we did, rather than on missiles.
Second, because there's no
dome on Six."
"There were three empty
domes on Five, which is a desert
planet," Farrell pointed out.
"Why didn't they settle Six? It's
a more habitable world."
Gibson shrugged. "I know the
Bees always erected domes on
every planet they colonized, Arthur,
but precedent is a fallible
tool. And it's even more firmly
established that there's no possibility
of our rationalizing the
motivations of a culture as alien
as the Hymenops'—we've been
over that argument a hundred
times on other reclaimed
worlds."
"But this was never an unreclaimed
world," Farrell said
with the faint malice of one too
recently caught in the wrong.
"Alphard Six was surveyed and
seeded with Terran bacteria
around the year 3000, but the
Bees invaded before we could
colonize. And that means we'll
have to rule out any resurgent
colonial group down there, because
Six never had a colony in
the beginning."
"The Bees have been gone for
over a hundred years," Stryker
said. "Colonists might have migrated
from another Terran-occupied
planet."
Gibson disagreed.
"We've touched at every inhabited
world in this sector, Lee,
and not one surviving colony has
developed space travel on its
own. The Hymenops had a hundred
years to condition their human
slaves to ignorance of
everything beyond their immediate
environment—the motives
behind that conditioning usually
escape us, but that's beside the
point—and they did a thorough
job of it. The colonists have had
no more than a century of freedom
since the Bees pulled out,
and four generations simply
isn't enough time for any subjugated
culture to climb from
slavery to interstellar flight."
Stryker made a padding turn
about the control room, tugging
unhappily at the scanty fringe
of hair the years had left him.
"If they're neither Hymenops
nor resurgent colonists," he said,
"then there's only one choice remaining—they're
aliens from a
system we haven't reached yet,
beyond the old sphere of Terran
exploration. We always assumed
that we'd find other races out
here someday, and that they'd
be as different from us in form
and motivation as the Hymenops.
Why not now?"
Gibson said seriously, "Not
probable, Lee. The same objection
that rules out the Bees applies
to any trans-Alphardian
culture—they'd have to be beyond
the atomic fission stage,
else they'd never have attempted
interstellar flight. The Ringwave
with its Zero Interval Transfer
principle and instantaneous communications
applications is the
only answer to long-range travel,
and if they'd had that they
wouldn't have bothered with
atomics."
Stryker turned on him almost
angrily. "If they're not Hymenops
or humans or aliens, then
what in God's name are they?"
"Aye, there's the rub," Farrell
said, quoting a passage
whose aptness had somehow seen
it through a dozen reorganizations
of insular tongue and a
final translation to universal
Terran. "If they're none of those
three, we've only one conclusion
left. There's no one down there
at all—we're victims of the first
joint hallucination in psychiatric
history."
Stryker threw up his hands in
surrender. "We can't identify
them by theorizing, and that
brings us down to the business
of first-hand investigation.
Who's going to bell the cat this
time?"
"I'd like to go," Gibson said
at once. "The ZIT computer can
wait."
Stryker vetoed his offer as
promptly. "No, the ZIT comes
first. We may have to run for it,
and we can't set up a Transfer
jump without the computer. It's
got to be me or Arthur."
Farrell felt the familiar chill
of uneasiness that inevitably
preceded this moment of decision.
He was not lacking in courage,
else the circumstances under
which he had worked for the
past ten years—the sometimes
perilous, sometimes downright
charnel conditions left by the
fleeing Hymenop conquerors—would
have broken him long
ago. But that same hard experience
had honed rather than
blunted the edge of his imagination,
and the prospect of a close-quarters
stalking of an unknown
and patently hostile force was
anything but attractive.
"You two did the field work
on the last location," he said.
"It's high time I took my turn—and
God knows I'd go mad if
I had to stay inship and listen
to Lee memorizing his Handbook
subsections or to Gib practicing
dead languages with Xavier."
Stryker laughed for the first
time since the explosion that
had so nearly wrecked the Marco
Four .
"Good enough. Though it
wouldn't be more diverting to
listen for hours to you improvising
enharmonic variations on
the Lament for Old Terra with
your accordion."
Gibson, characteristically, had
a refinement to offer.
"They'll be alerted down there
for a reconnaissance sally," he
said. "Why not let Xavier take
the scouter down for overt diversion,
and drop Arthur off in
the helihopper for a low-level
check?"
Stryker looked at Farrell. "All
right, Arthur?"
"Good enough," Farrell said.
And to Xavier, who had not
moved from his post at the magnoscanner:
"How does it look,
Xav? Have you pinned down
their base yet?"
The mechanical answered him
in a voice as smooth and clear—and
as inflectionless—as a 'cello
note. "The planet seems uninhabited
except for a large island
some three hundred miles in
diameter. There are twenty-seven
small agrarian hamlets surrounded
by cultivated fields.
There is one city of perhaps a
thousand buildings with a central
square. In the square rests
a grounded spaceship of approximately
ten times the bulk
of the Marco Four ."
They crowded about the vision
screen, jostling Xavier's jointed
gray shape in their interest. The
central city lay in minutest detail
before them, the battered
hulk of the grounded ship glinting
rustily in the late afternoon
sunlight. Streets radiated away
from the square in orderly succession,
the whole so clearly
depicted that they could see the
throngs of people surging up
and down, tiny foreshortened
faces turned toward the sky.
"At least they're human,"
Farrell said. Relief replaced in
some measure his earlier uneasiness.
"Which means that they're
Terran, and can be dealt with
according to Reclamations routine.
Is that hulk spaceworthy,
Xav?"
Xavier's mellow drone assumed
the convention vibrato that
indicated stark puzzlement. "Its
breached hull makes the ship incapable
of flight. Apparently it
is used only to supply power to
the outlying hamlets."
The mechanical put a flexible
gray finger upon an indicator
graph derived from a composite
section of detector meters. "The
power transmitted seems to be
gross electric current conveyed
by metallic cables. It is generated
through a crudely governed
process of continuous atomic
fission."
Farrell, himself appalled by
the information, still found himself
able to chuckle at Stryker's
bellow of consternation.
" Continuous fission? Good
God, only madmen would deliberately
run a risk like that!"
Farrell prodded him with
cheerful malice. "Why say mad men ? Maybe they're humanoid
aliens who thrive on hard radiation
and look on the danger of
being blown to hell in the middle
of the night as a satisfactory
risk."
"They're not alien," Gibson
said positively. "Their architecture
is Terran, and so is their
ship. The ship is incredibly
primitive, though; those batteries
of tubes at either end—"
"Are thrust reaction jets,"
Stryker finished in an awed
voice. "Primitive isn't the word,
Gib—the thing is prehistoric!
Rocket propulsion hasn't been
used in spacecraft since—how
long, Xav?"
Xavier supplied the information
with mechanical infallibility.
"Since the year 2100 when
the Ringwave propulsion-communication
principle was discovered.
That principle has served
men since."
Farrell stared in blank disbelief
at the anomalous craft on
the screen. Primitive, as Stryker
had said, was not the word
for it: clumsily ovoid, studded
with torpedo domes and turrets
and bristling at either end with
propulsion tubes, it lay at the
center of its square like a rusted
relic of a past largely destroyed
and all but forgotten. What a
magnificent disregard its builders
must have had, he thought,
for their lives and the genetic
purity of their posterity! The
sullen atomic fires banked in
that oxidizing hulk—
Stryker said plaintively, "If
you're right, Gib, then we're
more in the dark than ever. How
could a Terran-built ship eleven
hundred years old get here ?"
Gibson, absorbed in his chess-player's
contemplation of alternatives,
seemed hardly to hear
him.
"Logic or not-logic," Gibson
said. "If it's a Terran artifact,
we can discover the reason for
its presence. If not—"
" Any problem posed by one
group of human beings ," Stryker
quoted his Handbook, " can be
resolved by any other group, regardless
of ideology or conditioning,
because the basic
perceptive abilities of both must
be the same through identical
heredity ."
"If it's an imitation, and this
is another Hymenop experiment
in condition ecology, then we're
stumped to begin with," Gibson
finished. "Because we're not
equipped to evaluate the psychology
of alien motivation. We've
got to determine first which case
applies here."
He waited for Farrell's expected
irony, and when the
navigator forestalled him by remaining
grimly quiet, continued.
"The obvious premise is that
a Terran ship must have been
built by Terrans. Question: Was
it flown here, or built here?"
"It couldn't have been built
here," Stryker said. "Alphard
Six was surveyed just before the
Bees took over in 3025, and there
was nothing of the sort here
then. It couldn't have been built
during the two and a quarter
centuries since; it's obviously
much older than that. It was
flown here."
"We progress," Farrell said
dryly. "Now if you'll tell us how ,
we're ready to move."
"I think the ship was built on
Terra during the Twenty-second
Century," Gibson said calmly.
"The atomic wars during that
period destroyed practically all
historical records along with the
technology of the time, but I've
read well-authenticated reports
of atomic-driven ships leaving
Terra before then for the nearer
stars. The human race climbed
out of its pit again during the
Twenty-third Century and developed
the technology that gave
us the Ringwave. Certainly no
atomic-powered ships were built
after the wars—our records are
complete from that time."
Farrell shook his head at the
inference. "I've read any number
of fanciful romances on the
theme, Gib, but it won't stand
up in practice. No shipboard society
could last through a thousand-year
space voyage. It's a
physical and psychological impossibility.
There's got to be
some other explanation."
Gibson shrugged. "We can
only eliminate the least likely
alternatives and accept the simplest
one remaining."
"Then we can eliminate this
one now," Farrell said flatly. "It
entails a thousand-year voyage,
which is an impossibility for any
gross reaction drive; the application
of suspended animation
or longevity or a successive-generation
program, and a final
penetration of Hymenop-occupied
space to set up a colony under
the very antennae of the
Bees. Longevity wasn't developed
until around the year 3000—Lee
here was one of the first to
profit by it, if you remember—and
suspended animation is still
to come. So there's one theory
you can forget."
"Arthur's right," Stryker said
reluctantly. "An atomic-powered
ship couldn't have made such a
trip, Gib. And such a lineal-descendant
project couldn't have
lasted through forty generations,
speculative fiction to the
contrary—the later generations
would have been too far removed
in ideology and intent from
their ancestors. They'd have
adapted to shipboard life as the
norm. They'd have atrophied
physically, perhaps even have
mutated—"
"And they'd never have
fought past the Bees during the
Hymenop invasion and occupation,"
Farrell finished triumphantly.
"The Bees had better
detection equipment than we
had. They'd have picked this
ship up long before it reached
Alphard Six."
"But the ship wasn't here in
3000," Gibson said, "and it is
now. Therefore it must have arrived
at some time during the
two hundred years of Hymenop
occupation and evacuation."
Farrell, tangled in contradictions,
swore bitterly. "But
why should the Bees let them
through? The three domes on
Five are over two hundred years
old, which means that the Bees
were here before the ship came.
Why didn't they blast it or enslave
its crew?"
"We haven't touched on all the
possibilities," Gibson reminded
him. "We haven't even established
yet that these people were
never under Hymenop control.
Precedent won't hold always, and
there's no predicting nor evaluating
the motives of an alien
race. We never understood the
Hymenops because there's no
common ground of logic between
us. Why try to interpret their
intentions now?"
Farrell threw up his hands in
disgust. "Next you'll say this is
an ancient Terran expedition
that actually succeeded! There's
only one way to answer the
questions we've raised, and
that's to go down and see for
ourselves. Ready, Xav?"
But uncertainty nagged uneasily
at him when Farrell found
himself alone in the helihopper
with the forest flowing beneath
like a leafy river and Xavier's
scouter disappearing bulletlike
into the dusk ahead.
We never found a colony so
advanced, Farrell thought. Suppose
this is a Hymenop experiment
that really paid off? The
Bees did some weird and wonderful
things with human
guinea pigs—what if they've
created the ultimate booby trap
here, and primed it with conditioned
myrmidons in our own
form?
Suppose, he thought—and derided
himself for thinking it—one
of those suicidal old interstellar
ventures did succeed?
Xavier's voice, a mellow
drone from the helihopper's
Ringwave-powered visicom, cut
sharply into his musing. "The
ship has discovered the scouter
and is training an electronic
beam upon it. My instruments
record an electromagnetic vibration
pattern of low power but
rapidly varying frequency. The
operation seems pointless."
Stryker's voice followed, querulous
with worry: "I'd better
pull Xav back. It may be something
lethal."
"Don't," Gibson's baritone advised.
Surprisingly, there was
excitement in the engineer's
voice. "I think they're trying to
communicate with us."
Farrell was on the point of
demanding acidly to know how
one went about communicating
by means of a fluctuating electric
field when the unexpected
cessation of forest diverted his
attention. The helihopper scudded
over a cultivated area
of considerable extent, fields
stretching below in a vague random
checkerboard of lighter and
darker earth, an undefined cluster
of buildings at their center.
There was a central bonfire that
burned like a wild red eye
against the lower gloom, and in
its plunging ruddy glow he made
out an urgent scurrying of shadowy
figures.
"I'm passing over a hamlet,"
Farrell reported. "The one nearest
the city, I think. There's
something odd going on
down—"
Catastrophe struck so suddenly
that he was caught completely
unprepared. The helihopper's
flimsy carriage bucked and
crumpled. There was a blinding
flare of electric discharge, a
pungent stink of ozone and a
stunning shock that flung him
headlong into darkness.
He awoke slowly with a brutal
headache and a conviction of
nightmare heightened by the
outlandish tone of his surroundings.
He lay on a narrow bed in
a whitely antiseptic infirmary,
an oblong metal cell cluttered
with a grimly utilitarian array
of tables and lockers and chests.
The lighting was harsh and
overbright and the air hung
thick with pungent unfamiliar
chemical odors. From somewhere,
far off yet at the same
time as near as the bulkhead
above him, came the unceasing
drone of machinery.
Farrell sat up, groaning,
when full consciousness made his
position clear. He had been shot
down by God knew what sort of
devastating unorthodox weapon
and was a prisoner in the
grounded ship.
At his rising, a white-smocked
fat man with anachronistic spectacles
and close-cropped gray
hair came into the room, moving
with the professional assurance
of a medic. The man stopped
short at Farrell's stare and
spoke; his words were utterly
unintelligible, but his gesture
was unmistakable.
Farrell followed him dumbly
out of the infirmary and down
a bare corridor whose metal
floor rang coldly underfoot. An
open port near the corridor's end
relieved the blankness of wall
and let in a flood of reddish Alphardian
sunlight; Farrell slowed
to look out, wondering how
long he had lain unconscious,
and felt panic knife at him
when he saw Xavier's scouter lying,
port open and undefended,
on the square outside.
The mechanical had been as
easily taken as himself, then.
Stryker and Gibson, for all their
professional caution, would fare
no better—they could not have
overlooked the capture of Farrell
and Xavier, and when they
tried as a matter of course to
rescue them the Marco would be
struck down in turn by the same
weapon.
The fat medic turned and
said something urgent in his
unintelligible tongue. Farrell,
dazed by the enormity of what
had happened, followed without
protest into an intersecting way
that led through a bewildering
succession of storage rooms and
hydroponics gardens, through a
small gymnasium fitted with
physical training equipment in
graduated sizes and finally into
a soundproofed place that could
have been nothing but a nursery.
The implication behind its
presence stopped Farrell short.
"A creche ," he said, stunned.
He had a wild vision of endless
generations of children growing
up in this dim and stuffy room,
to be taught from their first
toddling steps the functions they
must fulfill before the venture
of which they were a part could
be consummated.
One of those old ventures had succeeded, he thought, and was
awed by the daring of that thousand-year
odyssey. The realization
left him more alarmed than
before—for what technical marvels
might not an isolated group
of such dogged specialists have
developed during a millennium
of application?
Such a weapon as had brought
down the helihopper and scouter
was patently beyond reach of his
own latter-day technology. Perhaps,
he thought, its possession
explained the presence of these
people here in the first stronghold
of the Hymenops; perhaps
they had even fought and defeated
the Bees on their own invaded
ground.
He followed his white-smocked
guide through a power room
where great crude generators
whirred ponderously, pouring
out gross electric current into
arm-thick cables. They were
nearing the bow of the ship
when they passed by another
open port and Farrell, glancing
out over the lowered rampway,
saw that his fears for Stryker
and Gibson had been well
grounded.
The Marco Four , ports open,
lay grounded outside.
Farrell could not have said,
later, whether his next move
was planned or reflexive. The
whole desperate issue seemed to
hang suspended for a breathless
moment upon a hair-fine edge of
decision, and in that instant he
made his bid.
Without pausing in his stride
he sprang out and through the
port and down the steep plane
of the ramp. The rough stone
pavement of the square drummed
underfoot; sore muscles
tore at him, and weakness was
like a weight about his neck. He
expected momentarily to be
blasted out of existence.
He reached the Marco Four with the startled shouts of his
guide ringing unintelligibly in
his ears. The port yawned; he
plunged inside and stabbed at
controls without waiting to seat
himself. The ports swung shut.
The ship darted up under his
manipulation and arrowed into
space with an acceleration that
sprung his knees and made his
vision swim blackly.
He was so weak with strain
and with the success of his coup
that he all but fainted when
Stryker, his scanty hair tousled
and his fat face comical with bewilderment,
stumbled out of his
sleeping cubicle and bellowed at
him.
"What the hell are you doing,
Arthur? Take us down!"
Farrell gaped at him, speechless.
Stryker lumbered past him
and took the controls, spiraling
the Marco Four down. Men
swarmed outside the ports when
the Reclamations craft settled
gently to the square again. Gibson
and Xavier reached the ship
first; Gibson came inside quickly,
leaving the mechanical outside
making patient explanations
to an excited group of Alphardians.
Gibson put a reassuring hand
on Farrell's arm. "It's all right,
Arthur. There's no trouble."
Farrell said dumbly, "I don't
understand. They didn't shoot
you and Xav down too?"
It was Gibson's turn to stare.
"No one shot you down! These
people are primitive enough to
use metallic power lines to
carry electricity to their hamlets,
an anachronism you forgot
last night. You piloted the helihopper
into one of those lines,
and the crash put you out for
the rest of the night and most
of today. These Alphardians are
friendly, so desperately happy to
be found again that it's really
pathetic."
" Friendly? That torpedo—"
"It wasn't a torpedo at all,"
Stryker put in. Understanding
of the error under which Farrell
had labored erased his
earlier irritation, and he chuckled
commiseratingly. "They had
one small boat left for emergency
missions, and sent it up to
contact us in the fear that we
might overlook their settlement
and move on. The boat was
atomic powered, and our shield
screens set off its engines."
Farrell dropped into a chair at
the chart table, limp with reaction.
He was suddenly exhausted,
and his head ached dully.
"We cracked the communications
problem early last night,"
Gibson said. "These people use
an ancient system of electromagnetic
wave propagation called
frequency modulation, and once
Lee and I rigged up a suitable
transceiver the rest was simple.
Both Xav and I recognized the
old language; the natives reported
your accident, and we came
down at once."
"They really came from Terra?
They lived through a thousand
years of flight?"
"The ship left Terra for
Sirius in 2171," Gibson said.
"But not with these people
aboard, or their ancestors. That
expedition perished after less
than a light-year when its
hydroponics system failed. The
Hymenops found the ship derelict
when they invaded us, and
brought it to Alphard Six in
what was probably their first experiment
with human subjects.
The ship's log shows clearly
what happened to the original
complement. The rest is deducible
from the situation here."
Farrell put his hands to his
temples and groaned. "The crash
must have scrambled my wits.
Gib, where did they come from?"
"From one of the first peripheral
colonies conquered by the
Bees," Gibson said patiently.
"The Hymenops were long-range
planners, remember, and masters
of hypnotic conditioning. They
stocked the ship with a captive
crew of Terrans conditioned to
believe themselves descendants
of the original crew, and
grounded it here in disabled
condition. They left for Alphard
Five then, to watch developments.
"Succeeding generations of
colonists grew up accepting the
fact that their ship had missed
Sirius and made planetfall here—they
still don't know where
they really are—by luck. They
never knew about the Hymenops,
and they've struggled along
with an inadequate technology in
the hope that a later expedition
would find them. They found the
truth hard to take, but they're
eager to enjoy the fruits of Terran
assimilation."
Stryker, grinning, brought
Farrell a frosted drink that tinkled
invitingly. "An unusually
fortunate ending to a Hymenop
experiment," he said. "These
people progressed normally because
they've been let alone. Reorienting
them will be a simple
matter; they'll be properly spoiled
colonists within another generation."
Farrell sipped his drink appreciatively.
"But I don't see why the Bees
should go to such trouble to deceive
these people. Why did they
sit back and let them grow as
they pleased, Gib? It doesn't
make sense!"
"But it does, for once," Gibson
said. "The Bees set up this
colony as a control unit to study
the species they were invading,
and they had to give their
specimens a normal—if obsolete—background
in order to determine
their capabilities. The fact
that their experiment didn't tell
them what they wanted to know
may have had a direct bearing
on their decision to pull out."
Farrell shook his head. "It's
a reverse application, isn't it of
the old saw about Terrans being
incapable of understanding an
alien culture?"
"Of course," said Gibson, surprised.
"It's obvious enough,
surely—hard as they tried, the
Bees never understood us
either."
THE END
Question:
What is the plot of the story?
Answer:
|
[
"The story is set in the fourth millennium, and humans have invented a technology - the Ringwave propulsion-communication principle - that allows them to explore the neighboring cosmic systems. In the past, they were invaded by an alien species called Hymenops, or the Bees, who enslaved Terrans, and tried to colonize other planets but unexpectedly left years later. The crew members of the spaceship Marco Four are on a mission looking for the slave colonies that were abandoned by the Bees. Farrell, the navigator, is arguing with captain Stryker, Gibson - an engineer - and Xavier, the ship’s mechanic, and is trying to convince them to land on Alphard Six and claiming the planet is not inhabited. Stryker reminds him about the importance of vigilance on unexplored territories and tells Farrell to find a reconnaissance spiral. Something resembling an atomic torpedo explodes near the ship, rocking it. Later, the crew starts discussing who can possibly live on Alphard Six. They know that in the year 3000, there was no one on the planet. The ones who attacked them might be the Hymenopes or some Terrans enslaved by them, or even an unknown alien culture. The screen shows a town with a thousand buildings and a prehistoric ship with rocket propulsion. This ship seems to be eleven hundred years old, which is puzzling. This atomic-powered spaceship neither could’ve been constructed here nor could it have successfully traveled for hundreds of years. The area around Alphard Six was guarded by the Bees for several hundred years. So, it would be impossible for this ancient Terran ship to land on the planet without being detected by them. Farrell interrupts the discussion and suggests they go down and look. He gets on a helihopper, and Xavier quickly disappears in his scouter. The two other crew members left on the ship say that they just detected an electromagnetic vibration. Farrell notices a bonfire near the town. He is ready to report it when his helihopper suddenly jerks, a flare of electric discharge blinds him, and Farrell loses consciousness. He wakes up in an infirmary. A doctor speaks in unintelligible words and gestures to Farrell to follow him. While walking through the corridors of the ancient ship, he notices Xavier’s scouter, and later the Marco Four. Shocked, Farrell rapidly plunges inside the spaceship, and it darts up when suddenly Stryker appears from the sleeping cubicle and orders him to fly back. Gibson explains that Farrell piloted his helihopper into power lines and crashed. The Alphardians tried to communicate with the crew using an electromagnetic wave language and never attacked them. The Bees made the ancestors of these people believe that they were the descendants of an Earth expedition that perished a thousand years ago. The Alphardians don’t even know the Hymenops. Apparently, the Bees wanted to monitor the human species in a natural habitat. But they never understood human logic and after all, left all their colonies. ",
"Navigator Arthur Farrell is considered the youngest and most impulsive of the three-man Terran Reclamations crew. The crew has gone to the Alphard Six, which has a cool green disk. The other members of the crew are Stryker, Gibson, and Xavier. Stryker berates Farrell and begins citing the Reclamations Handbook about the rules regarding unreclaimed worlds. Farrell argues that it was never colonized, while Gibson looks up from his chess game and says there is no point in taking a chance of not encountering any of the Hymenops. Farrell says that they will never see a Hymenop, but Stryker says that he fought them for the better half of the century and still does not understand how they behave. They decide to find a reconnaissance spiral, despite Farrell grumbling. They examine whether anything is damaged on the Marco Four, after an explosion, and find that the only component that requires fixing is the Zero Transfer computer. Gibson explains that they cannot be Hymenops since the Bees put their faith in Ringwave energy fields. Although Stryker proposes colonists migrating from somewhere else, Gibson explains that it is impossible for the human slaves of the Hymenops to develop interstellar travel in four generations. Farrell volunteers to go down for the field work; Xavier announces that the planet is uninhabited except for a large island. There is a central city with a thousand buildings, and Farrell is relieved they are human. The power the people use runs on continuous fission, which surprises everyone. It is quite surprising for the crew to see an eleven-hundred year old Terran ship land on the planet. Stryker explains to Farrell that it had to be flown here because there are no materials on Alphard Six to create it. Gibson believes that the ship was built during the Twenty-second century, even though the atomic wars destroyed all historical records. Farrell decides that the only way is to go down and see for themselves. Xavier picks up an electromagnetic vibration pattern, and Farrell reports that he is passing over a hamlet nearest to the city. Suddenly, he is hit by an electric discharge and wakes up in an infirmary. A man comes and takes him out, despite speaking a different language, and he realizes that one of the old ventures had actually succeeded. He sees that the Marco Four has been grounded too and runs to the ship before pushing some controls to take off again. Stryker brings the ship down again, and Farrell is shocked because he thought they were shot down. It turns out that the Alphardians had been trying to send a distress signal. Gibson further explains that they had come from one of the first Bee colonies and were led to believe that their ship missed Sirius; however, the colonists are excited to enjoy assimilation. Although the Bees tried to set up the experiment to understand humans, the invaders failed at truly understanding them. ",
"This story follows a Terran Reclamations crew aboard the Marco Four as they search for Terran colonies previously enslaved and since abandoned by the Bees. As they travel around, a sudden atomic fire hits the ship and the crew hurry to figure out where it had come from and who potentially caused it. Debating between Hymenops, resurgent colonists, trans-Alphardians, or even a joint hallucination, the crew decide to investigate further. Xavier, the mechanical, surveys the planet and finds the landscape to be Terran, though with primitive technology at best. These findings leave them more confused than before, as they then debate how an eleven hundred years old ship could be there. \n\nDeciding then to investigate first-hand and see, Farrell goes into the helihopper and enters the colony. Just as Gibson encourages to go forward as it seems like the colony is communicating with them, Farrell crashes into an electrical line and falls unconscious. As he wakes up, Farrell is met by an unfamiliar medic and follows him out to a well-formed colony, marvelling at the presumed success of old ventures. However, he panics when he sees the Marco Four grounded and presumes his crewmates are in danger, and so he hurriedly rushes onboard and puts it in flight. Stryker stumbles out and takes them back down as Gibson quickly explains to Farrell the situation. It turns out that there is no danger at hand - the crash that landed Farrell unconscious was just an electrical line for the colony's hamlets. The colony, the Alphardians, are friendly and excited to be found. Although using Terran architecture and technology, these Alphardians were experimental human subjects by the Hymenops and observed by the Bees. The Bees chose to abandon their control colony when the Alphardians didn't show much - much like the old tale of Terrans not understanding alien culture either. In the end, the Alphardians are excited to assimilate into Terran colonists. ",
"A Terran Reclamation crew arrives Alphard Six to find Terran colonies enslaved and abandoned by the Bees, or Hymenops, an alien species who retreated a hundred years ago. When the youngest navigator, Farrell, attempts to planetfall without scouting the planet, the captain, Stryker, reminds him of the possible danger of the planet and the necessity of reconnaissance. After arguing with other crew members, Farrell finally accepts to scout the unobserved world first. However, they are suddenly attacked by a thing rising from the land below. After the examination, Gibson, the engineer, announces that the only damage is Zero Interval Transfer Computer, used to operate the Transfer jump in space. The repairing time takes a couple of hours. Stryker worries about the possible attack during the repairing time, so they dispute the potential situation of the planet, and none of the hypotheses, such as the Hymenops’ colorizations, Earthmen’s ancient colonization, or the resurgent Terran colonization, hold based on technological development. Stryker concludes that they have to investigate the land themselves. Farrell volunteers to be the one. They see the ground through magnoscanner, finding a damaged spaceship that served as a power supply with the prehistoric technology, namely atomic fission. According to Gibson, the atomic-powered ship was no longer built after the atomic wars in the twenty-second century; the damaged ship must either be flown or be built on the planet. His hypothesis is rejected by Stryker and Farrell based on the impossibility of the long-range travel capability of the atomic-powered spaceship. They continue their endless debate until Farrell takes the helihopper to investigate. Xavier, the mechanic, uses his drone to scout ahead of Farrell, but soon the scouter is detected by the people on the planet. They try to communicate with them with the electron beam. When Farrell reaches the end of the forest, entering the fields, he is suddenly struck and passes out. When he wakes up, he is in an infirmary; an anachronistic man comes in. He talks and gestures unintelligibly, but Farrell follows him out, seeing Xavier’s scouter with port open. When Farrell follows the man, he sees Marco Four landed with the port open. Held by the guess that these people may possess higher technology and capture all of them, Farrell rushes into Marco Four, closes the port, and rises. Stryker appears and comes to him with bewilderment, driving the spaceship to land again. It is later explained that Hymenops take these people as the experimental object. The damaged ship was an expedition ship, which failed its duty. Hymenops found its derelict during their invasion and colonization of Terran planets. They put these people on the planet, made them believe that their ancestors were the crewmembers of the damaged ship, and conducted this experiment as a control group, compared to other experiments on other planets."
] |
24949
|
"Any problem posed by one group of
human beings can be resolved by any
other group." That's what the Handbook
said. But did that include primitive
humans? Or the Bees? Or a ...
CONTROL GROUP
By ROGER DEE
The
cool green disk of Alphard
Six on the screen was
infinitely welcome after the arid
desolation and stinking swamplands
of the inner planets, an
airy jewel of a world that might
have been designed specifically
for the hard-earned month of
rest ahead. Navigator Farrell,
youngest and certainly most impulsive
of the three-man Terran
Reclamations crew, would have
set the Marco Four down at
once but for the greater caution
of Stryker, nominally captain of
the group, and of Gibson, engineer,
and linguist. Xavier, the
ship's little mechanical, had—as
was usual and proper—no voice
in the matter.
"Reconnaissance spiral first,
Arthur," Stryker said firmly. He
chuckled at Farrell's instant
scowl, his little eyes twinkling
and his naked paunch quaking
over the belt of his shipboard
shorts. "Chapter One, Subsection
Five, Paragraph Twenty-seven: No planetfall on an unreclaimed
world shall be deemed
safe without proper— "
Farrell, as Stryker had expected,
interrupted with characteristic
impatience. "Do you sleep with that damned Reclamations
Handbook, Lee? Alphard Six
isn't an unreclaimed world—it
was never colonized before the
Hymenop invasion back in 3025,
so why should it be inhabited
now?"
Gibson, who for four hours
had not looked up from his interminable
chess game with
Xavier, paused with a beleaguered
knight in one blunt brown
hand.
"No point in taking chances,"
Gibson said in his neutral baritone.
He shrugged thick bare
shoulders, his humorless black-browed
face unmoved, when
Farrell included him in his
scowl. "We're two hundred twenty-six
light-years from Sol, at
the old limits of Terran expansion,
and there's no knowing
what we may turn up here. Alphard's
was one of the first systems
the Bees took over. It must
have been one of the last to be
abandoned when they pulled back
to 70 Ophiuchi."
"And I think you live for the
day," Farrell said acidly, "when
we'll stumble across a functioning
dome of live, buzzing Hymenops.
Damn it, Gib, the Bees
pulled out a hundred years ago,
before you and I were born—neither
of us ever saw a Hymenop,
and never will!"
"But I saw them," Stryker
said. "I fought them for the better
part of the century they were
here, and I learned there's no
predicting nor understanding
them. We never knew why they
came nor why they gave up and
left. How can we know whether
they'd leave a rear-guard or
booby trap here?"
He put a paternal hand on
Farrell's shoulder, understanding
the younger man's eagerness
and knowing that their close-knit
team would have been the
more poorly balanced without it.
"Gib's right," he said. He
nearly added as usual . "We're on
rest leave at the moment, yes,
but our mission is still to find
Terran colonies enslaved and
abandoned by the Bees, not to
risk our necks and a valuable
Reorientations ship by landing
blind on an unobserved planet.
We're too close already. Cut in
your shields and find a reconnaissance
spiral, will you?"
Grumbling, Farrell punched
coordinates on the Ringwave
board that lifted the Marco Four out of her descent and restored
the bluish enveloping haze of
her repellors.
Stryker's caution was justified
on the instant. The speeding
streamlined shape that had flashed
up unobserved from below
swerved sharply and exploded in
a cataclysmic blaze of atomic
fire that rocked the ship wildly
and flung the three men to the
floor in a jangling roar of
alarms.
"So the Handbook tacticians
knew what they were about,"
Stryker said minutes later. Deliberately
he adopted the smug
tone best calculated to sting Farrell
out of his first self-reproach,
and grinned when the navigator
bristled defensively. "Some of
their enjoinders seem a little
stuffy and obvious at times, but
they're eminently sensible."
When Farrell refused to be
baited Stryker turned to Gibson,
who was busily assessing the
damage done to the ship's more
fragile equipment, and to Xavier,
who searched the planet's
surface with the ship's magnoscanner.
The Marco Four , Ringwave
generators humming gently,
hung at the moment just
inside the orbit of Alphard Six's
single dun-colored moon.
Gibson put down a test meter
with an air of finality.
"Nothing damaged but the
Zero Interval Transfer computer.
I can realign that in a couple
of hours, but it'll have to be
done before we hit Transfer
again."
Stryker looked dubious.
"What if the issue is forced before
the ZIT unit is repaired?
Suppose they come up after us?"
"I doubt that they can. Any
installation crudely enough
equipped to trust in guided missiles
is hardly likely to have developed
efficient space craft."
Stryker was not reassured.
"That torpedo of theirs was
deadly enough," he said. "And
its nature reflects the nature of
the people who made it. Any race
vicious enough to use atomic
charges is too dangerous to
trifle with." Worry made comical
creases in his fat, good-humored
face. "We'll have to find
out who they are and why
they're here, you know."
"They can't be Hymenops,"
Gibson said promptly. "First,
because the Bees pinned their
faith on Ringwave energy fields,
as we did, rather than on missiles.
Second, because there's no
dome on Six."
"There were three empty
domes on Five, which is a desert
planet," Farrell pointed out.
"Why didn't they settle Six? It's
a more habitable world."
Gibson shrugged. "I know the
Bees always erected domes on
every planet they colonized, Arthur,
but precedent is a fallible
tool. And it's even more firmly
established that there's no possibility
of our rationalizing the
motivations of a culture as alien
as the Hymenops'—we've been
over that argument a hundred
times on other reclaimed
worlds."
"But this was never an unreclaimed
world," Farrell said
with the faint malice of one too
recently caught in the wrong.
"Alphard Six was surveyed and
seeded with Terran bacteria
around the year 3000, but the
Bees invaded before we could
colonize. And that means we'll
have to rule out any resurgent
colonial group down there, because
Six never had a colony in
the beginning."
"The Bees have been gone for
over a hundred years," Stryker
said. "Colonists might have migrated
from another Terran-occupied
planet."
Gibson disagreed.
"We've touched at every inhabited
world in this sector, Lee,
and not one surviving colony has
developed space travel on its
own. The Hymenops had a hundred
years to condition their human
slaves to ignorance of
everything beyond their immediate
environment—the motives
behind that conditioning usually
escape us, but that's beside the
point—and they did a thorough
job of it. The colonists have had
no more than a century of freedom
since the Bees pulled out,
and four generations simply
isn't enough time for any subjugated
culture to climb from
slavery to interstellar flight."
Stryker made a padding turn
about the control room, tugging
unhappily at the scanty fringe
of hair the years had left him.
"If they're neither Hymenops
nor resurgent colonists," he said,
"then there's only one choice remaining—they're
aliens from a
system we haven't reached yet,
beyond the old sphere of Terran
exploration. We always assumed
that we'd find other races out
here someday, and that they'd
be as different from us in form
and motivation as the Hymenops.
Why not now?"
Gibson said seriously, "Not
probable, Lee. The same objection
that rules out the Bees applies
to any trans-Alphardian
culture—they'd have to be beyond
the atomic fission stage,
else they'd never have attempted
interstellar flight. The Ringwave
with its Zero Interval Transfer
principle and instantaneous communications
applications is the
only answer to long-range travel,
and if they'd had that they
wouldn't have bothered with
atomics."
Stryker turned on him almost
angrily. "If they're not Hymenops
or humans or aliens, then
what in God's name are they?"
"Aye, there's the rub," Farrell
said, quoting a passage
whose aptness had somehow seen
it through a dozen reorganizations
of insular tongue and a
final translation to universal
Terran. "If they're none of those
three, we've only one conclusion
left. There's no one down there
at all—we're victims of the first
joint hallucination in psychiatric
history."
Stryker threw up his hands in
surrender. "We can't identify
them by theorizing, and that
brings us down to the business
of first-hand investigation.
Who's going to bell the cat this
time?"
"I'd like to go," Gibson said
at once. "The ZIT computer can
wait."
Stryker vetoed his offer as
promptly. "No, the ZIT comes
first. We may have to run for it,
and we can't set up a Transfer
jump without the computer. It's
got to be me or Arthur."
Farrell felt the familiar chill
of uneasiness that inevitably
preceded this moment of decision.
He was not lacking in courage,
else the circumstances under
which he had worked for the
past ten years—the sometimes
perilous, sometimes downright
charnel conditions left by the
fleeing Hymenop conquerors—would
have broken him long
ago. But that same hard experience
had honed rather than
blunted the edge of his imagination,
and the prospect of a close-quarters
stalking of an unknown
and patently hostile force was
anything but attractive.
"You two did the field work
on the last location," he said.
"It's high time I took my turn—and
God knows I'd go mad if
I had to stay inship and listen
to Lee memorizing his Handbook
subsections or to Gib practicing
dead languages with Xavier."
Stryker laughed for the first
time since the explosion that
had so nearly wrecked the Marco
Four .
"Good enough. Though it
wouldn't be more diverting to
listen for hours to you improvising
enharmonic variations on
the Lament for Old Terra with
your accordion."
Gibson, characteristically, had
a refinement to offer.
"They'll be alerted down there
for a reconnaissance sally," he
said. "Why not let Xavier take
the scouter down for overt diversion,
and drop Arthur off in
the helihopper for a low-level
check?"
Stryker looked at Farrell. "All
right, Arthur?"
"Good enough," Farrell said.
And to Xavier, who had not
moved from his post at the magnoscanner:
"How does it look,
Xav? Have you pinned down
their base yet?"
The mechanical answered him
in a voice as smooth and clear—and
as inflectionless—as a 'cello
note. "The planet seems uninhabited
except for a large island
some three hundred miles in
diameter. There are twenty-seven
small agrarian hamlets surrounded
by cultivated fields.
There is one city of perhaps a
thousand buildings with a central
square. In the square rests
a grounded spaceship of approximately
ten times the bulk
of the Marco Four ."
They crowded about the vision
screen, jostling Xavier's jointed
gray shape in their interest. The
central city lay in minutest detail
before them, the battered
hulk of the grounded ship glinting
rustily in the late afternoon
sunlight. Streets radiated away
from the square in orderly succession,
the whole so clearly
depicted that they could see the
throngs of people surging up
and down, tiny foreshortened
faces turned toward the sky.
"At least they're human,"
Farrell said. Relief replaced in
some measure his earlier uneasiness.
"Which means that they're
Terran, and can be dealt with
according to Reclamations routine.
Is that hulk spaceworthy,
Xav?"
Xavier's mellow drone assumed
the convention vibrato that
indicated stark puzzlement. "Its
breached hull makes the ship incapable
of flight. Apparently it
is used only to supply power to
the outlying hamlets."
The mechanical put a flexible
gray finger upon an indicator
graph derived from a composite
section of detector meters. "The
power transmitted seems to be
gross electric current conveyed
by metallic cables. It is generated
through a crudely governed
process of continuous atomic
fission."
Farrell, himself appalled by
the information, still found himself
able to chuckle at Stryker's
bellow of consternation.
" Continuous fission? Good
God, only madmen would deliberately
run a risk like that!"
Farrell prodded him with
cheerful malice. "Why say mad men ? Maybe they're humanoid
aliens who thrive on hard radiation
and look on the danger of
being blown to hell in the middle
of the night as a satisfactory
risk."
"They're not alien," Gibson
said positively. "Their architecture
is Terran, and so is their
ship. The ship is incredibly
primitive, though; those batteries
of tubes at either end—"
"Are thrust reaction jets,"
Stryker finished in an awed
voice. "Primitive isn't the word,
Gib—the thing is prehistoric!
Rocket propulsion hasn't been
used in spacecraft since—how
long, Xav?"
Xavier supplied the information
with mechanical infallibility.
"Since the year 2100 when
the Ringwave propulsion-communication
principle was discovered.
That principle has served
men since."
Farrell stared in blank disbelief
at the anomalous craft on
the screen. Primitive, as Stryker
had said, was not the word
for it: clumsily ovoid, studded
with torpedo domes and turrets
and bristling at either end with
propulsion tubes, it lay at the
center of its square like a rusted
relic of a past largely destroyed
and all but forgotten. What a
magnificent disregard its builders
must have had, he thought,
for their lives and the genetic
purity of their posterity! The
sullen atomic fires banked in
that oxidizing hulk—
Stryker said plaintively, "If
you're right, Gib, then we're
more in the dark than ever. How
could a Terran-built ship eleven
hundred years old get here ?"
Gibson, absorbed in his chess-player's
contemplation of alternatives,
seemed hardly to hear
him.
"Logic or not-logic," Gibson
said. "If it's a Terran artifact,
we can discover the reason for
its presence. If not—"
" Any problem posed by one
group of human beings ," Stryker
quoted his Handbook, " can be
resolved by any other group, regardless
of ideology or conditioning,
because the basic
perceptive abilities of both must
be the same through identical
heredity ."
"If it's an imitation, and this
is another Hymenop experiment
in condition ecology, then we're
stumped to begin with," Gibson
finished. "Because we're not
equipped to evaluate the psychology
of alien motivation. We've
got to determine first which case
applies here."
He waited for Farrell's expected
irony, and when the
navigator forestalled him by remaining
grimly quiet, continued.
"The obvious premise is that
a Terran ship must have been
built by Terrans. Question: Was
it flown here, or built here?"
"It couldn't have been built
here," Stryker said. "Alphard
Six was surveyed just before the
Bees took over in 3025, and there
was nothing of the sort here
then. It couldn't have been built
during the two and a quarter
centuries since; it's obviously
much older than that. It was
flown here."
"We progress," Farrell said
dryly. "Now if you'll tell us how ,
we're ready to move."
"I think the ship was built on
Terra during the Twenty-second
Century," Gibson said calmly.
"The atomic wars during that
period destroyed practically all
historical records along with the
technology of the time, but I've
read well-authenticated reports
of atomic-driven ships leaving
Terra before then for the nearer
stars. The human race climbed
out of its pit again during the
Twenty-third Century and developed
the technology that gave
us the Ringwave. Certainly no
atomic-powered ships were built
after the wars—our records are
complete from that time."
Farrell shook his head at the
inference. "I've read any number
of fanciful romances on the
theme, Gib, but it won't stand
up in practice. No shipboard society
could last through a thousand-year
space voyage. It's a
physical and psychological impossibility.
There's got to be
some other explanation."
Gibson shrugged. "We can
only eliminate the least likely
alternatives and accept the simplest
one remaining."
"Then we can eliminate this
one now," Farrell said flatly. "It
entails a thousand-year voyage,
which is an impossibility for any
gross reaction drive; the application
of suspended animation
or longevity or a successive-generation
program, and a final
penetration of Hymenop-occupied
space to set up a colony under
the very antennae of the
Bees. Longevity wasn't developed
until around the year 3000—Lee
here was one of the first to
profit by it, if you remember—and
suspended animation is still
to come. So there's one theory
you can forget."
"Arthur's right," Stryker said
reluctantly. "An atomic-powered
ship couldn't have made such a
trip, Gib. And such a lineal-descendant
project couldn't have
lasted through forty generations,
speculative fiction to the
contrary—the later generations
would have been too far removed
in ideology and intent from
their ancestors. They'd have
adapted to shipboard life as the
norm. They'd have atrophied
physically, perhaps even have
mutated—"
"And they'd never have
fought past the Bees during the
Hymenop invasion and occupation,"
Farrell finished triumphantly.
"The Bees had better
detection equipment than we
had. They'd have picked this
ship up long before it reached
Alphard Six."
"But the ship wasn't here in
3000," Gibson said, "and it is
now. Therefore it must have arrived
at some time during the
two hundred years of Hymenop
occupation and evacuation."
Farrell, tangled in contradictions,
swore bitterly. "But
why should the Bees let them
through? The three domes on
Five are over two hundred years
old, which means that the Bees
were here before the ship came.
Why didn't they blast it or enslave
its crew?"
"We haven't touched on all the
possibilities," Gibson reminded
him. "We haven't even established
yet that these people were
never under Hymenop control.
Precedent won't hold always, and
there's no predicting nor evaluating
the motives of an alien
race. We never understood the
Hymenops because there's no
common ground of logic between
us. Why try to interpret their
intentions now?"
Farrell threw up his hands in
disgust. "Next you'll say this is
an ancient Terran expedition
that actually succeeded! There's
only one way to answer the
questions we've raised, and
that's to go down and see for
ourselves. Ready, Xav?"
But uncertainty nagged uneasily
at him when Farrell found
himself alone in the helihopper
with the forest flowing beneath
like a leafy river and Xavier's
scouter disappearing bulletlike
into the dusk ahead.
We never found a colony so
advanced, Farrell thought. Suppose
this is a Hymenop experiment
that really paid off? The
Bees did some weird and wonderful
things with human
guinea pigs—what if they've
created the ultimate booby trap
here, and primed it with conditioned
myrmidons in our own
form?
Suppose, he thought—and derided
himself for thinking it—one
of those suicidal old interstellar
ventures did succeed?
Xavier's voice, a mellow
drone from the helihopper's
Ringwave-powered visicom, cut
sharply into his musing. "The
ship has discovered the scouter
and is training an electronic
beam upon it. My instruments
record an electromagnetic vibration
pattern of low power but
rapidly varying frequency. The
operation seems pointless."
Stryker's voice followed, querulous
with worry: "I'd better
pull Xav back. It may be something
lethal."
"Don't," Gibson's baritone advised.
Surprisingly, there was
excitement in the engineer's
voice. "I think they're trying to
communicate with us."
Farrell was on the point of
demanding acidly to know how
one went about communicating
by means of a fluctuating electric
field when the unexpected
cessation of forest diverted his
attention. The helihopper scudded
over a cultivated area
of considerable extent, fields
stretching below in a vague random
checkerboard of lighter and
darker earth, an undefined cluster
of buildings at their center.
There was a central bonfire that
burned like a wild red eye
against the lower gloom, and in
its plunging ruddy glow he made
out an urgent scurrying of shadowy
figures.
"I'm passing over a hamlet,"
Farrell reported. "The one nearest
the city, I think. There's
something odd going on
down—"
Catastrophe struck so suddenly
that he was caught completely
unprepared. The helihopper's
flimsy carriage bucked and
crumpled. There was a blinding
flare of electric discharge, a
pungent stink of ozone and a
stunning shock that flung him
headlong into darkness.
He awoke slowly with a brutal
headache and a conviction of
nightmare heightened by the
outlandish tone of his surroundings.
He lay on a narrow bed in
a whitely antiseptic infirmary,
an oblong metal cell cluttered
with a grimly utilitarian array
of tables and lockers and chests.
The lighting was harsh and
overbright and the air hung
thick with pungent unfamiliar
chemical odors. From somewhere,
far off yet at the same
time as near as the bulkhead
above him, came the unceasing
drone of machinery.
Farrell sat up, groaning,
when full consciousness made his
position clear. He had been shot
down by God knew what sort of
devastating unorthodox weapon
and was a prisoner in the
grounded ship.
At his rising, a white-smocked
fat man with anachronistic spectacles
and close-cropped gray
hair came into the room, moving
with the professional assurance
of a medic. The man stopped
short at Farrell's stare and
spoke; his words were utterly
unintelligible, but his gesture
was unmistakable.
Farrell followed him dumbly
out of the infirmary and down
a bare corridor whose metal
floor rang coldly underfoot. An
open port near the corridor's end
relieved the blankness of wall
and let in a flood of reddish Alphardian
sunlight; Farrell slowed
to look out, wondering how
long he had lain unconscious,
and felt panic knife at him
when he saw Xavier's scouter lying,
port open and undefended,
on the square outside.
The mechanical had been as
easily taken as himself, then.
Stryker and Gibson, for all their
professional caution, would fare
no better—they could not have
overlooked the capture of Farrell
and Xavier, and when they
tried as a matter of course to
rescue them the Marco would be
struck down in turn by the same
weapon.
The fat medic turned and
said something urgent in his
unintelligible tongue. Farrell,
dazed by the enormity of what
had happened, followed without
protest into an intersecting way
that led through a bewildering
succession of storage rooms and
hydroponics gardens, through a
small gymnasium fitted with
physical training equipment in
graduated sizes and finally into
a soundproofed place that could
have been nothing but a nursery.
The implication behind its
presence stopped Farrell short.
"A creche ," he said, stunned.
He had a wild vision of endless
generations of children growing
up in this dim and stuffy room,
to be taught from their first
toddling steps the functions they
must fulfill before the venture
of which they were a part could
be consummated.
One of those old ventures had succeeded, he thought, and was
awed by the daring of that thousand-year
odyssey. The realization
left him more alarmed than
before—for what technical marvels
might not an isolated group
of such dogged specialists have
developed during a millennium
of application?
Such a weapon as had brought
down the helihopper and scouter
was patently beyond reach of his
own latter-day technology. Perhaps,
he thought, its possession
explained the presence of these
people here in the first stronghold
of the Hymenops; perhaps
they had even fought and defeated
the Bees on their own invaded
ground.
He followed his white-smocked
guide through a power room
where great crude generators
whirred ponderously, pouring
out gross electric current into
arm-thick cables. They were
nearing the bow of the ship
when they passed by another
open port and Farrell, glancing
out over the lowered rampway,
saw that his fears for Stryker
and Gibson had been well
grounded.
The Marco Four , ports open,
lay grounded outside.
Farrell could not have said,
later, whether his next move
was planned or reflexive. The
whole desperate issue seemed to
hang suspended for a breathless
moment upon a hair-fine edge of
decision, and in that instant he
made his bid.
Without pausing in his stride
he sprang out and through the
port and down the steep plane
of the ramp. The rough stone
pavement of the square drummed
underfoot; sore muscles
tore at him, and weakness was
like a weight about his neck. He
expected momentarily to be
blasted out of existence.
He reached the Marco Four with the startled shouts of his
guide ringing unintelligibly in
his ears. The port yawned; he
plunged inside and stabbed at
controls without waiting to seat
himself. The ports swung shut.
The ship darted up under his
manipulation and arrowed into
space with an acceleration that
sprung his knees and made his
vision swim blackly.
He was so weak with strain
and with the success of his coup
that he all but fainted when
Stryker, his scanty hair tousled
and his fat face comical with bewilderment,
stumbled out of his
sleeping cubicle and bellowed at
him.
"What the hell are you doing,
Arthur? Take us down!"
Farrell gaped at him, speechless.
Stryker lumbered past him
and took the controls, spiraling
the Marco Four down. Men
swarmed outside the ports when
the Reclamations craft settled
gently to the square again. Gibson
and Xavier reached the ship
first; Gibson came inside quickly,
leaving the mechanical outside
making patient explanations
to an excited group of Alphardians.
Gibson put a reassuring hand
on Farrell's arm. "It's all right,
Arthur. There's no trouble."
Farrell said dumbly, "I don't
understand. They didn't shoot
you and Xav down too?"
It was Gibson's turn to stare.
"No one shot you down! These
people are primitive enough to
use metallic power lines to
carry electricity to their hamlets,
an anachronism you forgot
last night. You piloted the helihopper
into one of those lines,
and the crash put you out for
the rest of the night and most
of today. These Alphardians are
friendly, so desperately happy to
be found again that it's really
pathetic."
" Friendly? That torpedo—"
"It wasn't a torpedo at all,"
Stryker put in. Understanding
of the error under which Farrell
had labored erased his
earlier irritation, and he chuckled
commiseratingly. "They had
one small boat left for emergency
missions, and sent it up to
contact us in the fear that we
might overlook their settlement
and move on. The boat was
atomic powered, and our shield
screens set off its engines."
Farrell dropped into a chair at
the chart table, limp with reaction.
He was suddenly exhausted,
and his head ached dully.
"We cracked the communications
problem early last night,"
Gibson said. "These people use
an ancient system of electromagnetic
wave propagation called
frequency modulation, and once
Lee and I rigged up a suitable
transceiver the rest was simple.
Both Xav and I recognized the
old language; the natives reported
your accident, and we came
down at once."
"They really came from Terra?
They lived through a thousand
years of flight?"
"The ship left Terra for
Sirius in 2171," Gibson said.
"But not with these people
aboard, or their ancestors. That
expedition perished after less
than a light-year when its
hydroponics system failed. The
Hymenops found the ship derelict
when they invaded us, and
brought it to Alphard Six in
what was probably their first experiment
with human subjects.
The ship's log shows clearly
what happened to the original
complement. The rest is deducible
from the situation here."
Farrell put his hands to his
temples and groaned. "The crash
must have scrambled my wits.
Gib, where did they come from?"
"From one of the first peripheral
colonies conquered by the
Bees," Gibson said patiently.
"The Hymenops were long-range
planners, remember, and masters
of hypnotic conditioning. They
stocked the ship with a captive
crew of Terrans conditioned to
believe themselves descendants
of the original crew, and
grounded it here in disabled
condition. They left for Alphard
Five then, to watch developments.
"Succeeding generations of
colonists grew up accepting the
fact that their ship had missed
Sirius and made planetfall here—they
still don't know where
they really are—by luck. They
never knew about the Hymenops,
and they've struggled along
with an inadequate technology in
the hope that a later expedition
would find them. They found the
truth hard to take, but they're
eager to enjoy the fruits of Terran
assimilation."
Stryker, grinning, brought
Farrell a frosted drink that tinkled
invitingly. "An unusually
fortunate ending to a Hymenop
experiment," he said. "These
people progressed normally because
they've been let alone. Reorienting
them will be a simple
matter; they'll be properly spoiled
colonists within another generation."
Farrell sipped his drink appreciatively.
"But I don't see why the Bees
should go to such trouble to deceive
these people. Why did they
sit back and let them grow as
they pleased, Gib? It doesn't
make sense!"
"But it does, for once," Gibson
said. "The Bees set up this
colony as a control unit to study
the species they were invading,
and they had to give their
specimens a normal—if obsolete—background
in order to determine
their capabilities. The fact
that their experiment didn't tell
them what they wanted to know
may have had a direct bearing
on their decision to pull out."
Farrell shook his head. "It's
a reverse application, isn't it of
the old saw about Terrans being
incapable of understanding an
alien culture?"
"Of course," said Gibson, surprised.
"It's obvious enough,
surely—hard as they tried, the
Bees never understood us
either."
THE END
|
What is the significance of the bagpipes?
|
After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about Trouble on Tycho by Nelson S. Bond.
Relevant chunks:
TROUBLE ON TYCHO
By NELSON S. BOND
Isobar and his squeeze-pipes were the bane of the Moon Station's existence. But there came the day when his comrades found that the worth of a man lies sometimes in his nuisance value.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories March 1943. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The audiophone buzzed thrice—one long, followed by two shorts—and Isobar Jones pressed the stud activating its glowing scanner-disc.
"Hummm?" he said absent-mindedly.
The selenoplate glowed faintly, and the image of the Dome Commander appeared.
"Report ready, Jones?"
"Almost," acknowledged Isobar gloomily. "It prob'ly ain't right, though. How anybody can be expected to get anything right on this dagnabbed hunk o' green cheese—"
"Send it up," interrupted Colonel Eagan, "as soon as you can. Sparks is making Terra contact now. That is all."
"That ain't all!" declared Isobar indignantly. "How about my bag—?"
It was all , so far as the D.C. was concerned. Isobar was talking to himself. The plate dulled. Isobar said, "Nuts!" and returned to his duties. He jotted neat ditto marks under the word "Clear" which, six months ago, he had placed beneath the column headed: Cond. of Obs. He noted the proper figures under the headings Sun Spots : Max Freq. — Min. Freq. ; then he sketched careful curves in blue and red ink upon the Mercator projection of Earth which was his daily work sheet.
This done, he drew a clean sheet of paper out of his desk drawer, frowned thoughtfully at the tabulated results of his observations, and began writing.
" Weather forecast for Terra ," he wrote, his pen making scratching sounds.
The audiophone rasped again. Isobar jabbed the stud and answered without looking.
"O.Q.," he said wearily. "O.Q. I told you it would be ready in a couple o' minutes. Keep your pants on!"
"I—er—I beg your pardon, Isobar?" queried a mild voice.
Isobar started. His sallow cheeks achieved a sickly salmon hue. He blinked nervously.
"Oh, jumpin' jimminy!" he gulped. " You , Miss Sally! Golly—'scuse me! I didn't realize—"
The Dome Commander's niece giggled.
"That's all right, Isobar. I just called to ask you about the weather in Oceania Sector 4B next week. I've got a swimming date at Waikiki, but I won't make the shuttle unless the weather's going to be nice."
"It is," promised Isobar. "It'll be swell all weekend, Miss Sally. Fine sunshiny weather. You can go."
"That's wonderful. Thanks so much, Isobar."
"Don't mention it, ma'am," said Isobar, and returned to his work.
South America. Africa. Asia. Pan-Europa. Swiftly he outlined the meteorological prospects for each sector. He enjoyed this part of his job. As he wrote forecasts for each area, in his mind's eye he saw himself enjoying such pastimes as each geographical division's terrain rendered possible.
If home is where the heart is, Horatio Jones—known better as "Isobar" to his associates at the Experimental Dome on Luna—was a long, long way from home. His lean, gangling frame was immured, and had been for six tedious Earth months, beneath the impervite hemisphere of Lunar III—that frontier outpost which served as a rocket refueling station, teleradio transmission point and meteorological base.
"Six solid months! Six sad, dreary months!" thought Isobar, "Locked up in an airtight Dome like—like a goldfish in a glass bowl!" Sunlight? Oh, sure! But filtered through ultraviolet wave-traps so it could not burn, it left the skin pale and lustreless and clammy as the belly of a toad. Fresh air? Pooh! Nothing but that everlasting sickening, scented, reoxygenated stuff gushing from atmo-conditioning units.
Excitement? Adventure? The romance he had been led to expect when he signed on for frontier service? Bah! Only a weary, monotonous, routine existence.
"A pain!" declared Isobar Jones. "That's what it is; a pain in the stummick. Not even allowed to—Yeah?"
It was Sparks, audioing from the Dome's transmission turret. He said,
"Hyah, Jonesy! How comes with the report?"
"Done," said Isobar. "I was just gettin' the sheets together for you."
"O.Q. But just bring it . Nothing else."
Isobar bridled.
"I don't know what you're talkin' about."
"Oh, no? Well, I'm talking about that squawk-filled doodlesack of yours, sonny boy. Don't bring that bag-full of noise up here with you."
Isobar said defiantly, "It ain't a doodlesack. It's a bagpipe. And I guess I can play it if I want to—"
"Not," said Sparks emphatically, "in my cubby! I've got sensitive eardrums. Well, stir your stumps! I've got to get the report rolling quick today. Big doings up here."
"Yeah? What?"
"Well, it's Roberts and Brown—"
"What about 'em?"
"They've gone Outside to make foundation repairs."
"Lucky stiffs!" commented Isobar ruefully.
"Lucky, no. Stiffs, maybe—if they should meet any Grannies. Well, scoot along. I'm on the ether in four point sixteen minutes."
"Be right up," promised Isobar, and, sheets in hand, he ambled from his cloistered cell toward the central section of the Dome.
He didn't leave Sparks' turret after the sheets were delivered. Instead, he hung around, fidgeting so obtrusively that Riley finally turned to him in sheer exasperation.
"Sweet snakes of Saturn, Jonesy, what's the trouble? Bugs in your britches?"
Isobar said, "H-huh? Oh, you mean—Oh, thanks, no! I just thought mebbe you wouldn't mind if I—well—er—"
"I get it!" Sparks grinned. "Want to play peekaboo while the contact's open, eh? Well, O.Q. Watch the birdie!"
He twisted dials, adjusted verniers, fingered a host of incomprehensible keys. Current hummed and howled. Then a plate before him cleared, and the voice of the Earth operator came in, enunciating with painstaking clarity:
"Earth answering Luna. Earth answering Luna's call. Can you hear me, Luna? Can you hear—?"
"I can not only hear you," snorted Riley, "I can see you and smell you, as well. Stop hamming it, stupid! You're lousing up the earth!"
The now-visible face of the Earth radioman drew into a grimace of displeasure.
"Oh, it's you ? Funny man, eh? Funny man Riley?"
"Sure," said Riley agreeably. "I'm a scream. Four-alarm Riley, the cosmic comedian—didn't you know? Flick on your dictacoder, oyster-puss; here's the weather report." He read it. "' Weather forecast for Terra, week of May 15-21 —'"
"Ask him," whispered Isobar eagerly. "Sparks, don't forget to ask him!"
Riley motioned for silence, but nodded. He finished the weather report, entered the Dome Commander's log upon the Home Office records, and dictated a short entry from the Luna Biological Commission. Then:
"That is all," he concluded.
"O.Q.," verified the other radioman. Isobar writhed anxiously, prodded Riley's shoulder.
"Ask him, Sparks! Go on ask him!"
"Oh, cut jets, will you?" snapped Sparks. The Terra operator looked startled.
"How's that? I didn't say a word—"
"Don't be a dope," said Sparks, "you dope! I wasn't talking to you. I'm entertaining a visitor, a refugee from a cuckoo clock. Look, do me a favor, chum? Can you twist your mike around so it's pointing out a window?"
"What? Why—why, yes, but—"
"Without buts," said Sparks grumpily. "Yours not to reason why; yours but to do or don't. Will you do it?"
"Well, sure. But I don't understand—" The silver platter which had mirrored the radioman's face clouded as the Earth operator twirled the inconoscope. Walls and desks of an ordinary broadcasting office spun briefly into view; then the plate reflected a glimpse of an Earthly landscape. Soft blue sky warmed by an atmosphere-shielded sun ... green trees firmly rooted in still-greener grass ... flowers ... birds ... people....
"Enough?" asked Sparks.
Isobar Jones awakened from his trance, eyes dulling. Reluctantly he nodded. Riley stared at him strangely, almost gently. To the other radioman, "O.Q., pal," he said. "Cut!"
"Cut!" agreed the other. The plate blanked out.
"Thanks, Sparks," said Isobar.
"Nothing," shrugged Riley " He twisted the mike; not me. But—how come you always want to take a squint at Earth when the circuit's open, Jonesy? Homesick?"
"Sort of," admitted Isobar guiltily.
"Well, hell, aren't we all? But we can't leave here for another six months at least. Not till our tricks are up. I should think it'd only make you feel worse to see Earth."
"It ain't Earth I'm homesick for," explained Isobar. "It's—well, it's the things that go with it. I mean things like grass and flowers and trees."
Sparks grinned; a mirthless, lopsided grin.
"We've got them right here on Luna. Go look out the tower window, Jonesy. The Dome's nestled smack in the middle of the prettiest, greenest little valley you ever saw."
"I know," complained Isobar. "And that's what makes it even worse. All that pretty, soft, green stuff Outside—and we ain't allowed to go out in it. Sometimes I get so mad I'd like to—"
"To," interrupted a crisp voice, "what?"
Isobar spun, flushing; his eyes dropped before those of Dome Commander Eagan. He squirmed.
"N-nothing, sir. I was only saying—"
"I heard you, Jones. And please let me hear no more of such talk, sir! It is strictly forbidden for anyone to go Outside except in cases of absolute necessity. Such labor as caused Patrolmen Brown and Roberts to go, for example—"
"Any word from them yet, sir?" asked Sparks eagerly.
"Not yet. But we're expecting them to return at any minute now. Jones! Where are you going?"
"Why—why, just back to my quarters, sir."
"That's what I thought. And what did you plan to do there?"
Isobar said stubbornly, "Well, I sort of figured I'd amuse myself for a while—"
"I thought that, too. And with what , pray, Jones?"
"With the only dratted thing," said Isobar, suddenly petulant, "that gives me any fun around this dagnabbed place! With my bagpipe."
Commander Eagan said, "You'd better find some new way of amusing yourself, Jones. Have you read General Order 17?"
Isobar said, "I seen it. But if you think—"
"It says," stated Eagan deliberately, "' In order that work or rest periods of the Dome's staff may not be disturbed, it is hereby ordered that the playing or practicing of all or any musical instruments must be discontinued immediately. By order of the Dome Commander ,' That means you, Jones!"
"But, dingbust it!" keened Isobar, "it don't disturb nobody for me to play my bagpipes! I know these lunks around here don't appreciate good music, so I always go in my office and lock the door after me—"
"But the Dome," pointed out Commander Eagan, "has an air-conditioning system which can't be shut off. The ungodly moans of your—er—so-called musical instrument can be heard through the entire structure."
He suddenly seemed to gain stature.
"No, Jones, this order is final! You cannot disrupt our entire organization for your own—er—amusement."
"But—" said Isobar.
"No!"
Isobar wriggled desperately. Life on Luna was sorry enough already. If now they took from him the last remaining solace he had, the last amusement which lightened his moments of freedom—
"Look, Commander!" he pleaded, "I tell you what I'll do. I won't bother nobody. I'll go Outside and play it—"
"Outside!" Eagan stared at him incredulously. "Are you mad? How about the Grannies?"
Isobar knew all about the Grannies. The only mobile form of life found by space-questing man on Earth's satellite, their name was an abbreviation of the descriptive one applied to them by the first Lunar exployers: Granitebacks. This was no exaggeration; if anything, it was an understatement. For the Grannies, though possessed of certain low intelligence, had quickly proven themselves a deadly, unyielding and implacable foe.
Worse yet, they were an enemy almost indestructible! No man had ever yet brought to Earth laboratories the carcass of a Grannie; science was completely baffled in its endeavors to explain the composition of Graniteback physiology—but it was known, from bitter experience, that the carapace or exoskeleton of the Grannies was formed of something harder than steel, diamond, or battleplate! This flesh could be penetrated by no weapon known to man; neither by steel nor flame, by electronic nor ionic wave, nor by the lethal, newly discovered atomo-needle dispenser.
All this Isobar knew about the Grannies. Yet:
"They ain't been any Grannies seen around the Dome," he said, "for a 'coon's age. Anyhow, if I seen any comin', I could run right back inside—"
"No!" said Commander Eagan flatly. "Absolutely, no ! I have no time for such nonsense. You know the orders—obey them! And now, gentlemen, good afternoon!"
He left. Sparks turned to Isobar, grinning.
"Well," he said, "one man's fish—hey, Jonesy? Too bad you can't play your doodlesack any more, but frankly, I'm just as glad. Of all the awful screeching wails—"
But Isobar Jones, generally mild and gentle, was now in a perfect fury. His pale eyes blazed, he stomped his foot on the floor, and from his lips poured a stream of such angry invective that Riley looked startled. Words that, to Isobar, were the utter dregs of violent profanity.
"Oh, dagnab it!" fumed Isobar Jones. "Oh, tarnation and dingbust! Oh— fiddlesticks !"
II
"And so," chuckled Riley, "he left, bubbling like a kettle on a red-hot oven. But, boy! was he ever mad! Just about ready to bust, he was."
Some minutes had passed since Isobar had left; Riley was talking to Dr. Loesch, head of the Dome's Physics Research Division. The older man nodded commiseratingly.
"It is funny, yes," he agreed, "but at the same time it is not altogether amusing. I feel sorry for him. He is a very unhappy man, our poor Isobar."
"Yeah, I know," said Riley, "but, hell, we all get a little bit homesick now and then. He ought to learn to—"
"Excuse me, my boy," interrupted the aged physicist, his voice gentle,
"it is not mere homesickness that troubles our friend. It is something deeper, much more vital and serious. It is what my people call: weltschmertz . There is no accurate translation in English. It means
'world sickness,' or better, 'world weariness'—something like that but intensified a thousandfold.
"It is a deeply-rooted mental condition, sometimes a dangerous frame of mind. Under its grip, men do wild things. Hating the world on which they find themselves, they rebel in curious ways. Suicide ... mad acts of valor ... deeds of cunning or knavery...."
"You mean," demanded Sparks anxiously, "Isobar ain't got all his buttons?"
"Not that exactly. He is perfectly sane. But he is in a dark morass of despair. He may try anything to retrieve his lost happiness, rid his soul of its dark oppression. His world-sickness is like a crying hunger—By the way, where is he now?"
"Below, I guess. In his quarters."
"Ah, good! Perhaps he is sleeping. Let us hope so. In slumber he will find peace and forgetfulness."
But Dr. Loesch would have been far less sanguine had some power the
"giftie gi'en" him of watching Isobar Jones at that moment.
Isobar was not asleep. Far from it. Wide awake and very much astir, he was acting in a singularly sinister role: that of a slinking, furtive culprit.
Returning to his private cubicle after his conversation with Dome Commander Eagan, he had stalked straightway to the cabinet wherein was encased his precious set of bagpipes. These he had taken from their pegs, gazed upon defiantly, and fondled with almost parental affection.
"So I can't play you, huh?" he muttered darkly. "It disturbs the peace o' the dingfounded, dumblasted Dome staff, does it? Well, we'll see about that!"
And tucking the bag under his arm, he had cautiously slipped from the room, down little-used corridors, and now he stood before the huge impervite gates which were the entrance to the Dome and the doorway to Outside.
On all save those occasions when a spacecraft landed in the cradle adjacent the gateway, these portals were doubly locked and barred. But today they had been unbolted that the two maintenance men might venture out. And since it was quite possible that Brown and Roberts might have to get inside in a hurry, their bolts remained drawn. Sole guardian of the entrance was a very bored Junior Patrolman.
Up to this worthy strode Isobar Jones, confident and assured, exuding an aura of propriety.
"Very well, Wilkins," he said. "I'll take over now. You may go to the meeting."
Wilkins looked at him bewilderedly.
"Huh? Whuzzat, Mr. Jones?"
Isobar's eyebrows arched.
"You mean you haven't been notified?"
"Notified of what ?"
"Why, the general council of all Patrolmen! Weren't you told that I would take your place here while you reported to G.H.Q.?"
"I ain't," puzzled Wilkins, "heard nothing about it. Maybe I ought to call the office, maybe?"
And he moved the wall-audio. But Isobar said swiftly. "That—er—won't be necessary, Wilkins. My orders were plain enough. Now, you just run along. I'll watch this entrance for you."
"We-e-ell," said Wilkins, "if you say so. Orders is orders. But keep a sharp eye out, Mister Jones, in case Roberts and Brown should come back sudden-like."
"I will," promised Isobar, "don't worry."
Wilkins moved away. Isobar waited until the Patrolman was completely out of sight. Then swiftly he pulled open the massive gate, slipped through, and closed it behind him.
A flood of warmth, exhilarating after the constantly regulated temperature of the Dome, descended upon him. Fresh air, thin, but fragrant with the scent of growing things, made his pulses stir with joyous abandon. He was Outside! He was Outside, in good sunlight, at last! After six long and dreary months!
Raptly, blissfully, all thought of caution tossed to the gentle breezes that ruffled his sparse hair, Isobar Jones stepped forward into the lunar valley....
How long he wandered thus, carefree and utterly content, he could not afterward say. It seemed like minutes; it must have been longer. He only knew that the grass was green beneath his feet, the trees were a lacy network through which warm sunlight filtered benevolently, the chirrupings of small insects and the rustling whisper of the breezes formed a tiny symphony of happiness through which he moved as one charmed.
It did not occur to him that he had wandered too far from the Dome's entrance until, strolling through an enchanting flower-decked glade, he was startled to hear—off to his right—the sharp, explosive bark of a Haemholtz ray pistol.
He whirled, staring about him wildly, and discovered that though his meandering had kept him near the Dome, he had unconsciously followed its hemispherical perimeter to a point nearly two miles from the Gateway. By the placement of ports and windows, Isobar was able to judge his location perfectly; he was opposite that portion of the structure which housed Sparks' radio turret.
And the shooting? That could only be—
He did not have to name its reason, even to himself. For at that moment, there came racing around the curve of the Dome a pair of figures, Patrolmen clad in fatigue drab. Roberts and Brown. Roberts was staggering, one foot dragged awkwardly as he ran; Brown's left arm, bloodstained from shoulder to elbow, hung limply at his side, but in his good right fist he held a spitting Haemholtz with which he tried to cover his comrade's sluggish retreat.
And behind these two, grim, grey, gaunt figures that moved with astonishing speed despite their massive bulk, came three ... six ... a dozen of those lunarites whom all men feared. The Grannies!
III
Simultaneously with his recognition of the pair, Joe Roberts saw him. A gasp of relief escaped the wounded man.
"Jones! Thank the Lord! Then you picked up our cry for help? Quick, man—where is it? Theres not a moment to waste!"
"W-where," faltered Isobar feebly, "is what ?"
"The tank, of course! Didn't you hear our telecast? We can't possibly make it back to the gate without an armored car. My foot's broken, and—" Roberts stopped suddenly, an abrupt horror in his eyes. "You don't have one! You're here alone ! Then you didn't pick up our call? But, why—?"
"Never mind that," snapped Isobar, "now!" Placid by nature, he could move when urgency drove. His quick mind saw the immediateness of their peril. Unarmed, he could not help the Patrolmen fight a delaying action against their foes, nor could he hasten their retreat. Anyway, weapons were useless, and time was of the essence. There was but one temporary way of staving off disaster. "Over here ... this tree! Quick! Up you go! Give him a lift, Brown—There! That's the stuff!"
He was the last to scramble up the gnarled bole to a tentative leafy sanctuary. He had barely gained the security of the lowermost bough when a thundering crash resounded, the sturdy trunk trembled beneath his clutch. Stony claws gouged yellow parallels in the bark scant inches beneath one kicking foot, then the Granny fell back with a thud. The Graniteback was not a climber. It was far too ungainly, much too weighty for that.
Roberts said weakly, "Th-thanks, Jonesy! That was a close call."
"That goes for me, too, Jonesy," added Brown from an upper bough.
"But I'm afraid you just delayed matters. This tree's O.Q. as long as it lasts, but—" He stared down upon the gathering knot of Grannies unhappily—"it's not going to last long with that bunch of superdreadnaughts working out on it! Hold tight, fellows! Here they come!"
For the Grannies, who had huddled for a moment as if in telepathic consultation, now joined forces, turned, and as one body charged headlong toward the tree. The unified force of their attack was like the shattering impact of a battering ram. Bark rasped and gritted beneath the besieged men's hands, dry leaves and twigs pelted about them in a tiny rain, tormented fibrous sinews groaned as the aged forest monarch shuddered in agony.
Desperately they clung to their perches. Though the great tree bent, it did not break. But when it stopped trembling, it was canted drunkenly to one side, and the erstwhile solid earth about its base was broken and cracked—revealing fleshy tentacles uprooted from ancient moorings!
Brown stared at this evidence of the Grannies' power with terror-fascinated eyes. His voice was none too firm.
"Lord! Piledrivers! A couple more like that—"
Isobar nodded. He knew what falling into the clutch of the Grannies meant. He had once seen the grisly aftermath of a Graniteback feast. Even now their adversaries had drawn back for a second attack. A sudden idea struck him. A straw of hope at which he grasped feverishly.
"You telecast a message to the Dome? Help should be on the way by now. If we can just hold out—"
But Roberts shook his head.
"We sent a message, Jonesy, but I don't think it got through. I've just been looking at my portable. It seems to be busted. Happened when they first attacked us, I guess. I tripped and fell on it."
Isobar's last hope flickered out.
"Then I—I guess it won't be long now," he mourned. "If we could have only got a message through, they would have sent out an armored car to pick us up. But as it is—"
Brown's shrug displayed a bravado he did not feel.
"Well, that's the way it goes. We knew what we were risking when we volunteered to come Outside. This damn moon! It'll never be worth a plugged credit until men find some way to fight those murderous stones-on-legs!"
Roberts said, "That's right. But what are you doing out here, Isobar? And why, for Pete's sake, the bagpipes?"
"Oh—the pipes?" Isobar flushed painfully. He had almost forgotten his original reason for adventuring Outside, had quite forgotten his instrument, and was now rather amazed to discover that somehow throughout all the excitement he had held onto it. "Why, I just happened to—Oh! the pipes! "
"Hold on!" roared Roberts. His warning came just in time. Once more, the three tree-sitters shook like dried peas in a pod as their leafy refuge trembled before the locomotive onslaught of the lunar beasts. This time the already-exposed roots strained and lifted, several snapped; when the Grannies again withdrew, complacently unaware that the "lethal ray" of Brown's Haemholtz was wasting itself upon their adamant hides in futile fury, the tree was bent at a precarious angle.
Brown sobbed, not with fear but with impotent anger, and in a gesture of enraged desperation, hurled his now-empty weapon at the retreating Grannies.
"No good! Not a damn bit of good! Oh, if there was only some way of fighting those filthy things—"
But Isobar Jones had a one-track mind. "The pipes!" he cried again, excitedly. "That's the answer!" And he drew the instrument into playing position, bag cuddled beneath one arm-pit, drones stiffly erect over his shoulder, blow-pipe at his lips. His cheeks puffed, his breath expelled. The giant lung swelled, the chaunter emitted its distinctive, fearsome, " Kaa-aa-o-o-o-oro-oong! "
Roberts moaned.
"Oh, Lord! A guy can't even die in peace!"
And Brown stared at him hopelessly.
"It's no use, Isobar. You trying to scare them off? They have no sense of hearing. That's been proven—"
Isobar took his lips from the reed to explain.
"It's not that. I'm trying to rouse the boys in the Dome. We're right opposite the atmosphere-conditioning-unit. See that grilled duct over there? That's an inhalation-vent. The portable transmitter's out of order, and our voices ain't strong enough to carry into the Dome—but the sound of these pipes is! And Commander Eagan told me just a short while ago that the sound of the pipes carries all over the building!
"If they hear this, they'll get mad because I'm disobeyin' orders. They'll start lookin' for me. If they can't find me inside, maybe they'll look Outside. See that window? That's Sparks' turret. If we can make him look out here—"
" Stop talking! " roared Roberts. "Stop talking, guy, and start blowing! I think you've got something there. Anyhow, it's our last hope. Blow! "
"And quick!" appended Brown. "For here they come!"
Isobar played, blew with all his might, while the Grannies raged below.
He meant the Grannies. Again they were huddling for attack, once more, a solid phalanx of indestructible, granite flesh, they were smashing down upon the tree.
" Haa-a-roong! " blew Isobar Jones.
IV
And—even he could not have foreseen the astounding results of his piping! What happened next was as astonishing as it was incomprehensible. For as the pipes, filled now and primed to burst into whatever substitute for melody they were prodded into, wailed into action—the Grannies' rush came to an abrupt halt!
As one, they stopped cold in their tracks and turned dull, colorless, questioning eyes upward into the tree whence came this weird and vibrant droning!
So stunned with surprise was Isobar that his grip on the pipes relaxed, his lips almost slipped from the reed. But Brown's delighted bellow lifted his paralysis.
"Sacred rings of Saturn-look! They like it! Keep playing, Jonesy! Play, boy, like you never played before!"
And Roberts roared, above the skirling of the piobaireachd into which Isobar had instinctively swung, "Music hath charms to soothe the savage beast! Then we were wrong. They can hear, after all! See that? They're lying down to listen—like so many lambs! Keep playing, Isobar! For once in my life I'm glad to hear that lovely, wonderful music!"
Isobar needed no urging. He, too, had noted how the Grannies' attack had stopped, how every last one of the gaunt grey beasts had suddenly, quietly, almost happily, dropped to its haunches at the base of the tree.
There was no doubt about it; the Grannies liked this music. Eyes raptly fixed, unblinking, unwavering, they froze into postures of gentle beatitude. One stirred once, dangerously, as for a moment Isobar paused to catch his breath, but Isobar hastily lipped the blow-pipe with redoubled eagerness, and the Granny relapsed into quietude.
Followed then what, under somewhat different circumstances, should have been a piper's dream. For Isobar had an audience which would not—and in two cases dared not—allow him to stop playing. And to this audience he played over and over again his entire repertoire. Marches, flings, dances—the stirring Rhoderik Dhu and the lilting Lassies O'Skye , the mournful Coghiegh nha Shie whose keening is like the sound of a sobbing nation.
The Cock o' the North , he played, and Mironton ... Wee Flow'r o' Dee and MacArthur's March ... La Cucuracha and—
And his lungs were parched, his lips dry as swabs of cotton. Blood pounded through his temples, throbbing in time to the drone of the chaunter, and a dark mist gathered before his eyes. He tore the blow-pipe from his lips, gasped,
"Keep playing!" came the dim, distant howl of Johnny Brown. "Just a few minutes longer, Jonesy! Relief is on the way. Sparks saw us from his turret window five minutes ago!"
And Isobar played on. How, or what, he did not know. The memory of those next few minutes was never afterward clear in his mind. All he knew was that above the skirling drone of his pipes there came another sound, the metallic clanking of a man-made machine ... an armored tank, sent from the Dome to rescue the beleaguered trio.
He was conscious, then, of a friendly voice shouting words of encouragement, of Joe Roberts calling a warning to those below.
"Careful, boys! Drive the tank right up beneath us so we can hop in and get out of here! Watch the Grannies—they'll be after us the minute Isobar stops playing!"
Then the answer from below. The fantastic answer in Sparks' familiar voice. The answer that caused the bagpipes to slip from Isobar's fingers as Isobar Jones passed out in a dead faint:
"After you? Those Grannies? Hell's howling acres— those Grannies are stone dead !"
Question:
What is the significance of the bagpipes?
Answer:
|
[
"The bagpipes are Isobar’s one relief and a reminder of home. Isobar Jones hates his new job and position on Luna III and plays the bagpipes as a form of therapy. When they are taken away from him, he quickly revolts and rushes Outside to play once more. \nThough the bagpipes are initially only significant to Isobar, they quickly become the savior of the whole story. After Roberts and Brown run into Isobar, followed by Grannies, they climb a tree and hope for the best. Isobar plays the bagpipes as a way to alert those in the dome that they are outside, seeing as the air conditioning valve was near. However, as it turns out, the Grannies are able to hear, and the sound of the bagpipes slowly but surely killed them. The bagpipes saved Isobar’s life in multiple ways, as well as that of Roberts and Brown. They also proved to be a scientific breakthrough, as they are the only thing to ever kill a Grannie. \n",
"The bagpipes are Isobar's most cherished possession. Six months into his one-year term at Lunar III, Isobar begins to experience extreme homesickness, and he begins to loathe the artificial air-conditioning of the Experimental Dome as well as the rule against going Outside because of the threat of the \"Grannies.\" To keep himself sane, Isobar plays the bagpipes. However, the loud sound disturbs the other workers in the organization, and soon Commander Eagan orders Isobar to cease playing the bagpipes for the rest of his term. This causes Isobar to rebel, and he leaves the Dome against orders to play his bagpipes in peace. Once Outside, Isobar discovers Roberts and Brown are under attack by a group of Grannies, and he plays his bagpipes to try to alert \"Sparks\" that they are cornered up a tree. As a result of Isobar's music, the men discover the sound of the bagpipes not only calms the Grannies, but it also eventually kills them. Therefore, Isobar's insistence on playing the bagpipes leads to the discovery of a solid defense against the humans' primary threat on Luna.",
"Isobar is miserable while stationed at the Lunar III, and playing his bagpipes is the only pastime he has that he truly enjoys. He has been part of the Frontier Service for six months, and he regrets leaving Earth and the beautiful landscape to sit in a bubble day after day and breathe recycled air. His colleagues hate his music, and it’s difficult to stop the sounds from emanating all over the station because of the air conditioning vents. When he refuses to stop playing on multiple occasions, his Dome Commander institutes General Order 17, which is a ban on all musical instruments. Isobar does not take this news very well. He can’t suppress his anger at this news after being disappointed and depressed for a long stretch of time. Isobar argues that he should be able to go Outside and play, but of course that’s off-limits. The Grannies would almost surely attack him, and he’s forbidden from leaving unless it’s absolutely necessary. Isobar decides to ignore the rules because playing the bagpipes is what truly makes him happy. He tells the guard that’s working at the door to the Outside that he’s been sent to take his place. Instead of watching for Roberts and Brown, however, he slips outside with his pipes. After he sees his colleagues being attacked by the Grannies, he completely forgets about his instrument, but it’s a good thing that Roberts asks him about it, because the bagpipes actually save the trio’s lives. Isobar decides to play his instrument to alert his coworkers about the trouble he and Roberts and Brown are in, but by the time help arrives, they no longer need it. The Grannies are killed by the music, the one thing that all the humans hated with a passion. ",
"Isobar loves to play the bagpipes, but is discouraged by his colleagues, like when Sparks tells him not to bring them with the forecast he is delivering to him because of his sensitive eardrums. Doodlesack is the word his colleagues Riley and Sparks call the bagpipes to tease him. Later in the story, the Dome Commander Eagan actually cites a new rule he has made that practising musical instruments must be discontinued immediately by dome staff because the sound travels through the air conditioning system and annoys people. \nAfter Isobar smuggles the bagpipes Outside to play them and gets swept up in an near-death attack by the Grannies with Brown and Roberts that has them stuck up a tree waiting to die, his colleagues continue to tease him by saying they can’t even die in peace since he'll be playing the bagpipes.\nAlthough Isobar’s intention was to get help to come rescue them by playing the bagpipes and alerting Sparks in the nearby control tower to their danger with their loud sound, the story ends in an amazing twist instead. The bagpipe music is the only thing known to be capable of killing the Grannies. All the Grannies at the base of the tree layed down and died when the music was played, and Isobar’s hated musical instrument saves the day.\nMore than this, the Grannies are a barrier to humans being able to advance their colony on Luna, so Isobar’s discovery that the bagpipes are lethal might be an important key for progress.\n"
] |
62260
|
TROUBLE ON TYCHO
By NELSON S. BOND
Isobar and his squeeze-pipes were the bane of the Moon Station's existence. But there came the day when his comrades found that the worth of a man lies sometimes in his nuisance value.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories March 1943. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The audiophone buzzed thrice—one long, followed by two shorts—and Isobar Jones pressed the stud activating its glowing scanner-disc.
"Hummm?" he said absent-mindedly.
The selenoplate glowed faintly, and the image of the Dome Commander appeared.
"Report ready, Jones?"
"Almost," acknowledged Isobar gloomily. "It prob'ly ain't right, though. How anybody can be expected to get anything right on this dagnabbed hunk o' green cheese—"
"Send it up," interrupted Colonel Eagan, "as soon as you can. Sparks is making Terra contact now. That is all."
"That ain't all!" declared Isobar indignantly. "How about my bag—?"
It was all , so far as the D.C. was concerned. Isobar was talking to himself. The plate dulled. Isobar said, "Nuts!" and returned to his duties. He jotted neat ditto marks under the word "Clear" which, six months ago, he had placed beneath the column headed: Cond. of Obs. He noted the proper figures under the headings Sun Spots : Max Freq. — Min. Freq. ; then he sketched careful curves in blue and red ink upon the Mercator projection of Earth which was his daily work sheet.
This done, he drew a clean sheet of paper out of his desk drawer, frowned thoughtfully at the tabulated results of his observations, and began writing.
" Weather forecast for Terra ," he wrote, his pen making scratching sounds.
The audiophone rasped again. Isobar jabbed the stud and answered without looking.
"O.Q.," he said wearily. "O.Q. I told you it would be ready in a couple o' minutes. Keep your pants on!"
"I—er—I beg your pardon, Isobar?" queried a mild voice.
Isobar started. His sallow cheeks achieved a sickly salmon hue. He blinked nervously.
"Oh, jumpin' jimminy!" he gulped. " You , Miss Sally! Golly—'scuse me! I didn't realize—"
The Dome Commander's niece giggled.
"That's all right, Isobar. I just called to ask you about the weather in Oceania Sector 4B next week. I've got a swimming date at Waikiki, but I won't make the shuttle unless the weather's going to be nice."
"It is," promised Isobar. "It'll be swell all weekend, Miss Sally. Fine sunshiny weather. You can go."
"That's wonderful. Thanks so much, Isobar."
"Don't mention it, ma'am," said Isobar, and returned to his work.
South America. Africa. Asia. Pan-Europa. Swiftly he outlined the meteorological prospects for each sector. He enjoyed this part of his job. As he wrote forecasts for each area, in his mind's eye he saw himself enjoying such pastimes as each geographical division's terrain rendered possible.
If home is where the heart is, Horatio Jones—known better as "Isobar" to his associates at the Experimental Dome on Luna—was a long, long way from home. His lean, gangling frame was immured, and had been for six tedious Earth months, beneath the impervite hemisphere of Lunar III—that frontier outpost which served as a rocket refueling station, teleradio transmission point and meteorological base.
"Six solid months! Six sad, dreary months!" thought Isobar, "Locked up in an airtight Dome like—like a goldfish in a glass bowl!" Sunlight? Oh, sure! But filtered through ultraviolet wave-traps so it could not burn, it left the skin pale and lustreless and clammy as the belly of a toad. Fresh air? Pooh! Nothing but that everlasting sickening, scented, reoxygenated stuff gushing from atmo-conditioning units.
Excitement? Adventure? The romance he had been led to expect when he signed on for frontier service? Bah! Only a weary, monotonous, routine existence.
"A pain!" declared Isobar Jones. "That's what it is; a pain in the stummick. Not even allowed to—Yeah?"
It was Sparks, audioing from the Dome's transmission turret. He said,
"Hyah, Jonesy! How comes with the report?"
"Done," said Isobar. "I was just gettin' the sheets together for you."
"O.Q. But just bring it . Nothing else."
Isobar bridled.
"I don't know what you're talkin' about."
"Oh, no? Well, I'm talking about that squawk-filled doodlesack of yours, sonny boy. Don't bring that bag-full of noise up here with you."
Isobar said defiantly, "It ain't a doodlesack. It's a bagpipe. And I guess I can play it if I want to—"
"Not," said Sparks emphatically, "in my cubby! I've got sensitive eardrums. Well, stir your stumps! I've got to get the report rolling quick today. Big doings up here."
"Yeah? What?"
"Well, it's Roberts and Brown—"
"What about 'em?"
"They've gone Outside to make foundation repairs."
"Lucky stiffs!" commented Isobar ruefully.
"Lucky, no. Stiffs, maybe—if they should meet any Grannies. Well, scoot along. I'm on the ether in four point sixteen minutes."
"Be right up," promised Isobar, and, sheets in hand, he ambled from his cloistered cell toward the central section of the Dome.
He didn't leave Sparks' turret after the sheets were delivered. Instead, he hung around, fidgeting so obtrusively that Riley finally turned to him in sheer exasperation.
"Sweet snakes of Saturn, Jonesy, what's the trouble? Bugs in your britches?"
Isobar said, "H-huh? Oh, you mean—Oh, thanks, no! I just thought mebbe you wouldn't mind if I—well—er—"
"I get it!" Sparks grinned. "Want to play peekaboo while the contact's open, eh? Well, O.Q. Watch the birdie!"
He twisted dials, adjusted verniers, fingered a host of incomprehensible keys. Current hummed and howled. Then a plate before him cleared, and the voice of the Earth operator came in, enunciating with painstaking clarity:
"Earth answering Luna. Earth answering Luna's call. Can you hear me, Luna? Can you hear—?"
"I can not only hear you," snorted Riley, "I can see you and smell you, as well. Stop hamming it, stupid! You're lousing up the earth!"
The now-visible face of the Earth radioman drew into a grimace of displeasure.
"Oh, it's you ? Funny man, eh? Funny man Riley?"
"Sure," said Riley agreeably. "I'm a scream. Four-alarm Riley, the cosmic comedian—didn't you know? Flick on your dictacoder, oyster-puss; here's the weather report." He read it. "' Weather forecast for Terra, week of May 15-21 —'"
"Ask him," whispered Isobar eagerly. "Sparks, don't forget to ask him!"
Riley motioned for silence, but nodded. He finished the weather report, entered the Dome Commander's log upon the Home Office records, and dictated a short entry from the Luna Biological Commission. Then:
"That is all," he concluded.
"O.Q.," verified the other radioman. Isobar writhed anxiously, prodded Riley's shoulder.
"Ask him, Sparks! Go on ask him!"
"Oh, cut jets, will you?" snapped Sparks. The Terra operator looked startled.
"How's that? I didn't say a word—"
"Don't be a dope," said Sparks, "you dope! I wasn't talking to you. I'm entertaining a visitor, a refugee from a cuckoo clock. Look, do me a favor, chum? Can you twist your mike around so it's pointing out a window?"
"What? Why—why, yes, but—"
"Without buts," said Sparks grumpily. "Yours not to reason why; yours but to do or don't. Will you do it?"
"Well, sure. But I don't understand—" The silver platter which had mirrored the radioman's face clouded as the Earth operator twirled the inconoscope. Walls and desks of an ordinary broadcasting office spun briefly into view; then the plate reflected a glimpse of an Earthly landscape. Soft blue sky warmed by an atmosphere-shielded sun ... green trees firmly rooted in still-greener grass ... flowers ... birds ... people....
"Enough?" asked Sparks.
Isobar Jones awakened from his trance, eyes dulling. Reluctantly he nodded. Riley stared at him strangely, almost gently. To the other radioman, "O.Q., pal," he said. "Cut!"
"Cut!" agreed the other. The plate blanked out.
"Thanks, Sparks," said Isobar.
"Nothing," shrugged Riley " He twisted the mike; not me. But—how come you always want to take a squint at Earth when the circuit's open, Jonesy? Homesick?"
"Sort of," admitted Isobar guiltily.
"Well, hell, aren't we all? But we can't leave here for another six months at least. Not till our tricks are up. I should think it'd only make you feel worse to see Earth."
"It ain't Earth I'm homesick for," explained Isobar. "It's—well, it's the things that go with it. I mean things like grass and flowers and trees."
Sparks grinned; a mirthless, lopsided grin.
"We've got them right here on Luna. Go look out the tower window, Jonesy. The Dome's nestled smack in the middle of the prettiest, greenest little valley you ever saw."
"I know," complained Isobar. "And that's what makes it even worse. All that pretty, soft, green stuff Outside—and we ain't allowed to go out in it. Sometimes I get so mad I'd like to—"
"To," interrupted a crisp voice, "what?"
Isobar spun, flushing; his eyes dropped before those of Dome Commander Eagan. He squirmed.
"N-nothing, sir. I was only saying—"
"I heard you, Jones. And please let me hear no more of such talk, sir! It is strictly forbidden for anyone to go Outside except in cases of absolute necessity. Such labor as caused Patrolmen Brown and Roberts to go, for example—"
"Any word from them yet, sir?" asked Sparks eagerly.
"Not yet. But we're expecting them to return at any minute now. Jones! Where are you going?"
"Why—why, just back to my quarters, sir."
"That's what I thought. And what did you plan to do there?"
Isobar said stubbornly, "Well, I sort of figured I'd amuse myself for a while—"
"I thought that, too. And with what , pray, Jones?"
"With the only dratted thing," said Isobar, suddenly petulant, "that gives me any fun around this dagnabbed place! With my bagpipe."
Commander Eagan said, "You'd better find some new way of amusing yourself, Jones. Have you read General Order 17?"
Isobar said, "I seen it. But if you think—"
"It says," stated Eagan deliberately, "' In order that work or rest periods of the Dome's staff may not be disturbed, it is hereby ordered that the playing or practicing of all or any musical instruments must be discontinued immediately. By order of the Dome Commander ,' That means you, Jones!"
"But, dingbust it!" keened Isobar, "it don't disturb nobody for me to play my bagpipes! I know these lunks around here don't appreciate good music, so I always go in my office and lock the door after me—"
"But the Dome," pointed out Commander Eagan, "has an air-conditioning system which can't be shut off. The ungodly moans of your—er—so-called musical instrument can be heard through the entire structure."
He suddenly seemed to gain stature.
"No, Jones, this order is final! You cannot disrupt our entire organization for your own—er—amusement."
"But—" said Isobar.
"No!"
Isobar wriggled desperately. Life on Luna was sorry enough already. If now they took from him the last remaining solace he had, the last amusement which lightened his moments of freedom—
"Look, Commander!" he pleaded, "I tell you what I'll do. I won't bother nobody. I'll go Outside and play it—"
"Outside!" Eagan stared at him incredulously. "Are you mad? How about the Grannies?"
Isobar knew all about the Grannies. The only mobile form of life found by space-questing man on Earth's satellite, their name was an abbreviation of the descriptive one applied to them by the first Lunar exployers: Granitebacks. This was no exaggeration; if anything, it was an understatement. For the Grannies, though possessed of certain low intelligence, had quickly proven themselves a deadly, unyielding and implacable foe.
Worse yet, they were an enemy almost indestructible! No man had ever yet brought to Earth laboratories the carcass of a Grannie; science was completely baffled in its endeavors to explain the composition of Graniteback physiology—but it was known, from bitter experience, that the carapace or exoskeleton of the Grannies was formed of something harder than steel, diamond, or battleplate! This flesh could be penetrated by no weapon known to man; neither by steel nor flame, by electronic nor ionic wave, nor by the lethal, newly discovered atomo-needle dispenser.
All this Isobar knew about the Grannies. Yet:
"They ain't been any Grannies seen around the Dome," he said, "for a 'coon's age. Anyhow, if I seen any comin', I could run right back inside—"
"No!" said Commander Eagan flatly. "Absolutely, no ! I have no time for such nonsense. You know the orders—obey them! And now, gentlemen, good afternoon!"
He left. Sparks turned to Isobar, grinning.
"Well," he said, "one man's fish—hey, Jonesy? Too bad you can't play your doodlesack any more, but frankly, I'm just as glad. Of all the awful screeching wails—"
But Isobar Jones, generally mild and gentle, was now in a perfect fury. His pale eyes blazed, he stomped his foot on the floor, and from his lips poured a stream of such angry invective that Riley looked startled. Words that, to Isobar, were the utter dregs of violent profanity.
"Oh, dagnab it!" fumed Isobar Jones. "Oh, tarnation and dingbust! Oh— fiddlesticks !"
II
"And so," chuckled Riley, "he left, bubbling like a kettle on a red-hot oven. But, boy! was he ever mad! Just about ready to bust, he was."
Some minutes had passed since Isobar had left; Riley was talking to Dr. Loesch, head of the Dome's Physics Research Division. The older man nodded commiseratingly.
"It is funny, yes," he agreed, "but at the same time it is not altogether amusing. I feel sorry for him. He is a very unhappy man, our poor Isobar."
"Yeah, I know," said Riley, "but, hell, we all get a little bit homesick now and then. He ought to learn to—"
"Excuse me, my boy," interrupted the aged physicist, his voice gentle,
"it is not mere homesickness that troubles our friend. It is something deeper, much more vital and serious. It is what my people call: weltschmertz . There is no accurate translation in English. It means
'world sickness,' or better, 'world weariness'—something like that but intensified a thousandfold.
"It is a deeply-rooted mental condition, sometimes a dangerous frame of mind. Under its grip, men do wild things. Hating the world on which they find themselves, they rebel in curious ways. Suicide ... mad acts of valor ... deeds of cunning or knavery...."
"You mean," demanded Sparks anxiously, "Isobar ain't got all his buttons?"
"Not that exactly. He is perfectly sane. But he is in a dark morass of despair. He may try anything to retrieve his lost happiness, rid his soul of its dark oppression. His world-sickness is like a crying hunger—By the way, where is he now?"
"Below, I guess. In his quarters."
"Ah, good! Perhaps he is sleeping. Let us hope so. In slumber he will find peace and forgetfulness."
But Dr. Loesch would have been far less sanguine had some power the
"giftie gi'en" him of watching Isobar Jones at that moment.
Isobar was not asleep. Far from it. Wide awake and very much astir, he was acting in a singularly sinister role: that of a slinking, furtive culprit.
Returning to his private cubicle after his conversation with Dome Commander Eagan, he had stalked straightway to the cabinet wherein was encased his precious set of bagpipes. These he had taken from their pegs, gazed upon defiantly, and fondled with almost parental affection.
"So I can't play you, huh?" he muttered darkly. "It disturbs the peace o' the dingfounded, dumblasted Dome staff, does it? Well, we'll see about that!"
And tucking the bag under his arm, he had cautiously slipped from the room, down little-used corridors, and now he stood before the huge impervite gates which were the entrance to the Dome and the doorway to Outside.
On all save those occasions when a spacecraft landed in the cradle adjacent the gateway, these portals were doubly locked and barred. But today they had been unbolted that the two maintenance men might venture out. And since it was quite possible that Brown and Roberts might have to get inside in a hurry, their bolts remained drawn. Sole guardian of the entrance was a very bored Junior Patrolman.
Up to this worthy strode Isobar Jones, confident and assured, exuding an aura of propriety.
"Very well, Wilkins," he said. "I'll take over now. You may go to the meeting."
Wilkins looked at him bewilderedly.
"Huh? Whuzzat, Mr. Jones?"
Isobar's eyebrows arched.
"You mean you haven't been notified?"
"Notified of what ?"
"Why, the general council of all Patrolmen! Weren't you told that I would take your place here while you reported to G.H.Q.?"
"I ain't," puzzled Wilkins, "heard nothing about it. Maybe I ought to call the office, maybe?"
And he moved the wall-audio. But Isobar said swiftly. "That—er—won't be necessary, Wilkins. My orders were plain enough. Now, you just run along. I'll watch this entrance for you."
"We-e-ell," said Wilkins, "if you say so. Orders is orders. But keep a sharp eye out, Mister Jones, in case Roberts and Brown should come back sudden-like."
"I will," promised Isobar, "don't worry."
Wilkins moved away. Isobar waited until the Patrolman was completely out of sight. Then swiftly he pulled open the massive gate, slipped through, and closed it behind him.
A flood of warmth, exhilarating after the constantly regulated temperature of the Dome, descended upon him. Fresh air, thin, but fragrant with the scent of growing things, made his pulses stir with joyous abandon. He was Outside! He was Outside, in good sunlight, at last! After six long and dreary months!
Raptly, blissfully, all thought of caution tossed to the gentle breezes that ruffled his sparse hair, Isobar Jones stepped forward into the lunar valley....
How long he wandered thus, carefree and utterly content, he could not afterward say. It seemed like minutes; it must have been longer. He only knew that the grass was green beneath his feet, the trees were a lacy network through which warm sunlight filtered benevolently, the chirrupings of small insects and the rustling whisper of the breezes formed a tiny symphony of happiness through which he moved as one charmed.
It did not occur to him that he had wandered too far from the Dome's entrance until, strolling through an enchanting flower-decked glade, he was startled to hear—off to his right—the sharp, explosive bark of a Haemholtz ray pistol.
He whirled, staring about him wildly, and discovered that though his meandering had kept him near the Dome, he had unconsciously followed its hemispherical perimeter to a point nearly two miles from the Gateway. By the placement of ports and windows, Isobar was able to judge his location perfectly; he was opposite that portion of the structure which housed Sparks' radio turret.
And the shooting? That could only be—
He did not have to name its reason, even to himself. For at that moment, there came racing around the curve of the Dome a pair of figures, Patrolmen clad in fatigue drab. Roberts and Brown. Roberts was staggering, one foot dragged awkwardly as he ran; Brown's left arm, bloodstained from shoulder to elbow, hung limply at his side, but in his good right fist he held a spitting Haemholtz with which he tried to cover his comrade's sluggish retreat.
And behind these two, grim, grey, gaunt figures that moved with astonishing speed despite their massive bulk, came three ... six ... a dozen of those lunarites whom all men feared. The Grannies!
III
Simultaneously with his recognition of the pair, Joe Roberts saw him. A gasp of relief escaped the wounded man.
"Jones! Thank the Lord! Then you picked up our cry for help? Quick, man—where is it? Theres not a moment to waste!"
"W-where," faltered Isobar feebly, "is what ?"
"The tank, of course! Didn't you hear our telecast? We can't possibly make it back to the gate without an armored car. My foot's broken, and—" Roberts stopped suddenly, an abrupt horror in his eyes. "You don't have one! You're here alone ! Then you didn't pick up our call? But, why—?"
"Never mind that," snapped Isobar, "now!" Placid by nature, he could move when urgency drove. His quick mind saw the immediateness of their peril. Unarmed, he could not help the Patrolmen fight a delaying action against their foes, nor could he hasten their retreat. Anyway, weapons were useless, and time was of the essence. There was but one temporary way of staving off disaster. "Over here ... this tree! Quick! Up you go! Give him a lift, Brown—There! That's the stuff!"
He was the last to scramble up the gnarled bole to a tentative leafy sanctuary. He had barely gained the security of the lowermost bough when a thundering crash resounded, the sturdy trunk trembled beneath his clutch. Stony claws gouged yellow parallels in the bark scant inches beneath one kicking foot, then the Granny fell back with a thud. The Graniteback was not a climber. It was far too ungainly, much too weighty for that.
Roberts said weakly, "Th-thanks, Jonesy! That was a close call."
"That goes for me, too, Jonesy," added Brown from an upper bough.
"But I'm afraid you just delayed matters. This tree's O.Q. as long as it lasts, but—" He stared down upon the gathering knot of Grannies unhappily—"it's not going to last long with that bunch of superdreadnaughts working out on it! Hold tight, fellows! Here they come!"
For the Grannies, who had huddled for a moment as if in telepathic consultation, now joined forces, turned, and as one body charged headlong toward the tree. The unified force of their attack was like the shattering impact of a battering ram. Bark rasped and gritted beneath the besieged men's hands, dry leaves and twigs pelted about them in a tiny rain, tormented fibrous sinews groaned as the aged forest monarch shuddered in agony.
Desperately they clung to their perches. Though the great tree bent, it did not break. But when it stopped trembling, it was canted drunkenly to one side, and the erstwhile solid earth about its base was broken and cracked—revealing fleshy tentacles uprooted from ancient moorings!
Brown stared at this evidence of the Grannies' power with terror-fascinated eyes. His voice was none too firm.
"Lord! Piledrivers! A couple more like that—"
Isobar nodded. He knew what falling into the clutch of the Grannies meant. He had once seen the grisly aftermath of a Graniteback feast. Even now their adversaries had drawn back for a second attack. A sudden idea struck him. A straw of hope at which he grasped feverishly.
"You telecast a message to the Dome? Help should be on the way by now. If we can just hold out—"
But Roberts shook his head.
"We sent a message, Jonesy, but I don't think it got through. I've just been looking at my portable. It seems to be busted. Happened when they first attacked us, I guess. I tripped and fell on it."
Isobar's last hope flickered out.
"Then I—I guess it won't be long now," he mourned. "If we could have only got a message through, they would have sent out an armored car to pick us up. But as it is—"
Brown's shrug displayed a bravado he did not feel.
"Well, that's the way it goes. We knew what we were risking when we volunteered to come Outside. This damn moon! It'll never be worth a plugged credit until men find some way to fight those murderous stones-on-legs!"
Roberts said, "That's right. But what are you doing out here, Isobar? And why, for Pete's sake, the bagpipes?"
"Oh—the pipes?" Isobar flushed painfully. He had almost forgotten his original reason for adventuring Outside, had quite forgotten his instrument, and was now rather amazed to discover that somehow throughout all the excitement he had held onto it. "Why, I just happened to—Oh! the pipes! "
"Hold on!" roared Roberts. His warning came just in time. Once more, the three tree-sitters shook like dried peas in a pod as their leafy refuge trembled before the locomotive onslaught of the lunar beasts. This time the already-exposed roots strained and lifted, several snapped; when the Grannies again withdrew, complacently unaware that the "lethal ray" of Brown's Haemholtz was wasting itself upon their adamant hides in futile fury, the tree was bent at a precarious angle.
Brown sobbed, not with fear but with impotent anger, and in a gesture of enraged desperation, hurled his now-empty weapon at the retreating Grannies.
"No good! Not a damn bit of good! Oh, if there was only some way of fighting those filthy things—"
But Isobar Jones had a one-track mind. "The pipes!" he cried again, excitedly. "That's the answer!" And he drew the instrument into playing position, bag cuddled beneath one arm-pit, drones stiffly erect over his shoulder, blow-pipe at his lips. His cheeks puffed, his breath expelled. The giant lung swelled, the chaunter emitted its distinctive, fearsome, " Kaa-aa-o-o-o-oro-oong! "
Roberts moaned.
"Oh, Lord! A guy can't even die in peace!"
And Brown stared at him hopelessly.
"It's no use, Isobar. You trying to scare them off? They have no sense of hearing. That's been proven—"
Isobar took his lips from the reed to explain.
"It's not that. I'm trying to rouse the boys in the Dome. We're right opposite the atmosphere-conditioning-unit. See that grilled duct over there? That's an inhalation-vent. The portable transmitter's out of order, and our voices ain't strong enough to carry into the Dome—but the sound of these pipes is! And Commander Eagan told me just a short while ago that the sound of the pipes carries all over the building!
"If they hear this, they'll get mad because I'm disobeyin' orders. They'll start lookin' for me. If they can't find me inside, maybe they'll look Outside. See that window? That's Sparks' turret. If we can make him look out here—"
" Stop talking! " roared Roberts. "Stop talking, guy, and start blowing! I think you've got something there. Anyhow, it's our last hope. Blow! "
"And quick!" appended Brown. "For here they come!"
Isobar played, blew with all his might, while the Grannies raged below.
He meant the Grannies. Again they were huddling for attack, once more, a solid phalanx of indestructible, granite flesh, they were smashing down upon the tree.
" Haa-a-roong! " blew Isobar Jones.
IV
And—even he could not have foreseen the astounding results of his piping! What happened next was as astonishing as it was incomprehensible. For as the pipes, filled now and primed to burst into whatever substitute for melody they were prodded into, wailed into action—the Grannies' rush came to an abrupt halt!
As one, they stopped cold in their tracks and turned dull, colorless, questioning eyes upward into the tree whence came this weird and vibrant droning!
So stunned with surprise was Isobar that his grip on the pipes relaxed, his lips almost slipped from the reed. But Brown's delighted bellow lifted his paralysis.
"Sacred rings of Saturn-look! They like it! Keep playing, Jonesy! Play, boy, like you never played before!"
And Roberts roared, above the skirling of the piobaireachd into which Isobar had instinctively swung, "Music hath charms to soothe the savage beast! Then we were wrong. They can hear, after all! See that? They're lying down to listen—like so many lambs! Keep playing, Isobar! For once in my life I'm glad to hear that lovely, wonderful music!"
Isobar needed no urging. He, too, had noted how the Grannies' attack had stopped, how every last one of the gaunt grey beasts had suddenly, quietly, almost happily, dropped to its haunches at the base of the tree.
There was no doubt about it; the Grannies liked this music. Eyes raptly fixed, unblinking, unwavering, they froze into postures of gentle beatitude. One stirred once, dangerously, as for a moment Isobar paused to catch his breath, but Isobar hastily lipped the blow-pipe with redoubled eagerness, and the Granny relapsed into quietude.
Followed then what, under somewhat different circumstances, should have been a piper's dream. For Isobar had an audience which would not—and in two cases dared not—allow him to stop playing. And to this audience he played over and over again his entire repertoire. Marches, flings, dances—the stirring Rhoderik Dhu and the lilting Lassies O'Skye , the mournful Coghiegh nha Shie whose keening is like the sound of a sobbing nation.
The Cock o' the North , he played, and Mironton ... Wee Flow'r o' Dee and MacArthur's March ... La Cucuracha and—
And his lungs were parched, his lips dry as swabs of cotton. Blood pounded through his temples, throbbing in time to the drone of the chaunter, and a dark mist gathered before his eyes. He tore the blow-pipe from his lips, gasped,
"Keep playing!" came the dim, distant howl of Johnny Brown. "Just a few minutes longer, Jonesy! Relief is on the way. Sparks saw us from his turret window five minutes ago!"
And Isobar played on. How, or what, he did not know. The memory of those next few minutes was never afterward clear in his mind. All he knew was that above the skirling drone of his pipes there came another sound, the metallic clanking of a man-made machine ... an armored tank, sent from the Dome to rescue the beleaguered trio.
He was conscious, then, of a friendly voice shouting words of encouragement, of Joe Roberts calling a warning to those below.
"Careful, boys! Drive the tank right up beneath us so we can hop in and get out of here! Watch the Grannies—they'll be after us the minute Isobar stops playing!"
Then the answer from below. The fantastic answer in Sparks' familiar voice. The answer that caused the bagpipes to slip from Isobar's fingers as Isobar Jones passed out in a dead faint:
"After you? Those Grannies? Hell's howling acres— those Grannies are stone dead !"
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What is the plot of the story?
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After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about The Holes and John Smith by Edward W. Ludwig.
Relevant chunks:
He was something out of a nightmare but his music was straight from heaven. He was a ragged little man out of a hole but he was money in the bank to Stanley's four-piece combo. He was —whoops!...
The Holes and John Smith
By Edward W. Ludwig
Illustration by Kelly Freas
It all began on a Saturday night at The Space Room . If you've seen any recent Martian travel folders, you know the place:
"A picturesque oasis of old Martian charm, situated on the beauteous Grand Canal in the heart of Marsport. Only half a mile from historic Chandler Field, landing site of the first Martian expedition nearly fifty years ago in 1990. A visitor to the hotel, lunch room or cocktail lounge will thrill at the sight of hardy space pioneers mingling side by side with colorful Martian tribesmen. An evening at The Space Room is an amazing, unforgettable experience."
Of course, the folders neglect to add that the most amazing aspect is the scent of the Canal's stagnant water—and that the most unforgettable experience is seeing the "root-of-all-evil" evaporate from your pocketbook like snow from the Great Red Desert.
We were sitting on the bandstand of the candle-lit cocktail lounge. Me—Jimmie Stanley—and my four-piece combo. Maybe you've seen our motto back on Earth:
"The Hottest Music This Side of Mercury."
But there weren't four of us tonight. Only three. Ziggy, our bass fiddle man, had nearly sliced off two fingers while opening a can of Saturnian ice-fish, thus decreasing the number of our personnel by a tragic twenty-five per cent.
Which was why Ke-teeli, our boss, was descending upon us with all the grace of an enraged Venusian vinosaur.
"Where ees museek?" he shrilled in his nasal tenor. He was almost skeleton thin, like most Martians, and so tall that if he fell down he'd be half way home.
I gulped. "Our bass man can't be here, but we've called the Marsport local for another. He'll be here any minute."
Ke-teeli, sometimes referred to as Goon-Face and The Eye, leered coldly down at me from his eight-foot-three. His eyes were like black needle points set deep in a mask of dry, ancient, reddish leather.
"Ees no feedle man, ees no job," he squeaked.
I sighed. This was the week our contract ended. Goon-Face had displayed little enough enthusiasm for our music as it was. His comments were either, "Ees too loud, too fast," or "Ees too slow, too soft." The real cause of his concern being, I suspected, the infrequency with which his cash register tinkled.
"But," I added, "even if the new man doesn't come, we're still here. We'll play for you." I glanced at the conglomeration of uniformed spacemen, white-suited tourists, and loin-clothed natives who sat at ancient stone tables. "You wouldn't want to disappoint your customers, would you?"
Ke-teeli snorted. "Maybe ees better dey be deesappointed. Ees better no museek den bad museek."
Fat Boy, our clarinetist who doubles on Martian horn-harp, made a feeble attempt at optimism. "Don't worry, Mr. Ke-teeli. That new bass man will be here."
"Sure," said Hammer-Head, our red-haired vibro-drummer. "I think I hear him coming now."
Suspiciously, Ke-teeli eyed the entrance. There was only silence. His naked, parchment-like chest swelled as if it were an expanding balloon.
"Five meenutes!" he shrieked.
"Eef no feedle, den you go!" And he whirled away.
We waited.
Fat Boy's two hundred and eighty-odd pounds were drooped over his chair like the blubber of an exhausted, beach-stranded whale.
"Well," he muttered, "there's always the uranium pits of Neptune. Course, you don't live more than five years there—"
"Maybe we could make it back to Lunar City," suggested Hammer-Head.
"Using what for fare?" I asked.
"Your brains?"
Hammer-Head groaned. "No. I guess it'll have to be the black pits of Neptune. The home of washed-up interplanetary musicians. It's too bad. We're so young, too."
The seconds swept by. Ke-teeli was casting his razor-edged glare in our direction. I brushed the chewed finger nails from the keyboard of my electronic piano.
Then it happened.
From the entrance of The Space Room came a thumping and a grating and a banging. Suddenly, sweeping across the dance floor like a cold wind, was a bass fiddle, an enormous black monstrosity, a refugee from a pawnbroker's attic. It was queerly shaped. It was too tall, too wide. It was more like a monstrous, midnight-black hour-glass than a bass.
The fiddle was not unaccompanied as I'd first imagined. Behind it, streaking over the floor in a waltz of agony, was a little guy, an animated matchstick with a flat, broad face that seemed to have been compressed in a vice. His sandcolored mop of hair reminded me of a field of dry grass, the long strands forming loops that flanked the sides of his face.
His pale blue eyes were watery, like twin pools of fog. His tightfitting suit, as black as the bass, was something off a park bench. It was impossible to guess his age. He could have been anywhere between twenty and forty.
The bass thumped down upon the bandstand.
"Hello," he puffed. "I'm John Smith, from the Marsport union." He spoke shrilly and rapidly, as if anxious to conclude the routine of introductions. "I'm sorry I'm late, but I was working on my plan."
A moment's silence.
"Your plan?" I echoed at last.
"How to get back home," he snapped as if I should have known it already.
Hummm, I thought.
My gaze turned to the dance floor. Goon-Face had his eyes on us, and they were as cold as six Indians going South.
"We'll talk about your plan at intermission," I said, shivering.
"Now, we'd better start playing. John, do you know On An Asteroid With You ?"
"I know everything ," said John Smith.
I turned to my piano with a shudder. I didn't dare look at that horrible fiddle again. I didn't dare think what kind of soul-chilling tones might emerge from its ancient depths.
And I didn't dare look again at the second monstrosity, the one named John Smith. I closed my eyes and plunged into a four-bar intro.
Hammer-Head joined in on vibro-drums and Fat Boy on clarinet, and then—
My eyes burst open. A shiver coursed down my spine like gigantic mice feet.
The tones that surged from that monstrous bass were ecstatic. They were out of a jazzman's Heaven. They were great rolling clouds that seemed to envelop the entire universe with their vibrance. They held a depth and a volume and a richness that were astounding, that were like no others I'd ever heard.
First they went Boom-de-boom-de-boom-de-boom , and then, boom-de-de-boom-de-de-boom-de-de-boom , just like the tones of all bass fiddles.
But there was something else, too. There were overtones, so that John wasn't just playing a single note, but a whole chord with each beat. And the fullness, the depth of those incredible chords actually set my blood tingling. I could feel the tingling just as one can feel the vibration of a plucked guitar string.
I glanced at the cash customers. They looked like weary warriors getting their first glimpse of Valhalla. Gap-jawed and wide-eyed, they seemed in a kind of ecstatic hypnosis. Even the silent, bland-faced Martians stopped sipping their wine-syrup and nodded their dark heads in time with the rhythm.
I looked at The Eye. The transformation of his gaunt features was miraculous. Shadows of gloom dissolved and were replaced by a black-toothed, crescent-shaped smile of delight. His eyes shone like those of a kid seeing Santa Claus.
We finished On An Asteroid With You , modulated into Sweet Sally from Saturn and finished with Tighten Your Lips on Titan .
We waited for the applause of the Earth people and the shrilling of the Martians to die down. Then I turned to John and his fiddle.
"If I didn't hear it," I gasped,
"I wouldn't believe it!"
"And the fiddle's so old, too!" added Hammer-Head who, although sober, seemed quite drunk.
"Old?" said John Smith. "Of course it's old. It's over five thousand years old. I was lucky to find it in a pawnshop. Only it's not a fiddle but a Zloomph . This is the only one in existence." He patted the thing tenderly. "I tried the hole in it but it isn't the right one."
I wondered what the hell he was talking about. I studied the black, mirror-like wood. The aperture in the vesonator was like that of any bass fiddle.
"Isn't right for what?" I had to ask.
He turned his sad eyes to me.
"For going home," he said.
Hummm, I thought.
We played. Tune after tune. John knew them all, from the latest pop melodies to a swing version of the classic Rhapsody of The Stars . He was a quiet guy during the next couple of hours, and getting more than a few words from him seemed as hard as extracting a tooth. He'd stand by his fiddle—I mean, his Zloomph —with a dreamy expression in those watery eyes, staring at nothing.
But after one number he studied Fat Boy's clarinet for a moment.
"Nice clarinet," he mused. "Has an unusual hole in the front."
Fat Boy scratched the back of his head. "You—you mean here? Where the music comes out?"
John Smith nodded. "Unusual."
Hummm, I thought again.
Awhile later I caught him eyeing my piano keyboard. "What's the matter, John?"
He pointed.
"Oh, there," I said. "A cigarette fell out of my ashtray, burnt a hole in the key. If The Eye sees it, he'll swear at me in seven languages."
"Even there," he said softly,
"even there...."
There was no doubt about it. John Smith was peculiar, but he was the best bass man this side of a musician's Nirvana.
It didn't take a genius to figure out our situation. Item one: Goon-Face's countenance had evidenced an excellent imitation of Mephistopheles before John began to play. Item two: Goon-Face had beamed like a kitten with a quart of cream after John began to play.
Conclusion: If we wanted to keep eating, we'd have to persuade John Smith to join our combo.
At intermission I said, "How about a drink, John? Maybe a shot of wine-syrup?"
He shook his head.
"Then maybe a Venusian fizz?"
His grunt was negative.
"Then some old-fashioned beer?"
He smiled. "Yes, I like beer."
I escorted him to the bar and assisted him in his arduous climb onto a stool.
"John," I ventured after he'd taken an experimental sip, "where have you been hiding? A guy like you should be playing every night."
John yawned. "Just got here. Figured I might need some money so I went to the union. Then I worked on my plan."
"Then you need a job. How about playing with us steady? We like your style a lot."
He made a long, low humming sound which I interpreted as an expression of intense concentration.
"I don't know," he finally drawled.
"It'd be a steady job, John." Inspiration struck me. "And listen, I have an apartment. It's got everything, solar shower, automatic chef,
'copter landing—if we ever get a
'copter. Plenty of room there for two people. You can stay with me and it won't cost you a cent. And we'll even pay you over union wages."
His watery gaze wandered lazily to the bar mirror, down to the glittering array of bottles and then out to the dance floor.
He yawned again and spoke slowly, as if each word were a leaden weight cast reluctantly from his tongue:
"No, I don't ... care much ... about playing."
"What do you like to do, John?"
His string-bean of a body stiffened.
"I like to study ancient history ... and I must work on my plan."
Oh Lord, that plan again!
I took a deep breath. "Tell me about it, John. It must be interesting."
He made queer clicking noises with his mouth that reminded me of a mechanical toy being wound into motion. "The whole foundation of this or any other culture is based on the history of all the time dimensions, each interwoven with the other, throughout the ages. And the holes provide a means of studying all of it first hand."
Oh, oh , I thought. But you still have to eat. Remember, you still have to eat.
"Trouble is," he went on, "there are so many holes in this universe."
"Holes?" I kept a straight face.
"Certainly. Look around you. All you see is holes. These beer bottles are just holes surrounded by glass. The doors and windows—they're holes in walls. The mine tunnels make a network of holes under the desert. Caves are holes, animals live in holes, our faces have holes, clothes have holes—millions and millions of holes!"
I winced and thought, humor him because you gotta eat, you gotta eat.
His voice trembled with emotion.
"Why, they're everywhere. They're in pots and pans, in pipes, in rocket jets, in bumpy roads. There are buttonholes and well holes, and shoelace holes. There are doughnut holes and stocking holes and woodpecker holes and cheese holes. Oceans lie in holes in the earth, and rivers and canals and valleys. The craters of the Moon are holes. Everything is—"
"But, John," I said as patiently as possible, "what have these holes got to do with you?"
He glowered at me as if I were unworthy of such a confidence.
"What have they to do with me?" he shrilled. "I can't find the right one—that's what!"
I closed my eyes. "Which particular hole are you looking for, John?"
He was speaking rapidly again now.
"I was hurrying back to the University with the Zloomph to prove a point of ancient history to those fools. They don't believe that instruments which make music actually existed before the tapes! It was dark—and some fool researcher had forgotten to set a force-field over the hole—I fell through."
I closed my eyes. "Now wait a minute. Did you drop something, lose it in the hole—is that why you have to find it?"
"Oh I didn't lose anything important," he snapped, " just my own time dimension. And if I don't get back they will think I couldn't prove my theory, that I'm ashamed to come back, and I'll be discredited."
His chest sagged for an instant. Then he straightened. "But there's still time for my plan to work out—with the relative difference taken into account. Only I get so tired just thinking about it."
"Yes, I can see where thinking about it would tire any one."
He nodded. "But it can't be too far away."
"I'd like to hear more about it," I said. "But if you're not going to play with us—"
"Oh, I'll play with you," he beamed. "I can talk to you . You understand."
Thank heaven!
Heaven lasted for just three days. During those seventy-two golden hours the melodious tinkling of The Eye's cash register was as constant as that of Santa's sleigh bells.
John became the hero of tourists, spacemen, and Martians, but nevertheless he remained stubbornly aloof. He was quiet, moody, playing his Zloomph automatically. He'd reveal definite indications of belonging to Homo Sapiens only when drinking beer and talking about his holes.
Goon-Face was still cautious.
"Contract?" he wheezed. "Maybe. We see. Eef feedleman stay, we have contract. He stay, yes?"
"Oh, sure," I said. "He'll stay—just as long as you want him."
"Den he sign contract, too. No beeg feedle, no contract."
"Sure. We'll get him to sign it." I laughed hollowly. "Don't worry, Mr. Ke-teeli."
Just a few minutes later tragedy struck.
A reporter from the Marsport Times ambled into interview the Man of The Hour. The interview, unfortunately, was conducted over the bar and accompanied by a generous guzzling of beer. Fat Boy, Hammer-Head and I watched from a table. Knowing John as we did, a silent prayer was in our eyes.
"This is the first time he's talked to anybody," Fat Boy breathed.
"I—I'm scared.
"Nothing can happen," I said, optimistically. "This'll be good publicity."
We watched.
John murmured something. The reporter, a paunchy, balding man, scribbled furiously in his notebook.
John yawned, muttered something else. The reporter continued to scribble.
John sipped beer. His eyes brightened, and he began to talk more rapidly.
The reporter frowned, stopped writing, and studied John curiously.
John finished his first beer, started on his second. His eyes were wild, and he was talking more and more rapidly.
"He's doing it," Hammer-Head groaned. "He's telling him!"
I rose swiftly. "We better get over there. We should have known better—"
We were too late. The reporter had already slapped on his hat and was striding to the exit. John turned to us, dazed, his enthusiasm vanishing like air from a punctured balloon.
"He wouldn't listen," he said, weakly. "I tried to tell him, but he said he'd come back when I'm sober. I'm sober now. So I quit. I've got to find my hole."
I patted him on the back. "No, John, we'll help you. Don't quit. We'll—well, we'll help you."
"We're working on a plan, too," said Fat Boy in a burst of inspiration.
"We're going to make a more scientific approach."
"How?" John asked.
Fat Boy gulped.
"Just wait another day," I said.
"We'll have it worked out. Just be patient another day. You can't leave now, not after all your work."
"No, I guess not," he sighed. "I'll stay—until tomorrow."
All night the thought crept through my brain like a teasing spider: What can we do to make him stay? What can we tell him? What, what, what?
Unable to sleep the next morning, I left John to his snoring and went for an aspirin and black coffee. All the possible schemes were drumming through my mind: finding an Earth blonde to capture John's interest, having him electro-hypnotized, breaking his leg, forging a letter from this mythical university telling him his theory was proved valid and for him to take a nice long vacation now. He was a screwball about holes and force fields and dimensional worlds but for that music of his I'd baby him the rest of his life.
It was early afternoon when I trudged back to my apartment.
John was squatting on the living room floor, surrounded by a forest of empty beer bottles. His eyes were bulging, his hair was even wilder than usual, and he was swaying.
"John!" I cried. "You're drunk!"
His watery eyes squinted at me.
"No, not drunk. Just scared. I'm awful scared!"
"But you mustn't be scared. That reporter was just stupid. We'll help you with your theory."
His body trembled. "No, it isn't that. It isn't the reporter."
"Then what is it, John?"
"It's my body. It's—"
"Yes, what about your body? Are you sick?"
His face was white with terror.
"No, my— my body's full of holes . Suppose it's one of those holes! How will I get back if it is?"
He rose and staggered to his Zloomph , clutching it as though it were somehow a source of strength and consolation.
I patted him gingerly on the arm.
"Now John. You've just had too much beer, that's all. Let's go out and get some air and some strong black coffee. C'mon now."
We staggered out into the morning darkness, the three of us. John, the Zloomph , and I.
I was hanging on to him trying to see around and over and even under the Zloomph —steering by a sort of radar-like sixth sense. The street lights on Marsport are pretty dim compared to Earthside. I didn't see the open manhole that the workmen had figured would be all right at that time of night. It gets pretty damned cold around 4: A.M. of a Martian morning, and I guess the men were warming up with a little nip at the bar across the street.
Then—he was gone.
John just slipped out of my grasp— Zloomph and all—and was gone—completely and irrevocably gone. I even risked a broken neck and jumped in the manhole after him. Nothing—nothing but the smell of ozone and an echo bouncing crazily off the walls of the conduit.
"—is it.—is it.—is it.—is it."
John Smith was gone, so utterly and completely and tragically gone it was as if he'd never existed....
Tonight is our last night at The Space Room . Goon-Face is scowling again with the icy fury of a Plutonian monsoon. As Goon-Face has said, "No beeg feedle, no contract."
Without John, we're notes in a lost chord.
We've searched everything, in hospitals, morgues, jails, night clubs, hotels. We've hounded spaceports and 'copter terminals. Nowhere, nowhere is John Smith.
Ziggy, whose two fingers have healed, has already bowed to what seems inevitable. He's signed up for that trip to Neptune's uranium pits. There's plenty of room for more volunteers, he tells us. But I spend my time cussing the guy who forgot to set the force field at the other end of the hole and let John and his Zloomph back into his own time dimension. I cuss harder when I think how we were robbed of the best bass player in the galaxy.
And without a corpus delecti we can't even sue the city.
... THE END
Question:
What is the plot of the story?
Answer:
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[
"The setting is primarily at an event space called the Space Room. Jimmie Stanley and his band perform there. They are sitting in the cocktail lounge waiting for the replacement for their fiddle player to arrive. Their boss, Ke-teeli, is upset that the fiddle player is not yet there. He is threatening to not let them play at the venue anymore. Eventually, their replacement player arrives at the venue. However, Jimmie has serious doubts that man will be able to play well because his instrument does not look like a fiddle and he appears disheveled. When the band does play with the new member, John Smith, he and his instrument – the Zloomph – sounds amazing. The audience shows a good reception as does the boss. \n\nJimmie wants John to join the band, but John has other concerns. He continuously mentions holes and seems obsessed over finding holes. Eventually, Jimmie learns why John is interested in holes. John claims that he accidentally went through a hole and left his time dimension. He is in search of holes in order to find his original time dimension. Jimmie attempts to play along with John’s claims and even offers to let John stay at his apartment in order to entice him to join the band. John continues to drink beer and talk about holes during the story. \n\nOne night, Jimmie returns back to his apartment and finds John drunk on the floor. He takes John, and the instrument, outside to calm John down. When they go outside, John and his instrument fall through a hole and are not seen again. Jimmie and the rest of the band assume that John managed to find his way back to his own time zone. \n",
"Jimmie Stanley is the piano player in a band, and the story begins at The Space Room where the band is waiting for a temporary bass fiddle man to arrive. This is because the original bass fiddle man, Ziggy, injured his fingers. The boss Ke-teeli does not seem to like their music that much. Now that a member is missing and the replacement player has not yet arrived, the boss starts to doubt that the three members of the band can perform good music. He doesn’t think that the customers will be satisfied. The band’s contract with the boss ends this week, and the boss does not seem to want to continue the contract. Finally, the temporary bass fiddle player arrives with his instrument. He introduces himself as John Smith and tells them that he is late because he was working on his plan. At first, Jimmie doubt that the ancient bass fiddle can make any beautiful sound. But he becomes very surprised once he hears the beautiful music. The audiences are focused and intrigued by the music. Even the boss becomes delight after hearing the music. Later, John begins to notice the holes on the clarinet and the piano, which seems quite odd to the band. Noting his talents in music and the facial expression on the boss’ face, Jimmie asks John to play for the long term. But John rejects stating that he needs to work on his plan. John mentions that there are many holes in the universe, but he cannot find the right one to go back to prove a point to the University. Believing that Jimmie understands him, he decides to play with the band. The boss agrees to give them the contract if John stays. For the next few days, John becomes popular and then a reporter come to interview him. After telling the reporter about the holes, the reporter decides to leave. Then John tells the band that he will stay until tomorrow. The next day, John is gone. The band searched everywhere, but is not able to find him. ",
"An Earth music band of four is supposed to play at The Space Room on Mars, but the bass man is injured. The band boss, Ke-teeli, is discontented with the group and won't prolong the contract, he wants to cancel the concert. Jimmie Stanley, the leader of the band, is waiting for the bass man's replacement to save the band. If the band loses the job, they have nowhere to go. After a while of waiting, a huge monstrosity enters The Space Room accompanied by a little guy in a suit, a matchstick. The newcomer is John Smith, the bass man from Mars, who is late because he has been working on his plan of getting back home. When the band starts playing, everyone is enchanted with John's playing, which is the best and the most unique sound they've ever heard. During the intermission, John mentions that his fiddle is over five thousand years old but its hole isn't right for going home. Jimmie is confused with this and the band continues playing. John stares at the holes in the instruments of the rest of the band. At intermission Jimmie offers John a drink to urge him to join the band. John is unwilling to accept the offer as he is more interested in history and his plan than in music. Turns out he fell into a hole a while ago and now he can't get back to his time dimension. For three days John plays with the band and talks of holes to Jimmie, whom he sees as an understanding person. Then John is interviewed and the reporter won't listen about his holes, so he decides to quit the band and continue searching for them. Next day Jimmie leaves for a while thinking about how to urge the bass man to stay, and when he returns, John is drunk with beer. The two go out and suddenly John disappears. The band can't find him anywhere and their contract ends. \n",
"The story begins on a Saturday night at The Space Room. Jimmie Stanley and two other members of his band are sitting in the bandstand of the cocktail lounge. The bass fiddle man, Ziggy, is not present because he had almost sliced his fingers off while opening a can of Santurnian ice-fish. The boss Ke-teeli, also known as Goon-Face, is furious that no music is being played at the establishment. They explain that a Marsport local has been called a stand-in for the bassist, while Ke-teeli is suspicious. John Smith from the Marsport union comes in shortly after. Jimmie is intimidated by his bass fiddle, and John Smith explains that he knows how to play everything. As they begin playing, John Smith plays a whole chord with each beat on his bass. The customers are in some trance, and even bland-faced Martians begin nodding in time to the rhythm. After their performance, John Smith explains that his instrument is over five thousand years old, and it is not a fiddle but the only Zloomph in existence. He points out the holes on the other band member’s instruments. Jimmie tries to convince him to join the combo, but John explains that he does not care much for playing even when Jimmie offers to share his apartment. He is focused on his plan, which involves studying holes and how they relate to the universe. John further explains that he fell through his time dimension while hurrying back to the University with his Zloomph to prove something in ancient history. Jimmie agrees to listen to him if he plays with them, which makes John extremely happy. John becomes extremely popular with all of the customers, and Goon-Face tells Jimmie that they will continue to have their contract if the bass fiddle man stays. A reporter approaches John for an interview over beer, and he tries to tell him his plan. However, it turns out that the reporter does not understand, and John is down again. Fat Boy exclaims that they are also working on a plan in an attempt to make him stay. As Jimmie thinks about what can make John stay, he comes up with a variety of plans. As he returns to his apartment in the early afternoon, he finds John squatting on the floor and surrounded by beer bottles. John is scared because he is covered in holes, but Jimmie is not convinced and takes him out to get some fresh air. It is four AM in the morning; suddenly, John disappears through the manhole with his Zloomph. Jimmie jumps into it after him, but he has completely disappeared without a trace. Goon-Face does not offer them another contract, and they desperately search everywhere for John. Ziggy, now healed, signs up for a trip to the uranium pits, and Jimmie is furious at whoever let John back to his time dimension. However, he knows that they cannot sue the city without a corpus delecti. "
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32667
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He was something out of a nightmare but his music was straight from heaven. He was a ragged little man out of a hole but he was money in the bank to Stanley's four-piece combo. He was —whoops!...
The Holes and John Smith
By Edward W. Ludwig
Illustration by Kelly Freas
It all began on a Saturday night at The Space Room . If you've seen any recent Martian travel folders, you know the place:
"A picturesque oasis of old Martian charm, situated on the beauteous Grand Canal in the heart of Marsport. Only half a mile from historic Chandler Field, landing site of the first Martian expedition nearly fifty years ago in 1990. A visitor to the hotel, lunch room or cocktail lounge will thrill at the sight of hardy space pioneers mingling side by side with colorful Martian tribesmen. An evening at The Space Room is an amazing, unforgettable experience."
Of course, the folders neglect to add that the most amazing aspect is the scent of the Canal's stagnant water—and that the most unforgettable experience is seeing the "root-of-all-evil" evaporate from your pocketbook like snow from the Great Red Desert.
We were sitting on the bandstand of the candle-lit cocktail lounge. Me—Jimmie Stanley—and my four-piece combo. Maybe you've seen our motto back on Earth:
"The Hottest Music This Side of Mercury."
But there weren't four of us tonight. Only three. Ziggy, our bass fiddle man, had nearly sliced off two fingers while opening a can of Saturnian ice-fish, thus decreasing the number of our personnel by a tragic twenty-five per cent.
Which was why Ke-teeli, our boss, was descending upon us with all the grace of an enraged Venusian vinosaur.
"Where ees museek?" he shrilled in his nasal tenor. He was almost skeleton thin, like most Martians, and so tall that if he fell down he'd be half way home.
I gulped. "Our bass man can't be here, but we've called the Marsport local for another. He'll be here any minute."
Ke-teeli, sometimes referred to as Goon-Face and The Eye, leered coldly down at me from his eight-foot-three. His eyes were like black needle points set deep in a mask of dry, ancient, reddish leather.
"Ees no feedle man, ees no job," he squeaked.
I sighed. This was the week our contract ended. Goon-Face had displayed little enough enthusiasm for our music as it was. His comments were either, "Ees too loud, too fast," or "Ees too slow, too soft." The real cause of his concern being, I suspected, the infrequency with which his cash register tinkled.
"But," I added, "even if the new man doesn't come, we're still here. We'll play for you." I glanced at the conglomeration of uniformed spacemen, white-suited tourists, and loin-clothed natives who sat at ancient stone tables. "You wouldn't want to disappoint your customers, would you?"
Ke-teeli snorted. "Maybe ees better dey be deesappointed. Ees better no museek den bad museek."
Fat Boy, our clarinetist who doubles on Martian horn-harp, made a feeble attempt at optimism. "Don't worry, Mr. Ke-teeli. That new bass man will be here."
"Sure," said Hammer-Head, our red-haired vibro-drummer. "I think I hear him coming now."
Suspiciously, Ke-teeli eyed the entrance. There was only silence. His naked, parchment-like chest swelled as if it were an expanding balloon.
"Five meenutes!" he shrieked.
"Eef no feedle, den you go!" And he whirled away.
We waited.
Fat Boy's two hundred and eighty-odd pounds were drooped over his chair like the blubber of an exhausted, beach-stranded whale.
"Well," he muttered, "there's always the uranium pits of Neptune. Course, you don't live more than five years there—"
"Maybe we could make it back to Lunar City," suggested Hammer-Head.
"Using what for fare?" I asked.
"Your brains?"
Hammer-Head groaned. "No. I guess it'll have to be the black pits of Neptune. The home of washed-up interplanetary musicians. It's too bad. We're so young, too."
The seconds swept by. Ke-teeli was casting his razor-edged glare in our direction. I brushed the chewed finger nails from the keyboard of my electronic piano.
Then it happened.
From the entrance of The Space Room came a thumping and a grating and a banging. Suddenly, sweeping across the dance floor like a cold wind, was a bass fiddle, an enormous black monstrosity, a refugee from a pawnbroker's attic. It was queerly shaped. It was too tall, too wide. It was more like a monstrous, midnight-black hour-glass than a bass.
The fiddle was not unaccompanied as I'd first imagined. Behind it, streaking over the floor in a waltz of agony, was a little guy, an animated matchstick with a flat, broad face that seemed to have been compressed in a vice. His sandcolored mop of hair reminded me of a field of dry grass, the long strands forming loops that flanked the sides of his face.
His pale blue eyes were watery, like twin pools of fog. His tightfitting suit, as black as the bass, was something off a park bench. It was impossible to guess his age. He could have been anywhere between twenty and forty.
The bass thumped down upon the bandstand.
"Hello," he puffed. "I'm John Smith, from the Marsport union." He spoke shrilly and rapidly, as if anxious to conclude the routine of introductions. "I'm sorry I'm late, but I was working on my plan."
A moment's silence.
"Your plan?" I echoed at last.
"How to get back home," he snapped as if I should have known it already.
Hummm, I thought.
My gaze turned to the dance floor. Goon-Face had his eyes on us, and they were as cold as six Indians going South.
"We'll talk about your plan at intermission," I said, shivering.
"Now, we'd better start playing. John, do you know On An Asteroid With You ?"
"I know everything ," said John Smith.
I turned to my piano with a shudder. I didn't dare look at that horrible fiddle again. I didn't dare think what kind of soul-chilling tones might emerge from its ancient depths.
And I didn't dare look again at the second monstrosity, the one named John Smith. I closed my eyes and plunged into a four-bar intro.
Hammer-Head joined in on vibro-drums and Fat Boy on clarinet, and then—
My eyes burst open. A shiver coursed down my spine like gigantic mice feet.
The tones that surged from that monstrous bass were ecstatic. They were out of a jazzman's Heaven. They were great rolling clouds that seemed to envelop the entire universe with their vibrance. They held a depth and a volume and a richness that were astounding, that were like no others I'd ever heard.
First they went Boom-de-boom-de-boom-de-boom , and then, boom-de-de-boom-de-de-boom-de-de-boom , just like the tones of all bass fiddles.
But there was something else, too. There were overtones, so that John wasn't just playing a single note, but a whole chord with each beat. And the fullness, the depth of those incredible chords actually set my blood tingling. I could feel the tingling just as one can feel the vibration of a plucked guitar string.
I glanced at the cash customers. They looked like weary warriors getting their first glimpse of Valhalla. Gap-jawed and wide-eyed, they seemed in a kind of ecstatic hypnosis. Even the silent, bland-faced Martians stopped sipping their wine-syrup and nodded their dark heads in time with the rhythm.
I looked at The Eye. The transformation of his gaunt features was miraculous. Shadows of gloom dissolved and were replaced by a black-toothed, crescent-shaped smile of delight. His eyes shone like those of a kid seeing Santa Claus.
We finished On An Asteroid With You , modulated into Sweet Sally from Saturn and finished with Tighten Your Lips on Titan .
We waited for the applause of the Earth people and the shrilling of the Martians to die down. Then I turned to John and his fiddle.
"If I didn't hear it," I gasped,
"I wouldn't believe it!"
"And the fiddle's so old, too!" added Hammer-Head who, although sober, seemed quite drunk.
"Old?" said John Smith. "Of course it's old. It's over five thousand years old. I was lucky to find it in a pawnshop. Only it's not a fiddle but a Zloomph . This is the only one in existence." He patted the thing tenderly. "I tried the hole in it but it isn't the right one."
I wondered what the hell he was talking about. I studied the black, mirror-like wood. The aperture in the vesonator was like that of any bass fiddle.
"Isn't right for what?" I had to ask.
He turned his sad eyes to me.
"For going home," he said.
Hummm, I thought.
We played. Tune after tune. John knew them all, from the latest pop melodies to a swing version of the classic Rhapsody of The Stars . He was a quiet guy during the next couple of hours, and getting more than a few words from him seemed as hard as extracting a tooth. He'd stand by his fiddle—I mean, his Zloomph —with a dreamy expression in those watery eyes, staring at nothing.
But after one number he studied Fat Boy's clarinet for a moment.
"Nice clarinet," he mused. "Has an unusual hole in the front."
Fat Boy scratched the back of his head. "You—you mean here? Where the music comes out?"
John Smith nodded. "Unusual."
Hummm, I thought again.
Awhile later I caught him eyeing my piano keyboard. "What's the matter, John?"
He pointed.
"Oh, there," I said. "A cigarette fell out of my ashtray, burnt a hole in the key. If The Eye sees it, he'll swear at me in seven languages."
"Even there," he said softly,
"even there...."
There was no doubt about it. John Smith was peculiar, but he was the best bass man this side of a musician's Nirvana.
It didn't take a genius to figure out our situation. Item one: Goon-Face's countenance had evidenced an excellent imitation of Mephistopheles before John began to play. Item two: Goon-Face had beamed like a kitten with a quart of cream after John began to play.
Conclusion: If we wanted to keep eating, we'd have to persuade John Smith to join our combo.
At intermission I said, "How about a drink, John? Maybe a shot of wine-syrup?"
He shook his head.
"Then maybe a Venusian fizz?"
His grunt was negative.
"Then some old-fashioned beer?"
He smiled. "Yes, I like beer."
I escorted him to the bar and assisted him in his arduous climb onto a stool.
"John," I ventured after he'd taken an experimental sip, "where have you been hiding? A guy like you should be playing every night."
John yawned. "Just got here. Figured I might need some money so I went to the union. Then I worked on my plan."
"Then you need a job. How about playing with us steady? We like your style a lot."
He made a long, low humming sound which I interpreted as an expression of intense concentration.
"I don't know," he finally drawled.
"It'd be a steady job, John." Inspiration struck me. "And listen, I have an apartment. It's got everything, solar shower, automatic chef,
'copter landing—if we ever get a
'copter. Plenty of room there for two people. You can stay with me and it won't cost you a cent. And we'll even pay you over union wages."
His watery gaze wandered lazily to the bar mirror, down to the glittering array of bottles and then out to the dance floor.
He yawned again and spoke slowly, as if each word were a leaden weight cast reluctantly from his tongue:
"No, I don't ... care much ... about playing."
"What do you like to do, John?"
His string-bean of a body stiffened.
"I like to study ancient history ... and I must work on my plan."
Oh Lord, that plan again!
I took a deep breath. "Tell me about it, John. It must be interesting."
He made queer clicking noises with his mouth that reminded me of a mechanical toy being wound into motion. "The whole foundation of this or any other culture is based on the history of all the time dimensions, each interwoven with the other, throughout the ages. And the holes provide a means of studying all of it first hand."
Oh, oh , I thought. But you still have to eat. Remember, you still have to eat.
"Trouble is," he went on, "there are so many holes in this universe."
"Holes?" I kept a straight face.
"Certainly. Look around you. All you see is holes. These beer bottles are just holes surrounded by glass. The doors and windows—they're holes in walls. The mine tunnels make a network of holes under the desert. Caves are holes, animals live in holes, our faces have holes, clothes have holes—millions and millions of holes!"
I winced and thought, humor him because you gotta eat, you gotta eat.
His voice trembled with emotion.
"Why, they're everywhere. They're in pots and pans, in pipes, in rocket jets, in bumpy roads. There are buttonholes and well holes, and shoelace holes. There are doughnut holes and stocking holes and woodpecker holes and cheese holes. Oceans lie in holes in the earth, and rivers and canals and valleys. The craters of the Moon are holes. Everything is—"
"But, John," I said as patiently as possible, "what have these holes got to do with you?"
He glowered at me as if I were unworthy of such a confidence.
"What have they to do with me?" he shrilled. "I can't find the right one—that's what!"
I closed my eyes. "Which particular hole are you looking for, John?"
He was speaking rapidly again now.
"I was hurrying back to the University with the Zloomph to prove a point of ancient history to those fools. They don't believe that instruments which make music actually existed before the tapes! It was dark—and some fool researcher had forgotten to set a force-field over the hole—I fell through."
I closed my eyes. "Now wait a minute. Did you drop something, lose it in the hole—is that why you have to find it?"
"Oh I didn't lose anything important," he snapped, " just my own time dimension. And if I don't get back they will think I couldn't prove my theory, that I'm ashamed to come back, and I'll be discredited."
His chest sagged for an instant. Then he straightened. "But there's still time for my plan to work out—with the relative difference taken into account. Only I get so tired just thinking about it."
"Yes, I can see where thinking about it would tire any one."
He nodded. "But it can't be too far away."
"I'd like to hear more about it," I said. "But if you're not going to play with us—"
"Oh, I'll play with you," he beamed. "I can talk to you . You understand."
Thank heaven!
Heaven lasted for just three days. During those seventy-two golden hours the melodious tinkling of The Eye's cash register was as constant as that of Santa's sleigh bells.
John became the hero of tourists, spacemen, and Martians, but nevertheless he remained stubbornly aloof. He was quiet, moody, playing his Zloomph automatically. He'd reveal definite indications of belonging to Homo Sapiens only when drinking beer and talking about his holes.
Goon-Face was still cautious.
"Contract?" he wheezed. "Maybe. We see. Eef feedleman stay, we have contract. He stay, yes?"
"Oh, sure," I said. "He'll stay—just as long as you want him."
"Den he sign contract, too. No beeg feedle, no contract."
"Sure. We'll get him to sign it." I laughed hollowly. "Don't worry, Mr. Ke-teeli."
Just a few minutes later tragedy struck.
A reporter from the Marsport Times ambled into interview the Man of The Hour. The interview, unfortunately, was conducted over the bar and accompanied by a generous guzzling of beer. Fat Boy, Hammer-Head and I watched from a table. Knowing John as we did, a silent prayer was in our eyes.
"This is the first time he's talked to anybody," Fat Boy breathed.
"I—I'm scared.
"Nothing can happen," I said, optimistically. "This'll be good publicity."
We watched.
John murmured something. The reporter, a paunchy, balding man, scribbled furiously in his notebook.
John yawned, muttered something else. The reporter continued to scribble.
John sipped beer. His eyes brightened, and he began to talk more rapidly.
The reporter frowned, stopped writing, and studied John curiously.
John finished his first beer, started on his second. His eyes were wild, and he was talking more and more rapidly.
"He's doing it," Hammer-Head groaned. "He's telling him!"
I rose swiftly. "We better get over there. We should have known better—"
We were too late. The reporter had already slapped on his hat and was striding to the exit. John turned to us, dazed, his enthusiasm vanishing like air from a punctured balloon.
"He wouldn't listen," he said, weakly. "I tried to tell him, but he said he'd come back when I'm sober. I'm sober now. So I quit. I've got to find my hole."
I patted him on the back. "No, John, we'll help you. Don't quit. We'll—well, we'll help you."
"We're working on a plan, too," said Fat Boy in a burst of inspiration.
"We're going to make a more scientific approach."
"How?" John asked.
Fat Boy gulped.
"Just wait another day," I said.
"We'll have it worked out. Just be patient another day. You can't leave now, not after all your work."
"No, I guess not," he sighed. "I'll stay—until tomorrow."
All night the thought crept through my brain like a teasing spider: What can we do to make him stay? What can we tell him? What, what, what?
Unable to sleep the next morning, I left John to his snoring and went for an aspirin and black coffee. All the possible schemes were drumming through my mind: finding an Earth blonde to capture John's interest, having him electro-hypnotized, breaking his leg, forging a letter from this mythical university telling him his theory was proved valid and for him to take a nice long vacation now. He was a screwball about holes and force fields and dimensional worlds but for that music of his I'd baby him the rest of his life.
It was early afternoon when I trudged back to my apartment.
John was squatting on the living room floor, surrounded by a forest of empty beer bottles. His eyes were bulging, his hair was even wilder than usual, and he was swaying.
"John!" I cried. "You're drunk!"
His watery eyes squinted at me.
"No, not drunk. Just scared. I'm awful scared!"
"But you mustn't be scared. That reporter was just stupid. We'll help you with your theory."
His body trembled. "No, it isn't that. It isn't the reporter."
"Then what is it, John?"
"It's my body. It's—"
"Yes, what about your body? Are you sick?"
His face was white with terror.
"No, my— my body's full of holes . Suppose it's one of those holes! How will I get back if it is?"
He rose and staggered to his Zloomph , clutching it as though it were somehow a source of strength and consolation.
I patted him gingerly on the arm.
"Now John. You've just had too much beer, that's all. Let's go out and get some air and some strong black coffee. C'mon now."
We staggered out into the morning darkness, the three of us. John, the Zloomph , and I.
I was hanging on to him trying to see around and over and even under the Zloomph —steering by a sort of radar-like sixth sense. The street lights on Marsport are pretty dim compared to Earthside. I didn't see the open manhole that the workmen had figured would be all right at that time of night. It gets pretty damned cold around 4: A.M. of a Martian morning, and I guess the men were warming up with a little nip at the bar across the street.
Then—he was gone.
John just slipped out of my grasp— Zloomph and all—and was gone—completely and irrevocably gone. I even risked a broken neck and jumped in the manhole after him. Nothing—nothing but the smell of ozone and an echo bouncing crazily off the walls of the conduit.
"—is it.—is it.—is it.—is it."
John Smith was gone, so utterly and completely and tragically gone it was as if he'd never existed....
Tonight is our last night at The Space Room . Goon-Face is scowling again with the icy fury of a Plutonian monsoon. As Goon-Face has said, "No beeg feedle, no contract."
Without John, we're notes in a lost chord.
We've searched everything, in hospitals, morgues, jails, night clubs, hotels. We've hounded spaceports and 'copter terminals. Nowhere, nowhere is John Smith.
Ziggy, whose two fingers have healed, has already bowed to what seems inevitable. He's signed up for that trip to Neptune's uranium pits. There's plenty of room for more volunteers, he tells us. But I spend my time cussing the guy who forgot to set the force field at the other end of the hole and let John and his Zloomph back into his own time dimension. I cuss harder when I think how we were robbed of the best bass player in the galaxy.
And without a corpus delecti we can't even sue the city.
... THE END
|
Describe the setting of the story.
|
After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about The Highest Mountain by Bryce Walton.
Relevant chunks:
THE HIGHEST MOUNTAIN
By BRYCE WALTON
Illustrated by BOB HAYES
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
First one up this tallest summit in the Solar System was a rotten egg ... a very rotten egg!
Bruce heard their feet on the gravel outside and got up reluctantly to open the door for them. He'd been reading some of Byron's poems he'd sneaked aboard the ship; after that he had been on the point of dozing off, and now one of those strangely realistic dreams would have to be postponed for a while. Funny, those dreams. There were faces in them of human beings, or of ghosts, and other forms that weren't human at all, but seemed real and alive—except that they were also just parts of a last unconscious desire to escape death. Maybe that was it.
"'Oh that my young life were a lasting dream, my spirit not awakening till the beam of an eternity should bring the 'morrow," Bruce said. He smiled without feeling much of anything and added, "Thanks, Mr. Poe."
Jacobs and Anhauser stood outside. The icy wind cut through and into Bruce, but he didn't seem to notice. Anhauser's bulk loomed even larger in the special cold-resisting suiting. Jacobs' thin face frowned slyly at Bruce.
"Come on in, boys, and get warm," Bruce invited.
"Hey, poet, you're still here!" Anhauser said, looking astonished.
"We thought you'd be running off somewhere," Jacobs said.
Bruce reached for the suit on its hook, started climbing into it.
"Where?" he asked. "Mars looks alike wherever you go. Where did you think I'd be running to?"
"Any place just so it was away from here and us," Anhauser said.
"I don't have to do that. You are going away from me. That takes care of that, doesn't it?"
"Ah, come on, get the hell out of there," Jacobs said. He pulled the revolver from its holster and pointed it at Bruce. "We got to get some sleep. We're starting up that mountain at five in the morning."
"I know," Bruce said. "I'll be glad to see you climb the mountain."
Outside, in the weird light of the double moons, Bruce looked up at the gigantic overhang of the mountain. It was unbelievable. The mountain didn't seem to belong here. He'd thought so when they'd first hit Mars eight months back and discovered the other four rockets that had never got back to Earth—all lying side by side under the mountain's shadow, like little white chalk marks on a tallyboard.
They'd estimated its height at over 45,000 feet, which was a lot higher than any mountain on Earth. Yet Mars was much older, geologically. The entire face of the planet was smoothed into soft, undulating red hills by erosion. And there in the middle of barren nothingness rose that one incredible mountain. On certain nights when the stars were right, it had seemed to Bruce as though it were pointing an accusing finger at Earth—or a warning one.
With Jacobs and Anhauser and the remainder of the crew of the ship, Mars V , seven judges sat in a semi-circle and Bruce stood there in front of them for the inquest.
In the middle of the half-moon of inquisition, with his long legs stretched out and his hands folded on his belly, sat Captain Terrence. His uniform was black. On his arm was the silver fist insignia of the Conqueror Corps. Marsha Rennels sat on the extreme right and now there was no emotion at all on her trim, neat face.
He remembered her as she had been years ago, but at the moment he wasn't looking very hard to see anything on her face. It was too late. They had gotten her young and it was too late.
Terrence's big, square face frowned a little. Bruce was aware suddenly of the sound of the bleak, never-ending wind against the plastilene shelter. He remembered the strange misty shapes that had come to him in his dreams, the voices that had called to him, and how disappointed he had been when he woke from them.
"This is a mere formality," Terrence finally said, "since we all know you killed Lieutenant Doran a few hours ago. Marsha saw you kill him. Whatever you say goes on the record, of course."
"For whom?" Bruce asked.
"What kind of question is that? For the authorities on Earth when we get back."
"When you get back? Like the crews of those other four ships out there?" Bruce laughed without much humor.
Terrence rubbed a palm across his lips, dropped the hand quickly again to his belly. "You want to make a statement or not? You shot Doran in the head with a rifle. No provocation for the attack. You've wasted enough of my time with your damn arguments and anti-social behavior. This is a democratic group. Everyone has his say. But you've said too much, and done too much. Freedom doesn't allow you to go around killing fellow crew-members!"
"Any idea that there was any democracy or freedom left died on Venus," Bruce said.
"Now we get another lecture!" Terrence exploded. He leaned forward.
"You're sick, Bruce. They did a bad psych job on you. They should never have sent you on this trip. We need strength, all the strength we can find. You don't belong here."
"I know," Bruce agreed indifferently. "I was drafted for this trip. I told them I shouldn't be brought along. I said I didn't want any part of it."
"Because you're afraid. You're not Conqueror material. That's why you backed down when we all voted to climb the mountain. And what the devil does Venus—?"
Max Drexel's freckles slipped into the creases across his high forehead. "Haven't you heard him expounding on the injustice done to the Venusian aborigines, Captain? If you haven't, you aren't thoroughly educated to the crackpot idealism still infecting certain people."
"I haven't heard it," Terrence admitted. "What injustice?"
Bruce said, "I guess it couldn't really be considered an injustice any longer. Values have changed too much. Doran and I were part of the crew of that first ship to hit Venus, five years ago. Remember? One of the New Era's more infamous dates. Drexel says the Venusians were aborigines. No one ever got a chance to find out. We ran into this village. No one knows how old it was. There were intelligent beings there. One community left on the whole planet, maybe a few thousand inhabitants. They made their last mistake when they came out to greet us. Without even an attempt at communication, they were wiped out. The village was burned and everything alive in it was destroyed."
Bruce felt the old weakness coming into his knees, the sweat beginning to run down his face. He took a deep breath and stood there before the cold nihilistic stares of fourteen eyes.
"No," Bruce said. "I apologize. None of you know what I'm talking about."
Terrence nodded. "You're psycho. It's as simple as that. They pick the most capable for these conquests. Even the flights are processes of elimination. Eventually we get the very best, the most resilient, the real conquering blood. You just don't pass, Bruce. Listen, what do you think gives you the right to stand here in judgment against the laws of the whole Solar System?"
"There are plenty on Earth who agree with me," Bruce said. "I can say what I think now because you can't do more than kill me and you'll do that regardless...."
He stopped. This was ridiculous, a waste of his time. And theirs. They had established a kind of final totalitarianism since the New Era. The psychologists, the Pavlovian Reflex boys, had done that. If you didn't want to be reconditioned to fit into the social machine like a human vacuum tube, you kept your mouth shut. And for many, when the mouth was kept shut long enough, the mind pretty well forgot what it had wanted to open the mouth for in the first place.
A minority in both segments of a world split into two factions. Both had been warring diplomatically and sometimes physically, for centuries, clung to old ideas of freedom, democracy, self-determinism, individualism. To most, the words had no meaning now. It was a question of which set of conquering heroes could conquer the most space first. So far, only Venus had fallen. They had done a good, thorough job there. Four ships had come to Mars and their crews had disappeared. This was the fifth attempt—
Terrence said, "why did you shoot Doran?"
"I didn't like him enough to take the nonsense he was handing me, and when he shot the—" Bruce hesitated.
"What? When he shot what?"
Bruce felt an odd tingling in his stomach. The wind's voice seemed to sharpen and rise to a kind of wail.
"All right, I'll tell you. I was sleeping, having a dream. Doran woke me up. Marsha was with him. I'd forgotten about that geological job we were supposed to be working on. I've had these dreams ever since we got here."
"What kind of dreams?"
Someone laughed.
"Just fantastic stuff. Ask your Pavlovian there," Bruce said. "People talk to me, and there are other things in the dreams. Voices and some kind of shapes that aren't what you would call human at all."
Someone coughed. There was obvious embarrassment in the room.
"It's peculiar, but many faces and voices are those of crew members of some of the ships out there, the ones that never got back to Earth."
Terrence grinned. "Ghosts, Bruce?"
"Maybe. This planet may not be a dead ball of clay. I've had a feeling there's something real in the dreams, but I can't figure it out. You're still interested?"
Terrence nodded and glanced to either side.
"We've seen no indication of any kind of life whatsoever," Bruce pointed out. "Not even an insect, or any kind of plant life except some fungi and lichen down in the crevices. That never seemed logical to me from the start. We've covered the planet everywhere except one place—"
"The mountain," Terrence said. "You've been afraid even to talk about scaling it."
"Not afraid," Bruce objected. "I don't see any need to climb it. Coming to Mars, conquering space, isn't that enough? It happens that the crew of the first ship here decided to climb the mountain, and that set a precedent. Every ship that has come here has had to climb it. Why? Because they had to accept the challenge. And what's happened to them? Like you, they all had the necessary equipment to make a successful climb, but no one's ever come back down. No contact with anything up there.
"Captain, I'm not accepting a ridiculous challenge like that. Why should I? I didn't come here to conquer anything, even a mountain. The challenge of coming to Mars, of going on to where ever you guys intend going before something bigger than you are stops you—it doesn't interest me."
"Nothing's bigger than the destiny of Earth!" Terrence said, sitting up straight and rigid.
"I know," Bruce said. "Anyway, I got off the track. As I was saying, I woke up from this dream and Marsha and Doran were there. Doran was shaking me. But I didn't seem to have gotten entirely awake; either that or some part of the dream was real, because I looked out the window—something was out there, looking at me. It was late, and at first I thought it might be a shadow. But it wasn't. It was misty, almost translucent, but I think it was something alive. I had a feeling it was intelligent, maybe very intelligent. I could feel something in my mind. A kind of beauty and softness and warmth. I kept looking—"
His throat was getting tight. He had difficulty talking. "Doran asked me what I was looking at, and I told him. He laughed. But he looked. Then I realized that maybe I wasn't still dreaming. Doran saw it, too, or thought he did. He kept looking and finally he jumped and grabbed up his rifle and ran outside. I yelled at him. I kept on yelling and ran after him. 'It's intelligent, whatever it is!' I kept saying. 'How do you know it means any harm?' But I heard Doran's rifle go off before I could get to him. And whatever it was we saw, I didn't see it any more. Neither did Doran. Maybe he killed it. I don't know. He had to kill it. That's the way you think."
"What? Explain that remark."
"That's the philosophy of conquest—don't take any chances with aliens. They might hinder our advance across the Universe. So we kill everything. Doran acted without thinking at all. Conditioned to kill everything that doesn't look like us. So I hit Doran and took the gun away from him and killed him. I felt sick, crazy with rage. Maybe that's part of it. All I know is that I thought he deserved to die and that I had to kill him, so I did."
"Is that all, Bruce?"
"That's about all. Except that I'd like to kill all of you. And I would if I had the chance."
"That's what I figured." Terrence turned to the psychologist, a small wiry man who sat there constantly fingering his ear. "Stromberg, what do you think of this gobbledegook? We know he's crazy. But what hit him? You said his record was good up until a year ago."
Stromberg's voice was monotonous, like a voice off of a tape.
"Schizophrenia with mingled delusions of persecution. The schizophrenia is caused by inner conflict—indecision between the older values and our present ones which he hasn't been able to accept. A complete case history would tell why he can't accept our present attitudes. I would say that he has an incipient fear of personal inadequacy, which is why he fears our desire for conquest. He's rationalized, built up a defense which he's structured with his idealism, foundationed with Old Era values. Retreat into the past, an escape from his own present feelings of inadequacy. Also, he escapes into these dream fantasies."
"Yes," Terrence said. "But how does that account for Doran's action? Doran must have seen something—"
"Doran's charts show high suggestibility under stress. Another weak personality eliminated. Let's regard it that way. He imagined he saw something." He glanced at Marsha. "Did you see anything?"
She hesitated, avoiding Bruce's eyes. "Nothing at all. There wasn't anything out there to see, except the dust and rocks. That's all there is to see here. We could stay a million years and never see anything else. A shadow maybe—"
"All right," Terrence interrupted. "Now, Bruce, you know the law regulating the treatment of serious psycho cases in space?"
"Yes. Execution."
"No facilities for handling such cases en route back to Earth."
"I understand. No apologies necessary, Captain."
Terrence shifted his position. "However, we've voted to grant you a kind of leniency. In exchange for a little further service from you, you can remain here on Mars after we leave. You'll be left food-concentrates to last a long time."
"What kind of service?"
"Stay by the radio and take down what we report as we go up the mountain."
"Why not?" Bruce said. "You aren't certain you're coming back, then?"
"We might not," Terrence admitted calmly. "Something's happened to the others. We're going to find out what and we want it recorded. None of us want to back down and stay here. You can take our reports as they come in."
"I'll do that," Bruce said. "It should be interesting."
Bruce watched them go, away and up and around the immediate face of the mountain in the bleak cold of the Martian morning. He watched them disappear behind a high ledge, tied together with plastic rope like convicts.
He stayed by the radio. He lost track of time and didn't care much if he did. Sometimes he took a heavy sedative and slept. The sedative prevented the dreams. He had an idea that the dreams might be so pleasant that he wouldn't wake up. He wanted to listen to Terrence as long as the captain had anything to say. It was nothing but curiosity.
At fifteen thousand feet, Terrence reported only that they were climbing.
At twenty thousand feet, Terrence said, "We're still climbing, and that's all I can report, Bruce. It's worth coming to Mars for—to accept a challenge like this!"
At twenty-five thousand feet, Terrence reported, "We've put on oxygen masks. Jacobs and Drexel have developed some kind of altitude sickness and we're taking a little time out. It's a magnificent sight up here. I can imagine plenty of tourists coming to Mars one of these days, just to climb this mountain! Mt. Everest is a pimple compared with this! What a feeling of power, Bruce!"
From forty thousand feet, Terrence said, "We gauged this mountain at forty-five thousand. But here we are at forty and there doesn't seem to be any top. We can see up and up and the mountain keeps on going. I don't understand how we could have made such an error in our computations. I talked with Burton. He doesn't see how a mountain this high could still be here when the rest of the planet has been worn so smooth."
And then from fifty-three thousand feet, Terrence said with a voice that seemed slightly strained: "No sign of any of the crew of the other four ships yet. Ten in each crew, that makes fifty. Not a sign of any of them so far, but then we seem to have a long way left to climb—"
Bruce listened and noted and took sedatives and opened cans of food concentrates. He smoked and ate and slept. He had plenty of time. He had only time and the dreams which he knew he could utilize later to take care of the time.
From sixty thousand feet, Terrence reported, "I had to shoot Anhauser a few minutes ago! He was dissenting. Hear that, Bruce? One of my most dependable men. We took a vote. A mere formality, of course, whether we should continue climbing or not. We knew we'd all vote to keep on climbing. And then Anhauser dissented. He was hysterical. He refused to accept the majority decision. 'I'm going back down!' he yelled. So I had to shoot him. Imagine a man of his apparent caliber turning anti-democratic like that! This mountain will be a great tester for us in the future. We'll test everybody, find out quickly who the weaklings are."
Bruce listened to the wind. It seemed to rise higher and higher. Terrence, who had climbed still higher, was calling. "Think of it! What a conquest! No man's ever done a thing like this. Like Stromberg says, it's symbolic! We can build spaceships and reach other planets, but that's not actual physical conquest. We feel like gods up here. We can see what we are now. We can see how it's going to be—"
Once in a while Terrence demanded that Bruce say something to prove he was still there taking down what Terrence said. Bruce obliged. A long time passed, the way time does when no one cares. Bruce stopped taking the sedatives finally. The dreams came back and became, somehow, more real each time. He needed the companionship of the dreams.
It was very lonely sitting there without the dreams, with nothing but Terrence's voice ranting excitedly on and on. Terrence didn't seem real any more; certainly not as real as the dreams.
The problem of where to put the line between dream and reality began to worry Bruce. He would wake up and listen and take down what Terrence was saying, and then go to sleep again with increasing expectancy. His dream took on continuity. He could return to the point where he had left it, and it was the same—allowing even for the time difference necessitated by his periods of sleep.
He met people in the dreams, two girls and a man. They had names: Pietro, Marlene, Helene.
Helene he had seen from the beginning, but she became more real to him all the time, until he could talk with her. After that, he could also talk with Marlene and Pietro, and the conversations made sense. Consistently, they made sense.
The Martian landscape was entirely different in the dreams. Green valleys and rivers, or actually wide canals, with odd trees trailing their branches on the slow, peacefully gliding currents. Here and there were pastel-colored cities and there were things drifting through them that were alive and intelligent and soft and warm and wonderful to know.
' ... dreams, in their vivid coloring of life, as in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife of semblance with reality which brings to the delirious eye more lovely things of paradise and love—and all our own!—than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known.... '
So sometimes he read poetry, but even that was hardly equal to the dreams.
And then he would wake up and listen to Terrence's voice. He would look out the window over the barren frigid land where there was nothing but seams of worn land, like scabs under the brazen sky.
"If I had a choice," he thought, "I wouldn't ever wake up at all again. The dreams may not be more real, but they're preferable."
Dreams were supposed to be wishful thinking, primarily, but he couldn't live in them very long. His body would dry up and he would die. He had to stay awake enough to put a little energy back into himself. Of course, if he died and lost the dreams, there would be one compensation—he would also be free of Terrence and the rest of them who had learned that the only value in life lay in killing one's way across the Cosmos.
But then he had a feeling Terrence's voice wouldn't be annoying him much more anyway. The voice was unreal, coming out of some void. He could switch off Terrence any time now, but he was still curious.
"Bruce—Bruce, you still there? Listen, we're up here at what we figure to be five hundred thousand feet! It is impossible. We keep climbing and now we look up and we can see up and up and there the mountain is going up and up—"
And some time later: "Bruce, Marsha's dying! We don't know what's the matter. We can't find any reason for it. She's lying here and she keeps laughing and calling your name. She's a woman, so that's probably it. Women don't have real guts."
Bruce bent toward the radio. Outside the shelter, the wind whistled softly at the door.
"Marsha," he said.
"Bruce—"
She hadn't said his name that way for a long time.
"Marsha, remember how we used to talk about human values? I remember how you seemed to have something maybe different from the others. I never thought you'd really buy this will to conquer, and now it doesn't matter...."
He listened to her voice, first the crazy laughter, and then a whisper.
"Bruce, hello down there." Her voice was all mixed up with fear and hysteria and mockery. "Bruce darling, are you lonely down there? I wish I were with you, safe ... free ... warm. I love you. Do you hear that? I really love you, after all. After all...."
Her voice drifted away, came back to him. "We're climbing the highest mountain. What are you doing there, relaxing where it's peaceful and warm and sane? You always were such a calm guy. I remember now. What are you doing—reading poetry while we climb the mountain? What was that, Bruce—that one about the mountain you tried to quote to me last night before you ... I can't remember it now. Darling, what...?"
He stared at the radio. He hesitated, reached out and switched on the mike. He got through to her.
"Hello, hello, darling," he whispered. "Marsha, can you hear me?"
"Yes, yes. You down there, all warm and cozy, reading poetry, darling. Where you can see both ways instead of just up and down, up and down."
He tried to imagine where she was now as he spoke to her, how she looked. He thought of Earth and how it had been there, years ago, with Marsha. Things had seemed so different then. There was something of that hope in his voice now as he spoke to her, yet not directly to her, as he looked out the window at the naked frigid sky and the barren rocks.
"'... and there is nowhere to go from the top of a mountain,
But down, my dear;
And the springs that flow on the floor of the valley
Will never seem fresh or clear
For thinking of the glitter of the mountain water
In the feathery green of the year....'"
The wind stormed over the shelter in a burst of power, buried the sound of his own voice.
"Marsha, are you still there?"
"What the devil's the idea, poetry at a time like this, or any time?" Terrence demanded. "Listen, you taking this down? We haven't run into any signs of the others. Six hundred thousand feet, Bruce! We feel our destiny. We conquer the Solar System. And we'll go out and out, and we'll climb the highest mountain, the highest mountain anywhere. We're going up and up. We've voted on it. Unanimous. We go on. On to the top, Bruce! Nothing can stop us. If it takes ten years, a hundred, a thousand years, we'll find it. We'll find the top! Not the top of this world—the top of everything . The top of the
UNIVERSE
!"
Later, Terrence's voice broke off in the middle of something or other—Bruce couldn't make any sense out of it at all—and turned into crazy yells that faded out and never came back.
Bruce figured the others might still be climbing somewhere, or maybe they were dead. Either way it wouldn't make any difference to him. He knew they would never come back down.
He was switching off the radio for good when he saw the coloration break over the window. It was the same as the dream, but for an instant, dream and reality seemed fused like two superimposed film negatives.
He went to the window and looked out. The comfortable little city was out there, and the canal flowing past through a pleasantly cool yet sunny afternoon. Purple mist blanketed the knees of low hills and there was a valley, green and rich with the trees high and full beside the softly flowing canal water.
The filmy shapes that seemed alive, that were partly translucent, drifted along the water's edge, and birds as delicate as colored glass wavered down the wind.
He opened the shelter door and went out. The shelter looked the same, but useless now. How did the shelter of that bleak world get into this one, where the air was warm and fragrant, where there was no cold, from that world into this one of his dreams?
The girl—Helene—was standing there leaning against a tree, smoking a cigarette.
He walked toward her, and stopped. In the dream it had been easy, but now he was embarrassed, in spite of the intimacy that had grown between them. She wore the same casual slacks and sandals. Her hair was brown. She was not particularly beautiful, but she was comfortable to look at because she seemed so peaceful. Content, happy with what was and only what was.
He turned quickly. The shelter was still there, and behind it the row of spaceships—not like chalk marks on a tallyboard now, but like odd relics that didn't belong there in the thick green grass. Five ships instead of four.
There was his own individual shelter beyond the headquarters building, and the other buildings. He looked up.
There was no mountain.
For one shivery moment he knew fear. And then the fear went away, and he was ashamed of what he had felt. What he had feared was gone now, and he knew it was gone for good and he would never have to fear it again.
"Look here, Bruce. I wondered how long it would take to get it through that thick poetic head of yours!"
"Get what?" He began to suspect what it was all about now, but he wasn't quite sure yet.
"Smoke?" she said.
He took one of the cigarettes and she lighted it for him and put the lighter back into her pocket.
"It's real nice here," she said. "Isn't it?"
"I guess it's about perfect."
"It'll be easy. Staying here, I mean. We won't be going to Earth ever again, you know."
"I didn't know that, but I didn't think we ever would again."
"We wouldn't want to anyway, would we, Bruce?"
"No."
He kept on looking at the place where the mountain had been. Or maybe it still was; he couldn't make up his mind yet. Which was and which was not? That barren icy world without life, or this?
"' Is all that we see or seem ,'" he whispered, half to himself, "' but a dream within a dream? '"
She laughed softly. "Poe was ahead of his time," she said. "You still don't get it, do you? You don't know what's been happening?"
"Maybe I don't."
She shrugged, and looked in the direction of the ships. "Poor guys. I can't feel much hatred toward them now. The Martians give you a lot of understanding of the human mind—after they've accepted you, and after you've lived with them awhile. But the mountain climbers—we can see now—it's just luck, chance, we weren't like them. A deviant is a child of chance."
"Yes," Bruce said. "There's a lot of people like us on Earth, but they'll never get the chance—the chance we seem to have here, to live decently...."
"You're beginning to see now which was the dream," she said and smiled. "But don't be pessimistic. Those people on Earth will get their chance, too, one of these fine days. The Conquerors aren't getting far. Venus, and then Mars, and Mars is where they stop. They'll keep coming here and climbing the mountain and finally there won't be any more. It won't take so long."
She rose to her toes and waved and yelled. Bruce saw Pietro and Marlene walking hand in hand up the other side of the canal. They waved back and called and then pushed off into the water in a small boat, and drifted away and out of sight around a gentle turn.
She took his arm and they walked along the canal toward where the mountain had been, or still was—he didn't know.
A quarter of a mile beyond the canal, he saw the high mound of red, naked hill, corroded and ugly, rising up like a scar of the surrounding green.
She wasn't smiling now. There were shadows on her face as the pressure on his arm stopped him.
"I was on the first ship and Marlene on the second. None like us on the third, and on the fourth ship was Pietro. All the others had to climb the mountain—" She stopped talking for a moment, and then he felt the pressure of her fingers on his arm. "I'm very glad you came on the fifth," she whispered. "Are you glad now?"
"I'm very glad," he said.
"The Martians tested us," she explained. "They're masters of the mind. I guess they've been grinding along through the evolutionary mill a darn long time, longer than we could estimate now. They learned the horror we're capable of from the first ship—the Conquerors, the climbers. The Martians knew more like them would come and go on into space, killing, destroying for no other reason than their own sickness. Being masters of the mind, the Martians are also capable of hypnosis—no, that's not really the word, only the closest our language comes to naming it. Suggestion so deep and strong that it seems real to one human or a million or a billion; there's no limit to the number that can be influenced. What the people who came off those ships saw wasn't real. It was partly what the Martians wanted them to see and feel—but most of it, like the desire to climb the mountain, was as much a part of the Conquerors' own psychic drive as it was the suggestion of the Martians."
She waved her arm slowly to describe a peak. "The Martians made the mountain real. So real that it could be seen from space, measured by instruments ... even photographed and chipped for rock samples. But you'll see how that was done, Bruce, and realize that this and not the mountain of the Conquerors is the reality of Mars. This is the Mars no Conqueror will ever see."
They walked toward the ugly red mound that jutted above the green. When they came close enough, he saw the bodies lying there ... the remains, actually, of what had once been bodies. He felt too sickened to go on walking.
"It may seem cruel now," she said, "but the Martians realized that there is no cure for the will to conquer. There is no safety from it, either, as the people of Earth and Venus discovered, unless it is given an impossible obstacle to overcome. So the Martians provided the Conquerors with a mountain. They themselves wanted to climb. They had to."
He was hardly listening as he walked away from Helene toward the eroded hills. The crew members of the first four ships were skeletons tied together with imperishably strong rope about their waists. Far beyond them were those from Mars V , too freshly dead to have decayed much ... Anhauser with his rope cut, a bullet in his head; Jacobs and Marsha and the others ... Terrence much past them all. He had managed to climb higher than anyone else and he lay with his arms stretched out, his fingers still clutching at rock outcroppings.
The trail they left wound over the ground, chipped in places for holds, red elsewhere with blood from torn hands. Terrence was more than twelve miles from the ship—horizontally.
Bruce lifted Marsha and carried her back over the rocky dust, into the fresh fragrance of the high grass, and across it to the shade and peace beside the canal.
He put her down. She looked peaceful enough, more peaceful than that other time, years ago, when the two of them seemed to have shared so much, when the future had not yet destroyed her. He saw the shadow of Helene bend across Marsha's face against the background of the silently flowing water of the cool, green canal.
"You loved her?"
"Once," Bruce said. "She might have been sane. They got her when she was young. Too young to fight. But she would have, I think, if she'd been older when they got her."
He sat looking down at Marsha's face, and then at the water with the leaves floating down it.
"'... And the springs that flow on the floor of the valley will never seem fresh or clear for thinking of the glitter of the mountain water in the feathery green of the year....'"
He stood up, walked back with Helene along the canal toward the calm city. He didn't look back.
"They've all been dead quite a while," Bruce said wonderingly. "Yet I seemed to be hearing from Terrence until only a short time ago. Are—are the climbers still climbing—somewhere, Helene?"
"Who knows?" Helene answered softly. "Maybe. I doubt if even the Martians have the answer to that."
They entered the city.
Question:
Describe the setting of the story.
Answer:
|
[
"At the beginning, Jacobs, Bruce, and Anhauser talk aboard their ship Mars V which recently landed on the windy surface of Mars. Bruce then looks at the even Martian landscape with an incredible mountain right near the ship and the double moons illuminating the surface. When everybody else leaves to climb the mountain, he spends his time on the spaceship, eating, sleeping, and sitting by the radio. Bruce dreams of a green valley and canals inside a town. And later, when the crew stops reporting anything, he finally can see the real landscape of Mars. He looks at numerous low hills with purple mist, a canal, and valleys with green trees. The mountain disappeared. A quarter of a mile beyond the canal, there is an ugly red mound with the bodies of the conquerors lying there. After looking at Marsha and Terrence, together with Helene, he walks along the canal back to the city. \n",
"The story is set on Mars; it is originally shown as a dead planet with nothing but smooth, red hills caused by erosion. However, there is a mountain too that is around 45,000 feet. Mars also has double moons and is extremely cold. On Mars, there are also five ships from the Conquerors in their attempts to try and take total control of Mars. When Bruce has his dreams, the martian landscape changes to one of green valleys and rivers. There are wide canals, odd trees trailing their branches on the gliding rivers. There is also a pastel–colored city that seems completely different from the Mars that the crew arrived to conquer. Later, it is revealed that this landscape is actually real because the fake Mars was just an illusion that the Martians set up using their powers to mess with the mind. The mountain does not exist either, having served its purpose of eliminating each group of Conquerors. ",
"This story is set on Mars. However, the Mars that the Conquerers see and the real Mars is different. \n\nThe Mars that the crew initially see lifeless, barren and has a flat landscape with only a mountain estimated at 45,000 feet standing out. There are four rockets - prior attempts at conquering Mars - lay side by side the mountain. \n\nThe real Mars that is revealed to Bruce is vastly different. It had lush green valleys and rivers and wide canals with slow currents. There were inhabited cities that are pastel-colored and overall, the atmosphere was soft, vibrant and lovely. Beyond the canal, the red mountain still stands. By the red mountain, the remains of the bodies of the crew of the first four ships lie as skeletons. The dead bodies of Bruce's crewmates also lie there - all still tied together by the rope. ",
"The story happens on Mars. There are two moons on Mars. There is a tremendously high mountain where the top seems nowhere to be seen, and the four rockets sent before the fifth rock lie in its shadow. The landscape on Mars is smoothed with red eroded hills, except for the mountain, which is unexpected in height and points toward Earth. In Bruce’s dream, which turns out to be the real Mars, the landscape on Mars is totally different. There are green valleys, wide canals, trees, and cities decorated with flowers. Behind the shelter, five rockets lie beside it. There is no mountain in the dream, only a high mound of the red hill with corpses lying on it."
] |
50868
|
THE HIGHEST MOUNTAIN
By BRYCE WALTON
Illustrated by BOB HAYES
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
First one up this tallest summit in the Solar System was a rotten egg ... a very rotten egg!
Bruce heard their feet on the gravel outside and got up reluctantly to open the door for them. He'd been reading some of Byron's poems he'd sneaked aboard the ship; after that he had been on the point of dozing off, and now one of those strangely realistic dreams would have to be postponed for a while. Funny, those dreams. There were faces in them of human beings, or of ghosts, and other forms that weren't human at all, but seemed real and alive—except that they were also just parts of a last unconscious desire to escape death. Maybe that was it.
"'Oh that my young life were a lasting dream, my spirit not awakening till the beam of an eternity should bring the 'morrow," Bruce said. He smiled without feeling much of anything and added, "Thanks, Mr. Poe."
Jacobs and Anhauser stood outside. The icy wind cut through and into Bruce, but he didn't seem to notice. Anhauser's bulk loomed even larger in the special cold-resisting suiting. Jacobs' thin face frowned slyly at Bruce.
"Come on in, boys, and get warm," Bruce invited.
"Hey, poet, you're still here!" Anhauser said, looking astonished.
"We thought you'd be running off somewhere," Jacobs said.
Bruce reached for the suit on its hook, started climbing into it.
"Where?" he asked. "Mars looks alike wherever you go. Where did you think I'd be running to?"
"Any place just so it was away from here and us," Anhauser said.
"I don't have to do that. You are going away from me. That takes care of that, doesn't it?"
"Ah, come on, get the hell out of there," Jacobs said. He pulled the revolver from its holster and pointed it at Bruce. "We got to get some sleep. We're starting up that mountain at five in the morning."
"I know," Bruce said. "I'll be glad to see you climb the mountain."
Outside, in the weird light of the double moons, Bruce looked up at the gigantic overhang of the mountain. It was unbelievable. The mountain didn't seem to belong here. He'd thought so when they'd first hit Mars eight months back and discovered the other four rockets that had never got back to Earth—all lying side by side under the mountain's shadow, like little white chalk marks on a tallyboard.
They'd estimated its height at over 45,000 feet, which was a lot higher than any mountain on Earth. Yet Mars was much older, geologically. The entire face of the planet was smoothed into soft, undulating red hills by erosion. And there in the middle of barren nothingness rose that one incredible mountain. On certain nights when the stars were right, it had seemed to Bruce as though it were pointing an accusing finger at Earth—or a warning one.
With Jacobs and Anhauser and the remainder of the crew of the ship, Mars V , seven judges sat in a semi-circle and Bruce stood there in front of them for the inquest.
In the middle of the half-moon of inquisition, with his long legs stretched out and his hands folded on his belly, sat Captain Terrence. His uniform was black. On his arm was the silver fist insignia of the Conqueror Corps. Marsha Rennels sat on the extreme right and now there was no emotion at all on her trim, neat face.
He remembered her as she had been years ago, but at the moment he wasn't looking very hard to see anything on her face. It was too late. They had gotten her young and it was too late.
Terrence's big, square face frowned a little. Bruce was aware suddenly of the sound of the bleak, never-ending wind against the plastilene shelter. He remembered the strange misty shapes that had come to him in his dreams, the voices that had called to him, and how disappointed he had been when he woke from them.
"This is a mere formality," Terrence finally said, "since we all know you killed Lieutenant Doran a few hours ago. Marsha saw you kill him. Whatever you say goes on the record, of course."
"For whom?" Bruce asked.
"What kind of question is that? For the authorities on Earth when we get back."
"When you get back? Like the crews of those other four ships out there?" Bruce laughed without much humor.
Terrence rubbed a palm across his lips, dropped the hand quickly again to his belly. "You want to make a statement or not? You shot Doran in the head with a rifle. No provocation for the attack. You've wasted enough of my time with your damn arguments and anti-social behavior. This is a democratic group. Everyone has his say. But you've said too much, and done too much. Freedom doesn't allow you to go around killing fellow crew-members!"
"Any idea that there was any democracy or freedom left died on Venus," Bruce said.
"Now we get another lecture!" Terrence exploded. He leaned forward.
"You're sick, Bruce. They did a bad psych job on you. They should never have sent you on this trip. We need strength, all the strength we can find. You don't belong here."
"I know," Bruce agreed indifferently. "I was drafted for this trip. I told them I shouldn't be brought along. I said I didn't want any part of it."
"Because you're afraid. You're not Conqueror material. That's why you backed down when we all voted to climb the mountain. And what the devil does Venus—?"
Max Drexel's freckles slipped into the creases across his high forehead. "Haven't you heard him expounding on the injustice done to the Venusian aborigines, Captain? If you haven't, you aren't thoroughly educated to the crackpot idealism still infecting certain people."
"I haven't heard it," Terrence admitted. "What injustice?"
Bruce said, "I guess it couldn't really be considered an injustice any longer. Values have changed too much. Doran and I were part of the crew of that first ship to hit Venus, five years ago. Remember? One of the New Era's more infamous dates. Drexel says the Venusians were aborigines. No one ever got a chance to find out. We ran into this village. No one knows how old it was. There were intelligent beings there. One community left on the whole planet, maybe a few thousand inhabitants. They made their last mistake when they came out to greet us. Without even an attempt at communication, they were wiped out. The village was burned and everything alive in it was destroyed."
Bruce felt the old weakness coming into his knees, the sweat beginning to run down his face. He took a deep breath and stood there before the cold nihilistic stares of fourteen eyes.
"No," Bruce said. "I apologize. None of you know what I'm talking about."
Terrence nodded. "You're psycho. It's as simple as that. They pick the most capable for these conquests. Even the flights are processes of elimination. Eventually we get the very best, the most resilient, the real conquering blood. You just don't pass, Bruce. Listen, what do you think gives you the right to stand here in judgment against the laws of the whole Solar System?"
"There are plenty on Earth who agree with me," Bruce said. "I can say what I think now because you can't do more than kill me and you'll do that regardless...."
He stopped. This was ridiculous, a waste of his time. And theirs. They had established a kind of final totalitarianism since the New Era. The psychologists, the Pavlovian Reflex boys, had done that. If you didn't want to be reconditioned to fit into the social machine like a human vacuum tube, you kept your mouth shut. And for many, when the mouth was kept shut long enough, the mind pretty well forgot what it had wanted to open the mouth for in the first place.
A minority in both segments of a world split into two factions. Both had been warring diplomatically and sometimes physically, for centuries, clung to old ideas of freedom, democracy, self-determinism, individualism. To most, the words had no meaning now. It was a question of which set of conquering heroes could conquer the most space first. So far, only Venus had fallen. They had done a good, thorough job there. Four ships had come to Mars and their crews had disappeared. This was the fifth attempt—
Terrence said, "why did you shoot Doran?"
"I didn't like him enough to take the nonsense he was handing me, and when he shot the—" Bruce hesitated.
"What? When he shot what?"
Bruce felt an odd tingling in his stomach. The wind's voice seemed to sharpen and rise to a kind of wail.
"All right, I'll tell you. I was sleeping, having a dream. Doran woke me up. Marsha was with him. I'd forgotten about that geological job we were supposed to be working on. I've had these dreams ever since we got here."
"What kind of dreams?"
Someone laughed.
"Just fantastic stuff. Ask your Pavlovian there," Bruce said. "People talk to me, and there are other things in the dreams. Voices and some kind of shapes that aren't what you would call human at all."
Someone coughed. There was obvious embarrassment in the room.
"It's peculiar, but many faces and voices are those of crew members of some of the ships out there, the ones that never got back to Earth."
Terrence grinned. "Ghosts, Bruce?"
"Maybe. This planet may not be a dead ball of clay. I've had a feeling there's something real in the dreams, but I can't figure it out. You're still interested?"
Terrence nodded and glanced to either side.
"We've seen no indication of any kind of life whatsoever," Bruce pointed out. "Not even an insect, or any kind of plant life except some fungi and lichen down in the crevices. That never seemed logical to me from the start. We've covered the planet everywhere except one place—"
"The mountain," Terrence said. "You've been afraid even to talk about scaling it."
"Not afraid," Bruce objected. "I don't see any need to climb it. Coming to Mars, conquering space, isn't that enough? It happens that the crew of the first ship here decided to climb the mountain, and that set a precedent. Every ship that has come here has had to climb it. Why? Because they had to accept the challenge. And what's happened to them? Like you, they all had the necessary equipment to make a successful climb, but no one's ever come back down. No contact with anything up there.
"Captain, I'm not accepting a ridiculous challenge like that. Why should I? I didn't come here to conquer anything, even a mountain. The challenge of coming to Mars, of going on to where ever you guys intend going before something bigger than you are stops you—it doesn't interest me."
"Nothing's bigger than the destiny of Earth!" Terrence said, sitting up straight and rigid.
"I know," Bruce said. "Anyway, I got off the track. As I was saying, I woke up from this dream and Marsha and Doran were there. Doran was shaking me. But I didn't seem to have gotten entirely awake; either that or some part of the dream was real, because I looked out the window—something was out there, looking at me. It was late, and at first I thought it might be a shadow. But it wasn't. It was misty, almost translucent, but I think it was something alive. I had a feeling it was intelligent, maybe very intelligent. I could feel something in my mind. A kind of beauty and softness and warmth. I kept looking—"
His throat was getting tight. He had difficulty talking. "Doran asked me what I was looking at, and I told him. He laughed. But he looked. Then I realized that maybe I wasn't still dreaming. Doran saw it, too, or thought he did. He kept looking and finally he jumped and grabbed up his rifle and ran outside. I yelled at him. I kept on yelling and ran after him. 'It's intelligent, whatever it is!' I kept saying. 'How do you know it means any harm?' But I heard Doran's rifle go off before I could get to him. And whatever it was we saw, I didn't see it any more. Neither did Doran. Maybe he killed it. I don't know. He had to kill it. That's the way you think."
"What? Explain that remark."
"That's the philosophy of conquest—don't take any chances with aliens. They might hinder our advance across the Universe. So we kill everything. Doran acted without thinking at all. Conditioned to kill everything that doesn't look like us. So I hit Doran and took the gun away from him and killed him. I felt sick, crazy with rage. Maybe that's part of it. All I know is that I thought he deserved to die and that I had to kill him, so I did."
"Is that all, Bruce?"
"That's about all. Except that I'd like to kill all of you. And I would if I had the chance."
"That's what I figured." Terrence turned to the psychologist, a small wiry man who sat there constantly fingering his ear. "Stromberg, what do you think of this gobbledegook? We know he's crazy. But what hit him? You said his record was good up until a year ago."
Stromberg's voice was monotonous, like a voice off of a tape.
"Schizophrenia with mingled delusions of persecution. The schizophrenia is caused by inner conflict—indecision between the older values and our present ones which he hasn't been able to accept. A complete case history would tell why he can't accept our present attitudes. I would say that he has an incipient fear of personal inadequacy, which is why he fears our desire for conquest. He's rationalized, built up a defense which he's structured with his idealism, foundationed with Old Era values. Retreat into the past, an escape from his own present feelings of inadequacy. Also, he escapes into these dream fantasies."
"Yes," Terrence said. "But how does that account for Doran's action? Doran must have seen something—"
"Doran's charts show high suggestibility under stress. Another weak personality eliminated. Let's regard it that way. He imagined he saw something." He glanced at Marsha. "Did you see anything?"
She hesitated, avoiding Bruce's eyes. "Nothing at all. There wasn't anything out there to see, except the dust and rocks. That's all there is to see here. We could stay a million years and never see anything else. A shadow maybe—"
"All right," Terrence interrupted. "Now, Bruce, you know the law regulating the treatment of serious psycho cases in space?"
"Yes. Execution."
"No facilities for handling such cases en route back to Earth."
"I understand. No apologies necessary, Captain."
Terrence shifted his position. "However, we've voted to grant you a kind of leniency. In exchange for a little further service from you, you can remain here on Mars after we leave. You'll be left food-concentrates to last a long time."
"What kind of service?"
"Stay by the radio and take down what we report as we go up the mountain."
"Why not?" Bruce said. "You aren't certain you're coming back, then?"
"We might not," Terrence admitted calmly. "Something's happened to the others. We're going to find out what and we want it recorded. None of us want to back down and stay here. You can take our reports as they come in."
"I'll do that," Bruce said. "It should be interesting."
Bruce watched them go, away and up and around the immediate face of the mountain in the bleak cold of the Martian morning. He watched them disappear behind a high ledge, tied together with plastic rope like convicts.
He stayed by the radio. He lost track of time and didn't care much if he did. Sometimes he took a heavy sedative and slept. The sedative prevented the dreams. He had an idea that the dreams might be so pleasant that he wouldn't wake up. He wanted to listen to Terrence as long as the captain had anything to say. It was nothing but curiosity.
At fifteen thousand feet, Terrence reported only that they were climbing.
At twenty thousand feet, Terrence said, "We're still climbing, and that's all I can report, Bruce. It's worth coming to Mars for—to accept a challenge like this!"
At twenty-five thousand feet, Terrence reported, "We've put on oxygen masks. Jacobs and Drexel have developed some kind of altitude sickness and we're taking a little time out. It's a magnificent sight up here. I can imagine plenty of tourists coming to Mars one of these days, just to climb this mountain! Mt. Everest is a pimple compared with this! What a feeling of power, Bruce!"
From forty thousand feet, Terrence said, "We gauged this mountain at forty-five thousand. But here we are at forty and there doesn't seem to be any top. We can see up and up and the mountain keeps on going. I don't understand how we could have made such an error in our computations. I talked with Burton. He doesn't see how a mountain this high could still be here when the rest of the planet has been worn so smooth."
And then from fifty-three thousand feet, Terrence said with a voice that seemed slightly strained: "No sign of any of the crew of the other four ships yet. Ten in each crew, that makes fifty. Not a sign of any of them so far, but then we seem to have a long way left to climb—"
Bruce listened and noted and took sedatives and opened cans of food concentrates. He smoked and ate and slept. He had plenty of time. He had only time and the dreams which he knew he could utilize later to take care of the time.
From sixty thousand feet, Terrence reported, "I had to shoot Anhauser a few minutes ago! He was dissenting. Hear that, Bruce? One of my most dependable men. We took a vote. A mere formality, of course, whether we should continue climbing or not. We knew we'd all vote to keep on climbing. And then Anhauser dissented. He was hysterical. He refused to accept the majority decision. 'I'm going back down!' he yelled. So I had to shoot him. Imagine a man of his apparent caliber turning anti-democratic like that! This mountain will be a great tester for us in the future. We'll test everybody, find out quickly who the weaklings are."
Bruce listened to the wind. It seemed to rise higher and higher. Terrence, who had climbed still higher, was calling. "Think of it! What a conquest! No man's ever done a thing like this. Like Stromberg says, it's symbolic! We can build spaceships and reach other planets, but that's not actual physical conquest. We feel like gods up here. We can see what we are now. We can see how it's going to be—"
Once in a while Terrence demanded that Bruce say something to prove he was still there taking down what Terrence said. Bruce obliged. A long time passed, the way time does when no one cares. Bruce stopped taking the sedatives finally. The dreams came back and became, somehow, more real each time. He needed the companionship of the dreams.
It was very lonely sitting there without the dreams, with nothing but Terrence's voice ranting excitedly on and on. Terrence didn't seem real any more; certainly not as real as the dreams.
The problem of where to put the line between dream and reality began to worry Bruce. He would wake up and listen and take down what Terrence was saying, and then go to sleep again with increasing expectancy. His dream took on continuity. He could return to the point where he had left it, and it was the same—allowing even for the time difference necessitated by his periods of sleep.
He met people in the dreams, two girls and a man. They had names: Pietro, Marlene, Helene.
Helene he had seen from the beginning, but she became more real to him all the time, until he could talk with her. After that, he could also talk with Marlene and Pietro, and the conversations made sense. Consistently, they made sense.
The Martian landscape was entirely different in the dreams. Green valleys and rivers, or actually wide canals, with odd trees trailing their branches on the slow, peacefully gliding currents. Here and there were pastel-colored cities and there were things drifting through them that were alive and intelligent and soft and warm and wonderful to know.
' ... dreams, in their vivid coloring of life, as in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife of semblance with reality which brings to the delirious eye more lovely things of paradise and love—and all our own!—than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known.... '
So sometimes he read poetry, but even that was hardly equal to the dreams.
And then he would wake up and listen to Terrence's voice. He would look out the window over the barren frigid land where there was nothing but seams of worn land, like scabs under the brazen sky.
"If I had a choice," he thought, "I wouldn't ever wake up at all again. The dreams may not be more real, but they're preferable."
Dreams were supposed to be wishful thinking, primarily, but he couldn't live in them very long. His body would dry up and he would die. He had to stay awake enough to put a little energy back into himself. Of course, if he died and lost the dreams, there would be one compensation—he would also be free of Terrence and the rest of them who had learned that the only value in life lay in killing one's way across the Cosmos.
But then he had a feeling Terrence's voice wouldn't be annoying him much more anyway. The voice was unreal, coming out of some void. He could switch off Terrence any time now, but he was still curious.
"Bruce—Bruce, you still there? Listen, we're up here at what we figure to be five hundred thousand feet! It is impossible. We keep climbing and now we look up and we can see up and up and there the mountain is going up and up—"
And some time later: "Bruce, Marsha's dying! We don't know what's the matter. We can't find any reason for it. She's lying here and she keeps laughing and calling your name. She's a woman, so that's probably it. Women don't have real guts."
Bruce bent toward the radio. Outside the shelter, the wind whistled softly at the door.
"Marsha," he said.
"Bruce—"
She hadn't said his name that way for a long time.
"Marsha, remember how we used to talk about human values? I remember how you seemed to have something maybe different from the others. I never thought you'd really buy this will to conquer, and now it doesn't matter...."
He listened to her voice, first the crazy laughter, and then a whisper.
"Bruce, hello down there." Her voice was all mixed up with fear and hysteria and mockery. "Bruce darling, are you lonely down there? I wish I were with you, safe ... free ... warm. I love you. Do you hear that? I really love you, after all. After all...."
Her voice drifted away, came back to him. "We're climbing the highest mountain. What are you doing there, relaxing where it's peaceful and warm and sane? You always were such a calm guy. I remember now. What are you doing—reading poetry while we climb the mountain? What was that, Bruce—that one about the mountain you tried to quote to me last night before you ... I can't remember it now. Darling, what...?"
He stared at the radio. He hesitated, reached out and switched on the mike. He got through to her.
"Hello, hello, darling," he whispered. "Marsha, can you hear me?"
"Yes, yes. You down there, all warm and cozy, reading poetry, darling. Where you can see both ways instead of just up and down, up and down."
He tried to imagine where she was now as he spoke to her, how she looked. He thought of Earth and how it had been there, years ago, with Marsha. Things had seemed so different then. There was something of that hope in his voice now as he spoke to her, yet not directly to her, as he looked out the window at the naked frigid sky and the barren rocks.
"'... and there is nowhere to go from the top of a mountain,
But down, my dear;
And the springs that flow on the floor of the valley
Will never seem fresh or clear
For thinking of the glitter of the mountain water
In the feathery green of the year....'"
The wind stormed over the shelter in a burst of power, buried the sound of his own voice.
"Marsha, are you still there?"
"What the devil's the idea, poetry at a time like this, or any time?" Terrence demanded. "Listen, you taking this down? We haven't run into any signs of the others. Six hundred thousand feet, Bruce! We feel our destiny. We conquer the Solar System. And we'll go out and out, and we'll climb the highest mountain, the highest mountain anywhere. We're going up and up. We've voted on it. Unanimous. We go on. On to the top, Bruce! Nothing can stop us. If it takes ten years, a hundred, a thousand years, we'll find it. We'll find the top! Not the top of this world—the top of everything . The top of the
UNIVERSE
!"
Later, Terrence's voice broke off in the middle of something or other—Bruce couldn't make any sense out of it at all—and turned into crazy yells that faded out and never came back.
Bruce figured the others might still be climbing somewhere, or maybe they were dead. Either way it wouldn't make any difference to him. He knew they would never come back down.
He was switching off the radio for good when he saw the coloration break over the window. It was the same as the dream, but for an instant, dream and reality seemed fused like two superimposed film negatives.
He went to the window and looked out. The comfortable little city was out there, and the canal flowing past through a pleasantly cool yet sunny afternoon. Purple mist blanketed the knees of low hills and there was a valley, green and rich with the trees high and full beside the softly flowing canal water.
The filmy shapes that seemed alive, that were partly translucent, drifted along the water's edge, and birds as delicate as colored glass wavered down the wind.
He opened the shelter door and went out. The shelter looked the same, but useless now. How did the shelter of that bleak world get into this one, where the air was warm and fragrant, where there was no cold, from that world into this one of his dreams?
The girl—Helene—was standing there leaning against a tree, smoking a cigarette.
He walked toward her, and stopped. In the dream it had been easy, but now he was embarrassed, in spite of the intimacy that had grown between them. She wore the same casual slacks and sandals. Her hair was brown. She was not particularly beautiful, but she was comfortable to look at because she seemed so peaceful. Content, happy with what was and only what was.
He turned quickly. The shelter was still there, and behind it the row of spaceships—not like chalk marks on a tallyboard now, but like odd relics that didn't belong there in the thick green grass. Five ships instead of four.
There was his own individual shelter beyond the headquarters building, and the other buildings. He looked up.
There was no mountain.
For one shivery moment he knew fear. And then the fear went away, and he was ashamed of what he had felt. What he had feared was gone now, and he knew it was gone for good and he would never have to fear it again.
"Look here, Bruce. I wondered how long it would take to get it through that thick poetic head of yours!"
"Get what?" He began to suspect what it was all about now, but he wasn't quite sure yet.
"Smoke?" she said.
He took one of the cigarettes and she lighted it for him and put the lighter back into her pocket.
"It's real nice here," she said. "Isn't it?"
"I guess it's about perfect."
"It'll be easy. Staying here, I mean. We won't be going to Earth ever again, you know."
"I didn't know that, but I didn't think we ever would again."
"We wouldn't want to anyway, would we, Bruce?"
"No."
He kept on looking at the place where the mountain had been. Or maybe it still was; he couldn't make up his mind yet. Which was and which was not? That barren icy world without life, or this?
"' Is all that we see or seem ,'" he whispered, half to himself, "' but a dream within a dream? '"
She laughed softly. "Poe was ahead of his time," she said. "You still don't get it, do you? You don't know what's been happening?"
"Maybe I don't."
She shrugged, and looked in the direction of the ships. "Poor guys. I can't feel much hatred toward them now. The Martians give you a lot of understanding of the human mind—after they've accepted you, and after you've lived with them awhile. But the mountain climbers—we can see now—it's just luck, chance, we weren't like them. A deviant is a child of chance."
"Yes," Bruce said. "There's a lot of people like us on Earth, but they'll never get the chance—the chance we seem to have here, to live decently...."
"You're beginning to see now which was the dream," she said and smiled. "But don't be pessimistic. Those people on Earth will get their chance, too, one of these fine days. The Conquerors aren't getting far. Venus, and then Mars, and Mars is where they stop. They'll keep coming here and climbing the mountain and finally there won't be any more. It won't take so long."
She rose to her toes and waved and yelled. Bruce saw Pietro and Marlene walking hand in hand up the other side of the canal. They waved back and called and then pushed off into the water in a small boat, and drifted away and out of sight around a gentle turn.
She took his arm and they walked along the canal toward where the mountain had been, or still was—he didn't know.
A quarter of a mile beyond the canal, he saw the high mound of red, naked hill, corroded and ugly, rising up like a scar of the surrounding green.
She wasn't smiling now. There were shadows on her face as the pressure on his arm stopped him.
"I was on the first ship and Marlene on the second. None like us on the third, and on the fourth ship was Pietro. All the others had to climb the mountain—" She stopped talking for a moment, and then he felt the pressure of her fingers on his arm. "I'm very glad you came on the fifth," she whispered. "Are you glad now?"
"I'm very glad," he said.
"The Martians tested us," she explained. "They're masters of the mind. I guess they've been grinding along through the evolutionary mill a darn long time, longer than we could estimate now. They learned the horror we're capable of from the first ship—the Conquerors, the climbers. The Martians knew more like them would come and go on into space, killing, destroying for no other reason than their own sickness. Being masters of the mind, the Martians are also capable of hypnosis—no, that's not really the word, only the closest our language comes to naming it. Suggestion so deep and strong that it seems real to one human or a million or a billion; there's no limit to the number that can be influenced. What the people who came off those ships saw wasn't real. It was partly what the Martians wanted them to see and feel—but most of it, like the desire to climb the mountain, was as much a part of the Conquerors' own psychic drive as it was the suggestion of the Martians."
She waved her arm slowly to describe a peak. "The Martians made the mountain real. So real that it could be seen from space, measured by instruments ... even photographed and chipped for rock samples. But you'll see how that was done, Bruce, and realize that this and not the mountain of the Conquerors is the reality of Mars. This is the Mars no Conqueror will ever see."
They walked toward the ugly red mound that jutted above the green. When they came close enough, he saw the bodies lying there ... the remains, actually, of what had once been bodies. He felt too sickened to go on walking.
"It may seem cruel now," she said, "but the Martians realized that there is no cure for the will to conquer. There is no safety from it, either, as the people of Earth and Venus discovered, unless it is given an impossible obstacle to overcome. So the Martians provided the Conquerors with a mountain. They themselves wanted to climb. They had to."
He was hardly listening as he walked away from Helene toward the eroded hills. The crew members of the first four ships were skeletons tied together with imperishably strong rope about their waists. Far beyond them were those from Mars V , too freshly dead to have decayed much ... Anhauser with his rope cut, a bullet in his head; Jacobs and Marsha and the others ... Terrence much past them all. He had managed to climb higher than anyone else and he lay with his arms stretched out, his fingers still clutching at rock outcroppings.
The trail they left wound over the ground, chipped in places for holds, red elsewhere with blood from torn hands. Terrence was more than twelve miles from the ship—horizontally.
Bruce lifted Marsha and carried her back over the rocky dust, into the fresh fragrance of the high grass, and across it to the shade and peace beside the canal.
He put her down. She looked peaceful enough, more peaceful than that other time, years ago, when the two of them seemed to have shared so much, when the future had not yet destroyed her. He saw the shadow of Helene bend across Marsha's face against the background of the silently flowing water of the cool, green canal.
"You loved her?"
"Once," Bruce said. "She might have been sane. They got her when she was young. Too young to fight. But she would have, I think, if she'd been older when they got her."
He sat looking down at Marsha's face, and then at the water with the leaves floating down it.
"'... And the springs that flow on the floor of the valley will never seem fresh or clear for thinking of the glitter of the mountain water in the feathery green of the year....'"
He stood up, walked back with Helene along the canal toward the calm city. He didn't look back.
"They've all been dead quite a while," Bruce said wonderingly. "Yet I seemed to be hearing from Terrence until only a short time ago. Are—are the climbers still climbing—somewhere, Helene?"
"Who knows?" Helene answered softly. "Maybe. I doubt if even the Martians have the answer to that."
They entered the city.
|
Describe Venus and the creatures on its surface.
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After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about The Lost Tribes of Venus by Erik Fennel.
Relevant chunks:
THE LOST TRIBES OF VENUS
By ERIK FENNEL
On mist-shrouded Venus, where hostile swamp meets hostile sea ... there did Barry Barr—Earthman transmuted—swap his Terran heritage for the deep dark waters of Tana; for the strangely beautiful Xintel of the blue-brown skin.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories May 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Evil luck brought the meteorite to those particular space-time coordinates as Number Four rode the downhill spiral toward Venus. The football-sized chunk of nickel-iron and rock overtook the ship at a relative speed of only a few hundred miles per hour and passed close enough to come within the tremendous pseudo-gravatic fields of the idling drivers.
It swerved into a paraboloid course, following the flux lines, and was dragged directly against one of the three projecting nozzles. Energy of motion was converted to heat and a few meteoric fragments fused themselves to the nonmetallic tube casing.
In the jet room the positronic line accelerator for that particular driver fouled under the intolerable overload, and the backsurge sent searing heat and deadly radiation blasting through the compartment before the main circuit breakers could clack open.
The bellow of the alarm horn brought Barry Barr fully awake, shattering a delightfully intimate dream of the dark haired girl he hoped to see again soon in Venus Colony. As he unbuckled his bunk straps and started aft at a floating, bounding run his weightlessness told him instantly that Number Four was in free fall with dead drivers.
Red warning lights gleamed wickedly above the safety-locked jet room door, and Nick Podtiaguine, the air machines specialist, was manipulating the emergency controls with Captain Reno at his elbow. One by one the crew crowded into the corridor and watched in tense silence.
The automatic lock clicked off as the jet room returned to habitable conditions, and at Captain Reno's gesture two men swung the door open. Quickly the commander entered the blasted jet room. Barry Barr was close behind him.
Robson Hind, jet chief of Four and electronics expert for Venus Colony, hung back until others had gone in first. His handsome, heavy face had lost its usual ruddiness.
Captain Reno surveyed the havoc. Young Ryan's body floated eerily in the zero gravity, charred into instant death by the back-blast. The line accelerator was a shapeless ruin, but except for broken meter glasses and scorched control handles other mechanical damage appeared minor. They had been lucky.
"Turnover starts in six hours twelve minutes," the captain said meaningfully.
Robson Hind cleared his throat. "We can change accelerators in two hours," he declared. With a quick reassumption of authority he began to order his crew into action.
It took nearer three hours than two to change accelerators despite Hind's shouted orders.
At last the job was completed. Hind made a final check, floated over to the control panel and started the fuel feed. With a confident smile he threw in the accelerator switch.
The meter needles climbed, soared past the red lines without pausing, and just in time to prevent a second blowback, Hind cut the power.
" There's metal in the field! " His voice was high and unsteady.
Everyone knew what that meant. The slightest trace of magnetic material would distort the delicately balanced cylinder of force that contained and directed the Hoskins blast, making it suicidal to operate.
Calmly Captain Reno voiced the thought in every mind.
"It must be cleared. From the outside."
Several of the men swore under their breaths. Interplanetary space was constantly bombarded, with an intensity inverse to the prevailing gravitation, by something called Sigma radiation. Man had never encountered it until leaving Earth, and little was known of it except that short exposure killed test animals and left their bodies unpredictably altered.
Inside the ship it was safe enough, for the sleek hull was charged with a Kendall power-shield, impervious to nearly any Sigma concentration. But the shielding devices in the emergency spacesuits were small and had never been space-tested in a region of nearly equalized gravitations.
The man who emerged from the airlock would be flipping a coin with a particularly unpleasant form of death.
Many pairs of eyes turned toward Robson Hind. He was jet chief.
"I'm assigned, not expendable," he protested hastily. "If there were more trouble later...." His face was pasty.
Assigned. That was the key word. Barry Barr felt a lump tightening in his stomach as the eyes shifted to him. He had some training in Hoskins drivers. He knew alloys and power tools. And he was riding Four unassigned after that broken ankle had made him miss Three. He was the logical man.
"For the safety of the ship." That phrase, taken from the ancient Earthbound code of the sea, had occurred repeatedly in the indoctrination manual at Training Base. He remembered it, and remembered further the contingent plans regarding assigned and unassigned personnel.
For a moment he stood indecisively, the nervous, unhumorous smile quirking across his angular face making him look more like an untried boy than a structural engineer who had fought his way up through some of the toughest tropical construction camps of Earth. His lean body, built more for quick, neatly coordinated action than brute power, balanced handily in the zero gravity as he ran one hand through his sandy hair in a gesture of uncertainty.
He knew that not even the captain would order him through the airlock.
But the members of the Five Ship Plan had been selected in part for a sense of responsibility.
"Nick, will you help me button up?" he asked with forced calmness.
For an instant he thought he detected a sly gleam in Hind's eyes. But then the jet chief was pressing forward with the others to shake his hand.
Rebellious reluctance flared briefly in Barry's mind. Dorothy Voorhees had refused to make a definite promise before blasting off in Three—in fact he hadn't even seen her during her last few days on Earth. But still he felt he had the inside track despite Hind's money and the brash assurance that went with it. But if Hind only were to reach Venus alive—
The blazing disc of Sol, the minor globes of the planets, the unwinking pinpoints of the stars, all stared with cosmic disinterest at the tiny figure crawling along the hull. His spacesuit trapped and amplified breathing and heartbeats into a roaring chaos that was an invitation to blind panic, and all the while there was consciousness of the insidiously deadly Sigma radiations.
Barry found the debris of the meteorite, an ugly shining splotch against the dull superceramic tube, readied his power chisel, started cutting. Soon it became a tedious, torturingly strenuous manual task requiring little conscious thought, and Barry's mind touched briefly on the events that had brought him here.
First Luna, and that had been murderous. Man had encountered Sigma for the first time, and many had died before the Kendall-shield was perfected. And the chemical-fueled rockets of those days had been inherently poor.
Hoskins semi-atomics had made possible the next step—to Mars. But men had found Mars barren, swept clear of all life in the cataclysm that had shattered the trans-Martian planet to form the Asteroid Belt.
Venus, its true surface forever hidden by enshrouding mists, had been well within one-way range. But Hoskins fuel requirements for a round trip added up to something beyond critical mass. Impossible.
But the Five Ship Plan had evolved, a joint enterprise of government and various private groups. Five vessels were to go out, each fueled to within a whiskered neutron of spontaneous detonation, manned by specialists who, it was hoped, could maintain themselves under alien conditions.
On Venus the leftover fuel from all five would be transferred to whichever ship had survived the outbound voyage in best condition. That one would return to Earth. Permanent base or homeward voyage with colonists crowded aboard like defeated sardines? Only time would tell.
Barry Barr had volunteered, and because the enlightened guesses of the experts called for men and women familiar with tropical conditions, he had survived the rigorous weeding-out process. His duties in Venus Colony would be to refabricate the discarded ships into whatever form was most needed—most particularly a launching ramp—and to study native Venusian materials.
Dorothy Voorhees had signed on as toxicologist and dietician. When the limited supply of Earth food ran out the Colony would be forced to rely upon Venusian plants and animals. She would guard against subtle delayed-action poisons, meanwhile devising ways of preparing Venusian materials to suit Earth tastes and digestions.
Barry had met her at Training Base and known at once that his years of loneliness had come to an end.
She seemed utterly independent, self-contained, completely intellectual despite her beauty, but Barry had not been deceived. From the moment of first meeting he had sensed within her deep springs of suppressed emotion, and he had understood. He too had come up the hard way, alone, and been forced to develop a shell of hardness and cold, single-minded devotion to his work. Gradually, often unwillingly under his insistence, her aloofness had begun to melt.
But Robson Hind too had been attracted. He was the only son of the business manager of the great Hoskins Corporation which carried a considerable share in the Five Ship Plan. Dorothy's failure to virtually fall into his arms had only piqued his desires.
The man's smooth charm had fascinated the girl and his money had opened to her an entirely new world of lavish nightclubs and extravagantly expensive entertainments, but her inborn shrewdness had sensed some factor in his personality that had made her hesitate.
Barry had felt a distrust of Hind apart from the normal dislike of rivalry. He had looked forward to being with Dorothy aboard Three, and had made no secret of his satisfaction when Hind's efforts to have himself transferred to Three also or the girl to Four had failed.
But then a scaffold had slipped while Three was being readied, and with a fractured ankle he had been forced to miss the ship.
He unclipped the magnetic detector from his belt and ran it inch by inch over the nozzle. He found one spot of metal, pinhead-sized, but enough to cause trouble, and once more swung his power chisel into stuttering action.
Then it was done.
As quickly as possible he inched back to the airlock. Turnover had to start according to calculations.
Barry opened his eyes. The ship was in normal deceleration and Nick Podtiaguine was watching him from a nearby bunk.
"I could eat a cow with the smallpox," Barry declared.
Nick grinned. "No doubt. You slept around the clock and more. Nice job of work out there."
Barry unhitched his straps and sat up.
"Say," he asked anxiously. "What's haywire with the air?"
Nick looked startled. "Nothing. Everything checked out when I came off watch a few minutes ago."
Barry shrugged. "Probably just me. Guess I'll go see if I can mooch a handout."
He found himself a hero. The cook was ready to turn the galley inside out while a radio engineer and an entomologist hovered near to wait on him. But he couldn't enjoy the meal. The sensations of heat and dryness he had noticed on awakening grew steadily worse. It became difficult to breathe.
He started to rise, and abruptly the room swirled and darkened around him. Even as he sank into unconsciousness he knew the answer.
The suit's Kendall-shield had leaked!
Four plunged toward Venus tail first, the Hoskins jets flaring ahead. The single doctor for the Colony had gone out in Two and the crewmen trained in first aid could do little to relieve Barry's distress. Fainting spells alternated with fever and delirium and an unquenchable thirst. His breathing became increasingly difficult.
A few thousand miles out Four picked up a microbeam. A feeling of exultation surged through the ship as Captain Reno passed the word, for the beam meant that some Earthmen were alive upon Venus. They were not necessarily diving straight toward oblivion. Barry, sick as he was, felt the thrill of the unknown world that lay ahead.
Into a miles-thick layer of opacity Four roared, with Captain Reno himself jockeying throttles to keep it balanced on its self-created support of flame.
"You're almost in," a voice chanted into his headphones through crackling, sizzling static. "Easy toward spherical one-thirty. Hold it! Lower. Lower. CUT YOUR POWER!"
The heavy hull dropped sickeningly, struck with a mushy thud, settled, steadied.
Barry was weak, but with Nick Podtiaguine steadying him he was waiting with the others when Captain Reno gave the last order.
"Airlock open. Both doors."
Venusian air poured in.
"For this I left Panama?" one of the men yelped.
"Enough to gag a maggot," another agreed with hand to nose.
It was like mid-summer noon in a tropical mangrove swamp, hot and unbearably humid and overpowering with the stench of decaying vegetation.
But Barry took one deep breath, then another. The stabbing needles in his chest blunted, and the choking band around his throat loosened.
The outer door swung wide. He blinked, and a shift in the encompassing vapors gave him his first sight of a world bathed in subdued light.
Four had landed in a marsh with the midships lock only a few feet above a quagmire surface still steaming from the final rocket blast. Nearby the identical hulls of Two and Three stood upright in the mud. The mist shifted again and beyond the swamp he could see the low, rounded outlines of the collapsible buildings Two and Three had carried in their cargo pits. They were set on a rock ledge rising a few feet out of the marsh. The Colony!
Men were tossing sections of lattice duckboard out upon the swamp, extending a narrow walkway toward Four's airlock, and within a few minutes the new arrivals were scrambling down.
Barry paid little attention to the noisy greetings and excited talk. Impatiently he trotted toward the rock ledge, searching for one particular figure among the men and women who waited.
"Dorothy!" he said fervently.
Then his arms were around her and she was responding to his kiss.
Then unexpected pain tore at his chest. Her lovely face took on an expression of fright even as it wavered and grew dim. The last thing he saw was Robson Hind looming beside her.
By the glow of an overhead tubelight he recognized the kindly, deeply lined features of the man bending over him. Dr. Carl Jensen, specialist in tropical diseases. He tried to sit up but the doctor laid a restraining hand on his shoulder.
"Water!" Barry croaked.
The doctor held out a glass. Then his eyes widened incredulously as his patient deliberately drew in a breath while drinking, sucking water directly into his lungs.
"Doctor," he asked, keeping his voice low to spare his throat. "What are my chances? On the level."
Dr. Jensen shook his head thoughtfully. "There's not a thing—not a damned solitary thing—I can do. It's something new to medical science."
Barry lay still.
"Your body is undergoing certain radical changes," the doctor continued, "and you know as much—more about your condition than I do. If a normal person who took water into his lungs that way didn't die of a coughing spasm, congestive pneumonia would get him sure. But it seems to give you relief."
Barry scratched his neck, where a thickened, darkening patch on each side itched infuriatingly.
"What are these changes?" he asked. "What's this?"
"Those things seem to be—" the doctor began hesitantly. "Damn it, I know it sounds crazy but they're rudimentary gills."
Barry accepted the outrageous statement unemotionally. He was beyond shock.
"But there must be—"
Pain struck again, so intense his body twisted and arched involuntarily. Then the prick of a needle brought merciful oblivion.
II
Barry's mind was working furiously. The changes the Sigma radiations had inflicted upon his body might reverse themselves spontaneously, Dr. Jensen had mentioned during a second visit—but for that to happen he must remain alive. That meant easing all possible strains.
When the doctor came in again Barry asked him to find Nick Podtiaguine. Within a few minutes the mechanic appeared.
"Cheez, it's good to see you, Barry," he began.
"Stuff it," the sick man interrupted. "I want favors. Can do?"
Nick nodded vigorously.
"First cut that air conditioner and get the window open."
Nick stared as though he were demented, but obeyed, unbolting the heavy plastic window panel and lifting it aside. He made a face at the damp, malodorous Venusian air but to Barry it brought relief.
It was not enough, but it indicated he was on the right track. And he was not an engineer for nothing.
"Got a pencil?" he asked.
He drew only a rough sketch, for Nick was far too competent to need detailed drawings.
"Think you can get materials?"
Nick glanced at the sketch. "Hell, man, for you I can get anything the Colony has. You saved Four and everybody knows it."
"Two days?"
Nick looked insulted.
He was back in eight hours, and with him came a dozen helpers. A power line and water tube were run through the metal partition to the corridor, connections were made, and the machine Barry had sketched was ready.
Nick flipped the switch. The thing whined shrilly. From a fanshaped nozzle came innumerable droplets of water, droplets of colloidal size that hung in the air and only slowly coalesced into larger drops that fell toward the metal floor.
Barry nodded, a smile beginning to spread across his drawn features.
"Perfect. Now put the window back."
Outside lay the unknown world of Venus, and an open, unguarded window might invite disaster.
A few hours later Dr. Jensen found his patient in a normal sleep. The room was warm and the air was so filled with water-mist it was almost liquid. Coalescing drops dripped from the walls and curving ceiling and furniture, from the half clad body of the sleeping man, and the scavenger pump made greedy gulping sounds as it removed excess water from the floor.
The doctor shook his head as he backed out, his clothes clinging wet from the short exposure.
It was abnormal.
But so was Barry Barr.
With breathing no longer a continuous agony Barry began to recover some of his strength. But for several days much of his time was spent in sleep and Dorothy Voorhees haunted his dreams.
Whenever he closed his eyes he could see her as clearly as though she were with him—her face with the exotic high cheek-bones—her eyes a deep gray in fascinating contrast to her raven hair—lips that seemed to promise more of giving than she had ever allowed herself to fulfil—her incongruously pert, humorous little nose that was a legacy from some venturesome Irishman—her slender yet firmly lithe body.
After a few days Dr. Jensen permitted him to have visitors. They came in a steady stream, the people from Four and men he had not seen since Training Base days, and although none could endure his semi-liquid atmosphere more than a few minutes at a time Barry enjoyed their visits.
But the person for whom he waited most anxiously did not arrive. At each knock Barry's heart would leap, and each time he settled back with a sigh of disappointment. Days passed and still Dorothy did not come to him. He could not go to her, and stubborn pride kept him from even inquiring. All the while he was aware of Robson Hind's presence in the Colony, and only weakness kept him from pacing his room like a caged animal.
Through his window he could see nothing but the gradual brightening and darkening of the enveloping fog as the slow 82-hour Venusian day progressed, but from his visitors' words he learned something of Venusian conditions and the story of the Colony.
Number One had bumbled in on visual, the pilot depending on the smeary images of infra-sight goggles. An inviting grassy plain had proved to be a layer of algae floating on quicksand. Frantically the crew had blasted down huge balsa-like marsh trees, cutting up the trunks with flame guns to make crude rafts. They had performed fantastic feats of strength and endurance but managed to salvage only half their equipment before the shining nose of One had vanished in the gurgling ooze.
Lost in a steaming, stinking marsh teeming with alien creatures that slithered and crawled and swam and flew, blinded by the eternal fog, the crew had proved the rightness of their choice as pioneers. For weeks they had floundered across the deadly terrain until at last, beside a stagnant-looking slough that drained sluggishly into a warm, almost tideless sea a mile away, they had discovered an outcropping of rock. It was the only solid ground they had encountered.
One man had died, his swamp suit pierced by a poisonous thorn, but the others had hand-hauled the radio beacon piece by piece and set it up in time to guide Two to a safe landing. Houses had been assembled, the secondary power units of the spaceship put to work, and the colony had established a tenuous foothold.
Three had landed beside Two a few months later, bringing reinforcements, but the day-by-day demands of the little colony's struggle for survival had so far been too pressing to permit extended or detailed explorations. Venus remained a planet of unsolved mysteries.
The helicopter brought out in Three had made several flights which by radar and sound reflection had placed vague outlines on the blank maps. The surface appeared to be half water, with land masses mainly jungle-covered swamp broken by a few rocky ledges, but landings away from base had been judged too hazardous.
Test borings from the ledge had located traces of oil and radioactive minerals, while enough Venusian plants had proven edible to provide an adequate though monotonous food source.
Venus was the diametric opposite of lifeless Mars. Through the fog gigantic insects hummed and buzzed like lost airplanes, but fortunately they were harmless and timid.
In the swamps wildly improbable life forms grew and reproduced and fought and died, and many of those most harmless in appearance possessed surprisingly venomous characteristics.
The jungle had been flamed away in a huge circle around the colony to minimize the chances of surprise by anything that might attack, but the blasting was an almost continuous process. The plants of Venus grew with a vigor approaching fury.
Most spectacular of the Venusian creatures were the amphibious armored monsters, saurian or semi-saurians with a slight resemblance to the brontosauri that had once lived on Earth, massive swamp-dwellers that used the slough beside the colony's ledge as a highway. They were apparently vegetarians, but thorough stupidity in tremendous bulk made them dangerous. One had damaged a building by blundering against it, and since then the colony had remained alert, using weapons to repel the beasts.
The most important question—that of the presence or absence of intelligent, civilized Venusians—remained unanswered. Some of the men reported a disquieting feeling of being watched, particularly when near open water, but others argued that any intelligent creatures would have established contact.
Barry developed definite external signs of what the Sigma radiation had done to him. The skin between his fingers and toes spread, grew into membranous webs. The swellings in his neck became more pronounced and dark parallel lines appeared.
But despite the doctor's pessimistic reports that the changes had not stopped, Barry continued to tell himself he was recovering. He had to believe and keep on believing to retain sanity in the face of the weird, unclassifiable feelings that surged through his body. Still he was subject to fits of almost suicidal depression, and Dorothy's failure to visit him did not help his mental condition.
Then one day he woke from a nap and thought he was still dreaming. Dorothy was leaning over him.
"Barry! Barry!" she whispered. "I can't help it. I love you even if you do have a wife and child in Philadelphia. I know it's wrong but all that seems so far away it doesn't matter any more." Tears glistened in her eyes.
"Huh?" he grunted. "Who? Me?"
"Please, Barry, don't lie. She wrote to me before Three blasted off—oh, the most piteous letter!"
Barry was fully awake now. "I'm not married. I have no child. I've never been in Philadelphia," he shouted. His lips thinned.
"I—think—I—know—who—wrote—that—letter!" he declared grimly.
"Robson wouldn't!" she objected, shocked, but there was a note of doubt in her voice.
Then she was in his arms, sobbing openly.
"I believe you, Barry."
She stayed with him for hours, and she had changed since the days at Training Base. Long months away from the patterned restraints of civilization, living each day on the edge of unknown perils, had awakened in her the realization that she was a human being and a woman, as well as a toxicologist.
When the water-mist finally forced her departure she left Barry joyous and confident of his eventual recovery. For a few minutes anger simmered in his brain as he contemplated the pleasure of rearranging Robson Hind's features.
The accident with the scaffold had been remarkably convenient, but this time the ruthless, restless, probably psychopathic drive that had made Robson Hind more than just another rich man's spoiled son had carried him too far. Barry wondered whether it had been inefficiency or judiciously distributed money that had made the psychometrists overlook some undesirable traits in Hind's personality in accepting him for the Five Ship Plan.
But even with his trickery Hind had lost.
He slept, and woke with a feeling of doom.
The slow Venusian twilight had ended in blackness and the overhead tubelight was off.
He sat up, and apprehension gave way to burning torture in his chest.
Silence! He fumbled for the light switch, then knelt beside the mist machine that no longer hummed. Power and water supplies were both dead, cut off outside his room.
Floating droplets were merging and falling to the floor. Soon the air would be dry, and he would be choking and strangling. He turned to call for help.
The door was locked!
He tugged and the knob came away in his hand. The retaining screw had been removed.
He beat upon the panel, first with his fists and then with the metal doorknob, but the insulation between the double alloy sheets was efficient soundproofing. Furiously he hurled himself upon it, only to bounce back with a bruised shoulder. He was trapped.
Working against time and eventual death he snatched a metal chair and swung with all his force at the window, again, again, yet again. A small crack appeared in the transparent plastic, branched under continued hammering, became a rough star. He gathered his waning strength, then swung once more. The tough plastic shattered.
He tugged at the jagged pieces still clinging to the frame. Fog-laden Venusian air poured in—but it was not enough!
He dragged himself head first through the narrow opening, landed sprawling on hands and knees in the darkness. In his ears a confused rustling drone from the alien swamp mingled with the roar of approaching unconsciousness.
There was a smell in his nostrils. The smell of water. He lurched forward at a shambling run, stumbling over the uneven ground.
Then he plunged from the rocky ledge into the slough. Flashes of colored light flickered before his eyes as he went under. But Earth habits were still strong; instinctively he held his breath.
Then he fainted. Voluntary control of his body vanished. His mouth hung slack and the breathing reflex that had been an integral part of his life since the moment of birth forced him to inhale.
Bubbles floated upward and burst. Then Barry Barr was lying in the ooze of the bottom. And he was breathing, extracting vital oxygen from the brackish, silt-clouded water.
III
Slowly his racing heartbeat returned to normal. Gradually he became aware of the stench of decaying plants and of musky taints he knew instinctively were the scents of underwater animals. Then with a shock the meaning became clear. He had become a water-breather, cut off from all other Earthmen, no longer entirely human. His fellows in the colony were separated from him now by a gulf more absolute than the airless void between Earth and Venus.
Something slippery and alive touched him near one armpit. He opened his eyes in the black water and his groping hand clutched something burrowing into his skin. With a shudder of revulsion he crushed a fat worm between his fingers.
Then dozens of them—hundreds—were upon him from all sides. He was wearing only a pair of khaki pants but the worms ignored his chest to congregate around his face, intent on attacking the tender skin of his eyelids.
For a minute his flailing hands fought them off, but they came in increasing numbers and clung like leeches. Pain spread as they bit and burrowed, and blindly he began to swim.
Faster and faster. He could sense the winding banks of the slough and kept to midchannel, swimming with his eyes tightly closed. One by one the worms dropped off.
He stopped, opened his eyes, not on complete darkness this time but on a faint blue-green luminescence from far below. The water was saltier here, and clearer.
He had swum down the slough and out into the ocean. He tried to turn back, obsessed by a desire to be near the colony even though he could not go ashore without strangling, but he had lost all sense of direction.
He was still weak and his lungs were not completely adjusted to underwater life. Again he grew dizzy and faint. The slow movements of hands and feet that held him just below the surface grew feeble and ceased. He sank.
Down into dimly luminous water he dropped, and with his respiratory system completely water-filled there was no sensation of pressure. At last he floated gently to the bottom and lay motionless.
Shouting voices awakened him, an exultant battle cry cutting through a gasping scream of anguish. Streaks of bright orange light were moving toward him in a twisting pattern. At the head of each trail was a figure. A human figure that weaved and swam in deadly moving combat. One figure drifted limply bottomward.
Hallucination, Barry told himself. Then one of the figures broke from the group. Almost overhead it turned sharply downward and the feet moved in a powerful flutter-kick. A slender spear aimed directly at the Earthman.
Barry threw himself aside. The spear point plunged deep into the sticky, yielding bottom and Barry grappled with its wielder.
Pointed fingernails raked his cheek. Barry's balled fist swung in a roundhouse blow but water resistance slowed the punch to ineffectiveness. The creature only shook its head and came in kicking and clawing.
Barry braced his feet against the bottom and leaped. His head butted the attacker's chest and at the same instant he lashed a short jab to the creature's belly. It slumped momentarily, its face working.
Human—or nearly so—the thing was, with a stocky, powerful body and webbed hands and feet. A few scraps of clothing, seemingly worn more for ornament than covering, clung to the fishbelly-white skin. The face was coarse and savage.
It shook off the effects of Barry's punch and one webbed hand snatched a short tube from its belt.
Barry remembered the spring-opening knife in his pocket, and even as he flicked the blade out the tube-weapon fired. Sound thrummed in the water and the water grew milky with a myriad of bubbles. Something zipped past his head, uncomfortably close.
Then Barry struck, felt his knife slice flesh and grate against bone. He struck again even as the undersea being screamed and went limp.
Barry stared through the reddening water.
Another figure plunged toward him. Barry jerked the dead Venusian's spear from the mud and raised it defensively.
But the figure paid no attention. This one was a female who fled desperately from two men closing in from opposite sides. One threw his spear, using an odd pushing motion, and as she checked and dodged, the other was upon her from behind.
One arm went around her neck in a strangler's hold, bending her slender body backward. Together captor and struggling captive sank toward the bottom. The other recovered his thrown spear and moved in to help secure her arms and legs with lengths of cord.
One scooped up the crossbow the girl had dropped. The other ripped at her brief skirt and from her belt took a pair of tubes like the one the dead Venusian had fired at Barry, handling them as though they were loot of the greatest value. He jerked cruelly at the slender metallic necklace the girl wore but it did not break.
He punched the helpless girl in the abdomen with the butt of his spear. The girl writhed but she did not attempt to cry out.
Barry bounded toward them in a series of soaring leaps, knife and spear ready. One Venusian turned to meet him, grinning maliciously.
Barry dug one foot into the bottom and sidestepped a spear thrust. His own lunge missed completely. Then he and the Venusian were inside each other's spear points, chest to chest. A pointed hook strapped to the inside of the creature's wrist just missed Barry's throat. The Earthman arched his body backward and his knife flashed upward. The creature gasped and pulled away, clutching with both hands at a gaping wound in its belly.
The other one turned too late as Barry leaped.
Barry's hilt cracked against its jawbone.
Question:
Describe Venus and the creatures on its surface.
Answer:
|
[
"Venus is a hot and muggy planet, most comparable to certain areas of South America. The air is so moist and hot that many of the colonists when arrived felt as though they were melting or wading through a swamp. Much of the planet is covered in swamps and marshes, while only a small portion is made up of solid rock or land. The air teems with buzzing insects and creatures roam the surface of the planet. Large vegetarian Venusian creatures roam solid ground, and, though they aren’t going to eat the humans, their humongous size can make them a danger to have around. Different creatures reside in the swamps and oceans as well. Flesh-eating worms lie deep in the swamps, while humanoid Venusians live out in the open ocean. ",
"Venus has a climate like a tropical swamp, sweltering and extremely humid, and the air is thick with the foul odor of decaying plants. Much of the planet is covered with swamps and mud so that the colony has to set up on a rock ledge that rises out of the marsh. Days on Venus last 82 hours. Trees grow in the marshes, and there are areas of quicksand covered with green algae that look like grassy plains. Some plants are edible by humans, but there is also a plant with a poisonous thorn that killed a man. Plants grow rapidly due to the climate. The stagnant slough drains into a waveless, saltwater ocean. Approximately half of the surface is covered with water. The land areas are either rocky ledges or jungle-covered swamps. Tests indicate that there are traces of oil and radioactive minerals. \n\tMany different types of creatures live on Venus. In the marsh, there are creatures that slither and crawl, swim, and fly. Gigantic insects fly around but are harmless and avoid the humans. There are varied creatures in the swamps; the ones that look harmless tend to be the most venomous. One particularly interesting creature somewhat resembles the brontosauri of Earth and are amphibious, armored monsters. They are vegetarians and don’t bother the humans except that they can be clumsy and step on or fall against a human structure damaging it. In the early days, there is no sign of intelligent life, but some of the men report having a sense of being watched. One particularly bothersome creature is a fat worm that lives in the slough; when Barr is in the slough, these worms attach themselves to his eyelids and bite them, clinging to him like leeches.\n\tIn the ocean, however, Barr encounters human-like creatures like himself, with webbed fingers and toes. They wield weapons like spears and other tubelike weapons that fire underwater, creating a trail of bubbles as they move rapidly toward the prey. These human-like beings attack Barr, and he notices they wear clothes. They bleed a red substance when they are injured and have bones that Barr feels when he strikes one with a knife. There are both male and female creatures.\n",
"Venus is hot and extremely humid and covered with the aroma of decaying vegetation. The complete opposite of Mars' deserted, dry landscape, Venus is home to a wide variety of flora and fauna. Half of the planet is covered in water, including marshes, swamps, sloughs, and vast oceans with murky water. There are few areas of rock ledges where the crews of the Five Ship Plan build their colony. Many kinds of harmless insects fly about the swamps, but there are several poisonous plants, one of which kills a crew member from Number One. A species of massive, swamp-dwelling, amphibious, dinosaur-like creatures move about close to the makeshift colony; because of their lack of intelligence and immense, armored bodies, the creatures can be quite dangerous and actually have damaged one of the colony's buildings. When Barry first dives into the slough, he is immediately attacked by a horde of worms attempting to burrow into his skin. Later, he discovers the native Venusians, who look like humans, carry spears and tube-weapons, and move rapidly through the water with powerful bodies and webbed hands. ",
"Venus' surface is covered in mists and creatures unfamiliar to people from Earth. Dorothy Voorhees is a toxicologist and dietitian specifically assigned to the mission to guide the humans through the flora and fauna of Venus in a way that their digestive systems wouldn't entirely object to. The fact that she was hired points to the humans knowing they would face unknowns. The plants that had been discovered before Barry arrived were edible but not interesting. What looked like a grassy plain was really quicksand covered in algae, which meant the colonists had lost many supplies while making this discovery. The wood from the trees was used to create crafts, and various types of buildings and support structures. There is one piece of solid ground (rock, specifically) that the men were able to find, though it was still surrounded by swamps. In the heavy mists of the humid swamplands are a variety of insects that were far more annoying than harmful. There are larger creatures, too, the most exciting being large swamp creatures that resembled dinosaurs, who were vegetarian but large and dumb enough to pose great danger to the humans. \n"
] |
63932
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THE LOST TRIBES OF VENUS
By ERIK FENNEL
On mist-shrouded Venus, where hostile swamp meets hostile sea ... there did Barry Barr—Earthman transmuted—swap his Terran heritage for the deep dark waters of Tana; for the strangely beautiful Xintel of the blue-brown skin.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories May 1954. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Evil luck brought the meteorite to those particular space-time coordinates as Number Four rode the downhill spiral toward Venus. The football-sized chunk of nickel-iron and rock overtook the ship at a relative speed of only a few hundred miles per hour and passed close enough to come within the tremendous pseudo-gravatic fields of the idling drivers.
It swerved into a paraboloid course, following the flux lines, and was dragged directly against one of the three projecting nozzles. Energy of motion was converted to heat and a few meteoric fragments fused themselves to the nonmetallic tube casing.
In the jet room the positronic line accelerator for that particular driver fouled under the intolerable overload, and the backsurge sent searing heat and deadly radiation blasting through the compartment before the main circuit breakers could clack open.
The bellow of the alarm horn brought Barry Barr fully awake, shattering a delightfully intimate dream of the dark haired girl he hoped to see again soon in Venus Colony. As he unbuckled his bunk straps and started aft at a floating, bounding run his weightlessness told him instantly that Number Four was in free fall with dead drivers.
Red warning lights gleamed wickedly above the safety-locked jet room door, and Nick Podtiaguine, the air machines specialist, was manipulating the emergency controls with Captain Reno at his elbow. One by one the crew crowded into the corridor and watched in tense silence.
The automatic lock clicked off as the jet room returned to habitable conditions, and at Captain Reno's gesture two men swung the door open. Quickly the commander entered the blasted jet room. Barry Barr was close behind him.
Robson Hind, jet chief of Four and electronics expert for Venus Colony, hung back until others had gone in first. His handsome, heavy face had lost its usual ruddiness.
Captain Reno surveyed the havoc. Young Ryan's body floated eerily in the zero gravity, charred into instant death by the back-blast. The line accelerator was a shapeless ruin, but except for broken meter glasses and scorched control handles other mechanical damage appeared minor. They had been lucky.
"Turnover starts in six hours twelve minutes," the captain said meaningfully.
Robson Hind cleared his throat. "We can change accelerators in two hours," he declared. With a quick reassumption of authority he began to order his crew into action.
It took nearer three hours than two to change accelerators despite Hind's shouted orders.
At last the job was completed. Hind made a final check, floated over to the control panel and started the fuel feed. With a confident smile he threw in the accelerator switch.
The meter needles climbed, soared past the red lines without pausing, and just in time to prevent a second blowback, Hind cut the power.
" There's metal in the field! " His voice was high and unsteady.
Everyone knew what that meant. The slightest trace of magnetic material would distort the delicately balanced cylinder of force that contained and directed the Hoskins blast, making it suicidal to operate.
Calmly Captain Reno voiced the thought in every mind.
"It must be cleared. From the outside."
Several of the men swore under their breaths. Interplanetary space was constantly bombarded, with an intensity inverse to the prevailing gravitation, by something called Sigma radiation. Man had never encountered it until leaving Earth, and little was known of it except that short exposure killed test animals and left their bodies unpredictably altered.
Inside the ship it was safe enough, for the sleek hull was charged with a Kendall power-shield, impervious to nearly any Sigma concentration. But the shielding devices in the emergency spacesuits were small and had never been space-tested in a region of nearly equalized gravitations.
The man who emerged from the airlock would be flipping a coin with a particularly unpleasant form of death.
Many pairs of eyes turned toward Robson Hind. He was jet chief.
"I'm assigned, not expendable," he protested hastily. "If there were more trouble later...." His face was pasty.
Assigned. That was the key word. Barry Barr felt a lump tightening in his stomach as the eyes shifted to him. He had some training in Hoskins drivers. He knew alloys and power tools. And he was riding Four unassigned after that broken ankle had made him miss Three. He was the logical man.
"For the safety of the ship." That phrase, taken from the ancient Earthbound code of the sea, had occurred repeatedly in the indoctrination manual at Training Base. He remembered it, and remembered further the contingent plans regarding assigned and unassigned personnel.
For a moment he stood indecisively, the nervous, unhumorous smile quirking across his angular face making him look more like an untried boy than a structural engineer who had fought his way up through some of the toughest tropical construction camps of Earth. His lean body, built more for quick, neatly coordinated action than brute power, balanced handily in the zero gravity as he ran one hand through his sandy hair in a gesture of uncertainty.
He knew that not even the captain would order him through the airlock.
But the members of the Five Ship Plan had been selected in part for a sense of responsibility.
"Nick, will you help me button up?" he asked with forced calmness.
For an instant he thought he detected a sly gleam in Hind's eyes. But then the jet chief was pressing forward with the others to shake his hand.
Rebellious reluctance flared briefly in Barry's mind. Dorothy Voorhees had refused to make a definite promise before blasting off in Three—in fact he hadn't even seen her during her last few days on Earth. But still he felt he had the inside track despite Hind's money and the brash assurance that went with it. But if Hind only were to reach Venus alive—
The blazing disc of Sol, the minor globes of the planets, the unwinking pinpoints of the stars, all stared with cosmic disinterest at the tiny figure crawling along the hull. His spacesuit trapped and amplified breathing and heartbeats into a roaring chaos that was an invitation to blind panic, and all the while there was consciousness of the insidiously deadly Sigma radiations.
Barry found the debris of the meteorite, an ugly shining splotch against the dull superceramic tube, readied his power chisel, started cutting. Soon it became a tedious, torturingly strenuous manual task requiring little conscious thought, and Barry's mind touched briefly on the events that had brought him here.
First Luna, and that had been murderous. Man had encountered Sigma for the first time, and many had died before the Kendall-shield was perfected. And the chemical-fueled rockets of those days had been inherently poor.
Hoskins semi-atomics had made possible the next step—to Mars. But men had found Mars barren, swept clear of all life in the cataclysm that had shattered the trans-Martian planet to form the Asteroid Belt.
Venus, its true surface forever hidden by enshrouding mists, had been well within one-way range. But Hoskins fuel requirements for a round trip added up to something beyond critical mass. Impossible.
But the Five Ship Plan had evolved, a joint enterprise of government and various private groups. Five vessels were to go out, each fueled to within a whiskered neutron of spontaneous detonation, manned by specialists who, it was hoped, could maintain themselves under alien conditions.
On Venus the leftover fuel from all five would be transferred to whichever ship had survived the outbound voyage in best condition. That one would return to Earth. Permanent base or homeward voyage with colonists crowded aboard like defeated sardines? Only time would tell.
Barry Barr had volunteered, and because the enlightened guesses of the experts called for men and women familiar with tropical conditions, he had survived the rigorous weeding-out process. His duties in Venus Colony would be to refabricate the discarded ships into whatever form was most needed—most particularly a launching ramp—and to study native Venusian materials.
Dorothy Voorhees had signed on as toxicologist and dietician. When the limited supply of Earth food ran out the Colony would be forced to rely upon Venusian plants and animals. She would guard against subtle delayed-action poisons, meanwhile devising ways of preparing Venusian materials to suit Earth tastes and digestions.
Barry had met her at Training Base and known at once that his years of loneliness had come to an end.
She seemed utterly independent, self-contained, completely intellectual despite her beauty, but Barry had not been deceived. From the moment of first meeting he had sensed within her deep springs of suppressed emotion, and he had understood. He too had come up the hard way, alone, and been forced to develop a shell of hardness and cold, single-minded devotion to his work. Gradually, often unwillingly under his insistence, her aloofness had begun to melt.
But Robson Hind too had been attracted. He was the only son of the business manager of the great Hoskins Corporation which carried a considerable share in the Five Ship Plan. Dorothy's failure to virtually fall into his arms had only piqued his desires.
The man's smooth charm had fascinated the girl and his money had opened to her an entirely new world of lavish nightclubs and extravagantly expensive entertainments, but her inborn shrewdness had sensed some factor in his personality that had made her hesitate.
Barry had felt a distrust of Hind apart from the normal dislike of rivalry. He had looked forward to being with Dorothy aboard Three, and had made no secret of his satisfaction when Hind's efforts to have himself transferred to Three also or the girl to Four had failed.
But then a scaffold had slipped while Three was being readied, and with a fractured ankle he had been forced to miss the ship.
He unclipped the magnetic detector from his belt and ran it inch by inch over the nozzle. He found one spot of metal, pinhead-sized, but enough to cause trouble, and once more swung his power chisel into stuttering action.
Then it was done.
As quickly as possible he inched back to the airlock. Turnover had to start according to calculations.
Barry opened his eyes. The ship was in normal deceleration and Nick Podtiaguine was watching him from a nearby bunk.
"I could eat a cow with the smallpox," Barry declared.
Nick grinned. "No doubt. You slept around the clock and more. Nice job of work out there."
Barry unhitched his straps and sat up.
"Say," he asked anxiously. "What's haywire with the air?"
Nick looked startled. "Nothing. Everything checked out when I came off watch a few minutes ago."
Barry shrugged. "Probably just me. Guess I'll go see if I can mooch a handout."
He found himself a hero. The cook was ready to turn the galley inside out while a radio engineer and an entomologist hovered near to wait on him. But he couldn't enjoy the meal. The sensations of heat and dryness he had noticed on awakening grew steadily worse. It became difficult to breathe.
He started to rise, and abruptly the room swirled and darkened around him. Even as he sank into unconsciousness he knew the answer.
The suit's Kendall-shield had leaked!
Four plunged toward Venus tail first, the Hoskins jets flaring ahead. The single doctor for the Colony had gone out in Two and the crewmen trained in first aid could do little to relieve Barry's distress. Fainting spells alternated with fever and delirium and an unquenchable thirst. His breathing became increasingly difficult.
A few thousand miles out Four picked up a microbeam. A feeling of exultation surged through the ship as Captain Reno passed the word, for the beam meant that some Earthmen were alive upon Venus. They were not necessarily diving straight toward oblivion. Barry, sick as he was, felt the thrill of the unknown world that lay ahead.
Into a miles-thick layer of opacity Four roared, with Captain Reno himself jockeying throttles to keep it balanced on its self-created support of flame.
"You're almost in," a voice chanted into his headphones through crackling, sizzling static. "Easy toward spherical one-thirty. Hold it! Lower. Lower. CUT YOUR POWER!"
The heavy hull dropped sickeningly, struck with a mushy thud, settled, steadied.
Barry was weak, but with Nick Podtiaguine steadying him he was waiting with the others when Captain Reno gave the last order.
"Airlock open. Both doors."
Venusian air poured in.
"For this I left Panama?" one of the men yelped.
"Enough to gag a maggot," another agreed with hand to nose.
It was like mid-summer noon in a tropical mangrove swamp, hot and unbearably humid and overpowering with the stench of decaying vegetation.
But Barry took one deep breath, then another. The stabbing needles in his chest blunted, and the choking band around his throat loosened.
The outer door swung wide. He blinked, and a shift in the encompassing vapors gave him his first sight of a world bathed in subdued light.
Four had landed in a marsh with the midships lock only a few feet above a quagmire surface still steaming from the final rocket blast. Nearby the identical hulls of Two and Three stood upright in the mud. The mist shifted again and beyond the swamp he could see the low, rounded outlines of the collapsible buildings Two and Three had carried in their cargo pits. They were set on a rock ledge rising a few feet out of the marsh. The Colony!
Men were tossing sections of lattice duckboard out upon the swamp, extending a narrow walkway toward Four's airlock, and within a few minutes the new arrivals were scrambling down.
Barry paid little attention to the noisy greetings and excited talk. Impatiently he trotted toward the rock ledge, searching for one particular figure among the men and women who waited.
"Dorothy!" he said fervently.
Then his arms were around her and she was responding to his kiss.
Then unexpected pain tore at his chest. Her lovely face took on an expression of fright even as it wavered and grew dim. The last thing he saw was Robson Hind looming beside her.
By the glow of an overhead tubelight he recognized the kindly, deeply lined features of the man bending over him. Dr. Carl Jensen, specialist in tropical diseases. He tried to sit up but the doctor laid a restraining hand on his shoulder.
"Water!" Barry croaked.
The doctor held out a glass. Then his eyes widened incredulously as his patient deliberately drew in a breath while drinking, sucking water directly into his lungs.
"Doctor," he asked, keeping his voice low to spare his throat. "What are my chances? On the level."
Dr. Jensen shook his head thoughtfully. "There's not a thing—not a damned solitary thing—I can do. It's something new to medical science."
Barry lay still.
"Your body is undergoing certain radical changes," the doctor continued, "and you know as much—more about your condition than I do. If a normal person who took water into his lungs that way didn't die of a coughing spasm, congestive pneumonia would get him sure. But it seems to give you relief."
Barry scratched his neck, where a thickened, darkening patch on each side itched infuriatingly.
"What are these changes?" he asked. "What's this?"
"Those things seem to be—" the doctor began hesitantly. "Damn it, I know it sounds crazy but they're rudimentary gills."
Barry accepted the outrageous statement unemotionally. He was beyond shock.
"But there must be—"
Pain struck again, so intense his body twisted and arched involuntarily. Then the prick of a needle brought merciful oblivion.
II
Barry's mind was working furiously. The changes the Sigma radiations had inflicted upon his body might reverse themselves spontaneously, Dr. Jensen had mentioned during a second visit—but for that to happen he must remain alive. That meant easing all possible strains.
When the doctor came in again Barry asked him to find Nick Podtiaguine. Within a few minutes the mechanic appeared.
"Cheez, it's good to see you, Barry," he began.
"Stuff it," the sick man interrupted. "I want favors. Can do?"
Nick nodded vigorously.
"First cut that air conditioner and get the window open."
Nick stared as though he were demented, but obeyed, unbolting the heavy plastic window panel and lifting it aside. He made a face at the damp, malodorous Venusian air but to Barry it brought relief.
It was not enough, but it indicated he was on the right track. And he was not an engineer for nothing.
"Got a pencil?" he asked.
He drew only a rough sketch, for Nick was far too competent to need detailed drawings.
"Think you can get materials?"
Nick glanced at the sketch. "Hell, man, for you I can get anything the Colony has. You saved Four and everybody knows it."
"Two days?"
Nick looked insulted.
He was back in eight hours, and with him came a dozen helpers. A power line and water tube were run through the metal partition to the corridor, connections were made, and the machine Barry had sketched was ready.
Nick flipped the switch. The thing whined shrilly. From a fanshaped nozzle came innumerable droplets of water, droplets of colloidal size that hung in the air and only slowly coalesced into larger drops that fell toward the metal floor.
Barry nodded, a smile beginning to spread across his drawn features.
"Perfect. Now put the window back."
Outside lay the unknown world of Venus, and an open, unguarded window might invite disaster.
A few hours later Dr. Jensen found his patient in a normal sleep. The room was warm and the air was so filled with water-mist it was almost liquid. Coalescing drops dripped from the walls and curving ceiling and furniture, from the half clad body of the sleeping man, and the scavenger pump made greedy gulping sounds as it removed excess water from the floor.
The doctor shook his head as he backed out, his clothes clinging wet from the short exposure.
It was abnormal.
But so was Barry Barr.
With breathing no longer a continuous agony Barry began to recover some of his strength. But for several days much of his time was spent in sleep and Dorothy Voorhees haunted his dreams.
Whenever he closed his eyes he could see her as clearly as though she were with him—her face with the exotic high cheek-bones—her eyes a deep gray in fascinating contrast to her raven hair—lips that seemed to promise more of giving than she had ever allowed herself to fulfil—her incongruously pert, humorous little nose that was a legacy from some venturesome Irishman—her slender yet firmly lithe body.
After a few days Dr. Jensen permitted him to have visitors. They came in a steady stream, the people from Four and men he had not seen since Training Base days, and although none could endure his semi-liquid atmosphere more than a few minutes at a time Barry enjoyed their visits.
But the person for whom he waited most anxiously did not arrive. At each knock Barry's heart would leap, and each time he settled back with a sigh of disappointment. Days passed and still Dorothy did not come to him. He could not go to her, and stubborn pride kept him from even inquiring. All the while he was aware of Robson Hind's presence in the Colony, and only weakness kept him from pacing his room like a caged animal.
Through his window he could see nothing but the gradual brightening and darkening of the enveloping fog as the slow 82-hour Venusian day progressed, but from his visitors' words he learned something of Venusian conditions and the story of the Colony.
Number One had bumbled in on visual, the pilot depending on the smeary images of infra-sight goggles. An inviting grassy plain had proved to be a layer of algae floating on quicksand. Frantically the crew had blasted down huge balsa-like marsh trees, cutting up the trunks with flame guns to make crude rafts. They had performed fantastic feats of strength and endurance but managed to salvage only half their equipment before the shining nose of One had vanished in the gurgling ooze.
Lost in a steaming, stinking marsh teeming with alien creatures that slithered and crawled and swam and flew, blinded by the eternal fog, the crew had proved the rightness of their choice as pioneers. For weeks they had floundered across the deadly terrain until at last, beside a stagnant-looking slough that drained sluggishly into a warm, almost tideless sea a mile away, they had discovered an outcropping of rock. It was the only solid ground they had encountered.
One man had died, his swamp suit pierced by a poisonous thorn, but the others had hand-hauled the radio beacon piece by piece and set it up in time to guide Two to a safe landing. Houses had been assembled, the secondary power units of the spaceship put to work, and the colony had established a tenuous foothold.
Three had landed beside Two a few months later, bringing reinforcements, but the day-by-day demands of the little colony's struggle for survival had so far been too pressing to permit extended or detailed explorations. Venus remained a planet of unsolved mysteries.
The helicopter brought out in Three had made several flights which by radar and sound reflection had placed vague outlines on the blank maps. The surface appeared to be half water, with land masses mainly jungle-covered swamp broken by a few rocky ledges, but landings away from base had been judged too hazardous.
Test borings from the ledge had located traces of oil and radioactive minerals, while enough Venusian plants had proven edible to provide an adequate though monotonous food source.
Venus was the diametric opposite of lifeless Mars. Through the fog gigantic insects hummed and buzzed like lost airplanes, but fortunately they were harmless and timid.
In the swamps wildly improbable life forms grew and reproduced and fought and died, and many of those most harmless in appearance possessed surprisingly venomous characteristics.
The jungle had been flamed away in a huge circle around the colony to minimize the chances of surprise by anything that might attack, but the blasting was an almost continuous process. The plants of Venus grew with a vigor approaching fury.
Most spectacular of the Venusian creatures were the amphibious armored monsters, saurian or semi-saurians with a slight resemblance to the brontosauri that had once lived on Earth, massive swamp-dwellers that used the slough beside the colony's ledge as a highway. They were apparently vegetarians, but thorough stupidity in tremendous bulk made them dangerous. One had damaged a building by blundering against it, and since then the colony had remained alert, using weapons to repel the beasts.
The most important question—that of the presence or absence of intelligent, civilized Venusians—remained unanswered. Some of the men reported a disquieting feeling of being watched, particularly when near open water, but others argued that any intelligent creatures would have established contact.
Barry developed definite external signs of what the Sigma radiation had done to him. The skin between his fingers and toes spread, grew into membranous webs. The swellings in his neck became more pronounced and dark parallel lines appeared.
But despite the doctor's pessimistic reports that the changes had not stopped, Barry continued to tell himself he was recovering. He had to believe and keep on believing to retain sanity in the face of the weird, unclassifiable feelings that surged through his body. Still he was subject to fits of almost suicidal depression, and Dorothy's failure to visit him did not help his mental condition.
Then one day he woke from a nap and thought he was still dreaming. Dorothy was leaning over him.
"Barry! Barry!" she whispered. "I can't help it. I love you even if you do have a wife and child in Philadelphia. I know it's wrong but all that seems so far away it doesn't matter any more." Tears glistened in her eyes.
"Huh?" he grunted. "Who? Me?"
"Please, Barry, don't lie. She wrote to me before Three blasted off—oh, the most piteous letter!"
Barry was fully awake now. "I'm not married. I have no child. I've never been in Philadelphia," he shouted. His lips thinned.
"I—think—I—know—who—wrote—that—letter!" he declared grimly.
"Robson wouldn't!" she objected, shocked, but there was a note of doubt in her voice.
Then she was in his arms, sobbing openly.
"I believe you, Barry."
She stayed with him for hours, and she had changed since the days at Training Base. Long months away from the patterned restraints of civilization, living each day on the edge of unknown perils, had awakened in her the realization that she was a human being and a woman, as well as a toxicologist.
When the water-mist finally forced her departure she left Barry joyous and confident of his eventual recovery. For a few minutes anger simmered in his brain as he contemplated the pleasure of rearranging Robson Hind's features.
The accident with the scaffold had been remarkably convenient, but this time the ruthless, restless, probably psychopathic drive that had made Robson Hind more than just another rich man's spoiled son had carried him too far. Barry wondered whether it had been inefficiency or judiciously distributed money that had made the psychometrists overlook some undesirable traits in Hind's personality in accepting him for the Five Ship Plan.
But even with his trickery Hind had lost.
He slept, and woke with a feeling of doom.
The slow Venusian twilight had ended in blackness and the overhead tubelight was off.
He sat up, and apprehension gave way to burning torture in his chest.
Silence! He fumbled for the light switch, then knelt beside the mist machine that no longer hummed. Power and water supplies were both dead, cut off outside his room.
Floating droplets were merging and falling to the floor. Soon the air would be dry, and he would be choking and strangling. He turned to call for help.
The door was locked!
He tugged and the knob came away in his hand. The retaining screw had been removed.
He beat upon the panel, first with his fists and then with the metal doorknob, but the insulation between the double alloy sheets was efficient soundproofing. Furiously he hurled himself upon it, only to bounce back with a bruised shoulder. He was trapped.
Working against time and eventual death he snatched a metal chair and swung with all his force at the window, again, again, yet again. A small crack appeared in the transparent plastic, branched under continued hammering, became a rough star. He gathered his waning strength, then swung once more. The tough plastic shattered.
He tugged at the jagged pieces still clinging to the frame. Fog-laden Venusian air poured in—but it was not enough!
He dragged himself head first through the narrow opening, landed sprawling on hands and knees in the darkness. In his ears a confused rustling drone from the alien swamp mingled with the roar of approaching unconsciousness.
There was a smell in his nostrils. The smell of water. He lurched forward at a shambling run, stumbling over the uneven ground.
Then he plunged from the rocky ledge into the slough. Flashes of colored light flickered before his eyes as he went under. But Earth habits were still strong; instinctively he held his breath.
Then he fainted. Voluntary control of his body vanished. His mouth hung slack and the breathing reflex that had been an integral part of his life since the moment of birth forced him to inhale.
Bubbles floated upward and burst. Then Barry Barr was lying in the ooze of the bottom. And he was breathing, extracting vital oxygen from the brackish, silt-clouded water.
III
Slowly his racing heartbeat returned to normal. Gradually he became aware of the stench of decaying plants and of musky taints he knew instinctively were the scents of underwater animals. Then with a shock the meaning became clear. He had become a water-breather, cut off from all other Earthmen, no longer entirely human. His fellows in the colony were separated from him now by a gulf more absolute than the airless void between Earth and Venus.
Something slippery and alive touched him near one armpit. He opened his eyes in the black water and his groping hand clutched something burrowing into his skin. With a shudder of revulsion he crushed a fat worm between his fingers.
Then dozens of them—hundreds—were upon him from all sides. He was wearing only a pair of khaki pants but the worms ignored his chest to congregate around his face, intent on attacking the tender skin of his eyelids.
For a minute his flailing hands fought them off, but they came in increasing numbers and clung like leeches. Pain spread as they bit and burrowed, and blindly he began to swim.
Faster and faster. He could sense the winding banks of the slough and kept to midchannel, swimming with his eyes tightly closed. One by one the worms dropped off.
He stopped, opened his eyes, not on complete darkness this time but on a faint blue-green luminescence from far below. The water was saltier here, and clearer.
He had swum down the slough and out into the ocean. He tried to turn back, obsessed by a desire to be near the colony even though he could not go ashore without strangling, but he had lost all sense of direction.
He was still weak and his lungs were not completely adjusted to underwater life. Again he grew dizzy and faint. The slow movements of hands and feet that held him just below the surface grew feeble and ceased. He sank.
Down into dimly luminous water he dropped, and with his respiratory system completely water-filled there was no sensation of pressure. At last he floated gently to the bottom and lay motionless.
Shouting voices awakened him, an exultant battle cry cutting through a gasping scream of anguish. Streaks of bright orange light were moving toward him in a twisting pattern. At the head of each trail was a figure. A human figure that weaved and swam in deadly moving combat. One figure drifted limply bottomward.
Hallucination, Barry told himself. Then one of the figures broke from the group. Almost overhead it turned sharply downward and the feet moved in a powerful flutter-kick. A slender spear aimed directly at the Earthman.
Barry threw himself aside. The spear point plunged deep into the sticky, yielding bottom and Barry grappled with its wielder.
Pointed fingernails raked his cheek. Barry's balled fist swung in a roundhouse blow but water resistance slowed the punch to ineffectiveness. The creature only shook its head and came in kicking and clawing.
Barry braced his feet against the bottom and leaped. His head butted the attacker's chest and at the same instant he lashed a short jab to the creature's belly. It slumped momentarily, its face working.
Human—or nearly so—the thing was, with a stocky, powerful body and webbed hands and feet. A few scraps of clothing, seemingly worn more for ornament than covering, clung to the fishbelly-white skin. The face was coarse and savage.
It shook off the effects of Barry's punch and one webbed hand snatched a short tube from its belt.
Barry remembered the spring-opening knife in his pocket, and even as he flicked the blade out the tube-weapon fired. Sound thrummed in the water and the water grew milky with a myriad of bubbles. Something zipped past his head, uncomfortably close.
Then Barry struck, felt his knife slice flesh and grate against bone. He struck again even as the undersea being screamed and went limp.
Barry stared through the reddening water.
Another figure plunged toward him. Barry jerked the dead Venusian's spear from the mud and raised it defensively.
But the figure paid no attention. This one was a female who fled desperately from two men closing in from opposite sides. One threw his spear, using an odd pushing motion, and as she checked and dodged, the other was upon her from behind.
One arm went around her neck in a strangler's hold, bending her slender body backward. Together captor and struggling captive sank toward the bottom. The other recovered his thrown spear and moved in to help secure her arms and legs with lengths of cord.
One scooped up the crossbow the girl had dropped. The other ripped at her brief skirt and from her belt took a pair of tubes like the one the dead Venusian had fired at Barry, handling them as though they were loot of the greatest value. He jerked cruelly at the slender metallic necklace the girl wore but it did not break.
He punched the helpless girl in the abdomen with the butt of his spear. The girl writhed but she did not attempt to cry out.
Barry bounded toward them in a series of soaring leaps, knife and spear ready. One Venusian turned to meet him, grinning maliciously.
Barry dug one foot into the bottom and sidestepped a spear thrust. His own lunge missed completely. Then he and the Venusian were inside each other's spear points, chest to chest. A pointed hook strapped to the inside of the creature's wrist just missed Barry's throat. The Earthman arched his body backward and his knife flashed upward. The creature gasped and pulled away, clutching with both hands at a gaping wound in its belly.
The other one turned too late as Barry leaped.
Barry's hilt cracked against its jawbone.
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How is the theme of marriage explored throughout the story?
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After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about Prime Difference by Alan Edward Nourse.
Relevant chunks:
PRIME DIFFERENCE
By ALAN E. NOURSE
Illustrated by SCHOENHEER
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Being two men rolled out of one would solve my problems—but which one would I be?
I suppose that every guy reaches a point once in his lifetime when he gets one hundred and forty per cent fed up with his wife.
Understand now—I've got nothing against marriage or any thing like that. Marriage is great. It's a good old red-blooded American Institution. Except that it's got one defect in it big enough to throw a cat through, especially when you happen to be married to a woman like Marge—
It's so permanent .
Oh, I'd have divorced Marge in a minute if we'd been living in the Blissful 'Fifties—but with the Family Solidarity Amendment of 1968, and all the divorce taxes we have these days since the women got their teeth into politics, to say nothing of the Aggrieved Spouse Compensation Act, I'd have been a pauper for the rest of my life if I'd tried it. That's aside from the social repercussions involved.
You can't really blame me for looking for another way out. But a man has to be desperate to try to buy himself an Ego Prime.
So, all right, I was desperate. I'd spent eight years trying to keep Marge happy, which was exactly seven and a half years too long.
Marge was a dream to look at, with her tawny hair and her sulky eyes and a shape that could set your teeth chattering—but that was where the dream stopped.
She had a tongue like a #10 wood rasp and a list of grievances long enough to paper the bedroom wall. When she wasn't complaining, she was crying, and when she wasn't crying, she was pointing out in chilling detail exactly where George Faircloth fell short as a model husband, which happened to be everywhere. Half of the time she had a "beastly headache" (for which I was personally responsible) and the other half she was sore about something, so ninety-nine per cent of the time we got along like a couple of tomcats in a packing case.
Maybe we just weren't meant for each other. I don't know. I used to envy guys like Harry Folsom at the office. His wife is no joy to live with either, but at least he could take a spin down to Rio once in a while with one of the stenographers and get away with it.
I knew better than to try. Marge was already so jealous that I couldn't even smile at the company receptionist without a twinge of guilt. Give Marge something real to howl about, and I'd be ready for the Rehab Center in a week.
But I'd underestimated Marge. She didn't need anything real, as I found out when Jeree came along.
Business was booming and the secretaries at the office got shuffled around from time to time. Since I had an executive-type job, I got an executive-type secretary. Her name was Jeree and she was gorgeous. As a matter of fact, she was better than gorgeous. She was the sort of secretary every businessman ought to have in his office. Not to do any work—just to sit there.
Jeree was tall and dark, and she could convey more without saying anything than I ever dreamed was possible. The first day she was there, she conveyed to me very clearly that if I cared to supply the opportunity, she'd be glad to supply the motive.
That night, I could tell that Marge had been thinking something over during the day. She let me get the first bite of dinner halfway to my mouth, and then she said, "I hear you got a new secretary today."
I muttered something into my coffee cup and pretended not to hear.
Marge turned on her Accusing Look #7. "I also hear that she's five-foot-eight and tapes out at 38-25-36 and thinks you're handsome."
Marge had quite a spy system.
"She couldn't be much of a secretary," she added.
"She's a perfectly good secretary," I blurted, and kicked myself mentally. I should have known Marge's traps by then.
Marge exploded. I didn't get any supper, and she was still going strong at midnight. I tried to argue, but when Marge got going, there was no stopping her. I had my ultimatum, as far as Jeree was concerned.
Harry Folsom administered the coup de grace at coffee next morning.
"What you need is an Ego Prime," he said with a grin. "Solve all your problems. I hear they work like a charm."
I set my coffee cup down. Bells were ringing in my ears. "Don't be ridiculous. It's against the law. Anyway, I wouldn't think of such a thing. It's—it's indecent."
Harry shrugged. "Just joking, old man, just joking. Still, it's fun to think about, eh? Freedom from wife. Absolutely safe and harmless. Not even too expensive, if you've got the right contacts. And I've got a friend who knows a guy—"
Just then, Jeree walked past us and flashed me a big smile. I gripped my cup for dear life and still spilled coffee on my tie.
As I said, a guy gets fed up.
And maybe opportunity would only knock once.
And an Ego Prime would solve all my problems, as Harry had told me.
It was completely illegal, of course. The wonder was that Ego Prime, Inc., ever got to put their product on the market at all, once the nation's housewives got wind of just what their product was.
From the first, there was rigid Federal control and laws regulating the use of Primes right down to the local level. You could get a license for a Utility model Prime if you were a big business executive, or a high public official, or a movie star, or something like that; but even then his circuits had to be inspected every two months, and he had to have a thousand built-in Paralyzers, and you had to specify in advance exactly what you wanted your Prime to be able to do when, where, how, why, and under what circumstances.
The law didn't leave a man much leeway.
But everybody knew that if you really wanted a personal Prime with all his circuits open and no questions asked, you could get one. Black market prices were steep and you ran your own risk, but it could be done.
Harry Folsom told his friend who knew a guy, and a few greenbacks got lost somewhere, and I found myself looking at a greasy little man with a black mustache and a bald spot, up in a dingy fourth-story warehouse off lower Broadway.
"Ah, yes," the little man said. "Mr. Faircloth. We've been expecting you."
I didn't like the looks of the guy any more than the looks of the place. "I've been told you can supply me with a—"
He coughed. "Yes, yes. I understand. It might be possible." He fingered his mustache and regarded me from pouchy eyes. "Busy executives often come to us to avoid the—ah—unpleasantness of formal arrangements. Naturally, we only act as agents, you might say. We never see the merchandise ourselves—" He wiped his hands on his trousers. "Now were you interested in the ordinary Utility model, Mr. Faircloth?"
I assumed he was just being polite. You didn't come to the back door for Utility models.
"Or perhaps you'd require one of our Deluxe models. Very careful workmanship. Only a few key Paralyzers in operation and practically complete circuit duplication. Very useful for—ah—close contact work, you know. Social engagements, conferences—"
I was shaking my head. "I want a Super Deluxe model," I told him.
He grinned and winked. "Ah, indeed! You want perfect duplication. Yes, indeed. Domestic situations can be—awkward, shall we say. Very awkward—"
I gave him a cold stare. I couldn't see where my domestic problems were any affairs of his. He got the idea and hurried me back to a storeroom.
"We keep a few blanks here for the basic measurement. You'll go to our laboratory on 14th Street to have the minute impressions taken. But I can assure you you'll be delighted, simply delighted."
The blanks weren't very impressive—clay and putty and steel, faceless, brainless. He went over me like a tailor, checking measurements of all sorts. He was thorough—embarrassingly thorough, in fact—but finally he was finished. I went on to the laboratory.
And that was all there was to it.
Practical androids had been a pipe dream until Hunyadi invented the Neuro-pantograph. Hunyadi had no idea in the world what to do with it once he'd invented it, but a couple of enterprising engineers bought him body and soul, sub-contracted the problems of anatomy, design, artistry, audio and visio circuitry, and so forth, and ended up with the modern Ego Primes we have today.
I spent a busy two hours under the NP microprobes; the artists worked outside while the NP technicians worked inside. I came out of it pretty woozy, but a shot of Happy-O set that straight. Then I waited in the recovery room for another two hours, dreaming up ways to use my Prime when I got him. Finally the door opened and the head technician walked in, followed by a tall, sandy-haired man with worried blue eyes and a tired look on his face.
"Meet George Faircloth Prime," the technician said, grinning at me like a nursing mother.
I shook hands with myself. Good firm handshake, I thought admiringly. Nothing flabby about it.
I slapped George Prime on the shoulder happily. "Come on, Brother," I said. "You've got a job to do."
But, secretly, I was wondering what Jeree was doing that night.
George Prime had remote controls, as well as a completely recorded neurological analogue of his boss, who was me. George Prime thought what I thought about the same things I did in the same way I did. The only difference was that what I told George Prime to do, George Prime did.
If I told him to go to a business conference in San Francisco and make the smallest possible concessions for the largest possible orders, he would go there and do precisely that. His signature would be my signature. It would hold up in court.
And if I told him that my wife Marge was really a sweet, good-hearted girl and that he was to stay home and keep her quiet and happy any time I chose, he'd do that, too.
George Prime was a duplicate of me right down to the sandy hairs on the back of my hands. Our fingerprints were the same. We had the same mannerisms and used the same figures of speech. The only physical difference apparent even to an expert was the tiny finger-depression buried in the hair above his ear. A little pressure there would stop George Prime dead in his tracks.
He was so lifelike, even I kept forgetting that he was basically just a pile of gears.
I'd planned very carefully how I meant to use him, of course.
Every man who's been married eight years has a sanctuary. He builds it up and maintains it against assault in the very teeth of his wife's natural instinct to clean, poke, pry and rearrange things. Sometimes it takes him years of diligent work to establish his hideout and be confident that it will stay inviolate, but if he starts early enough, and sticks with it long enough, and is fierce enough and persistent enough and crafty enough, he'll probably win in the end. The girls hate him for it, but he'll win.
With some men, it's just a box on their dressers, or a desk, or a corner of an unused back room. But I had set my sights high early in the game. With me, it was the whole workshop in the garage.
At first, Marge tried open warfare. She had to clean the place up, she said. I told her I didn't want her to clean it up. She could clean the whole house as often as she chose, but I would clean up the workshop.
After a couple of sharp engagements on that field, Marge staged a strategic withdrawal and reorganized her attack. A little pile of wood shavings would be on the workshop floor one night and be gone the next. A wrench would be back on the rack—upside down, of course. An open paint can would have a cover on it.
I always knew. I screamed loudly and bitterly. I ranted and raved. I swore I'd rig up a booby-trap with a shotgun.
So she quit trying to clean in there and just went in once in a while to take a look around. I fixed that with the old toothpick-in-the-door routine. Every time she so much as set foot in that workshop, she had a battle on her hands for the next week or so. She could count on it. It was that predictable.
She never found out how I knew, and after seven years or so, it wore her down. She didn't go into the workshop any more.
As I said, you've got to be persistent, but you'll win.
Eventually.
If you're really persistent.
Now all my effort paid off. I got Marge out of the house for an hour or two that day and had George Prime delivered and stored in the big closet in the workshop. They hooked his controls up and left me a manual of instructions for running him. When I got home that night, there he was, just waiting to be put to work.
After supper, I went out to the workshop—to get the pipe I'd left there, I said. I pushed George Prime's button, winked at him and switched on the free-behavior circuits.
"Go to it, Brother," I said.
George Prime put my pipe in his mouth, lit it and walked back into the house.
Five minutes later, I heard them fighting.
It sounded so familiar that I laughed out loud. Then I caught a cab on the corner and headed uptown.
We had quite a night, Jeree and I. I got home just about time to start for work, and sure enough, there was George Prime starting my car, business suit on, briefcase under his arm.
I pushed the recall and George Prime got out of the car and walked into the workshop. He stepped into his cradle in the closet. I turned him off and then drove away in the car.
Bless his metallic soul, he'd even kissed Marge good-by for me!
Needless to say, the affairs of George Faircloth took on a new sparkle with George Prime on hand to cover the home front.
For the first week, I was hardly home at all. I must say I felt a little guilty, leaving poor old George Prime to cope with Marge all the time—he looked and acted so human, it was easy to forget that he literally couldn't care less. But I felt apologetic all the same whenever I took him out of his closet.
"She's really a sweet girl underneath it all," I'd say. "You'll learn to like her after a bit."
"Of course I like her," George Prime said. "You told me to, didn't you? Stop worrying. She's really a sweet girl underneath it all."
He sounded convincing enough, but still it bothered me. "You're sure you understand the exchange mechanism?" I asked. I didn't want any foul-ups there, as you can imagine.
"Perfectly," said George Prime. "When you buzz the recall, I wait for the first logical opportunity I can find to come out to the workshop, and you take over."
"But you might get nervous. You might inadvertently tip her off."
George Prime looked pained. "Really, old man! I'm a Super Deluxe model, remember? I don't have fourteen activated Hunyadi tubes up in this cranial vault of mine just for nothing. You're the one that's nervous. I'll take care of everything. Relax."
So I did.
Jeree made good all her tacit promises and then some. She had a very cozy little apartment on 34th Street where we went to relax after a hard day at the office. When we weren't doing the town, that is. As long as Jeree didn't try too much conversation, everything was wonderful.
And then, when Jeree got a little boring, there was Sybil in the accounting department. Or Dorothy in promotion. Or Jane. Or Ingrid.
I could go on at some length, but I won't. I was building quite a reputation for myself around the office.
Of course, it was like buying your first 3-V set. In a week or so, the novelty wears off a little and you start eating on schedule again. It took a little while, but I finally had things down to a reasonable program.
Tuesday and Thursday nights, I was informally "out" while formally
"in." Sometimes I took Sunday nights "out" if things got too sticky around the house over the weekend. The rest of the time, George Prime cooled his heels in his closet. Locked up, of course. Can't completely trust a wife to observe a taboo, no matter how well trained she is.
There, was an irreconcilable amount of risk. George Prime had to quick-step some questions about my work at the office—there was no way to supply him with current data until the time for his regular two-month refill and pattern-accommodation at the laboratory. In the meantime, George Prime had to make do with what he had.
But as he himself pointed out he was a Super Deluxe model.
Marge didn't suspect a thing. In fact, George Prime seemed to be having a remarkable effect on her. I didn't notice anything at first—I was hardly ever home. But one night I found my pipe and slippers laid out for me, and the evening paper neatly folded on my chair, and it brought me up short. Marge had been extremely docile lately. We hadn't had a good fight in days. Weeks, come to think of it.
I thought it over and shrugged. Old age, I figured. She was bound to mellow sometime.
But pretty soon I began to wonder if she wasn't mellowing a little too much.
One night when I got home, she kissed me almost as though she really meant it. There wasn't an unpleasant word all through dinner, which happened to be steak with mushrooms, served in the dining room (!) by candlelight (!!) with dinner music that Marge could never bear, chiefly because I liked it.
We sat over coffee and cigarettes, and it seemed almost like old times. Very old times, in fact I even caught myself looking at Marge again—really looking at her, watching the light catch in her hair, almost admiring the sparkle in her brown eyes. Sparkle, I said, not glint.
As I mentioned before, Marge was always easy to look at. That night, she was practically ravishing.
"What are you doing to her?" I asked George Prime later, out in the workshop.
"Why, nothing," said George Prime, looking innocent. He couldn't fool me with his look, though, because it was exactly the look I use when I'm guilty and pretending to be innocent.
"There must be something ."
George Prime shrugged. "Any woman will warm up if you spend enough time telling her all the things she wants to hear and pay all the attention to her that she wants paid to her. That's elemental psychology. I can give you page references."
I ought to mention that George Prime had a complete set of basic texts run into his circuits, at a slightly additional charge. Never can tell when an odd bit of information will come in useful.
"Well, you must be doing quite a job," I said. I'd never managed to warm Marge up much.
"I try," said George Prime.
"Oh, I'm not complaining," I hastened to add, forgetting that a Prime's feelings can't be hurt and that he was only acting like me because it was in character. "I was just curious."
"Of course, George."
"I'm really delighted that you're doing so well."
"Thank you, George."
But the next night when I was with Dawn, who happens to be a gorgeous redhead who could put Marge to shame on practically any field of battle except maybe brains, I kept thinking about Marge all evening long, and wondering if things weren't getting just a little out of hand.
The next evening I almost tripped over George Prime coming out of a liquor store. I ducked quickly into an alley and flagged him. " What are you doing out on the street? "
He gave me my martyred look. "Just buying some bourbon. You were out."
"But you're not supposed to be off the premises—"
"Marge asked me to come. I couldn't tell her I was sorry, but her husband wouldn't let me, could I?"
"Well, certainly not—"
"You want me to keep her happy, don't you? You don't want her to get suspicious."
"No, but suppose somebody saw us together! If she ever got a hint—"
"I'm sorry," George Prime said contritely. "It seemed the right thing to do. You would have done it. At least that's what my judgment center maintained. We had quite an argument."
"Well, tell your judgment center to use a little sense," I snapped. "I don't want it to happen again."
The next night, I stayed home, even though it was Tuesday night. I was beginning to get worried. Of course, I did have complete control—I could snap George Prime off any time I wanted, or even take him in for a complete recircuiting—but it seemed a pity. He was doing such a nice job.
Marge was docile as a kitten, even more so than before. She sympathized with my hard day at the office and agreed heartily that the boss, despite all appearances, was in reality a jabbering idiot. After dinner, I suggested a movie, but Marge gave me an odd sort of look and said she thought it would be much nicer to spend the evening at home by the fire.
I'd just gotten settled with the paper when she came into the living room and sat down beside me. She was wearing some sort of filmy affair I'd never laid eyes on before, and I caught a whiff of my favorite perfume.
"Georgie?" she said.
"Uh?"
"Do you still love me?"
I set the paper down and stared at her. "How's that? Of course I still—"
"Well, sometimes you don't act much like it."
"Mm. I guess I've—uh—got an awful headache tonight." Damn that perfume!
"Oh," said Marge.
"In fact, I thought I'd turn in early and get some sleep—"
"Sleep," said Marge. There was no mistaking the disappointment in her voice. Now I knew that things were out of hand.
The next evening, I activated George Prime and caught the taxi at the corner, but I called Ruby and broke my date with her. I took in an early movie alone and was back by ten o'clock. I left the cab at the corner and walked quietly up the path toward the garage.
Then I stopped. I could see Marge and George Prime through the living room windows.
George Prime was kissing my wife the way I hadn't kissed her in eight long years. It made my hair stand on end. And Marge wasn't exactly fighting him off, either. She was coming back for more. After a little, the lights went off.
George Prime was a Super Deluxe model, all right.
I dashed into the workshop and punched the recall button as hard as I could, swearing under my breath. How long had this been going on? I punched the button again, viciously, and waited.
George Prime didn't come out.
It was plenty cold out in the workshop that night and I didn't sleep a wink. About dawn, out came George Prime, looking like a man with a four-day hangover.
Our conversation got down to fundamentals. George Prime kept insisting blandly that, according to my own directions, he was to pick the first logical opportunity to come out when I buzzed, and that was exactly what he'd done.
I was furious all the way to work. I'd take care of this nonsense, all right. I'd have George Prime rewired from top to bottom as soon as the laboratory could take him.
But I never phoned the laboratory. The bank was calling me when I got to the office. They wanted to know what I planned to do about that check of mine that had just bounced.
"What check?" I asked.
"The one you wrote to cash yesterday—five hundred dollars—against your regular account, Mr. Faircloth."
The last I'd looked, I'd had about three thousand dollars in that account. I told the man so rather bluntly.
"Oh, no, sir. That is, you did until last week. But all these checks you've been cashing have emptied the account."
He flashed the checks on the desk screen. My signature was on every one of them.
"What about my special account?" I'd learned long before that an account Marge didn't know about was sound rear-guard strategy.
"That's been closed out for two weeks."
I hadn't written a check against that account for over a year! I glared at the ceiling and tried to think things through.
I came up with a horrible thought.
Marge had always had her heart set on a trip to Bermuda. Just to get away from it all, she'd say. A second honeymoon.
I got a list of travel agencies from the business directory and started down them. The third one I tried had a pleasant tenor voice. "No, sir, not Mrs. Faircloth. You bought two tickets. One way. Champagne flight to Bermuda."
"When?" I choked out.
"Why, today, as a matter of fact. It leaves Idlewild at eleven o'clock—"
I let him worry about my amnesia and started home fast. I didn't know what they'd given that Prime for circuits, but there was no question now that he was out of control— way out of control. And poor Marge, all worked up for a second honeymoon—
Then it struck me. Poor Marge? Poor sucker George! No Prime in his right circuits would behave this way without some human guidance and that meant only one thing: Marge had spotted him. It had happened before. Couple of nasty court battles I'd read about. And she'd known all about George Prime.
For how long?
When I got home, the house was empty. George Prime wasn't in his closet. And Marge wasn't in the house.
They were gone.
I started to call the police, but caught myself just in time. I couldn't very well complain to the cops that my wife had run off with an android.
Worse yet, I could get twenty years for having an illegal Prime wandering around.
I sat down and poured myself a stiff drink.
My own wife deserting me for a pile of bearings.
It was indecent.
Then I heard the front door open and there was Marge, her arms full of grocery bundles. "Why, darling! You're home early!"
I just blinked for a moment. Then I said, "You're still here!"
"Of course. Where did you think I'd be?"
"But I thought—I mean the ticket office—"
She set down the bundles and kissed me and looked up into my eyes, almost smiling, half reproachful. "You didn't really think I'd go running off with something out of a lab, did you?"
"Then—you knew?"
"Certainly I knew, silly. You didn't do a very good job of instructing him, either. You gave him far too much latitude. Let him have ideas of his own and all that. And next thing I knew, he was trying to get me to run off with him to Hawaii or someplace."
"Bermuda," I said.
And then Marge was in my arms, kissing me and snuggling her cheek against my chest.
"Even though he looked like you, I knew he couldn't be," she said. "He was like you, but he wasn't you , darling. And all I ever want is you. I just never appreciated you before...."
I held her close and tried to keep my hands from shaking. George Faircloth, Idiot, I thought. She'd never been more beautiful. "But what did you do with him?"
"I sent him back to the factory, naturally. They said they could blot him out and use him over again. But let's not talk about that any more. We've got more interesting things to discuss."
Maybe we had, but we didn't waste a lot of time talking. It was the Marge I'd once known and I was beginning to wonder how I could have been so wrong about her. In fact unless my memory was getting awfully porous, the old Marge was never like this—
I kissed her tenderly and ran my hands through her hair, and felt the depression with my fore-finger, and then I knew what had really happened.
That Marge always had been a sly one.
I wondered how she was liking things in Bermuda.
Marge probably thought she'd really put me where I belonged, but the laugh was on her, after all.
As I said, the old Marge was never like the new one. Marge Prime makes Jeree and Sybil and Dorothy and Dawn and Jane and Ruby all look pretty sad by comparison.
She cooks like a dream and she always brings me my pipe and slippers. As they say, there's nothing a man likes more than to be appreciated.
A hundred per cent appreciated, with a factory guarantee to correct any slippage, which would only be temporary, anyhow.
One of these days, we'll take that second honeymoon. But I think we'll go to Hawaii.
Question:
How is the theme of marriage explored throughout the story?
Answer:
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[
"The story starts with a husband, George Faircloth, who is unsatisfied with his marriage, trying to escape from his wife without communicating with her. Throughout the story, he uses Prime Technology, a technology that can produce an identical duplicate of a human, to deal with his wife’s complaints and other annoying interactions with him. However, when he finds out that George Prime, his duplicate, gets along better with his wife than him and finally leaves him behind together, he realizes what he has done wrong. When he feels desperate, his wife’s duplicate comes to stay with him, and he finally finds his wife’s duplicate better than his wife. The central theme of the story is the marriage relationship. The beginning of the story reveals a marriage failure where both the husband and the wife are not satisfied with each other after years-long marriage. Their solutions are not to communicate with each other or change for the better but to escape from each other through Prime technology. In the middle of the story, where George Faircloth once finds his wife adorable again due to George Prime’s effort, it shows the importance of communication and mutual support in the marriage, which is lacking in their relationship. The ending of the story, where both of them live with the duplicates of each other, indicates that a good relationship in marriage is to listen to and satisfy what each other needs with proper communication.",
"George Faircloth deems his marriage unhappy because it’s permanent. He doesn’t enjoy spending all his time with the same woman, even though he initially loved Marge. He is exhausted and theoretically would be happy to get a divorce. His despair leads to the events that follow his inner monologue. He buys an android that resembles him and activates him when he wants to meet a woman or simply leave the house for a bit. At the end, Marge and George Prime empty Faircloth’s accounts and go to Bermuda. They are happy together. George himself enjoys living with Marge’s android because she seems like a dream to him, a perfect woman. George and Marge both get too tired of their unhappy, imperfect marriage and choose ideal partners instead.",
"Marriage is depicted as an awful thing. George hates his marriage, but he can’t end it because there are laws that would have allowed his wife to take a lot of his money. George says that he constantly fights with his wife, and that he finds it very hard to spend time with her due to her jealousy and other bad attributes. Marriage is depicted as something that people must do, but isn’t taken seriously, as George very easily cheats on his wife with other women from the office. ",
"One of the central themes explored in “Prime Difference” is the concept of marriage. The story revolves around a couple, George Faircloth and Marge Faircloth, trapped in an eight year long unhappy marriage. Marge complains, whines and cries too much for George. Equally, George does not fulfill his potential in being a good, supportive husband either. After trying to fix it in every way possible, George is hopeless and gives in to the idea of getting an “Ego Prime,” a android clone of him that would look and act like him, allowing him to lead a joyful parallel life as the android directly deals with his wife.\n\nFirst, the story gives a social commentary on the concept of marriage. With the couple being trapped in such a long unhappy marriage, even after trying to fix it yet not finding any way out of it, the story showcases the unnatural aspect of marriage as a social construct. Two individuals are bound to live life together but yet are not able to get out of it because of an imaginary societal contract they agreed upon and societal norms that would view such action as dishonorable. Instead of finding other ways other than a divorce, which they could not afford, to fix it, they thus put up with living together unhappily. This leaves the reader questioning whether marriage should truly limit two individuals’ freedom to this extent.\n\nThe story also gives a commentary on the nature of a good marriage. As the story goes on, George’s Ego Prime starts to turn Marge into a softer, nicer woman, who George starts to appreciate more. George Prime gives credit to this change in behavior to his choice of saying the right things, in other words, the things Marge wants to hear. Equally, when George finds out the Marge he has been falling for again is merely a Prime too, he still accepts and wants her as she makes him feel appreciated. These intentions make the readers question the selfishness behind the concept of marriage. Do we agree to a marital contract purely for our own selfishness of wanting to be serviced and on some level, praised? Are the nice actions we do for our partners merely to selfishly receive those same actions back?\n"
] |
51321
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PRIME DIFFERENCE
By ALAN E. NOURSE
Illustrated by SCHOENHEER
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Being two men rolled out of one would solve my problems—but which one would I be?
I suppose that every guy reaches a point once in his lifetime when he gets one hundred and forty per cent fed up with his wife.
Understand now—I've got nothing against marriage or any thing like that. Marriage is great. It's a good old red-blooded American Institution. Except that it's got one defect in it big enough to throw a cat through, especially when you happen to be married to a woman like Marge—
It's so permanent .
Oh, I'd have divorced Marge in a minute if we'd been living in the Blissful 'Fifties—but with the Family Solidarity Amendment of 1968, and all the divorce taxes we have these days since the women got their teeth into politics, to say nothing of the Aggrieved Spouse Compensation Act, I'd have been a pauper for the rest of my life if I'd tried it. That's aside from the social repercussions involved.
You can't really blame me for looking for another way out. But a man has to be desperate to try to buy himself an Ego Prime.
So, all right, I was desperate. I'd spent eight years trying to keep Marge happy, which was exactly seven and a half years too long.
Marge was a dream to look at, with her tawny hair and her sulky eyes and a shape that could set your teeth chattering—but that was where the dream stopped.
She had a tongue like a #10 wood rasp and a list of grievances long enough to paper the bedroom wall. When she wasn't complaining, she was crying, and when she wasn't crying, she was pointing out in chilling detail exactly where George Faircloth fell short as a model husband, which happened to be everywhere. Half of the time she had a "beastly headache" (for which I was personally responsible) and the other half she was sore about something, so ninety-nine per cent of the time we got along like a couple of tomcats in a packing case.
Maybe we just weren't meant for each other. I don't know. I used to envy guys like Harry Folsom at the office. His wife is no joy to live with either, but at least he could take a spin down to Rio once in a while with one of the stenographers and get away with it.
I knew better than to try. Marge was already so jealous that I couldn't even smile at the company receptionist without a twinge of guilt. Give Marge something real to howl about, and I'd be ready for the Rehab Center in a week.
But I'd underestimated Marge. She didn't need anything real, as I found out when Jeree came along.
Business was booming and the secretaries at the office got shuffled around from time to time. Since I had an executive-type job, I got an executive-type secretary. Her name was Jeree and she was gorgeous. As a matter of fact, she was better than gorgeous. She was the sort of secretary every businessman ought to have in his office. Not to do any work—just to sit there.
Jeree was tall and dark, and she could convey more without saying anything than I ever dreamed was possible. The first day she was there, she conveyed to me very clearly that if I cared to supply the opportunity, she'd be glad to supply the motive.
That night, I could tell that Marge had been thinking something over during the day. She let me get the first bite of dinner halfway to my mouth, and then she said, "I hear you got a new secretary today."
I muttered something into my coffee cup and pretended not to hear.
Marge turned on her Accusing Look #7. "I also hear that she's five-foot-eight and tapes out at 38-25-36 and thinks you're handsome."
Marge had quite a spy system.
"She couldn't be much of a secretary," she added.
"She's a perfectly good secretary," I blurted, and kicked myself mentally. I should have known Marge's traps by then.
Marge exploded. I didn't get any supper, and she was still going strong at midnight. I tried to argue, but when Marge got going, there was no stopping her. I had my ultimatum, as far as Jeree was concerned.
Harry Folsom administered the coup de grace at coffee next morning.
"What you need is an Ego Prime," he said with a grin. "Solve all your problems. I hear they work like a charm."
I set my coffee cup down. Bells were ringing in my ears. "Don't be ridiculous. It's against the law. Anyway, I wouldn't think of such a thing. It's—it's indecent."
Harry shrugged. "Just joking, old man, just joking. Still, it's fun to think about, eh? Freedom from wife. Absolutely safe and harmless. Not even too expensive, if you've got the right contacts. And I've got a friend who knows a guy—"
Just then, Jeree walked past us and flashed me a big smile. I gripped my cup for dear life and still spilled coffee on my tie.
As I said, a guy gets fed up.
And maybe opportunity would only knock once.
And an Ego Prime would solve all my problems, as Harry had told me.
It was completely illegal, of course. The wonder was that Ego Prime, Inc., ever got to put their product on the market at all, once the nation's housewives got wind of just what their product was.
From the first, there was rigid Federal control and laws regulating the use of Primes right down to the local level. You could get a license for a Utility model Prime if you were a big business executive, or a high public official, or a movie star, or something like that; but even then his circuits had to be inspected every two months, and he had to have a thousand built-in Paralyzers, and you had to specify in advance exactly what you wanted your Prime to be able to do when, where, how, why, and under what circumstances.
The law didn't leave a man much leeway.
But everybody knew that if you really wanted a personal Prime with all his circuits open and no questions asked, you could get one. Black market prices were steep and you ran your own risk, but it could be done.
Harry Folsom told his friend who knew a guy, and a few greenbacks got lost somewhere, and I found myself looking at a greasy little man with a black mustache and a bald spot, up in a dingy fourth-story warehouse off lower Broadway.
"Ah, yes," the little man said. "Mr. Faircloth. We've been expecting you."
I didn't like the looks of the guy any more than the looks of the place. "I've been told you can supply me with a—"
He coughed. "Yes, yes. I understand. It might be possible." He fingered his mustache and regarded me from pouchy eyes. "Busy executives often come to us to avoid the—ah—unpleasantness of formal arrangements. Naturally, we only act as agents, you might say. We never see the merchandise ourselves—" He wiped his hands on his trousers. "Now were you interested in the ordinary Utility model, Mr. Faircloth?"
I assumed he was just being polite. You didn't come to the back door for Utility models.
"Or perhaps you'd require one of our Deluxe models. Very careful workmanship. Only a few key Paralyzers in operation and practically complete circuit duplication. Very useful for—ah—close contact work, you know. Social engagements, conferences—"
I was shaking my head. "I want a Super Deluxe model," I told him.
He grinned and winked. "Ah, indeed! You want perfect duplication. Yes, indeed. Domestic situations can be—awkward, shall we say. Very awkward—"
I gave him a cold stare. I couldn't see where my domestic problems were any affairs of his. He got the idea and hurried me back to a storeroom.
"We keep a few blanks here for the basic measurement. You'll go to our laboratory on 14th Street to have the minute impressions taken. But I can assure you you'll be delighted, simply delighted."
The blanks weren't very impressive—clay and putty and steel, faceless, brainless. He went over me like a tailor, checking measurements of all sorts. He was thorough—embarrassingly thorough, in fact—but finally he was finished. I went on to the laboratory.
And that was all there was to it.
Practical androids had been a pipe dream until Hunyadi invented the Neuro-pantograph. Hunyadi had no idea in the world what to do with it once he'd invented it, but a couple of enterprising engineers bought him body and soul, sub-contracted the problems of anatomy, design, artistry, audio and visio circuitry, and so forth, and ended up with the modern Ego Primes we have today.
I spent a busy two hours under the NP microprobes; the artists worked outside while the NP technicians worked inside. I came out of it pretty woozy, but a shot of Happy-O set that straight. Then I waited in the recovery room for another two hours, dreaming up ways to use my Prime when I got him. Finally the door opened and the head technician walked in, followed by a tall, sandy-haired man with worried blue eyes and a tired look on his face.
"Meet George Faircloth Prime," the technician said, grinning at me like a nursing mother.
I shook hands with myself. Good firm handshake, I thought admiringly. Nothing flabby about it.
I slapped George Prime on the shoulder happily. "Come on, Brother," I said. "You've got a job to do."
But, secretly, I was wondering what Jeree was doing that night.
George Prime had remote controls, as well as a completely recorded neurological analogue of his boss, who was me. George Prime thought what I thought about the same things I did in the same way I did. The only difference was that what I told George Prime to do, George Prime did.
If I told him to go to a business conference in San Francisco and make the smallest possible concessions for the largest possible orders, he would go there and do precisely that. His signature would be my signature. It would hold up in court.
And if I told him that my wife Marge was really a sweet, good-hearted girl and that he was to stay home and keep her quiet and happy any time I chose, he'd do that, too.
George Prime was a duplicate of me right down to the sandy hairs on the back of my hands. Our fingerprints were the same. We had the same mannerisms and used the same figures of speech. The only physical difference apparent even to an expert was the tiny finger-depression buried in the hair above his ear. A little pressure there would stop George Prime dead in his tracks.
He was so lifelike, even I kept forgetting that he was basically just a pile of gears.
I'd planned very carefully how I meant to use him, of course.
Every man who's been married eight years has a sanctuary. He builds it up and maintains it against assault in the very teeth of his wife's natural instinct to clean, poke, pry and rearrange things. Sometimes it takes him years of diligent work to establish his hideout and be confident that it will stay inviolate, but if he starts early enough, and sticks with it long enough, and is fierce enough and persistent enough and crafty enough, he'll probably win in the end. The girls hate him for it, but he'll win.
With some men, it's just a box on their dressers, or a desk, or a corner of an unused back room. But I had set my sights high early in the game. With me, it was the whole workshop in the garage.
At first, Marge tried open warfare. She had to clean the place up, she said. I told her I didn't want her to clean it up. She could clean the whole house as often as she chose, but I would clean up the workshop.
After a couple of sharp engagements on that field, Marge staged a strategic withdrawal and reorganized her attack. A little pile of wood shavings would be on the workshop floor one night and be gone the next. A wrench would be back on the rack—upside down, of course. An open paint can would have a cover on it.
I always knew. I screamed loudly and bitterly. I ranted and raved. I swore I'd rig up a booby-trap with a shotgun.
So she quit trying to clean in there and just went in once in a while to take a look around. I fixed that with the old toothpick-in-the-door routine. Every time she so much as set foot in that workshop, she had a battle on her hands for the next week or so. She could count on it. It was that predictable.
She never found out how I knew, and after seven years or so, it wore her down. She didn't go into the workshop any more.
As I said, you've got to be persistent, but you'll win.
Eventually.
If you're really persistent.
Now all my effort paid off. I got Marge out of the house for an hour or two that day and had George Prime delivered and stored in the big closet in the workshop. They hooked his controls up and left me a manual of instructions for running him. When I got home that night, there he was, just waiting to be put to work.
After supper, I went out to the workshop—to get the pipe I'd left there, I said. I pushed George Prime's button, winked at him and switched on the free-behavior circuits.
"Go to it, Brother," I said.
George Prime put my pipe in his mouth, lit it and walked back into the house.
Five minutes later, I heard them fighting.
It sounded so familiar that I laughed out loud. Then I caught a cab on the corner and headed uptown.
We had quite a night, Jeree and I. I got home just about time to start for work, and sure enough, there was George Prime starting my car, business suit on, briefcase under his arm.
I pushed the recall and George Prime got out of the car and walked into the workshop. He stepped into his cradle in the closet. I turned him off and then drove away in the car.
Bless his metallic soul, he'd even kissed Marge good-by for me!
Needless to say, the affairs of George Faircloth took on a new sparkle with George Prime on hand to cover the home front.
For the first week, I was hardly home at all. I must say I felt a little guilty, leaving poor old George Prime to cope with Marge all the time—he looked and acted so human, it was easy to forget that he literally couldn't care less. But I felt apologetic all the same whenever I took him out of his closet.
"She's really a sweet girl underneath it all," I'd say. "You'll learn to like her after a bit."
"Of course I like her," George Prime said. "You told me to, didn't you? Stop worrying. She's really a sweet girl underneath it all."
He sounded convincing enough, but still it bothered me. "You're sure you understand the exchange mechanism?" I asked. I didn't want any foul-ups there, as you can imagine.
"Perfectly," said George Prime. "When you buzz the recall, I wait for the first logical opportunity I can find to come out to the workshop, and you take over."
"But you might get nervous. You might inadvertently tip her off."
George Prime looked pained. "Really, old man! I'm a Super Deluxe model, remember? I don't have fourteen activated Hunyadi tubes up in this cranial vault of mine just for nothing. You're the one that's nervous. I'll take care of everything. Relax."
So I did.
Jeree made good all her tacit promises and then some. She had a very cozy little apartment on 34th Street where we went to relax after a hard day at the office. When we weren't doing the town, that is. As long as Jeree didn't try too much conversation, everything was wonderful.
And then, when Jeree got a little boring, there was Sybil in the accounting department. Or Dorothy in promotion. Or Jane. Or Ingrid.
I could go on at some length, but I won't. I was building quite a reputation for myself around the office.
Of course, it was like buying your first 3-V set. In a week or so, the novelty wears off a little and you start eating on schedule again. It took a little while, but I finally had things down to a reasonable program.
Tuesday and Thursday nights, I was informally "out" while formally
"in." Sometimes I took Sunday nights "out" if things got too sticky around the house over the weekend. The rest of the time, George Prime cooled his heels in his closet. Locked up, of course. Can't completely trust a wife to observe a taboo, no matter how well trained she is.
There, was an irreconcilable amount of risk. George Prime had to quick-step some questions about my work at the office—there was no way to supply him with current data until the time for his regular two-month refill and pattern-accommodation at the laboratory. In the meantime, George Prime had to make do with what he had.
But as he himself pointed out he was a Super Deluxe model.
Marge didn't suspect a thing. In fact, George Prime seemed to be having a remarkable effect on her. I didn't notice anything at first—I was hardly ever home. But one night I found my pipe and slippers laid out for me, and the evening paper neatly folded on my chair, and it brought me up short. Marge had been extremely docile lately. We hadn't had a good fight in days. Weeks, come to think of it.
I thought it over and shrugged. Old age, I figured. She was bound to mellow sometime.
But pretty soon I began to wonder if she wasn't mellowing a little too much.
One night when I got home, she kissed me almost as though she really meant it. There wasn't an unpleasant word all through dinner, which happened to be steak with mushrooms, served in the dining room (!) by candlelight (!!) with dinner music that Marge could never bear, chiefly because I liked it.
We sat over coffee and cigarettes, and it seemed almost like old times. Very old times, in fact I even caught myself looking at Marge again—really looking at her, watching the light catch in her hair, almost admiring the sparkle in her brown eyes. Sparkle, I said, not glint.
As I mentioned before, Marge was always easy to look at. That night, she was practically ravishing.
"What are you doing to her?" I asked George Prime later, out in the workshop.
"Why, nothing," said George Prime, looking innocent. He couldn't fool me with his look, though, because it was exactly the look I use when I'm guilty and pretending to be innocent.
"There must be something ."
George Prime shrugged. "Any woman will warm up if you spend enough time telling her all the things she wants to hear and pay all the attention to her that she wants paid to her. That's elemental psychology. I can give you page references."
I ought to mention that George Prime had a complete set of basic texts run into his circuits, at a slightly additional charge. Never can tell when an odd bit of information will come in useful.
"Well, you must be doing quite a job," I said. I'd never managed to warm Marge up much.
"I try," said George Prime.
"Oh, I'm not complaining," I hastened to add, forgetting that a Prime's feelings can't be hurt and that he was only acting like me because it was in character. "I was just curious."
"Of course, George."
"I'm really delighted that you're doing so well."
"Thank you, George."
But the next night when I was with Dawn, who happens to be a gorgeous redhead who could put Marge to shame on practically any field of battle except maybe brains, I kept thinking about Marge all evening long, and wondering if things weren't getting just a little out of hand.
The next evening I almost tripped over George Prime coming out of a liquor store. I ducked quickly into an alley and flagged him. " What are you doing out on the street? "
He gave me my martyred look. "Just buying some bourbon. You were out."
"But you're not supposed to be off the premises—"
"Marge asked me to come. I couldn't tell her I was sorry, but her husband wouldn't let me, could I?"
"Well, certainly not—"
"You want me to keep her happy, don't you? You don't want her to get suspicious."
"No, but suppose somebody saw us together! If she ever got a hint—"
"I'm sorry," George Prime said contritely. "It seemed the right thing to do. You would have done it. At least that's what my judgment center maintained. We had quite an argument."
"Well, tell your judgment center to use a little sense," I snapped. "I don't want it to happen again."
The next night, I stayed home, even though it was Tuesday night. I was beginning to get worried. Of course, I did have complete control—I could snap George Prime off any time I wanted, or even take him in for a complete recircuiting—but it seemed a pity. He was doing such a nice job.
Marge was docile as a kitten, even more so than before. She sympathized with my hard day at the office and agreed heartily that the boss, despite all appearances, was in reality a jabbering idiot. After dinner, I suggested a movie, but Marge gave me an odd sort of look and said she thought it would be much nicer to spend the evening at home by the fire.
I'd just gotten settled with the paper when she came into the living room and sat down beside me. She was wearing some sort of filmy affair I'd never laid eyes on before, and I caught a whiff of my favorite perfume.
"Georgie?" she said.
"Uh?"
"Do you still love me?"
I set the paper down and stared at her. "How's that? Of course I still—"
"Well, sometimes you don't act much like it."
"Mm. I guess I've—uh—got an awful headache tonight." Damn that perfume!
"Oh," said Marge.
"In fact, I thought I'd turn in early and get some sleep—"
"Sleep," said Marge. There was no mistaking the disappointment in her voice. Now I knew that things were out of hand.
The next evening, I activated George Prime and caught the taxi at the corner, but I called Ruby and broke my date with her. I took in an early movie alone and was back by ten o'clock. I left the cab at the corner and walked quietly up the path toward the garage.
Then I stopped. I could see Marge and George Prime through the living room windows.
George Prime was kissing my wife the way I hadn't kissed her in eight long years. It made my hair stand on end. And Marge wasn't exactly fighting him off, either. She was coming back for more. After a little, the lights went off.
George Prime was a Super Deluxe model, all right.
I dashed into the workshop and punched the recall button as hard as I could, swearing under my breath. How long had this been going on? I punched the button again, viciously, and waited.
George Prime didn't come out.
It was plenty cold out in the workshop that night and I didn't sleep a wink. About dawn, out came George Prime, looking like a man with a four-day hangover.
Our conversation got down to fundamentals. George Prime kept insisting blandly that, according to my own directions, he was to pick the first logical opportunity to come out when I buzzed, and that was exactly what he'd done.
I was furious all the way to work. I'd take care of this nonsense, all right. I'd have George Prime rewired from top to bottom as soon as the laboratory could take him.
But I never phoned the laboratory. The bank was calling me when I got to the office. They wanted to know what I planned to do about that check of mine that had just bounced.
"What check?" I asked.
"The one you wrote to cash yesterday—five hundred dollars—against your regular account, Mr. Faircloth."
The last I'd looked, I'd had about three thousand dollars in that account. I told the man so rather bluntly.
"Oh, no, sir. That is, you did until last week. But all these checks you've been cashing have emptied the account."
He flashed the checks on the desk screen. My signature was on every one of them.
"What about my special account?" I'd learned long before that an account Marge didn't know about was sound rear-guard strategy.
"That's been closed out for two weeks."
I hadn't written a check against that account for over a year! I glared at the ceiling and tried to think things through.
I came up with a horrible thought.
Marge had always had her heart set on a trip to Bermuda. Just to get away from it all, she'd say. A second honeymoon.
I got a list of travel agencies from the business directory and started down them. The third one I tried had a pleasant tenor voice. "No, sir, not Mrs. Faircloth. You bought two tickets. One way. Champagne flight to Bermuda."
"When?" I choked out.
"Why, today, as a matter of fact. It leaves Idlewild at eleven o'clock—"
I let him worry about my amnesia and started home fast. I didn't know what they'd given that Prime for circuits, but there was no question now that he was out of control— way out of control. And poor Marge, all worked up for a second honeymoon—
Then it struck me. Poor Marge? Poor sucker George! No Prime in his right circuits would behave this way without some human guidance and that meant only one thing: Marge had spotted him. It had happened before. Couple of nasty court battles I'd read about. And she'd known all about George Prime.
For how long?
When I got home, the house was empty. George Prime wasn't in his closet. And Marge wasn't in the house.
They were gone.
I started to call the police, but caught myself just in time. I couldn't very well complain to the cops that my wife had run off with an android.
Worse yet, I could get twenty years for having an illegal Prime wandering around.
I sat down and poured myself a stiff drink.
My own wife deserting me for a pile of bearings.
It was indecent.
Then I heard the front door open and there was Marge, her arms full of grocery bundles. "Why, darling! You're home early!"
I just blinked for a moment. Then I said, "You're still here!"
"Of course. Where did you think I'd be?"
"But I thought—I mean the ticket office—"
She set down the bundles and kissed me and looked up into my eyes, almost smiling, half reproachful. "You didn't really think I'd go running off with something out of a lab, did you?"
"Then—you knew?"
"Certainly I knew, silly. You didn't do a very good job of instructing him, either. You gave him far too much latitude. Let him have ideas of his own and all that. And next thing I knew, he was trying to get me to run off with him to Hawaii or someplace."
"Bermuda," I said.
And then Marge was in my arms, kissing me and snuggling her cheek against my chest.
"Even though he looked like you, I knew he couldn't be," she said. "He was like you, but he wasn't you , darling. And all I ever want is you. I just never appreciated you before...."
I held her close and tried to keep my hands from shaking. George Faircloth, Idiot, I thought. She'd never been more beautiful. "But what did you do with him?"
"I sent him back to the factory, naturally. They said they could blot him out and use him over again. But let's not talk about that any more. We've got more interesting things to discuss."
Maybe we had, but we didn't waste a lot of time talking. It was the Marge I'd once known and I was beginning to wonder how I could have been so wrong about her. In fact unless my memory was getting awfully porous, the old Marge was never like this—
I kissed her tenderly and ran my hands through her hair, and felt the depression with my fore-finger, and then I knew what had really happened.
That Marge always had been a sly one.
I wondered how she was liking things in Bermuda.
Marge probably thought she'd really put me where I belonged, but the laugh was on her, after all.
As I said, the old Marge was never like the new one. Marge Prime makes Jeree and Sybil and Dorothy and Dawn and Jane and Ruby all look pretty sad by comparison.
She cooks like a dream and she always brings me my pipe and slippers. As they say, there's nothing a man likes more than to be appreciated.
A hundred per cent appreciated, with a factory guarantee to correct any slippage, which would only be temporary, anyhow.
One of these days, we'll take that second honeymoon. But I think we'll go to Hawaii.
|
Who is Doctor Hamming, and what are his traits?
|
After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about Breakdown by Herbert D. Kastle.
Relevant chunks:
BREAKDOWN
By HERBERT D. KASTLE
Illustrated by COWLES
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine June 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
He didn't know exactly when it had started, but it had been going on for weeks. Edna begged him to see the doctor living in that new house two miles past Dugan's farm, but he refused. He point-blank refused to admit he was sick that way—in the head!
Of course, a man could grow forgetful. He had to admit there were moments when he had all sorts of mixed-up memories and thoughts in his mind. And sometimes—like right now, lying in bed beside Edna, watching the first hint of light touch the windows—he began sweating with fear. A horrible, gut-wrenching fear, all the more horrible because it was based on nothing.
The chicken-run came alive; the barn followed minutes later. There were chores to do, the same chores he'd done all his forty-one years. Except that now, with the new regulations about wheat and corn, he had only a vegetable patch to farm. Sure, he got paid for letting the fields remain empty. But it just didn't seem right, all that land going to waste....
Davie. Blond hair and a round, tanned face and strong arms growing stronger each day from helping out after school.
He turned and shook Edna. "What happened to Davie?"
She cleared her throat, mumbled, "Huh? What happened to who?"
"I said, what...." But then it slipped away. Davie? No, that was part of a dream he'd had last week. He and Edna had no children.
He felt the fear again, and got up fast to escape it. Edna opened her eyes as soon as his weight left the bed. "Like hotcakes for breakfast?"
"Eggs," he said. "Bacon." And then, seeing her face change, he remembered. "Course," he muttered. "Can't have bacon. Rationed."
She was fully awake now. "If you'd only go see Dr. Hamming, Harry. Just for a checkup. Or let me call him so he could—"
"You stop that! You stop that right now, and for good! I don't want to hear no more about doctors. I get laid up, I'll call one. And it won't be that Hamming who I ain't never seen in my life! It'll be Timkins, who took care'n us and brought our son into the world and...."
She began to cry, and he realized he'd said something crazy again. They had no son, never had a son. And Timkins—he'd died and they'd gone to his funeral. Or so Edna said.
He himself just couldn't remember it.
He went to the bed and sat down beside her. "Sorry. That was just a dream I had. I'm still half asleep this morning. Couldn't fall off last night, not till real late. Guess I'm a little nervous, what with all the new regulations and not working regular. I never meant we had a son." He waited then, hoping she'd say they had had a son, and he'd died or gone away. But of course she didn't.
He went to the bathroom and washed. By the time he came to the kitchen, Edna had hotcakes on a plate and coffee in a cup. He sat down and ate. Part way through the meal, he paused. "Got an awful craving for meat," he said. "Goddam those rations! Man can't even butcher his own stock for his own table!"
"We're having meat for lunch," she said placatingly. "Nice cut of multi-pro."
"Multi-pro," he scoffed. "God knows what's in it. Like spam put through a grinder a hundred times and then baked into slabs. Can't hardly taste any meat there."
"Well, we got no choice. Country's on emergency rations. The current crisis, you know."
The way she said it irritated him. Like it was Scripture; like no one could question one word of it without being damned to Hell. He finished quickly and without speaking went on out to the barn.
He milked and curried and fed and cleaned, and still was done inside of two hours. Then he walked slowly, head down, across the hay-strewn floor. He stopped, put out his hand as if to find a pole or beam that was too familiar to require raising his eyes, and almost fell as he leaned in that direction. Regaining his balance after a sideward staggering shuffle, he looked around, startled. "Why, this ain't the way I had my barn...."
He heard his own voice, and stopped. He fought the flash of senseless panic. Of course this was the way he'd had his barn built, because it was his barn!
He rubbed his hard hands together and said aloud, "Get down to the patch. Them tomatoes need fertilizer for tang." He walked outside and took a deep breath. Air was different, wasn't it? Sweet and pure and clean, like country air always was and always would be; but still, different somehow. Maybe sharper. Or was sharp the word? Maybe....
He went quickly across the yard, past the pig-pen—he'd had twelve pigs, hadn't he? Now he had four—behind the house to where the half-acre truck farm lay greening in the sun. He got to work. Sometime later, Edna called to him. "Delivery last night, Harry. I took some. Pick up rest?"
"Yes," he shouted.
She disappeared.
He walked slowly back to the house. As he came into the front yard, moving toward the road and the supply bin, something occurred to him. The car. He hadn't seen the old Chevvy in ... how long? It'd be nice to take a ride to town, see a movie, maybe have a few beers.
No. It was against the travel regulations. He couldn't go further than Walt and Gloria Shanks' place. They couldn't go further than his. And the gas rationing. Besides, he'd sold the car, hadn't he? Because it was no use to him lying in the tractor shed.
He whirled, staring out across the fields to his left. Why, the tractor shed had stood just fifty feet from the house!
No, he'd torn it down. The tractor was in town, being overhauled and all. He was leaving it there until he had use for it.
He went on toward the road, his head beginning to throb. Why should a man his age, hardly sick at all since he was a kid, suddenly start losing hold this way? Edna was worried. The Shanks had noticed it too.
He was at the supply bin—like an old-fashioned wood bin; a box with a sloping flap lid. Deliveries of food and clothing and home medicines and other things were left here. You wrote down what you needed, and they left it—or whatever they allowed you—with a bill. You paid the bill by leaving money in the bin, and the next week you found a receipt and your new stuff and your new bill. And almost always you found some money from the government, for not planting wheat or not planting corn. It came out just about even.
He hauled out a sack of flour, half the amount of sugar Edna had ordered, some dried fruit, a new Homekit Medicine Shelf. He carried it into the house, and noticed a slip of paper pinned to the sugar bag. A television program guide.
Edna hustled over excitedly. "Anything good on this week, Harry?"
He looked down the listings, and frowned. "All old movies. Still only one channel. Still only from nine to eleven at night." He gave it to her, turned away; then stopped and waited. He'd said the same thing last week. And she had said the films were all new to her.
She said it now. "Why Harry, I've never seen this movie with Clark Gable. Nor the comedy with Red Skeleton. Nor the other five neither."
"I'm gonna lie down," he said flatly. He turned and stepped forward, and found himself facing the stove. Not the door to the hall; the stove. "But the door...." he began. He cut himself short. He turned and saw the door a few feet to the left, beside the table. He went there and out and up the stairs (they too had moved; they too weren't right) and into the bedroom and lay down. The bedroom was wrong. The bed was wrong. The windows were wrong.
The world was wrong! Lord, the whole damned world was wrong!
Edna didn't wake him, so they had a late lunch. Then he went back to the barn and let the four cows and four sheep and two horses into the pastures. Then he checked to see that Edna had fed the chickens right. They had only a dozen or so now.
When had he sold the rest? And when had he sold his other livestock?
Or had they died somehow? A rough winter? Disease?
He stood in the yard, a tall, husky man with pale brown hair and a face that had once been long, lean and strong and was now only long and lean. He blinked gray eyes and tried hard to remember, then turned and went to the house. Edna was soaking dishes in the sink, according to regulations—one sinkful of dishwater a day. And one tub of bath water twice a week.
She was looking at him. He realized his anger and confusion must be showing. He managed a smile. "You remember how much we got for our livestock, Edna?"
"Same as everyone else," she said. "Government agents paid flat rates."
He remembered then, or thought he did. The headache was back. He went upstairs and slept again, but this time he had dreams, many of them, and all confused and all frightening. He was glad to get up. And he was glad to hear Walt and Gloria talking to Edna downstairs.
He washed his face, combed his hair and went down. Walt and Gloria were sitting on the sofa, Edna in the blue armchair. Walt was saying he'd gotten the new TV picture tube he'd ordered. "Found it in the supply bin this morning. Spent the whole day installing it according to the book of directions."
Harry said hi and they all said hi and he sat down and they talked about TV and gardens and livestock. Then Harry said, "How's Penny?"
"Fine," Gloria answered. "I'm starting her on the kindergarten book next week."
"She's five already?" Harry asked.
"Almost six," Walt said. "Emergency Education Regulations state that the child should be five years nine months old before embarking on kindergarten book."
"And Frances?" Harry asked. "Your oldest? She must be starting high...." He stopped, because they were all staring at him, and because he couldn't remember Frances clearly. "Just a joke," he said, laughing and rising. "Let's eat. I'm starved."
They ate in the kitchen. They talked—or rather Edna, Gloria and Walt did. Harry nodded and said uh-huh and used his mouth for chewing.
Walt and Gloria went home at ten-fifteen. They said goodbye at the door and Harry walked away. He heard Gloria whispering something about Doctor Hamming.
He was sitting in the living room when Edna came in. She was crying.
"Harry, please see the doctor."
He got up. "I'm going out. I might even sleep out!"
"But why, Harry, why?"
He couldn't stand to see her crying. He went to her, kissed her wet cheek, spoke more softly. "It'll do me good, like when I was a kid."
"If you say so, Harry."
He left quickly. He went outside and across the yard to the road. He looked up it and down it, to the north and to the south. It was a bright night with moon and stars, but he saw nothing, no one. The road was empty. It was always empty, except when Walt and Gloria walked over from their place a mile or so south. But once it hadn't been empty. Once there'd been cars, people....
He had to do something. Just sitting and looking at the sky wouldn't help him. He had to go somewhere, see someone.
He went to the barn and looked for his saddle. There was no saddle. But he'd had one hanging right behind the door. Or had he?
He threw a blanket over Plum, the big mare, and tied it with a piece of wash line. He used another piece for a bridle, since he couldn't find that either, and didn't bother making a bit. He mounted, and Plum moved out of the barn and onto the road. He headed north, toward town.
Then he realized he couldn't go along the road this way. He'd be reported. Breaking travel regulations was a serious offense. He didn't know what they did to you, but it wasn't anything easy like a fine.
He cut into an unfenced, unplanted field.
His headache was back, worse now than it had ever been. His entire head throbbed, and he leaned forward and put his cheek against Plum's mane. The mare whinnied uneasily, but he kicked her sides and she moved forward. He lay there, just wanting to go somewhere, just wanting to leave his headache and confusion behind.
He didn't know how long it was, but Plum was moving cautiously now. He raised his head. They were approaching a fence. He noticed a gate off to the right, and pulled the rope so Plum went that way. They reached the gate and he got down to open it, and saw the sign. "Phineas Grotton Farm." He looked up at the sky, found the constellations, turned his head, and nodded. He'd started north, and Plum had continued north. He'd crossed land belonging both to himself and the Franklins. Now he was leaving the Franklin farm. North of the Franklins were the Bessers. Who was this Phineas Grotton? Had he bought out Lon Besser? But anything like that would've gotten around.
Was he forgetting again?
Well, no matter. Mr. Grotton would have to excuse his trespass. He opened the gate, led Plum through it, closed the gate. He mounted and rode forward, still north, toward the small Pangborn place and after the Pangborns the biggest farm in the county—old Wallace Elverton's place. The fields here, as everywhere in the county, lay fallow. Seemed as if the government had so much grain stored up they'd be able to get along without crops for years more.
He looked around. Somehow, the country bothered him. He wasn't sure why, but ... everything was wrong.
His head weighed an agonized ton. He put it down again. Plum went sedately forward. After a while she stopped. Harry looked up. Another fence. And what a fence! About ten feet of heavy steel mesh, topped by three feet of barbed-wire—five separate strands. What in the world had Sam Pangborn been thinking of to put up a monster like this?
He looked around. The gate should be further west. He rode that way. He found no gate. He turned back, heading east. No gate. Nothing but fence. And wasn't the fence gradually curving inward? He looked back. Yes, there was a slight inward curve.
He dismounted and tied Plum to the fence, then stepped back and figured the best way to get to the other side.
The best way, the only way, was to claw, clutch and clamber, as they used to say back when he was a kid.
It took some doing. He tore his shirt on the barbed wire, but he got over and began walking, straight ahead, due north. The earth changed beneath his feet. He stooped and touched it. Sand. Hard-packed sand. He'd never seen the like of it in this county.
He walked on. A sound came to him; a rising-falling whisper. He listened to it, and looked up every so often at the sky, to make sure he was heading in the right direction.
And the sand ended. His shoes plunked over flooring.
Flooring!
He knelt to make sure, and his hand felt wooden planks. He rose, and glanced up to see if he was still outdoors. Then he laughed. It was a sick laugh, so he stopped it.
He took another step. His shoes sounded against the wood. He walked. More wood. Wood that went on, as the sand had. And the roaring sound growing louder. And the air changing, smelling like air never had before in Cultwait County.
His entire body trembled. His mind trembled too. He walked, and came to a waist-high metal railing, and made a tiny sound deep in his throat. He looked out over water, endless water rolling in endless waves under the night sky. Crashing water, topped with reflected silver from the moon. Pounding water, filling the air with spray.
He put out his hands and grasped the railing. It was wet. He raised damp fingers to his mouth. Salt.
He stepped back, back, and turned and ran. He ran wildly, blindly, until he could run no more. Then he fell, feeling the sand beneath him, and shut his eyes and mind to everything.
Much later, he got up and went to the fence and climbed it. He came down on the other side and looked around and saw Plum. He walked to her, mounted her, sat still. The thoughts, or dreams, or whatever they were which had been torturing him these past few weeks began torturing him again.
It was getting light. His head was splitting.
Davie. His son Davie. Fourteen years old. Going to high school in town....
Town! He should've gone there in the first place! He would ride east, to the road, then head south, back toward home. That would bring him right down Main Street. Regulations or not, he'd talk to people, find out what was happening.
He kicked Plum's sides. The mare began to move. He kept kicking until she broke into a brisk canter. He held on with hands and legs.
Why hadn't he seen the Pangborns and Elvertons lately—a long time lately?
The ocean. He'd seen the ocean. Not a reservoir or lake made by flooding and by damming, but salt water and enormous. An ocean, where there could be no ocean. The Pangborns and Elvertons had been where that ocean was now. And after the Elvertons had come the Dobsons. And after them the new plastics plant. And after that the city of Crossville. And after that....
He was passing his own farm. He hadn't come through town, and yet here he was at his own farm. Could he have forgotten where town was? Could it be north of his home, not south? Could a man get so confused as to forget things he'd known all his life?
He reached the Shanks' place, and passed it at a trot. Then he was beyond their boundaries and breaking regulations again. He stayed on the road. He went by a small house and saw colored folks in the yard. There'd been no colored folks here. There'd been Eli Bergen and his family and his mother, in a bigger, newer house. The colored folks heard Plum's hooves and looked up and stared. Then a man raised his voice. "Mistah, you breakin' regulations! Mistah, the police gonnah get you!"
He rode on. He came to another house, neat and white, with three children playing on a grassy lawn. They saw him and ran inside. A moment later, adult voices yelled after him:
"You theah! Stop!"
"Call the sheriff! He's headin' foah Piney Woods!"
There was no place called Piney Woods in this county.
Was this how a man's mind went?
He came to another house, and another. He passed ten all told, and people shouted at him for breaking regulations, and the last three or four sounded like Easterners. And their houses looked like pictures of New England he'd seen in magazines.
He rode on. He never did come to town. He came to a ten-foot fence with a three-foot barbed-wire extension. He got off Plum and ripped his clothing climbing. He walked over hard-packed sand, and then wood, and came to a low metal railing. He looked out at the ocean, gleaming in bright sunlight, surging and seething endlessly. He felt the earth sway beneath him. He staggered, and dropped to his hands and knees, and shook his head like a fighter hit too many times. Then he got up and went back to the fence and heard a sound. It was a familiar sound, yet strange too. He shaded his eyes against the climbing sun. Then he saw it—a car. A car!
It was one of those tiny foreign jobs that run on practically no gas at all. It stopped beside him and two men got out. Young men with lined, tired faces; they wore policemen's uniforms. "You broke regulations, Mr. Burr. You'll have to come with us."
He nodded. He wanted to. He wanted to be taken care of. He turned toward Plum.
The other officer was walking around the horse. "Rode her hard," he said, and he sounded real worried. "Shouldn't have done that, Mr. Burr. We have so very few now...."
The officer holding Harry's arm said, "Pete."
The officer examining Plum said, "It won't make any difference in a while."
Harry looked at both of them, and felt sharp, personal fear.
"Take the horse back to his farm," the officer holding Harry said. He opened the door of the little car and pushed Harry inside. He went around to the driver's side and got behind the wheel and drove away. Harry looked back. Pete was leading Plum after them; not riding him, walking him. "He sure must like horses," he said.
"Yes."
"Am I going to jail?"
"No."
"Where then?"
"The doctor's place."
They stopped in front of the new house two miles past Dugan's farm. Except he'd never seen it before. Or had he? Everyone seemed to know about it—or was everyone only Edna and the Shanks?
He got out of the car. The officer took his arm and led him up the path. Harry noticed that the new house was big.
When they came inside, he knew it wasn't like any house he'd ever seen or heard of. There was this long central passageway, and dozens of doors branched off it on both sides, and stairways went down from it in at least three places that he could see, and at the far end—a good two hundred yards away—a big ramp led upward. And it was all gray plaster walls and dull black floors and cold white lighting, like a hospital, or a modern factory, or maybe a government building. Except that he didn't see or hear people.
He did hear something ; a low, rumbling noise. The further they came along the hall, the louder the rumbling grew. It seemed to be deep down somewhere.
They went through one of the doors on the right, into a windowless room. A thin little man with bald head and frameless glasses was there, putting on a white coat. His veiny hands shook. He looked a hundred years old. "Where's Petey?" he asked.
"Pete's all right, Dad. Just leading a horse back to Burr's farm."
The old man sighed. "I didn't know what form it would take. I expected one or two cases, but I couldn't predict whether it would be gradual or sudden, whether or not it would lead to violence."
"No violence, Dad."
"Fine, Stan." He looked at Harry. "I'm going to give you a little treatment, Mr. Burr. It'll settle your nerves and make everything...."
"What happened to Davie?" Harry asked, things pushing at his brain again.
Stan helped him up. "Just step this way, Mr. Burr."
He didn't resist. He went through the second door into the room with the big chair. He sat down and let them strap his arms and legs and let them lower the metal thing over his head. He felt needles pierce his scalp and the back of his neck. He let them do what they wanted; he would let them kill him if they wanted. All he asked was one answer so as to know whether or not he was insane.
"What happened to my son Davie?"
The old man walked across the room and examined what looked like the insides of a dozen big radios. He turned, his hand on a switch.
"Please," Harry whispered. "Just tell me about my son."
The doctor blinked behind his glasses, and then his hand left the switch. "Dead," he said, his voice a rustling of dried leaves. "Like so many millions of others. Dead, when the bombs fell. Dead, as everyone knew they would be and no one did anything to prevent. Dead. Perhaps the whole world is dead—except for us."
Harry stared at him.
"I can't take the time to explain it all. I have too much to do. Just three of us—myself and my two sons. My wife lost her mind. I should have helped her as I'm helping you."
"I don't understand," Harry said. "I remember people, and things, and where are they now? Dead? People can die, but farms, cities...."
"I haven't the time," the doctor repeated, voice rising. "I have to run a world. Three of us, to run a world! I built it as best I could, but how large could I make it? The money. The years and years of work. The people calling me insane when they found out ... but a few giving me more money, and the work going on. And those few caught like everyone else, unprepared when the holocaust started, unprepared and unable to reach my world. So they died. As I knew they would. As they should have known they would."
Harry felt the rumbling beneath him. Engines?
"You survived," the doctor said. "Your wife. A few hundred others in the rural areas. One other family in your area. I survived because I lived for survival, like a mole deep in the earth, expecting the catastrophe every minute. I survived because I gave up living to survive." He laughed, high and thin.
His son said, "Please, Dad...."
"No! I want to talk to someone sane ! You and Petey and I—we're all insane, you know. Three years now, playing God, waiting for some land, any land, to become habitable. And knowing everything, and surrounded by people who are sane only because I made sure they would know nothing." He stepped forward, glaring at Harry. "Now do you understand? I went across the country, picking up a few of the few left alive. Most were farmers, and even where some weren't I picked the farmers anyway. Because farmers are what we'll need, and all the rest can evolve later. I put you and the others, eighty-six all told, from every section of the country, on my world, the only uncontaminated land left. I gave you back your old lives. I couldn't give you big crops because we don't need big crops. We would only exhaust our limited soil with big crops. But I gave you vegetable gardens and livestock and, best of all, sanity ! I wiped the insane moments from your minds. I gave you peace and consigned myself, my sons, my own wife...."
He choked and stopped.
Stan ran across the room to the switch. Harry watched him, and his brain struggled with an impossible concept. He heard the engines and remembered the ocean on two sides; on four sides had he bothered to check south and east; on all sides if that fence continued to curve inward. Ocean, and there was no ocean in Iowa.
And this wasn't Iowa.
The explosions had ripped the world, and he'd tried to get to town to save Davie, and there'd been no town and there'd been no people and there'd been only death and poison in the air and even those few people left had begun to die, and then the truck with the huge trailer had come, the gleaming trailer with the little man and his trembling wife and his two sons....
Suddenly, he understood. And understanding brought not peace but the greatest terror he'd ever known. He screamed, "We're on...." but the switch was thrown and there was no more speech. For an hour. Then he got out of the chair and said, "Sure glad I took my wife's advice and came to see you, Doctor Hamming. I feel better already, and after only one.... What do you call these treatments?"
"Diathermy," the little doctor muttered.
Harry gave him a five-dollar bill. The doctor gave him two singles in change. "That's certainly reasonable enough," Harry said.
The doctor nodded. "There's a police officer in the hall. He'll drive you home so there won't be any trouble with the travel regulations."
Harry said, "Thanks. Think we'll ever see the end of travel regulations and rationing and all the rest of the emergency?"
"You will, Mr. Burr."
Harry walked to the door.
"We're on an ark," the doctor said.
Harry turned around, smiling. "What?"
"A test, Mr. Burr. You passed it. Goodbye."
Harry went home. He told Edna he felt just great! She said she'd been worried when an officer found Plum wandering on the road; she thought maybe Harry had gone off somewhere and broken travel regulations.
"Me?" he exclaimed, amazed. "Break travel regulations? I'd as soon kill a pig!"
Question:
Who is Doctor Hamming, and what are his traits?
Answer:
|
[
"Doctor Hamming is first described by Edna as someone who can treat Harry’s so-called “mental problems”. She insists for Harry to go see him multiple times, but Harry refuses every time. Finally, when Harry is escorted by the policemen does he go meet Doctor Hamming in person. In person, Doctor Hamming is a thin little man with a bald head and framed glasses. He also wears a white coat and looks about one hundred years old. He lives with his two sons, and his wife is not around anymore. His son’s names are Pete and Stan. Doctor Hamming is a very stressed person, constantly trying to manage the ark. He is also impatient as well, raising his voice when Harry asks him about his dead son. However, although the doctor is impatient, he is very knowledgeable in his field as well. He predicted that people will begin to die from a disaster and invested a lot of his money to build the ark. He has exceptional planning skills, picking out the farmers in the rural areas as people to continue living on the ark because he knows how important the farmers are. The doctor’s treatments are very successful as well, capable of completely erasing Harry Burr’s conflicting memories and making him forget that they are on an ark. ",
"Dr. Hamming is the only doctor in the town, as the other Dr. Timkins had previously died. He is described to be a thin little man, bald, wearing frameless glasses and overall looking to be frail and at least a hundred years old. \n\nHe is weary and tired as he and his two sons are seemingly in charge of up-keeping the entire health, wealth and charade of the townspeople. He is compassionate as a doctor and has a deep passion for survival. He is generous, for he had saved a few of the remaining people alive after the bomb to try and find uncontaminated land to rebuild life on. \n\nHe describes himself as insane. Insane to be playing God, to be plagued with the memories of what actually happened, and to have been searching for habitable land for years on end. ",
"Doctor Hamming is the only doctor on the ark who is on the duty of maintaining the ark, finding the habitable land, and brainwashing the farmers on the ark. He lives in the new house two miles away from Dugan’s farm. He is thin, bald, and little, wearing frameless glasses and a white coat. He looks very old. He has two sons, Petey and Stan. His wife lost her mind a long time ago before he had the technique to help her. He is stressed because of the enormous pressures of running a world by himself and his sons without much financial support. He is insane because he and his sons have been playing god to maintain good social conditions on the ark for three years, searching for habitable lands desperately, and surrounded by people who know nothing. He is careful as he makes sure everyone on the ark knows nothing about the truth but he and his sons only to prevent possible chaos and terror. He is thoughtful of his plan as he knows what humans need to survive on a single ark and organize things in a necessary order. After the explosion, he picks up the remaining alive farmers to sustain the human race. He is desperate as they cannot find any pure habitable land for years.",
"Doctor Hamming is a medical specialist and a scientist. He saves several hundred people by relocating them to his ark with uncontaminated soil. He is resilient and responsible because he managed to gather the survivors and build a self-sustaining community that lives after the bombing. The doctor is lonely: he tries to talk to Harry, the only sane person besides him and his two sons, while the man’s memory is not under any influence. He is pragmatic and cautious - the doctor started building his ark before the Holocaust started. He was planning the construction, ready for the following catastrophe. He wants to live and to let people live - that's why he spent the last three years managing his mini-world and waiting for some land to become habitable again. "
] |
51662
|
BREAKDOWN
By HERBERT D. KASTLE
Illustrated by COWLES
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine June 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
He didn't know exactly when it had started, but it had been going on for weeks. Edna begged him to see the doctor living in that new house two miles past Dugan's farm, but he refused. He point-blank refused to admit he was sick that way—in the head!
Of course, a man could grow forgetful. He had to admit there were moments when he had all sorts of mixed-up memories and thoughts in his mind. And sometimes—like right now, lying in bed beside Edna, watching the first hint of light touch the windows—he began sweating with fear. A horrible, gut-wrenching fear, all the more horrible because it was based on nothing.
The chicken-run came alive; the barn followed minutes later. There were chores to do, the same chores he'd done all his forty-one years. Except that now, with the new regulations about wheat and corn, he had only a vegetable patch to farm. Sure, he got paid for letting the fields remain empty. But it just didn't seem right, all that land going to waste....
Davie. Blond hair and a round, tanned face and strong arms growing stronger each day from helping out after school.
He turned and shook Edna. "What happened to Davie?"
She cleared her throat, mumbled, "Huh? What happened to who?"
"I said, what...." But then it slipped away. Davie? No, that was part of a dream he'd had last week. He and Edna had no children.
He felt the fear again, and got up fast to escape it. Edna opened her eyes as soon as his weight left the bed. "Like hotcakes for breakfast?"
"Eggs," he said. "Bacon." And then, seeing her face change, he remembered. "Course," he muttered. "Can't have bacon. Rationed."
She was fully awake now. "If you'd only go see Dr. Hamming, Harry. Just for a checkup. Or let me call him so he could—"
"You stop that! You stop that right now, and for good! I don't want to hear no more about doctors. I get laid up, I'll call one. And it won't be that Hamming who I ain't never seen in my life! It'll be Timkins, who took care'n us and brought our son into the world and...."
She began to cry, and he realized he'd said something crazy again. They had no son, never had a son. And Timkins—he'd died and they'd gone to his funeral. Or so Edna said.
He himself just couldn't remember it.
He went to the bed and sat down beside her. "Sorry. That was just a dream I had. I'm still half asleep this morning. Couldn't fall off last night, not till real late. Guess I'm a little nervous, what with all the new regulations and not working regular. I never meant we had a son." He waited then, hoping she'd say they had had a son, and he'd died or gone away. But of course she didn't.
He went to the bathroom and washed. By the time he came to the kitchen, Edna had hotcakes on a plate and coffee in a cup. He sat down and ate. Part way through the meal, he paused. "Got an awful craving for meat," he said. "Goddam those rations! Man can't even butcher his own stock for his own table!"
"We're having meat for lunch," she said placatingly. "Nice cut of multi-pro."
"Multi-pro," he scoffed. "God knows what's in it. Like spam put through a grinder a hundred times and then baked into slabs. Can't hardly taste any meat there."
"Well, we got no choice. Country's on emergency rations. The current crisis, you know."
The way she said it irritated him. Like it was Scripture; like no one could question one word of it without being damned to Hell. He finished quickly and without speaking went on out to the barn.
He milked and curried and fed and cleaned, and still was done inside of two hours. Then he walked slowly, head down, across the hay-strewn floor. He stopped, put out his hand as if to find a pole or beam that was too familiar to require raising his eyes, and almost fell as he leaned in that direction. Regaining his balance after a sideward staggering shuffle, he looked around, startled. "Why, this ain't the way I had my barn...."
He heard his own voice, and stopped. He fought the flash of senseless panic. Of course this was the way he'd had his barn built, because it was his barn!
He rubbed his hard hands together and said aloud, "Get down to the patch. Them tomatoes need fertilizer for tang." He walked outside and took a deep breath. Air was different, wasn't it? Sweet and pure and clean, like country air always was and always would be; but still, different somehow. Maybe sharper. Or was sharp the word? Maybe....
He went quickly across the yard, past the pig-pen—he'd had twelve pigs, hadn't he? Now he had four—behind the house to where the half-acre truck farm lay greening in the sun. He got to work. Sometime later, Edna called to him. "Delivery last night, Harry. I took some. Pick up rest?"
"Yes," he shouted.
She disappeared.
He walked slowly back to the house. As he came into the front yard, moving toward the road and the supply bin, something occurred to him. The car. He hadn't seen the old Chevvy in ... how long? It'd be nice to take a ride to town, see a movie, maybe have a few beers.
No. It was against the travel regulations. He couldn't go further than Walt and Gloria Shanks' place. They couldn't go further than his. And the gas rationing. Besides, he'd sold the car, hadn't he? Because it was no use to him lying in the tractor shed.
He whirled, staring out across the fields to his left. Why, the tractor shed had stood just fifty feet from the house!
No, he'd torn it down. The tractor was in town, being overhauled and all. He was leaving it there until he had use for it.
He went on toward the road, his head beginning to throb. Why should a man his age, hardly sick at all since he was a kid, suddenly start losing hold this way? Edna was worried. The Shanks had noticed it too.
He was at the supply bin—like an old-fashioned wood bin; a box with a sloping flap lid. Deliveries of food and clothing and home medicines and other things were left here. You wrote down what you needed, and they left it—or whatever they allowed you—with a bill. You paid the bill by leaving money in the bin, and the next week you found a receipt and your new stuff and your new bill. And almost always you found some money from the government, for not planting wheat or not planting corn. It came out just about even.
He hauled out a sack of flour, half the amount of sugar Edna had ordered, some dried fruit, a new Homekit Medicine Shelf. He carried it into the house, and noticed a slip of paper pinned to the sugar bag. A television program guide.
Edna hustled over excitedly. "Anything good on this week, Harry?"
He looked down the listings, and frowned. "All old movies. Still only one channel. Still only from nine to eleven at night." He gave it to her, turned away; then stopped and waited. He'd said the same thing last week. And she had said the films were all new to her.
She said it now. "Why Harry, I've never seen this movie with Clark Gable. Nor the comedy with Red Skeleton. Nor the other five neither."
"I'm gonna lie down," he said flatly. He turned and stepped forward, and found himself facing the stove. Not the door to the hall; the stove. "But the door...." he began. He cut himself short. He turned and saw the door a few feet to the left, beside the table. He went there and out and up the stairs (they too had moved; they too weren't right) and into the bedroom and lay down. The bedroom was wrong. The bed was wrong. The windows were wrong.
The world was wrong! Lord, the whole damned world was wrong!
Edna didn't wake him, so they had a late lunch. Then he went back to the barn and let the four cows and four sheep and two horses into the pastures. Then he checked to see that Edna had fed the chickens right. They had only a dozen or so now.
When had he sold the rest? And when had he sold his other livestock?
Or had they died somehow? A rough winter? Disease?
He stood in the yard, a tall, husky man with pale brown hair and a face that had once been long, lean and strong and was now only long and lean. He blinked gray eyes and tried hard to remember, then turned and went to the house. Edna was soaking dishes in the sink, according to regulations—one sinkful of dishwater a day. And one tub of bath water twice a week.
She was looking at him. He realized his anger and confusion must be showing. He managed a smile. "You remember how much we got for our livestock, Edna?"
"Same as everyone else," she said. "Government agents paid flat rates."
He remembered then, or thought he did. The headache was back. He went upstairs and slept again, but this time he had dreams, many of them, and all confused and all frightening. He was glad to get up. And he was glad to hear Walt and Gloria talking to Edna downstairs.
He washed his face, combed his hair and went down. Walt and Gloria were sitting on the sofa, Edna in the blue armchair. Walt was saying he'd gotten the new TV picture tube he'd ordered. "Found it in the supply bin this morning. Spent the whole day installing it according to the book of directions."
Harry said hi and they all said hi and he sat down and they talked about TV and gardens and livestock. Then Harry said, "How's Penny?"
"Fine," Gloria answered. "I'm starting her on the kindergarten book next week."
"She's five already?" Harry asked.
"Almost six," Walt said. "Emergency Education Regulations state that the child should be five years nine months old before embarking on kindergarten book."
"And Frances?" Harry asked. "Your oldest? She must be starting high...." He stopped, because they were all staring at him, and because he couldn't remember Frances clearly. "Just a joke," he said, laughing and rising. "Let's eat. I'm starved."
They ate in the kitchen. They talked—or rather Edna, Gloria and Walt did. Harry nodded and said uh-huh and used his mouth for chewing.
Walt and Gloria went home at ten-fifteen. They said goodbye at the door and Harry walked away. He heard Gloria whispering something about Doctor Hamming.
He was sitting in the living room when Edna came in. She was crying.
"Harry, please see the doctor."
He got up. "I'm going out. I might even sleep out!"
"But why, Harry, why?"
He couldn't stand to see her crying. He went to her, kissed her wet cheek, spoke more softly. "It'll do me good, like when I was a kid."
"If you say so, Harry."
He left quickly. He went outside and across the yard to the road. He looked up it and down it, to the north and to the south. It was a bright night with moon and stars, but he saw nothing, no one. The road was empty. It was always empty, except when Walt and Gloria walked over from their place a mile or so south. But once it hadn't been empty. Once there'd been cars, people....
He had to do something. Just sitting and looking at the sky wouldn't help him. He had to go somewhere, see someone.
He went to the barn and looked for his saddle. There was no saddle. But he'd had one hanging right behind the door. Or had he?
He threw a blanket over Plum, the big mare, and tied it with a piece of wash line. He used another piece for a bridle, since he couldn't find that either, and didn't bother making a bit. He mounted, and Plum moved out of the barn and onto the road. He headed north, toward town.
Then he realized he couldn't go along the road this way. He'd be reported. Breaking travel regulations was a serious offense. He didn't know what they did to you, but it wasn't anything easy like a fine.
He cut into an unfenced, unplanted field.
His headache was back, worse now than it had ever been. His entire head throbbed, and he leaned forward and put his cheek against Plum's mane. The mare whinnied uneasily, but he kicked her sides and she moved forward. He lay there, just wanting to go somewhere, just wanting to leave his headache and confusion behind.
He didn't know how long it was, but Plum was moving cautiously now. He raised his head. They were approaching a fence. He noticed a gate off to the right, and pulled the rope so Plum went that way. They reached the gate and he got down to open it, and saw the sign. "Phineas Grotton Farm." He looked up at the sky, found the constellations, turned his head, and nodded. He'd started north, and Plum had continued north. He'd crossed land belonging both to himself and the Franklins. Now he was leaving the Franklin farm. North of the Franklins were the Bessers. Who was this Phineas Grotton? Had he bought out Lon Besser? But anything like that would've gotten around.
Was he forgetting again?
Well, no matter. Mr. Grotton would have to excuse his trespass. He opened the gate, led Plum through it, closed the gate. He mounted and rode forward, still north, toward the small Pangborn place and after the Pangborns the biggest farm in the county—old Wallace Elverton's place. The fields here, as everywhere in the county, lay fallow. Seemed as if the government had so much grain stored up they'd be able to get along without crops for years more.
He looked around. Somehow, the country bothered him. He wasn't sure why, but ... everything was wrong.
His head weighed an agonized ton. He put it down again. Plum went sedately forward. After a while she stopped. Harry looked up. Another fence. And what a fence! About ten feet of heavy steel mesh, topped by three feet of barbed-wire—five separate strands. What in the world had Sam Pangborn been thinking of to put up a monster like this?
He looked around. The gate should be further west. He rode that way. He found no gate. He turned back, heading east. No gate. Nothing but fence. And wasn't the fence gradually curving inward? He looked back. Yes, there was a slight inward curve.
He dismounted and tied Plum to the fence, then stepped back and figured the best way to get to the other side.
The best way, the only way, was to claw, clutch and clamber, as they used to say back when he was a kid.
It took some doing. He tore his shirt on the barbed wire, but he got over and began walking, straight ahead, due north. The earth changed beneath his feet. He stooped and touched it. Sand. Hard-packed sand. He'd never seen the like of it in this county.
He walked on. A sound came to him; a rising-falling whisper. He listened to it, and looked up every so often at the sky, to make sure he was heading in the right direction.
And the sand ended. His shoes plunked over flooring.
Flooring!
He knelt to make sure, and his hand felt wooden planks. He rose, and glanced up to see if he was still outdoors. Then he laughed. It was a sick laugh, so he stopped it.
He took another step. His shoes sounded against the wood. He walked. More wood. Wood that went on, as the sand had. And the roaring sound growing louder. And the air changing, smelling like air never had before in Cultwait County.
His entire body trembled. His mind trembled too. He walked, and came to a waist-high metal railing, and made a tiny sound deep in his throat. He looked out over water, endless water rolling in endless waves under the night sky. Crashing water, topped with reflected silver from the moon. Pounding water, filling the air with spray.
He put out his hands and grasped the railing. It was wet. He raised damp fingers to his mouth. Salt.
He stepped back, back, and turned and ran. He ran wildly, blindly, until he could run no more. Then he fell, feeling the sand beneath him, and shut his eyes and mind to everything.
Much later, he got up and went to the fence and climbed it. He came down on the other side and looked around and saw Plum. He walked to her, mounted her, sat still. The thoughts, or dreams, or whatever they were which had been torturing him these past few weeks began torturing him again.
It was getting light. His head was splitting.
Davie. His son Davie. Fourteen years old. Going to high school in town....
Town! He should've gone there in the first place! He would ride east, to the road, then head south, back toward home. That would bring him right down Main Street. Regulations or not, he'd talk to people, find out what was happening.
He kicked Plum's sides. The mare began to move. He kept kicking until she broke into a brisk canter. He held on with hands and legs.
Why hadn't he seen the Pangborns and Elvertons lately—a long time lately?
The ocean. He'd seen the ocean. Not a reservoir or lake made by flooding and by damming, but salt water and enormous. An ocean, where there could be no ocean. The Pangborns and Elvertons had been where that ocean was now. And after the Elvertons had come the Dobsons. And after them the new plastics plant. And after that the city of Crossville. And after that....
He was passing his own farm. He hadn't come through town, and yet here he was at his own farm. Could he have forgotten where town was? Could it be north of his home, not south? Could a man get so confused as to forget things he'd known all his life?
He reached the Shanks' place, and passed it at a trot. Then he was beyond their boundaries and breaking regulations again. He stayed on the road. He went by a small house and saw colored folks in the yard. There'd been no colored folks here. There'd been Eli Bergen and his family and his mother, in a bigger, newer house. The colored folks heard Plum's hooves and looked up and stared. Then a man raised his voice. "Mistah, you breakin' regulations! Mistah, the police gonnah get you!"
He rode on. He came to another house, neat and white, with three children playing on a grassy lawn. They saw him and ran inside. A moment later, adult voices yelled after him:
"You theah! Stop!"
"Call the sheriff! He's headin' foah Piney Woods!"
There was no place called Piney Woods in this county.
Was this how a man's mind went?
He came to another house, and another. He passed ten all told, and people shouted at him for breaking regulations, and the last three or four sounded like Easterners. And their houses looked like pictures of New England he'd seen in magazines.
He rode on. He never did come to town. He came to a ten-foot fence with a three-foot barbed-wire extension. He got off Plum and ripped his clothing climbing. He walked over hard-packed sand, and then wood, and came to a low metal railing. He looked out at the ocean, gleaming in bright sunlight, surging and seething endlessly. He felt the earth sway beneath him. He staggered, and dropped to his hands and knees, and shook his head like a fighter hit too many times. Then he got up and went back to the fence and heard a sound. It was a familiar sound, yet strange too. He shaded his eyes against the climbing sun. Then he saw it—a car. A car!
It was one of those tiny foreign jobs that run on practically no gas at all. It stopped beside him and two men got out. Young men with lined, tired faces; they wore policemen's uniforms. "You broke regulations, Mr. Burr. You'll have to come with us."
He nodded. He wanted to. He wanted to be taken care of. He turned toward Plum.
The other officer was walking around the horse. "Rode her hard," he said, and he sounded real worried. "Shouldn't have done that, Mr. Burr. We have so very few now...."
The officer holding Harry's arm said, "Pete."
The officer examining Plum said, "It won't make any difference in a while."
Harry looked at both of them, and felt sharp, personal fear.
"Take the horse back to his farm," the officer holding Harry said. He opened the door of the little car and pushed Harry inside. He went around to the driver's side and got behind the wheel and drove away. Harry looked back. Pete was leading Plum after them; not riding him, walking him. "He sure must like horses," he said.
"Yes."
"Am I going to jail?"
"No."
"Where then?"
"The doctor's place."
They stopped in front of the new house two miles past Dugan's farm. Except he'd never seen it before. Or had he? Everyone seemed to know about it—or was everyone only Edna and the Shanks?
He got out of the car. The officer took his arm and led him up the path. Harry noticed that the new house was big.
When they came inside, he knew it wasn't like any house he'd ever seen or heard of. There was this long central passageway, and dozens of doors branched off it on both sides, and stairways went down from it in at least three places that he could see, and at the far end—a good two hundred yards away—a big ramp led upward. And it was all gray plaster walls and dull black floors and cold white lighting, like a hospital, or a modern factory, or maybe a government building. Except that he didn't see or hear people.
He did hear something ; a low, rumbling noise. The further they came along the hall, the louder the rumbling grew. It seemed to be deep down somewhere.
They went through one of the doors on the right, into a windowless room. A thin little man with bald head and frameless glasses was there, putting on a white coat. His veiny hands shook. He looked a hundred years old. "Where's Petey?" he asked.
"Pete's all right, Dad. Just leading a horse back to Burr's farm."
The old man sighed. "I didn't know what form it would take. I expected one or two cases, but I couldn't predict whether it would be gradual or sudden, whether or not it would lead to violence."
"No violence, Dad."
"Fine, Stan." He looked at Harry. "I'm going to give you a little treatment, Mr. Burr. It'll settle your nerves and make everything...."
"What happened to Davie?" Harry asked, things pushing at his brain again.
Stan helped him up. "Just step this way, Mr. Burr."
He didn't resist. He went through the second door into the room with the big chair. He sat down and let them strap his arms and legs and let them lower the metal thing over his head. He felt needles pierce his scalp and the back of his neck. He let them do what they wanted; he would let them kill him if they wanted. All he asked was one answer so as to know whether or not he was insane.
"What happened to my son Davie?"
The old man walked across the room and examined what looked like the insides of a dozen big radios. He turned, his hand on a switch.
"Please," Harry whispered. "Just tell me about my son."
The doctor blinked behind his glasses, and then his hand left the switch. "Dead," he said, his voice a rustling of dried leaves. "Like so many millions of others. Dead, when the bombs fell. Dead, as everyone knew they would be and no one did anything to prevent. Dead. Perhaps the whole world is dead—except for us."
Harry stared at him.
"I can't take the time to explain it all. I have too much to do. Just three of us—myself and my two sons. My wife lost her mind. I should have helped her as I'm helping you."
"I don't understand," Harry said. "I remember people, and things, and where are they now? Dead? People can die, but farms, cities...."
"I haven't the time," the doctor repeated, voice rising. "I have to run a world. Three of us, to run a world! I built it as best I could, but how large could I make it? The money. The years and years of work. The people calling me insane when they found out ... but a few giving me more money, and the work going on. And those few caught like everyone else, unprepared when the holocaust started, unprepared and unable to reach my world. So they died. As I knew they would. As they should have known they would."
Harry felt the rumbling beneath him. Engines?
"You survived," the doctor said. "Your wife. A few hundred others in the rural areas. One other family in your area. I survived because I lived for survival, like a mole deep in the earth, expecting the catastrophe every minute. I survived because I gave up living to survive." He laughed, high and thin.
His son said, "Please, Dad...."
"No! I want to talk to someone sane ! You and Petey and I—we're all insane, you know. Three years now, playing God, waiting for some land, any land, to become habitable. And knowing everything, and surrounded by people who are sane only because I made sure they would know nothing." He stepped forward, glaring at Harry. "Now do you understand? I went across the country, picking up a few of the few left alive. Most were farmers, and even where some weren't I picked the farmers anyway. Because farmers are what we'll need, and all the rest can evolve later. I put you and the others, eighty-six all told, from every section of the country, on my world, the only uncontaminated land left. I gave you back your old lives. I couldn't give you big crops because we don't need big crops. We would only exhaust our limited soil with big crops. But I gave you vegetable gardens and livestock and, best of all, sanity ! I wiped the insane moments from your minds. I gave you peace and consigned myself, my sons, my own wife...."
He choked and stopped.
Stan ran across the room to the switch. Harry watched him, and his brain struggled with an impossible concept. He heard the engines and remembered the ocean on two sides; on four sides had he bothered to check south and east; on all sides if that fence continued to curve inward. Ocean, and there was no ocean in Iowa.
And this wasn't Iowa.
The explosions had ripped the world, and he'd tried to get to town to save Davie, and there'd been no town and there'd been no people and there'd been only death and poison in the air and even those few people left had begun to die, and then the truck with the huge trailer had come, the gleaming trailer with the little man and his trembling wife and his two sons....
Suddenly, he understood. And understanding brought not peace but the greatest terror he'd ever known. He screamed, "We're on...." but the switch was thrown and there was no more speech. For an hour. Then he got out of the chair and said, "Sure glad I took my wife's advice and came to see you, Doctor Hamming. I feel better already, and after only one.... What do you call these treatments?"
"Diathermy," the little doctor muttered.
Harry gave him a five-dollar bill. The doctor gave him two singles in change. "That's certainly reasonable enough," Harry said.
The doctor nodded. "There's a police officer in the hall. He'll drive you home so there won't be any trouble with the travel regulations."
Harry said, "Thanks. Think we'll ever see the end of travel regulations and rationing and all the rest of the emergency?"
"You will, Mr. Burr."
Harry walked to the door.
"We're on an ark," the doctor said.
Harry turned around, smiling. "What?"
"A test, Mr. Burr. You passed it. Goodbye."
Harry went home. He told Edna he felt just great! She said she'd been worried when an officer found Plum wandering on the road; she thought maybe Harry had gone off somewhere and broken travel regulations.
"Me?" he exclaimed, amazed. "Break travel regulations? I'd as soon kill a pig!"
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What happens to Patti Gray throughout the story?
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After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about Prison Planet by Wilson Tucker.
Relevant chunks:
PRISON PLANET
By BOB TUCKER
To remain on Mars meant death from agonizing space-sickness, but Earth-surgery lay days of flight away. And there was only a surface rocket in which to escape—with a traitorous Ganymedean for its pilot.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1942. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
"Listen, Rat!" Roberds said, "what I say goes around here. It doesn't happen to be any of your business. I'm still in possession of my wits, and I know Peterson can't handle that ship. Furthermore Gladney will be in it too, right along side of that sick girl in there! And Rat, get this: I'm going to pilot that ship. Understand? Consulate or no Consulate, job or no job, I'm wheeling that crate to Earth because this is an emergency. And the emergency happens to be bigger than my position, to me at any rate." His tone dropped to a deadly softness.
"Now will you kindly remove your stinking carcass from this office?"
Unheeding, Rat swung his eyes around in the gloom and discovered the woman, a nurse in uniform. He blinked at her and she returned the look, wavering. She bit her lip and determination flowed back. She met the stare of his boring, off-colored eyes. Rat grinned suddenly. Nurse Gray almost smiled back, stopped before the others could see it.
"Won't go!" The Centaurian resumed his fight. "You not go, lose job, black-listed. Never get another. Look at me. I know." He retreated a precious step to escape a rolled up fist. "Little ship carry four nice. Rip out lockers and bunks. Swing hammocks. Put fuel in water tanks. Live on concentrates. Earth hospital fix bellyache afterwards, allright. I pilot ship. Yes?"
"No!" Roberds screamed.
Almost in answer, a moan issued from a small side room. The men in the office froze as Nurse Gray ran across the room. She disappeared through the narrow door.
"Peterson," the field manager ordered, "come over here and help me throw this rat out...." He went for Rat. Peterson swung up out of his chair with balled fist. The outlander backed rapidly.
"No need, no need, no need!" he said quickly. "I go." Still backing, he blindly kicked at the door and stepped into the night.
When the door slammed shut Roberds locked it. Peterson slumped in the chair.
"Do you mean that, Chief? About taking the ship yourself?"
"True enough." Roberds cast an anxious glance at the partly closed door, lowered his voice. "It'll cost me my job, but that girl in there has to be taken to a hospital quickly! And it's her luck to be landed on a planet that doesn't boast even one! So it's Earth ... or she dies. I'd feel a lot better too if we could get Gladney to a hospital, I'm not too confident of that patching job." He pulled a pipe from a jacket pocket. "So, might as well kill two birds with one stone ... and that wasn't meant to be funny!"
Peterson said nothing, sat watching the door.
"Rat has the right idea," Roberds continued, "but I had already thought of it. About the bunks and lockers. Greaseball has been out there all night tearing them out. We just might be able to hop by dawn ... and hell of a long, grinding hop it will be!"
The nurse came out of the door.
"How is she?" Roberds asked.
"Sleeping," Gray whispered. "But sinking...."
"We can take off at dawn, I think." He filled the pipe and didn't look at her. "You'll have to spend most of the trip in a hammock."
"I can take it." Suddenly she smiled, wanly. "I was with the Fleet. How long will it take?"
"Eight days, in that ship."
Roberds lit his pipe, and carefully hid his emotions. He knew Peterson was harboring the same thoughts. Eight days in space, in a small ship meant for two, and built for planetary surface flights. Eight days in that untrustworthy crate, hurtling to save the lives of that girl and Gladney.
"Who was that ... man? The one you put out?" Gray asked.
"We call him Rat," Roberds said.
She didn't ask why. She said: "Why couldn't he pilot the ship, I mean? What is his record?"
Peterson opened his mouth.
"Shut up, Peterson!" the Chief snapped. "We don't talk about his record around here, Miss Gray. It's not a pretty thing to tell."
"Stow it, Chief," said Peterson. "Miss Gray is no pantywaist." He turned to the nurse. "Ever hear of the Sansan massacre?"
Patti Gray paled. "Yes," she whispered. "Was Rat in that?"
Roberds shook his head. "He didn't take part in it. But Rat was attached to a very important office at the time, the outpost watch. And when Mad Barry Sansan and his gang of thugs swooped down on the Ganymedean colony, there was no warning. Our friend Rat was AWOL.
"As to who he is ... well, just one of those freaks from up around Centauria somewhere. He's been hanging around all the fields and dumps on Mars a long time, finally landed up here."
"But," protested Miss Gray, "I don't understand? I always thought that leaving one's post under such circumstances meant execution."
The Chief Consul nodded. "It does, usually. But this was a freak case. It would take hours to explain. However, I'll just sum it up in one word: politics. Politics, with which Rat had no connection saved him."
The girl shook her head, more in sympathy than condemnation.
"Are you expecting the others in soon?" she asked. "It wouldn't be right to leave Peterson."
"They will be in, in a day or two. Peterson will beat it over to Base station for repairs, and to notify Earth we're coming. He'll be all right."
Abruptly she stood up. "Goodnight gentlemen. Call me if I'm needed."
Roberds nodded acknowledgement. The door to the side room closed behind her. Peterson hauled his chair over to the desk. He sniffed the air.
"Damned rat!" he whispered harshly. "They ought to make a law forcing him to wear dark glasses!"
Roberds smiled wearily. "His eyes do get a man, don't they?"
"I'd like to burn 'em out!" Peterson snarled.
Rat helped Greaseball fill the water tanks to capacity with fuel, checked the concentrated rations and grunted.
Greaseball looked over the interior and chuckled. "The boss said strip her, and strip her I did. All right, Rat, outside." He followed the Centaurian out, and pulled the ladder away from the lip of the lock. The two walked across the strip of sandy soil to the office building. On tiptoes, Greaseball poked his head through the door panel. "All set."
Roberds nodded at him. "Stick with it!" and jerked a thumb at Rat outside. Grease nodded understanding.
"Okay, Rat, you can go to bed now." He dropped the ladder against the wall and sat on it. "Good night." He watched Rat walk slowly away.
Swinging down the path towards his own rambling shack, Rat caught a sibilant whisper. Pausing, undecided, he heard it again.
"Here ... can you see me?" A white clad arm waved in the gloom. Rat regarded the arm in the window. Another impatient gesture, and he stepped to the sill.
"Yes?"—in the softest of whispers. The voices of the men in droning conversation drifted in. "What you want?"
Nothing but silence for a few hanging seconds, and then: "Can you pilot that ship?" Her voice was shaky.
He didn't answer, stared at her confused. He felt her fear as clearly as he detected it in her words.
"Well, can you?" she demanded.
"Damn yes!" he stated simply. "It now necessary?"
"Very! She is becoming worse. I'm afraid to wait until daylight. And ... well, we want you to pilot it! She refuses to risk Mr. Roberds' job. She favors you."
Rat stepped back, astonished. "She?"
Nurse Gray moved from the window and Rat saw the second form in the room, a slight, quiet figure on a small cot. "My patient," Nurse Gray explained. "She overheard our conversation awhile ago. Quick, please, can you?"
Rat looked at her and then at the girl on the cot. He vanished from the window. Almost immediately, he was back again.
"When?" he whispered.
"As soon as possible. Yes. Do you know...?" but he had gone again. Nurse Gray found herself addressing blackness. On the point of turning, she saw him back again.
"Blankets," he instructed. "Wrap in blankets. Cold—hot too. Wrap good!" And he was gone again. Gray blinked away the illusion he disappeared upwards.
She ran over to the girl. "Judith, if you want to back down, now is the time. He'll be back in a moment."
"No!" Judith moaned. "No!" Gray smiled in the darkness and began wrapping the blankets around her. A light tapping at the window announced the return of Rat. The nurse pushed open the window wide, saw him out there with arms upstretched.
"Grit your teeth and hold on! Here we go." She picked up the blanketed girl in both arms and walked to the window. Rat took the girl easily as she was swung out, the blackness hid them both. But he appeared again instantly.
"Better lock window," he cautioned. "Stall, if Boss call. Back soon...." and he was gone.
To Nurse Gray the fifteen minute wait seemed like hours, impatient agonizing hours of tight-lipped anxiety.
Feet first, she swung through the window, clutching a small bag in her hands. She never touched ground. Rat whispered "Hold tight!" in her ear and the wind was abruptly yanked from her! The ground fell away in a dizzy rush, unseen but felt, in the night! Her feet scraped on some projection, and she felt herself being lifted still higher. Wind returned to her throat, and she breathed again.
"I'm sorry," she managed to get out, gaspingly. "I wasn't expecting that. I had forgotten you—"
"—had wings," he finished and chuckled. "So likewise Greaseball." The pale office lights dropped away as they sped over the field. On the far horizon, a tinge of dawn crept along the uneven terrain.
"Oh, the bag!" she gasped. "I've dropped it."
He chuckled again. "Have got. You scare, I catch."
She didn't see the ship because of the wind in her eyes, but without warning she plummeted down and her feet jarred on the lip of the lock.
"Inside. No noise, no light. Easy." But in spite of his warning she tripped in the darkness. He helped her from the floor and guided her to the hammocks.
"Judith?" she asked.
"Here. Beside you, trussed up so tight I can hardly breathe."
"No talk!" Rat insisted. "Much hush-hush needed. Other girl shipshape. You make likewise." Forcibly he shoved her into a hammock. "Wrap up tight. Straps tight. When we go, we go fast. Bang!" And he left her.
"Hey! Where are you going now?"
"To get Gladney. He sick too. Hush hush!" His voice floated back.
"Where has he gone?" Judith called.
"Back for another man. Remember the two miners who found us when we crashed? The burly one fell off a rock-bank as they were bringing us in. Stove in his ribs pretty badly. The other has a broken arm ... happened once while you were out. They wouldn't let me say anything for fear of worrying you."
The girl did not answer then and a hushed expectancy fell over the ship. Somewhere aft a small motor was running. Wind whistled past the open lock.
"I've caused plenty of trouble haven't I?" she asked aloud, finally.
"This was certainly a fool stunt, and I'm guilty of a lot of fool stunts! I just didn't realize until now the why of that law."
"Don't talk so much," the nurse admonished. "A lot of people have found out the why of that law the hard way, just as you are doing, and lived to remember it. Until hospitals are built on this forlorn world, humans like you who haven't been properly conditioned will have to stay right at home."
"How about these men that live and work here?"
"They never get here until they've been through the mill first. Adenoids, appendix', all the extra parts they can get along without."
"Well," Judith said. "I've certainly learned my lesson!"
Gray didn't answer, but from out of the darkness surrounding her came a sound remarkably resembling a snort.
"Gray?" Judith asked fearfully.
"Yes?"
"Hasn't the pilot been gone an awfully long time?"
Rat himself provided the answer by alighting at the lip with a jar that shook the ship. He was breathing heavily and lugging something in his arms. The burden groaned.
"Gladney!" Nurse Gray exclaimed.
"I got." Rat confirmed. "Yes, Gladney. Damn heavy, Gladney."
"But how?" she demanded. "What of Roberds and Peterson?"
"Trick," he sniggered. "I burn down my shack. Boss run out. I run in. Very simple." He packed Gladney into the remaining hammock and snapped buckles.
"And Peterson?" she prompted.
"Oh yes. Peterson. So sorry about Peterson. Had to fan him."
" Fan him? I don't understand."
"Fan. With chair. Everything all right. I apologized." Rat finished up and was walking back to the lock. They heard a slight rustling of wings as he padded away.
He was back instantly, duplicating his feat of a short time ago. Cursing shouts were slung on the night air, and the deadly spang of bullets bounced on the hull! Some entered the lock. The Centaurian snapped it shut. Chunks of lead continued to pound the ship. Rat leaped for the pilot's chair, heavily, a wing drooping.
"You've been hurt!" Gray cried. A small panel light outlined his features. She tried to struggle up.
"Lie still! We go. Boss get wise." With lightning fingers he flicked several switches on the panel, turned to her. "Hold belly. Zoom!"
Gray folded her hands across her stomach and closed her eyes.
Rat unlocked the master level and shoved!
"Whew!" Nurse Gray came back to throbbing awareness, the all too familiar feeling of a misplaced stomach attempting to force its crowded way into her boots plaguing her. Rockets roared in the rear. She loosened a few straps and twisted over. Judith was still out, her face tensed in pain. Gray bit her lip and twisted the other way. The Centaurian was grinning at her.
"Do you always leave in a hurry?" she demanded, and instantly wished she hadn't said it. He gave no outward sign.
"Long-time sleep," he announced. "Four, five hours maybe." The chest strap was lying loose at his side.
"That long!" she was incredulous. "I'm never out more than three hours!" Unloosening more straps, she sat up, glanced at the control panel.
"Not taking time," he stated simply and pointed to a dial. Gray shook her head and looked at the others.
"That isn't doing either of them any good!"
Rat nodded unhappily. "What's her matter—?" pointing.
"Appendix. Something about this atmosphere sends it haywire. The thing itself isn't diseased, but it starts manufacturing poison. Patient dies in a week unless it is taken out."
"Don't know it," he said briefly.
"Do you mean to say you don't have an appendix?" she demanded.
Rat folded his arms and considered this. "Don't know. Maybe yes, maybe no. Where's it hurt?"
Gray pointed out the location. The Centaurian considered this further and drifted into long contemplation. Watching him, Gray remembered his eyes that night ... only last night ... in the office. Peterson had refused to meet them. After awhile Rat came out of it.
"No," he waved. "No appendix. Never nowhere appendix."
"Then Mother Nature has finally woke up!" she exclaimed. "But why do Centaurians rate it exclusively?"
Rat ignored this and asked one of her. "What you and her doing up there?" He pointed back and up, to where Mars obliterated the stars.
"You might call it a pleasure jaunt. She's only seventeen. We came over in a cruiser belonging to her father; it was rather large and easy to handle. But the cruise ended when she lost control of the ship because of an attack of space-appendicitis. The rest you know."
"So you?"
"So I'm a combination nurse, governess, guard and what have you. Or will be until we get back. After this, I'll probably be looking for work." She shivered.
"Cold?" he inquired concernedly.
"On the contrary, I'm too warm." She started to remove the blanket. Rat threw up a hand to stop her.
"Leave on! Hot out here."
"But I'm too hot now. I want to take it off!"
"No. Leave on. Wool blanket. Keep in body heat, yes. Keep out cold, yes. Keep in, keep out, likewise. See?"
Gray stared at him. "I never thought of it that way before. Why of course! If it protects from one temperature, it will protect from another. Isn't it silly of me not to know that?" Heat pressing on her face accented the fact.
"What is your name?" she asked. "Your real one I mean."
He grinned. "Big. You couldn't say it. Sound like Christmas and bottlenose together real fast. Just say Rat. Everybody does." His eyes swept the panel and flashed back to her. "Your name Gray. Have a front name?"
"Patti."
"Pretty, Patti."
"No, just Patti. Say, what's the matter with the cooling system?"
"Damn punk," he said. "This crate for surface work. No space. Cooling system groan, damn punk. Won't keep cool here."
"And ..." she followed up, "it will get warmer as we go out?"
Rat turned back to his board in a brown study and carefully ignored her. Gray grasped an inkling of what the coming week could bring.
"But how about water?" she demanded next. "Is there enough?"
He faced about. "For her—" nodding to Judith, "and him—" to Gladney,
"yes. Sparingly. Four hours every time, maybe." Back to Gray. "You, me ... twice a day. Too bad." His eyes drifted aft to the tank of water. She followed. "One tank water. All the rest fuel. Too bad, too bad. We get thirsty I think."
They did get thirsty, soon. A damnable hot thirst accented by the knowledge that water was precious, a thirst increased by a dried-up-in-the-mouth sensation. Their first drink was strangely bitter; tragically disappointing. Patti Gray suddenly swung upright in the hammock and kicked her legs. She massaged her throat with a nervous hand, wiped damp hair from about her face.
"I have to have a drink."
Rat stared at her without answer.
"I said, I have to have a drink!"
"Heard you."
"Well...?"
"Well, nothing. Stall. Keep water longer."
She swung a vicious boot and missed by inches. Rat grinned, and made his way aft, hand over hand. He treaded cautiously along the deck. "Do like this," he called over his shoulder. "Gravity punk too. Back and under, gravity." He waited until she joined him at the water tap.
They stood there glaring idiotically at each other.
She burst out laughing. "They even threw the drinking cups out!" Rat inched the handle grudgingly and she applied lips to the faucet.
"Faugh!" Gray sprang back, forgot herself and lost her balance, sat down on the deck and spat out the water. "It's hot! It tastes like hell and it's hot! It must be fuel!"
Rat applied his lips to the tap and sampled. Coming up with a mouthful he swished it around on his tongue like mouthwash. Abruptly he contrived a facial contortion between a grin and a grimace, and let some of the water trickle from the edges of his mouth. He swallowed and it cost him something.
"No. I mean yes, I think. Water, no doubt. Yes. Fuel out, water in. Swish-swush. Dammit, Greaseball forget to wash tank!"
"But what makes it so hot?" She worked her mouth to dry-rinse the taste of the fuel.
"Ship get hot. Water on sun side. H-m-m-m-m-m-m."
"H-m-m-m-m-m-m-m what?"
"Flip-flop." He could talk with his hands as well. "Hot side over like pancake." Rat hobbled over to the board and sat down. An experimental flick on a lever produced nothing. Another flick, this time followed by a quivering jar. He contemplated the panel board while fastening his belt.
"H-m-m-m-m-m-m," the lower lip protruded.
Gray protested. "Oh, stop humming and do something! That wa—" the word was queerly torn from her throat, and a scream magically filled the vacancy. Nurse Gray sat up and rubbed a painful spot that had suddenly appeared on her arm. She found her nose bleeding and another new, swelling bruise on the side of her head. Around her the place was empty. Bare.
No, not quite. A wispy something was hanging just out of sight in the corner of the eye; the water tap was now moulded upward , beads glistening on its handle. The wispy thing caught her attention again and she looked up.
Two people, tightly wrapped and bound in hammocks, were staring down at her, amazed, swinging on their stomachs. Craning further, she saw Rat. He was hanging upside down in the chair, grinning at her in reverse.
"Flip-flop," he laconically explained.
"For cripes sakes, Jehosaphat!" Gladney groaned. "Turn me over on my back! Do something!" Gray stood on tiptoes and just could pivot the hammocks on their rope-axis.
"And now, please, just how do I get into mine?" she bit at Rat.
Existence dragged. Paradoxically, time dropped away like a cloak as the sense of individual hours and minutes vanished, and into its place crept a slow-torturing substitute. As the ship revolved, monotonously, first the ceiling and then the floor took on dullish, maddening aspects, eyes ached continuously from staring at them time and again without surcease. The steady, drumming rockets crashed into the mind and the walls shrieked malevolently on the eyeballs. Dull, throbbing sameness of the poorly filtered air, a growing taint in the nostrils. Damp warm skin, reeking blankets. The taste of fuel in the mouth for refreshment. Slowly mounting mental duress. And above all the drumming of the rockets.
Once, a sudden, frightening change of pitch in the rockets and a wild, sickening lurch. Meteor rain. Maddening, plunging swings to the far right and left, made without warning. A torn lip as a sudden lurch tears the faucet from her mouth. A shattered tooth.
"Sorry!" Rat whispered.
"Shut up and drive!" she cried.
"Patti ..." Judith called out, in pain.
Peace of mind followed peace of body into a forgotten limbo of lost things, a slyly climbing madness directed at one another. Waspish words uttered in pain, fatigue and temper. Fractiousness. A hot, confined, stale hell. Sleep became a hollow mockery, as bad water and concentrated tablets brought on stomach pains to plague them. Consciousness punctured only by spasms of lethargy, shared to some extent by the invalids. Above all, crawling lassitude and incalescent tempers.
Rat watched the white, drawn face swing in the hammock beside him. And his hands never faltered on the controls.
Never a slackening of the terrific pace; abnormal speed, gruelling drive ... drive ... drive. Fear. Tantalizing fear made worse because Rat couldn't understand. Smothered moaning that ate at his nerves. Grim-faced, sleep-wracked, belted to the chair, driving!
"How many days? How many days!" Gray begged of him thousands of times until the very repetition grated on her eardrums. "How many days?" His only answer was an inhuman snarl, and the cruel blazing of those inhuman eyes.
She fell face first to the floor. "I can't keep it up!" she cried. The sound of her voice rolled along the hot steel deck. "I cant! I cant!"
A double handful of tepid water was thrown in her face. "Get up!" Rat stood over her, face twisted, his body hunched. "Get up!" She stared at him, dazed. He kicked her. "Get up!" The tepid water ran off her face and far away she heard Judith calling.... She forced herself up. Rat was back in the chair.
Gladney unexpectedly exploded. He had been awake for a long time, watching Rat at the board. Wrenching loose a chest strap he attempted to sit up.
"Rat! Damn you Rat, listen to me! When're you going to start braking , Rat?"
"I hear you." He turned on Gladney with dulled eyes. "Lie down. You sick."
"I'll be damned if I'm going to lie here and let you drive us to Orion! We must be near the half-way line! When are you going to start braking?"
"Not brake," Rat answered sullenly. "No, not brake."
" Not brake? " Gladney screamed and sat bolt upright. Nurse Gray jumped for him. "Are you crazy, you skinny rat?" Gray secured a hold on his shoulders and forced him down. "You gotta brake! Don't you understand that? You have to, you vacuum-skull!" Gray was pleading with him to shut-up like a good fellow. He appealed to her. "He's gotta brake! Make him!"
"He has a good point there, Rat," she spoke up. "What about this half-way line?"
He turned to her with a weary ghost of the old smile on his face. "We passed line. Three days ago, maybe." A shrug of shoulders.
"Passed!" Gray and Gladney exclaimed in unison.
"You catch on quick," Rat nodded. "This six day, don't you know?"
Gladney sank back, exhausted. The nurse crept over to the pilot.
"Getting your figures mixed, aren't you?"
Rat shook his head and said nothing.
"But Roberds said eight days, and he—"
"—he on Mars. I here. Boss nuts, too sad. He drive, it be eight days. Now only six." He cast a glance at Judith and found her eyes closed.
"Six days, no brake. No."
"I see your point, and appreciate it," Gray cut in. "But now what? This deceleration business ... there is a whole lot I don't know, but some things I do!"
Rat refused the expected answer. "Land tonight, I think. Never been to Earth before. Somebody meet us, I think."
"You can bet your leather boots somebody will meet us!" Gladney cried. Gray turned to him. "The Chief'll have the whole planet waiting for you !" He laughed with real satisfaction. "Oh yes, Rat, they'll be somebody waiting for us all right." And then he added: "If we land."
"Oh, we land." Rat confided, glad to share a secret.
"Yeah," Gladney grated. "But in how many little pieces?"
"I've never been to Earth before. Nice, I think." Patti Gray caught something new in the tone and stared at him. Gladney must have noticed it, too.
The Centaurian moved sideways and pointed. Gray placed her eyes in the vacated position.
"Earth!" she shouted.
"Quite. Nice. Do me a favor?"
"Just name it!"
"Not drink long time. Some water?"
Gray nodded and went to the faucet. The drumming seemed remote, the tension vanished. She was an uncommonly long time in returning, at last she appeared beside him, outstretched hands dry.
"There isn't any left, Rat."
Rat batted his tired eyes expressively. "Tasted punk," he grinned at her.
She sat down on the floor suddenly and buried her face.
"Rat," she said presently, "I want to ask you something, rather personal? Your ... name. 'Rat'? Roberds told me something about your record. But ... please tell me, Rat. You didn't know the attack was coming, did you?"
He grinned again and waggled his head at her. "No. Who tell Rat?" Suddenly he was deadly serious as he spoke to her. "Rat a.w.o.l., go out to help sick man alone in desert. Rat leave post. Not time send call through. Come back with man, find horrible thing happen."
"But why didn't you explain?"
He grinned again. "Who believe? Sick man die soon after."
Gladney sat up. He had heard the conversation between the two. "You're right, Rat. No one would have believed you then, and no one will now. You've been safe enough on Mars, but the police will nab you as soon as you get out of the ship."
"They can't!" cried Patti Gray. "They can't hurt him after what he's done now."
The Centaurian grinned in a cynical way.
"Police not get me, Gladney. Gladney's memory damn punk, I think. Earth pretty nice place, maybe. But not for Rat."
Gladney stared at him for minutes. Then: "Say, I get it ... you're—"
"Shut up!" Rat cut him off sharply. "You talk too much." He cast a glance at Nurse Gray and then threw a meaning look at Gladney.
Question:
What happens to Patti Gray throughout the story?
Answer:
|
[
"The story starts with Patti looking after the sick girl. She hears the dispute of the crew about the future steps and gets involved. She learns out about Rat's past and the mistake of leaving his post which led to a massacre. Nevertheless, she and the girl decide to ask him to pilot the ship, hoping it will help the sick get on Earth in time. Patti gets sympathetic towards Rat from the beginning and keeps trying to talk to him. She keeps being by Judith. Rat bring her to the hammocks on his wings and she is frightened for a second. She follows his orders and advices until her suffering gets intense. During the trip with Rat as a pilot she has to drink only twice a day to keep water and she feels extremely thirsty. She also hurts herself when the ship suddenly moves from one side to another. Water tastes like fuel to her and she gets mad at Rat for not naming the amount of days. Then she learns about Rat's point of view on the past situation with the massacre and becomes even more sympathetic towards him. ",
"Patti Gray is in a room listening to an argument when she hears Judith moaning from a different room and goes to tend to her aid. After attending to Judith she goes back to talk to Roberds. She informs Patti that Rat went AWOL during a very important battle. The Chief Consul explains that unrelated politics is what saved Rat from execution for abandoning his post. After her inquiry about Rat, Patti says goodnight to everyone and returns to her room for the night. Patti secretly converses with Rat and asks him to fly Judith and her to Earth right away instead of waiting for Roberds. Rat agrees to do so and flies Judith to the ship. After Rat grabs and takes Judith to the ship, Patti anxiously awaits for him to return. He eventually returns and flies her to the ship too. When they get to the ship Patti reassures Judith that there is no use in mulling over the decision to take the ship now and tries to calm her down. \n\nBecause Rat pilots the ship to a very fast takeoff, Patti, Judith, and Gladney pass out due to the forces. Patti eventually wakes up and is surprised to find out how long she was out, she then begins to talk to Rat. During the trip, Patti becomes thirsty because of the very limited supply of water and she becomes irritated when Rat tells her she cannot drink more water. She grows increasingly upset about the conditions on the ship. When informed by Gladney that Rat is traveling at an excessive speed without necessary breaking, Patti tells Rat that he needs to explain how he is going to deaccelerate. She’s interrupted when they suddenly spot Earth. She goes to get Rat water as requested but returns to tell him that there is no more water left. \n",
"Throughout the story, Patti Gray is forced to endure many of the harsh conditions on the ship while having to take care of her patients. She initially mentions that she was once part of the Fleet and is used to harsh conditions. However, Nurse Gray is also never able to sleep more than three hours due to her patients and having to constantly check up on their conditions whenever they are in pain. Although Nurse Gray is determined and confident to see Judith get better, there are also parts where she begins to lose her sanity. She is upset that there is only one tank of boiling hot water and the difficulty of getting into a hammock in space. Later, as their journey reaches the end, Nurse Gray begins to go mad from the horrid conditions on the ship and falls face-first onto the floor. Once the end is near, and with some support from Rat, she is extremely happy to see Earth again. Nurse Gray is also able to calm down and resume asking Rat questions. ",
"Patti Gray is a nurse to Judith on Mars. She updates Peterson and the Chief on Judith's status, and asks them about Rat and why he is not allowed to pilot the ship to Earth. Patti learns that Rat was involved in treason back when the Sansan massacre happened. Later that night, Patti finds Rat and asks him to pilot the ship to Earth as soon as possible. Rat later retrieves Judith and Patti and takes them aboard the ship, where they take off. Rat and Patti talk on the ship, asking each other questions, and Patti faces several hardships on the ship, including the lack of water and the uncomfortable temperature. As the journey continues, it becomes unbearable for Patti."
] |
62212
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PRISON PLANET
By BOB TUCKER
To remain on Mars meant death from agonizing space-sickness, but Earth-surgery lay days of flight away. And there was only a surface rocket in which to escape—with a traitorous Ganymedean for its pilot.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1942. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
"Listen, Rat!" Roberds said, "what I say goes around here. It doesn't happen to be any of your business. I'm still in possession of my wits, and I know Peterson can't handle that ship. Furthermore Gladney will be in it too, right along side of that sick girl in there! And Rat, get this: I'm going to pilot that ship. Understand? Consulate or no Consulate, job or no job, I'm wheeling that crate to Earth because this is an emergency. And the emergency happens to be bigger than my position, to me at any rate." His tone dropped to a deadly softness.
"Now will you kindly remove your stinking carcass from this office?"
Unheeding, Rat swung his eyes around in the gloom and discovered the woman, a nurse in uniform. He blinked at her and she returned the look, wavering. She bit her lip and determination flowed back. She met the stare of his boring, off-colored eyes. Rat grinned suddenly. Nurse Gray almost smiled back, stopped before the others could see it.
"Won't go!" The Centaurian resumed his fight. "You not go, lose job, black-listed. Never get another. Look at me. I know." He retreated a precious step to escape a rolled up fist. "Little ship carry four nice. Rip out lockers and bunks. Swing hammocks. Put fuel in water tanks. Live on concentrates. Earth hospital fix bellyache afterwards, allright. I pilot ship. Yes?"
"No!" Roberds screamed.
Almost in answer, a moan issued from a small side room. The men in the office froze as Nurse Gray ran across the room. She disappeared through the narrow door.
"Peterson," the field manager ordered, "come over here and help me throw this rat out...." He went for Rat. Peterson swung up out of his chair with balled fist. The outlander backed rapidly.
"No need, no need, no need!" he said quickly. "I go." Still backing, he blindly kicked at the door and stepped into the night.
When the door slammed shut Roberds locked it. Peterson slumped in the chair.
"Do you mean that, Chief? About taking the ship yourself?"
"True enough." Roberds cast an anxious glance at the partly closed door, lowered his voice. "It'll cost me my job, but that girl in there has to be taken to a hospital quickly! And it's her luck to be landed on a planet that doesn't boast even one! So it's Earth ... or she dies. I'd feel a lot better too if we could get Gladney to a hospital, I'm not too confident of that patching job." He pulled a pipe from a jacket pocket. "So, might as well kill two birds with one stone ... and that wasn't meant to be funny!"
Peterson said nothing, sat watching the door.
"Rat has the right idea," Roberds continued, "but I had already thought of it. About the bunks and lockers. Greaseball has been out there all night tearing them out. We just might be able to hop by dawn ... and hell of a long, grinding hop it will be!"
The nurse came out of the door.
"How is she?" Roberds asked.
"Sleeping," Gray whispered. "But sinking...."
"We can take off at dawn, I think." He filled the pipe and didn't look at her. "You'll have to spend most of the trip in a hammock."
"I can take it." Suddenly she smiled, wanly. "I was with the Fleet. How long will it take?"
"Eight days, in that ship."
Roberds lit his pipe, and carefully hid his emotions. He knew Peterson was harboring the same thoughts. Eight days in space, in a small ship meant for two, and built for planetary surface flights. Eight days in that untrustworthy crate, hurtling to save the lives of that girl and Gladney.
"Who was that ... man? The one you put out?" Gray asked.
"We call him Rat," Roberds said.
She didn't ask why. She said: "Why couldn't he pilot the ship, I mean? What is his record?"
Peterson opened his mouth.
"Shut up, Peterson!" the Chief snapped. "We don't talk about his record around here, Miss Gray. It's not a pretty thing to tell."
"Stow it, Chief," said Peterson. "Miss Gray is no pantywaist." He turned to the nurse. "Ever hear of the Sansan massacre?"
Patti Gray paled. "Yes," she whispered. "Was Rat in that?"
Roberds shook his head. "He didn't take part in it. But Rat was attached to a very important office at the time, the outpost watch. And when Mad Barry Sansan and his gang of thugs swooped down on the Ganymedean colony, there was no warning. Our friend Rat was AWOL.
"As to who he is ... well, just one of those freaks from up around Centauria somewhere. He's been hanging around all the fields and dumps on Mars a long time, finally landed up here."
"But," protested Miss Gray, "I don't understand? I always thought that leaving one's post under such circumstances meant execution."
The Chief Consul nodded. "It does, usually. But this was a freak case. It would take hours to explain. However, I'll just sum it up in one word: politics. Politics, with which Rat had no connection saved him."
The girl shook her head, more in sympathy than condemnation.
"Are you expecting the others in soon?" she asked. "It wouldn't be right to leave Peterson."
"They will be in, in a day or two. Peterson will beat it over to Base station for repairs, and to notify Earth we're coming. He'll be all right."
Abruptly she stood up. "Goodnight gentlemen. Call me if I'm needed."
Roberds nodded acknowledgement. The door to the side room closed behind her. Peterson hauled his chair over to the desk. He sniffed the air.
"Damned rat!" he whispered harshly. "They ought to make a law forcing him to wear dark glasses!"
Roberds smiled wearily. "His eyes do get a man, don't they?"
"I'd like to burn 'em out!" Peterson snarled.
Rat helped Greaseball fill the water tanks to capacity with fuel, checked the concentrated rations and grunted.
Greaseball looked over the interior and chuckled. "The boss said strip her, and strip her I did. All right, Rat, outside." He followed the Centaurian out, and pulled the ladder away from the lip of the lock. The two walked across the strip of sandy soil to the office building. On tiptoes, Greaseball poked his head through the door panel. "All set."
Roberds nodded at him. "Stick with it!" and jerked a thumb at Rat outside. Grease nodded understanding.
"Okay, Rat, you can go to bed now." He dropped the ladder against the wall and sat on it. "Good night." He watched Rat walk slowly away.
Swinging down the path towards his own rambling shack, Rat caught a sibilant whisper. Pausing, undecided, he heard it again.
"Here ... can you see me?" A white clad arm waved in the gloom. Rat regarded the arm in the window. Another impatient gesture, and he stepped to the sill.
"Yes?"—in the softest of whispers. The voices of the men in droning conversation drifted in. "What you want?"
Nothing but silence for a few hanging seconds, and then: "Can you pilot that ship?" Her voice was shaky.
He didn't answer, stared at her confused. He felt her fear as clearly as he detected it in her words.
"Well, can you?" she demanded.
"Damn yes!" he stated simply. "It now necessary?"
"Very! She is becoming worse. I'm afraid to wait until daylight. And ... well, we want you to pilot it! She refuses to risk Mr. Roberds' job. She favors you."
Rat stepped back, astonished. "She?"
Nurse Gray moved from the window and Rat saw the second form in the room, a slight, quiet figure on a small cot. "My patient," Nurse Gray explained. "She overheard our conversation awhile ago. Quick, please, can you?"
Rat looked at her and then at the girl on the cot. He vanished from the window. Almost immediately, he was back again.
"When?" he whispered.
"As soon as possible. Yes. Do you know...?" but he had gone again. Nurse Gray found herself addressing blackness. On the point of turning, she saw him back again.
"Blankets," he instructed. "Wrap in blankets. Cold—hot too. Wrap good!" And he was gone again. Gray blinked away the illusion he disappeared upwards.
She ran over to the girl. "Judith, if you want to back down, now is the time. He'll be back in a moment."
"No!" Judith moaned. "No!" Gray smiled in the darkness and began wrapping the blankets around her. A light tapping at the window announced the return of Rat. The nurse pushed open the window wide, saw him out there with arms upstretched.
"Grit your teeth and hold on! Here we go." She picked up the blanketed girl in both arms and walked to the window. Rat took the girl easily as she was swung out, the blackness hid them both. But he appeared again instantly.
"Better lock window," he cautioned. "Stall, if Boss call. Back soon...." and he was gone.
To Nurse Gray the fifteen minute wait seemed like hours, impatient agonizing hours of tight-lipped anxiety.
Feet first, she swung through the window, clutching a small bag in her hands. She never touched ground. Rat whispered "Hold tight!" in her ear and the wind was abruptly yanked from her! The ground fell away in a dizzy rush, unseen but felt, in the night! Her feet scraped on some projection, and she felt herself being lifted still higher. Wind returned to her throat, and she breathed again.
"I'm sorry," she managed to get out, gaspingly. "I wasn't expecting that. I had forgotten you—"
"—had wings," he finished and chuckled. "So likewise Greaseball." The pale office lights dropped away as they sped over the field. On the far horizon, a tinge of dawn crept along the uneven terrain.
"Oh, the bag!" she gasped. "I've dropped it."
He chuckled again. "Have got. You scare, I catch."
She didn't see the ship because of the wind in her eyes, but without warning she plummeted down and her feet jarred on the lip of the lock.
"Inside. No noise, no light. Easy." But in spite of his warning she tripped in the darkness. He helped her from the floor and guided her to the hammocks.
"Judith?" she asked.
"Here. Beside you, trussed up so tight I can hardly breathe."
"No talk!" Rat insisted. "Much hush-hush needed. Other girl shipshape. You make likewise." Forcibly he shoved her into a hammock. "Wrap up tight. Straps tight. When we go, we go fast. Bang!" And he left her.
"Hey! Where are you going now?"
"To get Gladney. He sick too. Hush hush!" His voice floated back.
"Where has he gone?" Judith called.
"Back for another man. Remember the two miners who found us when we crashed? The burly one fell off a rock-bank as they were bringing us in. Stove in his ribs pretty badly. The other has a broken arm ... happened once while you were out. They wouldn't let me say anything for fear of worrying you."
The girl did not answer then and a hushed expectancy fell over the ship. Somewhere aft a small motor was running. Wind whistled past the open lock.
"I've caused plenty of trouble haven't I?" she asked aloud, finally.
"This was certainly a fool stunt, and I'm guilty of a lot of fool stunts! I just didn't realize until now the why of that law."
"Don't talk so much," the nurse admonished. "A lot of people have found out the why of that law the hard way, just as you are doing, and lived to remember it. Until hospitals are built on this forlorn world, humans like you who haven't been properly conditioned will have to stay right at home."
"How about these men that live and work here?"
"They never get here until they've been through the mill first. Adenoids, appendix', all the extra parts they can get along without."
"Well," Judith said. "I've certainly learned my lesson!"
Gray didn't answer, but from out of the darkness surrounding her came a sound remarkably resembling a snort.
"Gray?" Judith asked fearfully.
"Yes?"
"Hasn't the pilot been gone an awfully long time?"
Rat himself provided the answer by alighting at the lip with a jar that shook the ship. He was breathing heavily and lugging something in his arms. The burden groaned.
"Gladney!" Nurse Gray exclaimed.
"I got." Rat confirmed. "Yes, Gladney. Damn heavy, Gladney."
"But how?" she demanded. "What of Roberds and Peterson?"
"Trick," he sniggered. "I burn down my shack. Boss run out. I run in. Very simple." He packed Gladney into the remaining hammock and snapped buckles.
"And Peterson?" she prompted.
"Oh yes. Peterson. So sorry about Peterson. Had to fan him."
" Fan him? I don't understand."
"Fan. With chair. Everything all right. I apologized." Rat finished up and was walking back to the lock. They heard a slight rustling of wings as he padded away.
He was back instantly, duplicating his feat of a short time ago. Cursing shouts were slung on the night air, and the deadly spang of bullets bounced on the hull! Some entered the lock. The Centaurian snapped it shut. Chunks of lead continued to pound the ship. Rat leaped for the pilot's chair, heavily, a wing drooping.
"You've been hurt!" Gray cried. A small panel light outlined his features. She tried to struggle up.
"Lie still! We go. Boss get wise." With lightning fingers he flicked several switches on the panel, turned to her. "Hold belly. Zoom!"
Gray folded her hands across her stomach and closed her eyes.
Rat unlocked the master level and shoved!
"Whew!" Nurse Gray came back to throbbing awareness, the all too familiar feeling of a misplaced stomach attempting to force its crowded way into her boots plaguing her. Rockets roared in the rear. She loosened a few straps and twisted over. Judith was still out, her face tensed in pain. Gray bit her lip and twisted the other way. The Centaurian was grinning at her.
"Do you always leave in a hurry?" she demanded, and instantly wished she hadn't said it. He gave no outward sign.
"Long-time sleep," he announced. "Four, five hours maybe." The chest strap was lying loose at his side.
"That long!" she was incredulous. "I'm never out more than three hours!" Unloosening more straps, she sat up, glanced at the control panel.
"Not taking time," he stated simply and pointed to a dial. Gray shook her head and looked at the others.
"That isn't doing either of them any good!"
Rat nodded unhappily. "What's her matter—?" pointing.
"Appendix. Something about this atmosphere sends it haywire. The thing itself isn't diseased, but it starts manufacturing poison. Patient dies in a week unless it is taken out."
"Don't know it," he said briefly.
"Do you mean to say you don't have an appendix?" she demanded.
Rat folded his arms and considered this. "Don't know. Maybe yes, maybe no. Where's it hurt?"
Gray pointed out the location. The Centaurian considered this further and drifted into long contemplation. Watching him, Gray remembered his eyes that night ... only last night ... in the office. Peterson had refused to meet them. After awhile Rat came out of it.
"No," he waved. "No appendix. Never nowhere appendix."
"Then Mother Nature has finally woke up!" she exclaimed. "But why do Centaurians rate it exclusively?"
Rat ignored this and asked one of her. "What you and her doing up there?" He pointed back and up, to where Mars obliterated the stars.
"You might call it a pleasure jaunt. She's only seventeen. We came over in a cruiser belonging to her father; it was rather large and easy to handle. But the cruise ended when she lost control of the ship because of an attack of space-appendicitis. The rest you know."
"So you?"
"So I'm a combination nurse, governess, guard and what have you. Or will be until we get back. After this, I'll probably be looking for work." She shivered.
"Cold?" he inquired concernedly.
"On the contrary, I'm too warm." She started to remove the blanket. Rat threw up a hand to stop her.
"Leave on! Hot out here."
"But I'm too hot now. I want to take it off!"
"No. Leave on. Wool blanket. Keep in body heat, yes. Keep out cold, yes. Keep in, keep out, likewise. See?"
Gray stared at him. "I never thought of it that way before. Why of course! If it protects from one temperature, it will protect from another. Isn't it silly of me not to know that?" Heat pressing on her face accented the fact.
"What is your name?" she asked. "Your real one I mean."
He grinned. "Big. You couldn't say it. Sound like Christmas and bottlenose together real fast. Just say Rat. Everybody does." His eyes swept the panel and flashed back to her. "Your name Gray. Have a front name?"
"Patti."
"Pretty, Patti."
"No, just Patti. Say, what's the matter with the cooling system?"
"Damn punk," he said. "This crate for surface work. No space. Cooling system groan, damn punk. Won't keep cool here."
"And ..." she followed up, "it will get warmer as we go out?"
Rat turned back to his board in a brown study and carefully ignored her. Gray grasped an inkling of what the coming week could bring.
"But how about water?" she demanded next. "Is there enough?"
He faced about. "For her—" nodding to Judith, "and him—" to Gladney,
"yes. Sparingly. Four hours every time, maybe." Back to Gray. "You, me ... twice a day. Too bad." His eyes drifted aft to the tank of water. She followed. "One tank water. All the rest fuel. Too bad, too bad. We get thirsty I think."
They did get thirsty, soon. A damnable hot thirst accented by the knowledge that water was precious, a thirst increased by a dried-up-in-the-mouth sensation. Their first drink was strangely bitter; tragically disappointing. Patti Gray suddenly swung upright in the hammock and kicked her legs. She massaged her throat with a nervous hand, wiped damp hair from about her face.
"I have to have a drink."
Rat stared at her without answer.
"I said, I have to have a drink!"
"Heard you."
"Well...?"
"Well, nothing. Stall. Keep water longer."
She swung a vicious boot and missed by inches. Rat grinned, and made his way aft, hand over hand. He treaded cautiously along the deck. "Do like this," he called over his shoulder. "Gravity punk too. Back and under, gravity." He waited until she joined him at the water tap.
They stood there glaring idiotically at each other.
She burst out laughing. "They even threw the drinking cups out!" Rat inched the handle grudgingly and she applied lips to the faucet.
"Faugh!" Gray sprang back, forgot herself and lost her balance, sat down on the deck and spat out the water. "It's hot! It tastes like hell and it's hot! It must be fuel!"
Rat applied his lips to the tap and sampled. Coming up with a mouthful he swished it around on his tongue like mouthwash. Abruptly he contrived a facial contortion between a grin and a grimace, and let some of the water trickle from the edges of his mouth. He swallowed and it cost him something.
"No. I mean yes, I think. Water, no doubt. Yes. Fuel out, water in. Swish-swush. Dammit, Greaseball forget to wash tank!"
"But what makes it so hot?" She worked her mouth to dry-rinse the taste of the fuel.
"Ship get hot. Water on sun side. H-m-m-m-m-m-m."
"H-m-m-m-m-m-m-m what?"
"Flip-flop." He could talk with his hands as well. "Hot side over like pancake." Rat hobbled over to the board and sat down. An experimental flick on a lever produced nothing. Another flick, this time followed by a quivering jar. He contemplated the panel board while fastening his belt.
"H-m-m-m-m-m-m," the lower lip protruded.
Gray protested. "Oh, stop humming and do something! That wa—" the word was queerly torn from her throat, and a scream magically filled the vacancy. Nurse Gray sat up and rubbed a painful spot that had suddenly appeared on her arm. She found her nose bleeding and another new, swelling bruise on the side of her head. Around her the place was empty. Bare.
No, not quite. A wispy something was hanging just out of sight in the corner of the eye; the water tap was now moulded upward , beads glistening on its handle. The wispy thing caught her attention again and she looked up.
Two people, tightly wrapped and bound in hammocks, were staring down at her, amazed, swinging on their stomachs. Craning further, she saw Rat. He was hanging upside down in the chair, grinning at her in reverse.
"Flip-flop," he laconically explained.
"For cripes sakes, Jehosaphat!" Gladney groaned. "Turn me over on my back! Do something!" Gray stood on tiptoes and just could pivot the hammocks on their rope-axis.
"And now, please, just how do I get into mine?" she bit at Rat.
Existence dragged. Paradoxically, time dropped away like a cloak as the sense of individual hours and minutes vanished, and into its place crept a slow-torturing substitute. As the ship revolved, monotonously, first the ceiling and then the floor took on dullish, maddening aspects, eyes ached continuously from staring at them time and again without surcease. The steady, drumming rockets crashed into the mind and the walls shrieked malevolently on the eyeballs. Dull, throbbing sameness of the poorly filtered air, a growing taint in the nostrils. Damp warm skin, reeking blankets. The taste of fuel in the mouth for refreshment. Slowly mounting mental duress. And above all the drumming of the rockets.
Once, a sudden, frightening change of pitch in the rockets and a wild, sickening lurch. Meteor rain. Maddening, plunging swings to the far right and left, made without warning. A torn lip as a sudden lurch tears the faucet from her mouth. A shattered tooth.
"Sorry!" Rat whispered.
"Shut up and drive!" she cried.
"Patti ..." Judith called out, in pain.
Peace of mind followed peace of body into a forgotten limbo of lost things, a slyly climbing madness directed at one another. Waspish words uttered in pain, fatigue and temper. Fractiousness. A hot, confined, stale hell. Sleep became a hollow mockery, as bad water and concentrated tablets brought on stomach pains to plague them. Consciousness punctured only by spasms of lethargy, shared to some extent by the invalids. Above all, crawling lassitude and incalescent tempers.
Rat watched the white, drawn face swing in the hammock beside him. And his hands never faltered on the controls.
Never a slackening of the terrific pace; abnormal speed, gruelling drive ... drive ... drive. Fear. Tantalizing fear made worse because Rat couldn't understand. Smothered moaning that ate at his nerves. Grim-faced, sleep-wracked, belted to the chair, driving!
"How many days? How many days!" Gray begged of him thousands of times until the very repetition grated on her eardrums. "How many days?" His only answer was an inhuman snarl, and the cruel blazing of those inhuman eyes.
She fell face first to the floor. "I can't keep it up!" she cried. The sound of her voice rolled along the hot steel deck. "I cant! I cant!"
A double handful of tepid water was thrown in her face. "Get up!" Rat stood over her, face twisted, his body hunched. "Get up!" She stared at him, dazed. He kicked her. "Get up!" The tepid water ran off her face and far away she heard Judith calling.... She forced herself up. Rat was back in the chair.
Gladney unexpectedly exploded. He had been awake for a long time, watching Rat at the board. Wrenching loose a chest strap he attempted to sit up.
"Rat! Damn you Rat, listen to me! When're you going to start braking , Rat?"
"I hear you." He turned on Gladney with dulled eyes. "Lie down. You sick."
"I'll be damned if I'm going to lie here and let you drive us to Orion! We must be near the half-way line! When are you going to start braking?"
"Not brake," Rat answered sullenly. "No, not brake."
" Not brake? " Gladney screamed and sat bolt upright. Nurse Gray jumped for him. "Are you crazy, you skinny rat?" Gray secured a hold on his shoulders and forced him down. "You gotta brake! Don't you understand that? You have to, you vacuum-skull!" Gray was pleading with him to shut-up like a good fellow. He appealed to her. "He's gotta brake! Make him!"
"He has a good point there, Rat," she spoke up. "What about this half-way line?"
He turned to her with a weary ghost of the old smile on his face. "We passed line. Three days ago, maybe." A shrug of shoulders.
"Passed!" Gray and Gladney exclaimed in unison.
"You catch on quick," Rat nodded. "This six day, don't you know?"
Gladney sank back, exhausted. The nurse crept over to the pilot.
"Getting your figures mixed, aren't you?"
Rat shook his head and said nothing.
"But Roberds said eight days, and he—"
"—he on Mars. I here. Boss nuts, too sad. He drive, it be eight days. Now only six." He cast a glance at Judith and found her eyes closed.
"Six days, no brake. No."
"I see your point, and appreciate it," Gray cut in. "But now what? This deceleration business ... there is a whole lot I don't know, but some things I do!"
Rat refused the expected answer. "Land tonight, I think. Never been to Earth before. Somebody meet us, I think."
"You can bet your leather boots somebody will meet us!" Gladney cried. Gray turned to him. "The Chief'll have the whole planet waiting for you !" He laughed with real satisfaction. "Oh yes, Rat, they'll be somebody waiting for us all right." And then he added: "If we land."
"Oh, we land." Rat confided, glad to share a secret.
"Yeah," Gladney grated. "But in how many little pieces?"
"I've never been to Earth before. Nice, I think." Patti Gray caught something new in the tone and stared at him. Gladney must have noticed it, too.
The Centaurian moved sideways and pointed. Gray placed her eyes in the vacated position.
"Earth!" she shouted.
"Quite. Nice. Do me a favor?"
"Just name it!"
"Not drink long time. Some water?"
Gray nodded and went to the faucet. The drumming seemed remote, the tension vanished. She was an uncommonly long time in returning, at last she appeared beside him, outstretched hands dry.
"There isn't any left, Rat."
Rat batted his tired eyes expressively. "Tasted punk," he grinned at her.
She sat down on the floor suddenly and buried her face.
"Rat," she said presently, "I want to ask you something, rather personal? Your ... name. 'Rat'? Roberds told me something about your record. But ... please tell me, Rat. You didn't know the attack was coming, did you?"
He grinned again and waggled his head at her. "No. Who tell Rat?" Suddenly he was deadly serious as he spoke to her. "Rat a.w.o.l., go out to help sick man alone in desert. Rat leave post. Not time send call through. Come back with man, find horrible thing happen."
"But why didn't you explain?"
He grinned again. "Who believe? Sick man die soon after."
Gladney sat up. He had heard the conversation between the two. "You're right, Rat. No one would have believed you then, and no one will now. You've been safe enough on Mars, but the police will nab you as soon as you get out of the ship."
"They can't!" cried Patti Gray. "They can't hurt him after what he's done now."
The Centaurian grinned in a cynical way.
"Police not get me, Gladney. Gladney's memory damn punk, I think. Earth pretty nice place, maybe. But not for Rat."
Gladney stared at him for minutes. Then: "Say, I get it ... you're—"
"Shut up!" Rat cut him off sharply. "You talk too much." He cast a glance at Nurse Gray and then threw a meaning look at Gladney.
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Describe the setting of this story.
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After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about Captain Midas by Alfred Coppel.
Relevant chunks:
CAPTAIN MIDAS
By ALFRED COPPEL, JR.
The captain of the Martian Maid stared avidly at the torn derelict floating against the velvet void. Here was treasure beyond his wildest dreams! How could he know his dreams should have been nightmares?
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Gold! A magic word, even today, isn't it? Lust and gold ... they go hand in hand. Like the horsemen of the Apocalypse. And, of course, there's another word needed to make up the trilogy. You don't get any thing for nothing. So add this: Cost. Or you might call it pain, sorrow, agony. Call it what you like. It's what you pay for great treasure....
These things were true when fabled Jason sailed the Argo beyond Colchis seeking the Fleece. They were true when men sailed the southern oceans in wooden ships. And the conquest of space hasn't changed us a bit. We're still a greedy lot....
I'm a queer one to be saying these things, but then, who has more right? Look at me. My hair is gray and my face ... my face is a mask. The flesh hangs on my bones like a yellow cloth on a rickety frame. I am old, old. And I wait here on my hospital cot—wait for the weight of years I never lived to drag me under and let me forget the awful things my eyes have seen.
I'm poor, too, or else I wouldn't be here in this place of dying for old spacemen. I haven't a dime except for the pittance the Holcomb Foundation calls a spaceman's pension. Yet I had millions in my hands. Treasure beyond your wildest dreams! Cursed treasure....
You smile. You are thinking that I'm just an old man, beached earthside, spinning tall tales to impress the youngsters. Maybe, thinking about the kind of spacemen my generation produced, you have the idea that if ever we'd so much as laid a hand on anything of value out in space we'd not let go until Hell froze over! Well, you're right about that. We didn't seek the spaceways for the advancement of civilization or any of that Foundation bushwah, you can be certain of that. We did it for us ... for Number One. That's the kind of men we were, and we were proud of it. We hung onto what we found because the risks were high and we were entitled to keep what we could out there. But there are strange things in the sky. Things that don't respond to all of our neat little Laws and Theories. There are things that are no part of the world of men, thick with danger—and horror.
If you doubt that—and I can see you do—just look at me. I suppose you've never heard of the Martian Maid, and so you don't know the story of what happened to her crew or her skipper. I can give you this much of an answer. I was her skipper. And her crew? They ride high in the sky ... dust by this time. And all because they were men, and men are greedy and hasty and full of an unreasoning, unthinking love for gold. They ride a golden ship that they paid for with all the years of their lives. It's all theirs now. Bought and paid for.
It wasn't too long ago that I lifted the Maid off Solis Lacus on that last flight. Not many of you will remember her class of ship, so many advances have been made in the last few years. The Maid was two hundred feet from tip to tail, and as sleek a spacer as ever came out of the Foundation Yards. Chemical fueled, she was nothing at all like the spherical hyperdrives we see today. She was armed, too. The Foundation still thought of space as a possible stamping ground for alien creatures though no evidence of any extra-terrestrial life had ever been found ... then.
My crew was a rough bunch, like all those early crews. I remember them so well. Lean, hungry men with hell in their eyes and a great lust for high pay and hard living. Spinelli, Shelley, Cohn, Marvin, Zaleski. There wasn't a man on board who wouldn't have traded his immortal soul for a few solar dollars, and I don't claim that I was any different. That's the kind of men that opened up the spaceways, too. Don't believe all this talk about the noble pioneering spirit of man. That's tripe. There never has been such a thing as a noble pioneer. Not in space or anywhere else. It is the malcontent and the adventuring mercenary that pushes the frontier outward.
I didn't know, that night as I stood in the valve of the Maid, watching the loading cranes pull away, that I was starting out on my last flight. I don't think any of the others could have guessed, either. It was the sort of night that you only see on Mars. The sort of night that makes a spaceman wonder why in hell he wants to leave the relative security of the Earth-Mars-Venus Triangle to go jetting across the belt into deep space and the drab desolation of the outer System.
I stood there, watching the lights of Canalopolis in the distance. For just a moment I was ... well, touched. It looked beautiful and unreal under the racing moons. The lights of the gin mills and houses made a sparkling filigree pattern on the dark waters of the ancient canal, and the moons cast their shifting shadows across the silted banks. I was too far away to see the space-fevered bums and smell the shanties, and for a little while I felt the wonder of standing on the soil of a world that man had made his own with his rapacity and his sheer guts and gimme.
I thought of our half empty cargo hold and the sweet payload we would pick up on Callisto. And I counted the extra cash my packets of snow would bring from those lonely men up there on the barren moonlets of the outer Systems. There were plenty of cargoes carried on the Maid that the Holcomb Foundation snoopers never heard about, you can be sure of that.
In those days the asteroid belt was the primary danger and menace to astrogation. For a long while it held men back from deep space, but as fuels improved a few ships were sent out over the top. A few million miles up out of the ecliptic plane brings you to a region of space that's pretty thinly strewn with asteroids, and that's the way we used to make the flight between the outer systems and the EMV Triangle. It took a long while for hyperdrives to be developed and of course atomics never panned out because of the weight problem.
So that's the orbit the Maid took on that last trip of mine. High and clear into the supra-solar void. And out there in that primeval blackness is where we found the derelict.
I didn't realize it was a derelict when Spinelli first reported it from the forward scope position. I assumed it was a Foundation ship. The Holcomb Foundation was founded for the purpose of developing spaceflight, and as the years went by it took on the whole responsibility for the building and dispatching of space ships. Never in history had there been any real evidence of extra-terrestrial intelligent life, and when the EMV Triangle proved barren, we all just assumed that the Universe was man's own particular oyster. That kind of unreasoning arrogance is as hard to explain as it is to correct.
There were plenty of ships being lost in space, and immediately that Spinelli's report from up forward got noised about the Maid every one of us started mentally counting up his share of the salvage money. All this before we were within ten thousand miles of the hulk!
All spaceships look pretty much alike, but as I sat at the telescope I saw that there was something different about this one. At such a distance I couldn't get too much detail in our small three inch glass, but I could see that the hulk was big—bigger than any ship I'd ever seen before. I had the radar fixed on her and then I retired with my slide rule to Control. It wasn't long before I discovered that the derelict ship was on a near collision course, but there was something about its orbit that was strange. I called Cohn, the Metering Officer, and showed him my figures.
"Mister Cohn," I said, chart in hand, "do these figures look right to you?"
Cohn's dark eyes lit up as they always did when he worked with figures. It didn't take him long to check me. "The math is quite correct, Captain," he said. I could see that he hadn't missed the inference of those figures on the chart.
"Assemble the ship's company, Mister Cohn," I ordered.
The assembly horn sounded throughout the Maid and I could feel the tug of the automatics taking over as the crew left their stations. Soon they were assembled in Control.
"You have all heard about Mister Spinelli's find," I said, "I have computed the orbit and inspected the object through the glass. It seems to be a spacer ... either abandoned or in distress...." Reaching into the book rack above my desk I took down a copy of the Foundation's Space Regulations and opened it to the section concerning salvage.
"Sections XVIII, Paragraph 8 of the Code Regulating Interplanetary Astrogation and Commerce," I read, "Any vessel or part of vessel found in an abandoned or totally disabled condition in any region of space not subject to the sovereignty of any planet of the Earth-Venus-Mars Triangle shall be considered to be the property of the crew of the vessel locating said abandoned or disabled vessel except in such cases as the ownership of said abandoned or disabled vessel may be readily ascertained...." I looked up and closed the book. "Simply stated, that means that if that thing ahead of us is a derelict we are entitled to claim it as salvage."
"Unless it already belongs to someone?" asked Spinelli.
"That's correct Mister Spinelli, but I don't think there is much danger of that," I replied quietly. "My figures show that hulk out there came in from the direction of Coma Berenices...."
There was a long silence before Zaleski shifted his two hundred pounds uneasily and gave a form to the muted fear inside me. "You think ... you think it came from the stars , Captain?"
"Maybe even from beyond the stars," Cohn said in a low voice.
Looking at that circle of faces I saw the beginnings of greed. The first impact of the Metering Officer's words wore off quickly and soon every man of my crew was thinking that anything from the stars would be worth money ... lots of money.
Spinelli said, "Do we look her over, Captain?"
They all looked at me, waiting for my answer. I knew it would be worth plenty, and money hunger was like a fever inside me.
"Certainly we look it over, Mister Spinelli," I said sharply.
"Certainly!"
The first thing about the derelict that struck us as we drew near was her size. No ship ever built in the Foundation Yards had ever attained such gargantuan proportions. She must have stretched a full thousand feet from bow to stern, a sleek torpedo shape of somehow unspeakable alienness. Against the backdrop of the Milky Way, she gleamed fitfully in the light of the faraway sun, the metal of her flanks grained with something like tiny, glittering whorls. It was as though the stuff were somehow unstable ... seeking balance ... maybe even alive in some strange and alien way.
It was readily apparent to all of us that she had never been built for inter-planetary flight. She was a starship. Origin unknown. An aura of mystery surrounded her like a shroud, protecting the world that gave her birth mutely but effectively. The distance she must have come was unthinkable. And the time it had taken...? Aeons. Millennia. For she was drifting, dead in space, slowly spinning end over end as she swung about Sol in a hyperbolic orbit that would soon take her out and away again into the inter-stellar deeps.
Something had wounded her ... perhaps ten million years ago ... perhaps yesterday. She was gashed deeply from stem to stern with a jagged rip that bared her mangled innards. A wandering asteroid? A meteor? We would never know. It gave me an uncomfortable feeling of things beyond the ken of men as I looked at her through the port. I would never know what killed her, or where she was going, or whence she came. Yet she was mine. It made me feel like an upstart. And it made me afraid ... but of what?
We should have reported her to the nearest EMV base, but that would have meant that we'd lose her. Scientists would be sent out. Men better equipped than we to investigate the first extrasolar artifact found by men. But I didn't report her. She was ours. She was money in the bank. Let the scientists take over after we'd put a prize crew aboard and brought her into Callisto for salvage.... That's the way I had things figured.
The Maid hove to about a hundred yards from her and hung there, dwarfed by the mighty glistening ship. I called for volunteers and we prepared a boarding party. I was thinking that her drives alone would be worth millions. Cohn took charge and he and three of the men suited up and crossed to her.
In an hour they were back, disappointment largely written on their faces.
"There's nothing left of her, Captain," Cohn reported, "Whatever hit her tore up the innards so badly we couldn't even find the drives. She's a mess inside. Nothing left but the hull and a few storage compartments that are still unbroken."
She was never built to carry humanoids he told us, and there was nothing that could give us a hint of where she had come from. The hull alone was left.
He dropped two chunks of metal on my desk. "I brought back some samples of her pressure hull," he said, "The whole thing is made of this stuff...."
"We'll still take her in," I said, hiding my disappointment. "The carcass will be worth money in Callisto. Have Mister Marvin and Zaleski assemble a spare pulse-jet. We'll jury-rig her and bring her down under her own power. You take charge of provisioning her. Check those compartments you found and install oxy-generators aboard. When it's done report to me in my quarters."
I picked up the two samples of gleaming metal and called for a metallurgical testing kit. "I'm going to try and find out if this stuff is worth anything...."
The metal was heavy—too heavy, it seemed to me, for spaceship construction. But then, who was to say what conditions existed on that distant world where this metal was made?
Under the bright fluorescent over my work-table, the chunks of metal torn from a random bulkhead of the starship gleamed like pale silver; those strange little whorls that I had noticed on the outer hull were there too, like tiny magnetic lines of force, making the surface of the metal seem to dance. I held the stuff in my bare hand. It had a yellowish tinge, and it was heavier ....
Even as I watched, the metal grew yellower, and the hand that held it grew bone weary, little tongues of fatigue licking up my forearm. Suddenly terrified, I dropped the chunk as though it were white hot. It struck the table with a dull thud and lay there, a rich yellow lump of metallic lustre.
For a long while I just sat and stared. Then I began testing, trying all the while to quiet the trembling of my hands. I weighed it on a balance. I tested it with acids. It had changed unquestionably. It was no longer the same as when I had carried it into my quarters. The whorls of force were gone. It was no longer alive with a questing vibrancy ... it was inert, stable. From somewhere, somehow, it had drawn the energy necessary for transmutation. The unknown metal—the stuff of which that whole mammoth spaceship from the stars was built—was now....
Gold!
I scarcely dared believe it, but there it was staring at me from my table-top. Gold!
I searched my mind for an explanation. Contra-terrene matter, perhaps, from some distant island universe where matter reacted differently ... drawing energy from somewhere, the energy it needed to find stability in its new environment. Stability as a terrene element—wonderfully, miraculously gold!
And outside, in the void beyond the Maid's ports there were tons of this metal that could be turned into treasure. My laughter must have been a wild sound in those moments of discovery....
A slight sound behind me made me spin around in my chair. Framed in the doorway was the heavy figure of my Third Officer, Spinelli. His black eyes were fastened hungrily on the lump of yellow metal on the table. He needed no explanation to tell him what it was, and it seemed to me that his very soul reached out for the stuff, so sharp and clear was the meaning of the expression on his heavy face.
"Mister Spinelli!" I snapped, "In the future knock before entering my quarters!"
Reluctantly his eyes left the lump of gold and met mine. "From the derelict, Captain?" There was an imperceptible pause between the last two words.
I ignored his question and made a mental note to keep a close hand on the rein with him. Spinelli was big and dangerous.
"Speak your piece, Mister," I ordered sharply.
"Mister Cohn reports the derelict ready to take aboard the prize crew ... sir," he said slowly. "I'd like to volunteer for that detail."
I might have let him go under ordinary circumstances, for he was a first class spaceman and the handling of a jury-rigged hulk would need good men. But the gold-hunger I had seen in his eyes warned me to beware. I shook my head. "You will stay on board the Maid with me, Spinelli. Cohn and Zaleski will handle the starship."
Stark suspicion leaped into his eyes. I could see the wheels turning slowly in his mind. Somehow, he was thinking, I was planning to cheat him of his rightful share of the derelict treasure ship.
"We will say nothing to the rest of the crew about the gold, Mister Spinelli," I said deliberately, "Or you'll go to Callisto in irons. Is that clear?"
"Aye, sir," murmured Spinelli. The black expression had left his face and there was a faintly scornful smile playing about his mouth as he turned away. I began wondering then what he had in mind. It wasn't like him to let it go at that.
Suddenly I became conscious of being very tired. My mind wasn't functioning quite clearly. And my arm and hand ached painfully. I rubbed the fingers to get some life back into them, still wondering about Spinelli.
Spinelli talked. I saw him murmuring something to big Zaleski, and after that there was tension in the air. Distrust.
For a few moments I pondered the advisability of making good my threat to clap Spinelli into irons, but I decided against it. In the first place I couldn't prove he had told Zaleski about the gold and in the second place I needed Spinelli to help run the Maid.
I felt that the Third Officer and Zaleski were planning something, and I was just as sure that Spinelli was watching Zaleski to see to it that there was no double-cross.
I figured that I could handle the Third Officer alone so I assigned the rest, Marvin and Chelly, to accompany Cohn and Zaleski onto the hulk. That way Zaleski would be outnumbered if he tried to skip with the treasure ship. But, of course, I couldn't risk telling them that they were to be handling a vessel practically made of gold.
I was in agony. I didn't want to let anyone get out of my sight with that starship, and at the same time I couldn't leave the Maid. Finally I had to let Cohn take command of the prize crew, but not before I had set the radar finder on the Maid's prow squarely on the derelict.
Together, Spinelli and I watched the Maid's crew vanish into the maw of the alien ship and get her under way. There was a flicker of bluish fire from her jury-rigged tubes astern, and then she was vanishing in a great arc toward the bright gleam of Jupiter, far below us. The Maid followed under a steady one G of acceleration with most of her controls on automatic.
Boats of the Martian Maid's class, you may remember, carried a six inch supersonic projector abaft the astrogation turret. These were nasty weapons for use against organic life only. They would reduce a man to jelly at fifty thousand yards. Let it be said to my credit that it wasn't I who thought of hooking the gun into the radar finder and keeping it aimed dead at the derelict. That was Spinelli's insurance against Zaleski.
When I discovered it I felt the rage mount in me. He was willing to blast every one of his shipmates into pulp should the hulk vary from the orbit we'd laid out for her. He wasn't letting anything come between him and that mountain of gold.
Then I began thinking about it. Suppose now, just suppose, that Zaleski told the rest of the crew about the gold. It wouldn't be too hard for the derelict to break away from the Maid, and there were plenty of places in the EMV Triangle where a renegade crew with a thousand tons of gold would be welcomed with open arms and no questions asked. Suspicion began to eat at me. Could Zaleski and Cohn have dreamed up a little switch to keep the treasure ship for themselves? It hadn't seemed likely before, but now—
The gun-pointer remained as it was.
As the days passed and we reached turn-over with the hulk still well within visual range, I noticed a definite decrease in the number of messages from Cohn. The Aldis Lamps no longer blinked back at the Maid eight or ten times a day, and I began to really regret not having taken the time to equip the starship with UHF radio communicators.
Each night I slept with a hunk of yellow gold under my bunk, and ridiculously I fondled the stuff and dreamed of all the things I would have when the starship was cut up and sold.
My weariness grew. It became almost chronic, and I soon wondered if I hadn't picked up a touch of space-radiation fever. The flesh of my hands seemed paler than it had been. My arms felt heavy. I determined to report myself to the Foundation medics on Callisto. There's no telling what can happen to a man in space....
Two days past turn-over the messages from the derelict came through garbled. Spinelli cursed and said that he couldn't read their signal. Taking the Aldis from him I tried to raise them and failed. Two hours later I was still failing and Spinelli's black eyes glittered with an animal suspicion.
"They're faking!"
"Like hell they are!" I snapped irritably, "Something's gone wrong...."
"Zaleski's gone wrong, that's what!"
I turned to face him, fury snapping inside of me. "Then you did disobey my orders. You told him about the gold!"
"Sure I did," he sneered. "Did you expect me to shut up and let you land the ship yourself and claim Captain's share? I found her, and she's mine!"
I fought to control my temper and said: "Let's see what's going on in her before deciding who gets what, Mister Spinelli."
Spinelli bit his thick lips and did not reply. His eyes were fixed on the image of the starship on the viewplate.
A light blinked erratically within the dark cut of its wounded side.
"Get this down, Spinelli!"
The habit of taking orders was still in him, and he muttered: "Aye ... sir."
The light was winking out a message, but feebly, as though the hand that held the lamp were shaking and the mind conceiving the words were failing.
"CONTROL ... LOST ... CAN'T ... NO ... STRENGTH ... LEFT ... SHIP ... WALLS ... ALL ... ALL GOLD ... GOLD ... SOMETHING ... HAPPENING ... CAN'T ... UNDERSTAND ... WHA...." The light stopped flashing, abruptly, in mid-word.
"What the hell?" demanded Spinelli thickly.
"Order them to heave to, Mister," I ordered.
He clicked the Aldis at them. The only response was a wild swerve in the star-ship's course. She left the orbit we had set for her as though the hands that guided her had fallen away from the control.
Spinelli dropped the Aldis and rushed to the control panel to make the corrections in the Maid's course that were needed to keep the hulk in sight.
"Those skunks! Double crossing rats!" he breathed furiously. "They won't shake loose that easy!" His hands started down for the firing console of the supersonic rifle.
I caught the movement from the corner of my eye.
" Spinelli! "
My shout hung in the still air of the control room as I knocked him away from the panel.
"Get to your quarters!" I cracked.
He didn't say a thing, but his big shoulders hunched angrily and he moved across the deck toward me, his hands opening and closing spasmodically. His eyes were wild with rage and avarice.
"You'll hang for mutiny, Spinelli!" I said.
He spat out a foul name and leaped for me. I side-stepped his charge and brought my joined fists down hard on the back of his neck. He stumbled against the bulkhead and his eyes were glazed. He charged again, roaring. I stepped aside and smashed him in the mouth with my right fist, then crossing with an open-handed left to the throat. He staggered, spun and came for me again. I sank a hard left into his stomach and nailed him on the point of the jaw with a right from my shoe-tops. He straightened up and sprawled heavily to the deck, still trying to get at me. I aimed a hard kick at his temple and let it go. My metal shod boot caught him squarely and he rolled over on his face and lay still.
I nailed him with a right from my shoe-tops.
Breathing heavily, I rolled him back face up. His eyes were open,
glassy with an implacable hate. I knelt at his side and listened for
his breathing. There was none. I knew then that I had killed him. I
felt sick inside, and dizzy.
I wasn't myself as I turned away from Spinelli's body there on the
steel deck. Some of the greed died out of me, and my exertions had
increased my sense of fatigue to an almost numbing weariness. My arms
ached terribly and my hands felt as though they had been sucked dry of
their substance. Like a man in a nightmare, I held them up before my
face and looked at them. They were wrinkled and grey, with the veins
standing out a sickly purple. And I could see that my arms were taking
on that same aged look.
I was suddenly fully aware of my fear. Nothing fought against the
flood of terror that welled through me. I was terrified of that yellow
gold in my cabin, and of that ship of devil's metal out there in space
that held my shipmates. There was something unnatural about that
contra-terrene thing ... something obscene.
I located the hulk in the radar finder and swung the Maid after it,
piling on acceleration until my vision flickered. We caught her, the
Maid and I. But we couldn't stop her short of using the rifle on her,
and I couldn't bring myself to add to my depravity by killing the rest
of my men. It would have been better if I had!
I laid the Maid alongside the thousand foot hull of the derelict and
set the controls on automatic. It was dangerous, but I was beyond
caring. Then I was struggling to get myself into a pressure suit with
my wrinkled, failing hands.... Then I was outside, headed for that dark
hole.
I sank down into the stillness of her interior, my helmet light casting
long, fey shadows across the littered decks. Decks that had a yellowish
cast ... decks that no longer danced with tiny questing force-whorls....
As I approached the airlock of the compartment set aside as living
quarters for the prize crew, the saffron of the walls deepened. Crazy
little thoughts began spinning around in my brain. Words out of the
distant past loomed up with a new and suddenly terrifying
perspective ... alchemy ... transmutation ... energy. I'm a spaceman,
not a scientist. But in those moments I think I was discovering what
had happened to my crew and why the walls were turning into yellow
metal.
The lock was closed, but I swung it open and let the pressure in the
chamber rise. I couldn't wait for it to reach fourteen pounds ...
at eleven, I swung the inner door and stumbled eagerly through. The
brilliant light, reflected from gleaming walls blinded me for a moment.
And then I saw them! They huddled, almost naked in a corner, skeletal
things with skull-like faces that leered at me with the vacuous
obscenity of old age. Even their voices were raw and cracked with the
rusty decay of years. They babbled stupidly, caressing the walls with
claw-like hands. They were old, old!
I understood then. I knew what my wrinkled aged hands meant. That
devil-metal from beyond the stars had drawn the energy it needed
from ... us !
My laughter was a crazy shriek inside my helmet. I looked wildly at the
gleaming walls that had sucked the youth and strength from these men.
The walls were stable, at rest. They were purest gold ... gold ... gold!
I ran from that place still screaming with the horror of it. My hands
burned like fire! Age was in them, creeping like molten lead through my
veins, ghastly and sure....
I reached the Maid and threw every scrap of that alien metal into space
as I streaked madly away from that golden terror in the sky and its
load of ancient evil....
On Callisto I was relieved of my command. The Admiralty Court acquitted
me of the charges of negligence, but the Foundation refused me another
ship. It was my ... illness. It spread from my hands, as you can see.
Slowly, very slowly. So what remains for me? A hospital cot and a
spaceman's pension. Those tons of gold in the sky are cursed, like most
great treasures. Somewhere, out in the deeps between the stars, the
dust of my crew guards that golden derelict. It belongs to them now ...
all of it.
But the price we pay for treasure is this. Look at me. I look eighty!
I'm thirty two. And the bitterest part of the story is that people
laugh at me when I tell what happened. They laugh and call me my
nickname. Have you heard it?
It's ... Captain Midas.
Question:
Describe the setting of this story.
Answer:
|
[
"This story takes place in the Holcomb Foundation aboard Martian Maid. The Martian Maid is a grand ship that took off from Solis Lacus on its last flight; the ship spanned 200 feet in its length and despite its sleek exterior, was an armed ship as well. The Maid was on an orbit in a region strewn with asteroids between the outer systems and the EMV triangle. \n\nAboard the spaceship, interactions between the characters in the story largely took place in the Control room. It also takes place in Captain Midas’ quarters, where he investigates the mystery metal. The setting also changes to include the derelict ship the crewmates had found, which presented itself as a shell of a vessel with torn interiors and yellow-tinged walls. \n",
"After the character’s inner monologue finishes, Midas starts talking about the day his team took off on the Martian Maid spaceship. He watched the lights of Canalopolis: gin mills and houses reflected on the ancient canal’s water, the bright moons cast their shadows across the banks. They were leaving the Earth-Mars-Venus Triangle and moving towards the outer systems, specifically the planet called Callisto. Midas spent most of his time in the Control room. He gathered the crew there to tell them about the derelict. At his quarters, Midas examined the metal samples sitting at his work-table. Days later, in the control room with a control panel, a radar finder, and a firing console, Midas killed Spinelli, who had attacked him. He then decided to find his team. He entered the living quarters of the prize crew. The walls were gleaming. Then, Midas swiftly reached the Maid and flew to Callisto. Now he’s in a hospital cot.\n\n",
"The story happens on two spaceships. One is Martian Maid, which is a two hundred feet long spaceship. It is sleek, chemical-fueled, and spherical. It is equipped with weapons, such as turrets. There is a telescope, radar, and a book rack above the desk in the captain’s room. The other is the derelict. It is tremendously gigantic. It has a sleek torpedo shape with unknown alienness. Its flanks are constituted with glittering whorls. It is torn apart severely. There are a few storage compartments inside.",
"The story is primarily set in space. When the Martian Maid first takes off, it leaves from Solis Lacus after being taken out of the Foundation Yards. The ship is headed towards Callisto, where everybody will be receiving a fat paycheck. There is a Earth-Mars-Venus triangle that provides relative security for space travel. However, the outer systems are much more dangerous. The Captain also watches Canalopolis from a distance before he has to leave. The Maid has a scope position and living quarters for the crew. There is also an area called Control, where everybody is called to meet. The golden ship they find is made fully out of gold. The treasure ship has yellowish decks and an airlock compartment set aside for the crew. The entire ship gleams, but it is made out of devil metal. After the captain escapes to Callisto, he is subjected to a hospital cot for the rest of his life. "
] |
63867
|
CAPTAIN MIDAS
By ALFRED COPPEL, JR.
The captain of the Martian Maid stared avidly at the torn derelict floating against the velvet void. Here was treasure beyond his wildest dreams! How could he know his dreams should have been nightmares?
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Fall 1949. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Gold! A magic word, even today, isn't it? Lust and gold ... they go hand in hand. Like the horsemen of the Apocalypse. And, of course, there's another word needed to make up the trilogy. You don't get any thing for nothing. So add this: Cost. Or you might call it pain, sorrow, agony. Call it what you like. It's what you pay for great treasure....
These things were true when fabled Jason sailed the Argo beyond Colchis seeking the Fleece. They were true when men sailed the southern oceans in wooden ships. And the conquest of space hasn't changed us a bit. We're still a greedy lot....
I'm a queer one to be saying these things, but then, who has more right? Look at me. My hair is gray and my face ... my face is a mask. The flesh hangs on my bones like a yellow cloth on a rickety frame. I am old, old. And I wait here on my hospital cot—wait for the weight of years I never lived to drag me under and let me forget the awful things my eyes have seen.
I'm poor, too, or else I wouldn't be here in this place of dying for old spacemen. I haven't a dime except for the pittance the Holcomb Foundation calls a spaceman's pension. Yet I had millions in my hands. Treasure beyond your wildest dreams! Cursed treasure....
You smile. You are thinking that I'm just an old man, beached earthside, spinning tall tales to impress the youngsters. Maybe, thinking about the kind of spacemen my generation produced, you have the idea that if ever we'd so much as laid a hand on anything of value out in space we'd not let go until Hell froze over! Well, you're right about that. We didn't seek the spaceways for the advancement of civilization or any of that Foundation bushwah, you can be certain of that. We did it for us ... for Number One. That's the kind of men we were, and we were proud of it. We hung onto what we found because the risks were high and we were entitled to keep what we could out there. But there are strange things in the sky. Things that don't respond to all of our neat little Laws and Theories. There are things that are no part of the world of men, thick with danger—and horror.
If you doubt that—and I can see you do—just look at me. I suppose you've never heard of the Martian Maid, and so you don't know the story of what happened to her crew or her skipper. I can give you this much of an answer. I was her skipper. And her crew? They ride high in the sky ... dust by this time. And all because they were men, and men are greedy and hasty and full of an unreasoning, unthinking love for gold. They ride a golden ship that they paid for with all the years of their lives. It's all theirs now. Bought and paid for.
It wasn't too long ago that I lifted the Maid off Solis Lacus on that last flight. Not many of you will remember her class of ship, so many advances have been made in the last few years. The Maid was two hundred feet from tip to tail, and as sleek a spacer as ever came out of the Foundation Yards. Chemical fueled, she was nothing at all like the spherical hyperdrives we see today. She was armed, too. The Foundation still thought of space as a possible stamping ground for alien creatures though no evidence of any extra-terrestrial life had ever been found ... then.
My crew was a rough bunch, like all those early crews. I remember them so well. Lean, hungry men with hell in their eyes and a great lust for high pay and hard living. Spinelli, Shelley, Cohn, Marvin, Zaleski. There wasn't a man on board who wouldn't have traded his immortal soul for a few solar dollars, and I don't claim that I was any different. That's the kind of men that opened up the spaceways, too. Don't believe all this talk about the noble pioneering spirit of man. That's tripe. There never has been such a thing as a noble pioneer. Not in space or anywhere else. It is the malcontent and the adventuring mercenary that pushes the frontier outward.
I didn't know, that night as I stood in the valve of the Maid, watching the loading cranes pull away, that I was starting out on my last flight. I don't think any of the others could have guessed, either. It was the sort of night that you only see on Mars. The sort of night that makes a spaceman wonder why in hell he wants to leave the relative security of the Earth-Mars-Venus Triangle to go jetting across the belt into deep space and the drab desolation of the outer System.
I stood there, watching the lights of Canalopolis in the distance. For just a moment I was ... well, touched. It looked beautiful and unreal under the racing moons. The lights of the gin mills and houses made a sparkling filigree pattern on the dark waters of the ancient canal, and the moons cast their shifting shadows across the silted banks. I was too far away to see the space-fevered bums and smell the shanties, and for a little while I felt the wonder of standing on the soil of a world that man had made his own with his rapacity and his sheer guts and gimme.
I thought of our half empty cargo hold and the sweet payload we would pick up on Callisto. And I counted the extra cash my packets of snow would bring from those lonely men up there on the barren moonlets of the outer Systems. There were plenty of cargoes carried on the Maid that the Holcomb Foundation snoopers never heard about, you can be sure of that.
In those days the asteroid belt was the primary danger and menace to astrogation. For a long while it held men back from deep space, but as fuels improved a few ships were sent out over the top. A few million miles up out of the ecliptic plane brings you to a region of space that's pretty thinly strewn with asteroids, and that's the way we used to make the flight between the outer systems and the EMV Triangle. It took a long while for hyperdrives to be developed and of course atomics never panned out because of the weight problem.
So that's the orbit the Maid took on that last trip of mine. High and clear into the supra-solar void. And out there in that primeval blackness is where we found the derelict.
I didn't realize it was a derelict when Spinelli first reported it from the forward scope position. I assumed it was a Foundation ship. The Holcomb Foundation was founded for the purpose of developing spaceflight, and as the years went by it took on the whole responsibility for the building and dispatching of space ships. Never in history had there been any real evidence of extra-terrestrial intelligent life, and when the EMV Triangle proved barren, we all just assumed that the Universe was man's own particular oyster. That kind of unreasoning arrogance is as hard to explain as it is to correct.
There were plenty of ships being lost in space, and immediately that Spinelli's report from up forward got noised about the Maid every one of us started mentally counting up his share of the salvage money. All this before we were within ten thousand miles of the hulk!
All spaceships look pretty much alike, but as I sat at the telescope I saw that there was something different about this one. At such a distance I couldn't get too much detail in our small three inch glass, but I could see that the hulk was big—bigger than any ship I'd ever seen before. I had the radar fixed on her and then I retired with my slide rule to Control. It wasn't long before I discovered that the derelict ship was on a near collision course, but there was something about its orbit that was strange. I called Cohn, the Metering Officer, and showed him my figures.
"Mister Cohn," I said, chart in hand, "do these figures look right to you?"
Cohn's dark eyes lit up as they always did when he worked with figures. It didn't take him long to check me. "The math is quite correct, Captain," he said. I could see that he hadn't missed the inference of those figures on the chart.
"Assemble the ship's company, Mister Cohn," I ordered.
The assembly horn sounded throughout the Maid and I could feel the tug of the automatics taking over as the crew left their stations. Soon they were assembled in Control.
"You have all heard about Mister Spinelli's find," I said, "I have computed the orbit and inspected the object through the glass. It seems to be a spacer ... either abandoned or in distress...." Reaching into the book rack above my desk I took down a copy of the Foundation's Space Regulations and opened it to the section concerning salvage.
"Sections XVIII, Paragraph 8 of the Code Regulating Interplanetary Astrogation and Commerce," I read, "Any vessel or part of vessel found in an abandoned or totally disabled condition in any region of space not subject to the sovereignty of any planet of the Earth-Venus-Mars Triangle shall be considered to be the property of the crew of the vessel locating said abandoned or disabled vessel except in such cases as the ownership of said abandoned or disabled vessel may be readily ascertained...." I looked up and closed the book. "Simply stated, that means that if that thing ahead of us is a derelict we are entitled to claim it as salvage."
"Unless it already belongs to someone?" asked Spinelli.
"That's correct Mister Spinelli, but I don't think there is much danger of that," I replied quietly. "My figures show that hulk out there came in from the direction of Coma Berenices...."
There was a long silence before Zaleski shifted his two hundred pounds uneasily and gave a form to the muted fear inside me. "You think ... you think it came from the stars , Captain?"
"Maybe even from beyond the stars," Cohn said in a low voice.
Looking at that circle of faces I saw the beginnings of greed. The first impact of the Metering Officer's words wore off quickly and soon every man of my crew was thinking that anything from the stars would be worth money ... lots of money.
Spinelli said, "Do we look her over, Captain?"
They all looked at me, waiting for my answer. I knew it would be worth plenty, and money hunger was like a fever inside me.
"Certainly we look it over, Mister Spinelli," I said sharply.
"Certainly!"
The first thing about the derelict that struck us as we drew near was her size. No ship ever built in the Foundation Yards had ever attained such gargantuan proportions. She must have stretched a full thousand feet from bow to stern, a sleek torpedo shape of somehow unspeakable alienness. Against the backdrop of the Milky Way, she gleamed fitfully in the light of the faraway sun, the metal of her flanks grained with something like tiny, glittering whorls. It was as though the stuff were somehow unstable ... seeking balance ... maybe even alive in some strange and alien way.
It was readily apparent to all of us that she had never been built for inter-planetary flight. She was a starship. Origin unknown. An aura of mystery surrounded her like a shroud, protecting the world that gave her birth mutely but effectively. The distance she must have come was unthinkable. And the time it had taken...? Aeons. Millennia. For she was drifting, dead in space, slowly spinning end over end as she swung about Sol in a hyperbolic orbit that would soon take her out and away again into the inter-stellar deeps.
Something had wounded her ... perhaps ten million years ago ... perhaps yesterday. She was gashed deeply from stem to stern with a jagged rip that bared her mangled innards. A wandering asteroid? A meteor? We would never know. It gave me an uncomfortable feeling of things beyond the ken of men as I looked at her through the port. I would never know what killed her, or where she was going, or whence she came. Yet she was mine. It made me feel like an upstart. And it made me afraid ... but of what?
We should have reported her to the nearest EMV base, but that would have meant that we'd lose her. Scientists would be sent out. Men better equipped than we to investigate the first extrasolar artifact found by men. But I didn't report her. She was ours. She was money in the bank. Let the scientists take over after we'd put a prize crew aboard and brought her into Callisto for salvage.... That's the way I had things figured.
The Maid hove to about a hundred yards from her and hung there, dwarfed by the mighty glistening ship. I called for volunteers and we prepared a boarding party. I was thinking that her drives alone would be worth millions. Cohn took charge and he and three of the men suited up and crossed to her.
In an hour they were back, disappointment largely written on their faces.
"There's nothing left of her, Captain," Cohn reported, "Whatever hit her tore up the innards so badly we couldn't even find the drives. She's a mess inside. Nothing left but the hull and a few storage compartments that are still unbroken."
She was never built to carry humanoids he told us, and there was nothing that could give us a hint of where she had come from. The hull alone was left.
He dropped two chunks of metal on my desk. "I brought back some samples of her pressure hull," he said, "The whole thing is made of this stuff...."
"We'll still take her in," I said, hiding my disappointment. "The carcass will be worth money in Callisto. Have Mister Marvin and Zaleski assemble a spare pulse-jet. We'll jury-rig her and bring her down under her own power. You take charge of provisioning her. Check those compartments you found and install oxy-generators aboard. When it's done report to me in my quarters."
I picked up the two samples of gleaming metal and called for a metallurgical testing kit. "I'm going to try and find out if this stuff is worth anything...."
The metal was heavy—too heavy, it seemed to me, for spaceship construction. But then, who was to say what conditions existed on that distant world where this metal was made?
Under the bright fluorescent over my work-table, the chunks of metal torn from a random bulkhead of the starship gleamed like pale silver; those strange little whorls that I had noticed on the outer hull were there too, like tiny magnetic lines of force, making the surface of the metal seem to dance. I held the stuff in my bare hand. It had a yellowish tinge, and it was heavier ....
Even as I watched, the metal grew yellower, and the hand that held it grew bone weary, little tongues of fatigue licking up my forearm. Suddenly terrified, I dropped the chunk as though it were white hot. It struck the table with a dull thud and lay there, a rich yellow lump of metallic lustre.
For a long while I just sat and stared. Then I began testing, trying all the while to quiet the trembling of my hands. I weighed it on a balance. I tested it with acids. It had changed unquestionably. It was no longer the same as when I had carried it into my quarters. The whorls of force were gone. It was no longer alive with a questing vibrancy ... it was inert, stable. From somewhere, somehow, it had drawn the energy necessary for transmutation. The unknown metal—the stuff of which that whole mammoth spaceship from the stars was built—was now....
Gold!
I scarcely dared believe it, but there it was staring at me from my table-top. Gold!
I searched my mind for an explanation. Contra-terrene matter, perhaps, from some distant island universe where matter reacted differently ... drawing energy from somewhere, the energy it needed to find stability in its new environment. Stability as a terrene element—wonderfully, miraculously gold!
And outside, in the void beyond the Maid's ports there were tons of this metal that could be turned into treasure. My laughter must have been a wild sound in those moments of discovery....
A slight sound behind me made me spin around in my chair. Framed in the doorway was the heavy figure of my Third Officer, Spinelli. His black eyes were fastened hungrily on the lump of yellow metal on the table. He needed no explanation to tell him what it was, and it seemed to me that his very soul reached out for the stuff, so sharp and clear was the meaning of the expression on his heavy face.
"Mister Spinelli!" I snapped, "In the future knock before entering my quarters!"
Reluctantly his eyes left the lump of gold and met mine. "From the derelict, Captain?" There was an imperceptible pause between the last two words.
I ignored his question and made a mental note to keep a close hand on the rein with him. Spinelli was big and dangerous.
"Speak your piece, Mister," I ordered sharply.
"Mister Cohn reports the derelict ready to take aboard the prize crew ... sir," he said slowly. "I'd like to volunteer for that detail."
I might have let him go under ordinary circumstances, for he was a first class spaceman and the handling of a jury-rigged hulk would need good men. But the gold-hunger I had seen in his eyes warned me to beware. I shook my head. "You will stay on board the Maid with me, Spinelli. Cohn and Zaleski will handle the starship."
Stark suspicion leaped into his eyes. I could see the wheels turning slowly in his mind. Somehow, he was thinking, I was planning to cheat him of his rightful share of the derelict treasure ship.
"We will say nothing to the rest of the crew about the gold, Mister Spinelli," I said deliberately, "Or you'll go to Callisto in irons. Is that clear?"
"Aye, sir," murmured Spinelli. The black expression had left his face and there was a faintly scornful smile playing about his mouth as he turned away. I began wondering then what he had in mind. It wasn't like him to let it go at that.
Suddenly I became conscious of being very tired. My mind wasn't functioning quite clearly. And my arm and hand ached painfully. I rubbed the fingers to get some life back into them, still wondering about Spinelli.
Spinelli talked. I saw him murmuring something to big Zaleski, and after that there was tension in the air. Distrust.
For a few moments I pondered the advisability of making good my threat to clap Spinelli into irons, but I decided against it. In the first place I couldn't prove he had told Zaleski about the gold and in the second place I needed Spinelli to help run the Maid.
I felt that the Third Officer and Zaleski were planning something, and I was just as sure that Spinelli was watching Zaleski to see to it that there was no double-cross.
I figured that I could handle the Third Officer alone so I assigned the rest, Marvin and Chelly, to accompany Cohn and Zaleski onto the hulk. That way Zaleski would be outnumbered if he tried to skip with the treasure ship. But, of course, I couldn't risk telling them that they were to be handling a vessel practically made of gold.
I was in agony. I didn't want to let anyone get out of my sight with that starship, and at the same time I couldn't leave the Maid. Finally I had to let Cohn take command of the prize crew, but not before I had set the radar finder on the Maid's prow squarely on the derelict.
Together, Spinelli and I watched the Maid's crew vanish into the maw of the alien ship and get her under way. There was a flicker of bluish fire from her jury-rigged tubes astern, and then she was vanishing in a great arc toward the bright gleam of Jupiter, far below us. The Maid followed under a steady one G of acceleration with most of her controls on automatic.
Boats of the Martian Maid's class, you may remember, carried a six inch supersonic projector abaft the astrogation turret. These were nasty weapons for use against organic life only. They would reduce a man to jelly at fifty thousand yards. Let it be said to my credit that it wasn't I who thought of hooking the gun into the radar finder and keeping it aimed dead at the derelict. That was Spinelli's insurance against Zaleski.
When I discovered it I felt the rage mount in me. He was willing to blast every one of his shipmates into pulp should the hulk vary from the orbit we'd laid out for her. He wasn't letting anything come between him and that mountain of gold.
Then I began thinking about it. Suppose now, just suppose, that Zaleski told the rest of the crew about the gold. It wouldn't be too hard for the derelict to break away from the Maid, and there were plenty of places in the EMV Triangle where a renegade crew with a thousand tons of gold would be welcomed with open arms and no questions asked. Suspicion began to eat at me. Could Zaleski and Cohn have dreamed up a little switch to keep the treasure ship for themselves? It hadn't seemed likely before, but now—
The gun-pointer remained as it was.
As the days passed and we reached turn-over with the hulk still well within visual range, I noticed a definite decrease in the number of messages from Cohn. The Aldis Lamps no longer blinked back at the Maid eight or ten times a day, and I began to really regret not having taken the time to equip the starship with UHF radio communicators.
Each night I slept with a hunk of yellow gold under my bunk, and ridiculously I fondled the stuff and dreamed of all the things I would have when the starship was cut up and sold.
My weariness grew. It became almost chronic, and I soon wondered if I hadn't picked up a touch of space-radiation fever. The flesh of my hands seemed paler than it had been. My arms felt heavy. I determined to report myself to the Foundation medics on Callisto. There's no telling what can happen to a man in space....
Two days past turn-over the messages from the derelict came through garbled. Spinelli cursed and said that he couldn't read their signal. Taking the Aldis from him I tried to raise them and failed. Two hours later I was still failing and Spinelli's black eyes glittered with an animal suspicion.
"They're faking!"
"Like hell they are!" I snapped irritably, "Something's gone wrong...."
"Zaleski's gone wrong, that's what!"
I turned to face him, fury snapping inside of me. "Then you did disobey my orders. You told him about the gold!"
"Sure I did," he sneered. "Did you expect me to shut up and let you land the ship yourself and claim Captain's share? I found her, and she's mine!"
I fought to control my temper and said: "Let's see what's going on in her before deciding who gets what, Mister Spinelli."
Spinelli bit his thick lips and did not reply. His eyes were fixed on the image of the starship on the viewplate.
A light blinked erratically within the dark cut of its wounded side.
"Get this down, Spinelli!"
The habit of taking orders was still in him, and he muttered: "Aye ... sir."
The light was winking out a message, but feebly, as though the hand that held the lamp were shaking and the mind conceiving the words were failing.
"CONTROL ... LOST ... CAN'T ... NO ... STRENGTH ... LEFT ... SHIP ... WALLS ... ALL ... ALL GOLD ... GOLD ... SOMETHING ... HAPPENING ... CAN'T ... UNDERSTAND ... WHA...." The light stopped flashing, abruptly, in mid-word.
"What the hell?" demanded Spinelli thickly.
"Order them to heave to, Mister," I ordered.
He clicked the Aldis at them. The only response was a wild swerve in the star-ship's course. She left the orbit we had set for her as though the hands that guided her had fallen away from the control.
Spinelli dropped the Aldis and rushed to the control panel to make the corrections in the Maid's course that were needed to keep the hulk in sight.
"Those skunks! Double crossing rats!" he breathed furiously. "They won't shake loose that easy!" His hands started down for the firing console of the supersonic rifle.
I caught the movement from the corner of my eye.
" Spinelli! "
My shout hung in the still air of the control room as I knocked him away from the panel.
"Get to your quarters!" I cracked.
He didn't say a thing, but his big shoulders hunched angrily and he moved across the deck toward me, his hands opening and closing spasmodically. His eyes were wild with rage and avarice.
"You'll hang for mutiny, Spinelli!" I said.
He spat out a foul name and leaped for me. I side-stepped his charge and brought my joined fists down hard on the back of his neck. He stumbled against the bulkhead and his eyes were glazed. He charged again, roaring. I stepped aside and smashed him in the mouth with my right fist, then crossing with an open-handed left to the throat. He staggered, spun and came for me again. I sank a hard left into his stomach and nailed him on the point of the jaw with a right from my shoe-tops. He straightened up and sprawled heavily to the deck, still trying to get at me. I aimed a hard kick at his temple and let it go. My metal shod boot caught him squarely and he rolled over on his face and lay still.
I nailed him with a right from my shoe-tops.
Breathing heavily, I rolled him back face up. His eyes were open,
glassy with an implacable hate. I knelt at his side and listened for
his breathing. There was none. I knew then that I had killed him. I
felt sick inside, and dizzy.
I wasn't myself as I turned away from Spinelli's body there on the
steel deck. Some of the greed died out of me, and my exertions had
increased my sense of fatigue to an almost numbing weariness. My arms
ached terribly and my hands felt as though they had been sucked dry of
their substance. Like a man in a nightmare, I held them up before my
face and looked at them. They were wrinkled and grey, with the veins
standing out a sickly purple. And I could see that my arms were taking
on that same aged look.
I was suddenly fully aware of my fear. Nothing fought against the
flood of terror that welled through me. I was terrified of that yellow
gold in my cabin, and of that ship of devil's metal out there in space
that held my shipmates. There was something unnatural about that
contra-terrene thing ... something obscene.
I located the hulk in the radar finder and swung the Maid after it,
piling on acceleration until my vision flickered. We caught her, the
Maid and I. But we couldn't stop her short of using the rifle on her,
and I couldn't bring myself to add to my depravity by killing the rest
of my men. It would have been better if I had!
I laid the Maid alongside the thousand foot hull of the derelict and
set the controls on automatic. It was dangerous, but I was beyond
caring. Then I was struggling to get myself into a pressure suit with
my wrinkled, failing hands.... Then I was outside, headed for that dark
hole.
I sank down into the stillness of her interior, my helmet light casting
long, fey shadows across the littered decks. Decks that had a yellowish
cast ... decks that no longer danced with tiny questing force-whorls....
As I approached the airlock of the compartment set aside as living
quarters for the prize crew, the saffron of the walls deepened. Crazy
little thoughts began spinning around in my brain. Words out of the
distant past loomed up with a new and suddenly terrifying
perspective ... alchemy ... transmutation ... energy. I'm a spaceman,
not a scientist. But in those moments I think I was discovering what
had happened to my crew and why the walls were turning into yellow
metal.
The lock was closed, but I swung it open and let the pressure in the
chamber rise. I couldn't wait for it to reach fourteen pounds ...
at eleven, I swung the inner door and stumbled eagerly through. The
brilliant light, reflected from gleaming walls blinded me for a moment.
And then I saw them! They huddled, almost naked in a corner, skeletal
things with skull-like faces that leered at me with the vacuous
obscenity of old age. Even their voices were raw and cracked with the
rusty decay of years. They babbled stupidly, caressing the walls with
claw-like hands. They were old, old!
I understood then. I knew what my wrinkled aged hands meant. That
devil-metal from beyond the stars had drawn the energy it needed
from ... us !
My laughter was a crazy shriek inside my helmet. I looked wildly at the
gleaming walls that had sucked the youth and strength from these men.
The walls were stable, at rest. They were purest gold ... gold ... gold!
I ran from that place still screaming with the horror of it. My hands
burned like fire! Age was in them, creeping like molten lead through my
veins, ghastly and sure....
I reached the Maid and threw every scrap of that alien metal into space
as I streaked madly away from that golden terror in the sky and its
load of ancient evil....
On Callisto I was relieved of my command. The Admiralty Court acquitted
me of the charges of negligence, but the Foundation refused me another
ship. It was my ... illness. It spread from my hands, as you can see.
Slowly, very slowly. So what remains for me? A hospital cot and a
spaceman's pension. Those tons of gold in the sky are cursed, like most
great treasures. Somewhere, out in the deeps between the stars, the
dust of my crew guards that golden derelict. It belongs to them now ...
all of it.
But the price we pay for treasure is this. Look at me. I look eighty!
I'm thirty two. And the bitterest part of the story is that people
laugh at me when I tell what happened. They laugh and call me my
nickname. Have you heard it?
It's ... Captain Midas.
|
What is the plot of the story?
|
After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about The Expendables by Jim Harmon.
Relevant chunks:
THE EXPENDABLES
BY JIM HARMON
It was just a little black box, useful for getting rid of things. Trouble was, it worked too well!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
"You see my problem, Professor?" Tony Carmen held his pinkly manicured, flashily ringed hands wide.
I saw his problem and it was warmly embarrassing.
"Really, Mr. Carmen," I said, "this isn't the sort of thing you discuss with a total stranger. I'm not a doctor—not of medicine, anyway—or a lawyer."
"They can't help me. I need an operator in your line."
"I work for the United States government. I can't become involved in anything illegal."
Carmen smoothed down the front of his too-tight midnight blue suit and touched the diamond sticking in his silver tie. "You can't, Professor Venetti? Ever hear of the Mafia?"
"I've heard of it," I said uneasily. "An old fraternal organization something like the Moose or Rosicrucians, founded in Sicily. It allegedly controls organized crime in the U.S. But that is a responsibility-eluding myth that honest Italian-Americans are stamping out. We don't even like to see the word in print."
"I can understand honest Italian-Americans feeling that way. But guys like me know the Mafia is still with it. We can put the squeeze on marks like you pretty easy."
You don't have to tell even a third generation American about the Mafia. Maybe that was the trouble. I had heard too much and for too long. All the stories I had ever heard about the Mafia, true or false, built up an unendurable threat.
"All right, I'll try to help you, Carmen. But ... that is, you didn't kill any of these people?"
He snorted. "I haven't killed anybody since early 1943."
"Please," I said weakly. "You needn't incriminate yourself with me."
"I was in the Marines," Carmen said hotly. "Listen, Professor, these aren't no Prohibition times. Not many people get made for a hit these days. Mother, most of these bodies they keep ditching at my club haven't been murdered by anybody. They're accident victims. Rumbums with too much anti-freeze for a summer's day, Spanish-American War vets going to visit Teddy in the natural course of events. Harry Keno just stows them at my place to embarrass me. Figures to make me lose my liquor license or take a contempt before the Grand Jury."
"I don't suppose you could just go to the police—" I saw the answer in his eyes. "No. I don't suppose you could."
"I told you once, Professor, but I'll tell you again. I have to get rid of these bodies they keep leaving in my kitchen. I can take 'em and throw them in the river, sure. But what if me or my boys are stopped en route by some tipped badge?"
"Quicklime?" I suggested automatically.
"What are you talking about? Are you sure you're some kind of scientist? Lime doesn't do much to a stiff at all. Kind of putrifies them like...."
"I forgot," I admitted. "I'd read it in so many stories I'd forgotten it wouldn't work. And I suppose the furnace leaves ashes and there's always traces of hair and teeth in the garbage disposal... An interesting problem, at that."
"I figured you could handle it," Carmen said, leaning back comfortably in the favorite chair of my bachelor apartment. "I heard you were working on something to get rid of trash for the government."
"That," I told him, "is restricted information. I subcontracted that work from the big telephone laboratories. How did you find it out?"
"Ways, Professor, ways."
The government did want me to find a way to dispose of wastes—radioactive wastes. It was the most important problem any country could have in this time of growing atomic industry. Now a small-time gangster was asking me to use this research to help him dispose of hot corpses. It made my scientific blood seethe. But the shadow of the Black Hand cooled it off.
"Maybe I can find something in that area of research to help you," I said. "I'll call you."
"Don't take too long, Professor," Carmen said cordially.
The big drum topped with a metallic coolie's hat had started out as a neutralizer for radioactivity. Now I didn't know what to call it.
The AEC had found burying canisters of hot rubbish in the desert or in the Gulf had eventually proved unsatisfactory. Earth tremors or changes of temperature split the tanks in the ground, causing leaks. The undersea containers rusted and corroded through the time, poisoning fish and fishermen.
Through the SBA I had been awarded a subcontract to work on the problem. The ideal solution would be to find a way to neutralize radioactive emanations, alpha, beta, X et cetera. (No, my dear, et cetera rays aren't any more dangerous than the rest.) But this is easier written than done.
Of course, getting energy to destroy energy without producing energy or matter is a violation of the maxim of the conservation of energy. But I didn't let that stop me—any more than I would have let the velocity of light put any limitations on a spacecraft engine had I been engaged to work on one. You can't allow other people's ideas to tie you hand and foot. There are some who tell me, however, that my refusal to honor such time-tested cliches is why I only have a small private laboratory owned by myself, my late wife's father and the bank, instead of working in the vast facilities of Bell, Du Pont, or General Motors. To this, I can only smile and nod.
But even refusing to be balked by conservative ideas, I failed.
I could not neutralize radioactivity. All I had been able to do (by a basic disturbance in the electromagnetogravitational co-ordinant system for Earth-Sun) was to reduce the mass of the radioactive matter.
This only concentrated the radiations, as in boiling contaminated water. It did make the hot stuff vaguely easier to handle, but it was no breakthrough on the central problem.
Now, in the middle of this, I was supposed to find a way to get rid of some damned bodies for Carmen.
Pressed for time and knowing the results wouldn't have to be so precise or carefully defined for a racketeer as for the United States government, I began experimenting.
I cut corners.
I bypassed complete safety circuits.
I put dangerous overloads on some transformers and doodled with the wiring diagrams. If I got some kind of passable incinerator I would be happy.
I turned the machine on.
The lights popped out.
There were changes that should be made before I tried that again, but instead I only found a larger fuse for a heavier load and jammed that in the switchbox.
I flipped my machine into service once again. The lights flickered and held.
The dials on my control board told me the story. It was hard to take.
But there it was.
The internal Scale showed zero.
I had had a slightly hot bar of silver alloy inside. It was completely gone. Mass zero. The temperature gauge showed that there had been no change in centigrade reading that couldn't be explained by the mechanical operation of the machine itself. There had been no sudden discharge of electricity or radioactivity. I checked for a standard anti-gravity effect but there was none. Gravity inside the cylinder had gone to zero but never to minus.
I was at last violating conservation of energy—not by successfully inverting the cube of the ionization factor, but by destroying mass ... by simply making it cease to exist with no cause-and-effect side effects.
I knew the government wouldn't be interested, since I couldn't explain how my device worked. No amount of successful demonstration could ever convince anybody with any scientific training that it actually did work.
But I shrewdly judged that Tony Carmen wouldn't ask an embarrassing
"how" when he was incapable of understanding the explanation.
"Yeah, but how does it work?" Tony Carmen demanded of me, sleeking his mirror-black hair and staring up at the disk-topped drum.
"Why do you care?" I asked irritably. "It will dispose of your bodies for you."
"I got a reason that goes beyond the stiff, but let's stick to that just for now. Where are these bodies going? I don't want them winding up in the D.A.'s bathtub."
"Why not? How could they trace them back to you?"
"You're the scientist," Tony said hotly. "I got great respect for those crime lab boys. Maybe the stiff got some of my exclusive brand of talc on it, I don't know."
"Listen here, Carmen," I said, "what makes you think these bodies are going somewhere? Think of it only as a kind of—incinerator."
"Not on your life, Professor. The gadget don't get hot so how can it burn? It don't use enough electricity to fry. It don't cut 'em up or crush 'em down, or dissolve them in acid. I've seen disappearing cabinets before."
Mafia or not, I saw red. "Are you daring to suggest that I am working some trick with trap doors or sliding panels?"
"Easy, Professor," Carmen said, effortlessly shoving me back with one palm. "I'm not saying you have the machine rigged. It's just that you have to be dropping the stuff through a sliding panel in—well, everything around us. You're sliding all that aside and dropping things through. But I want to know where they wind up. Reasonable?"
Carmen was an uneducated lout and a criminal but he had an instinctive feel for the mechanics of physics.
"I don't know where the stuff goes, Carmen," I finally admitted. "It might go into another plane of existence. 'Another dimension' the writers for the American Weekly would describe it. Or into our past, or our future."
The swarthy racketeer pursed his lips and apparently did some rapid calculation.
"I don't mind the first two, but I don't like them going into the future. If they do that, they may show up again in six months."
"Or six million years."
"You'll have to cut that future part out, Professor."
I was beginning to get a trifle impatient. All those folk tales I had heard about the Mafia were getting more distant. "See here, Carmen, I could lie to you and say they went into the prehistoric past and you would never know the difference. But the truth is, I just don't know where the processed material goes. There's a chance it may go into the future, yes. But unless it goes exactly one year or exactly so many years it would appear in empty space ... because the earth will have moved from the spot it was transmitted. I don't know for sure. Perhaps the slight Deneb-ward movement of the Solar System would wreck a perfect three-point landing even then and cause the dispatched materials to burn up from atmospheric friction, like meteors. You will just have to take a chance on the future. That's the best I can do."
Carmen inhaled deeply. "Okay. I'll risk it. Pretty long odds against any squeal on the play. How many of these things can you turn out, Professor?"
"I can construct a duplicate of this device so that you may destroy the unwanted corpses that you would have me believe are delivered to you with the regularity of the morning milk run."
The racketeer waved that suggestion aside. "I'm talking about a big operation, Venetti. These things can take the place of incinerators, garbage disposals, waste baskets...."
"Impractical," I snorted. "You don't realize the tremendous amount of electrical power these devices require...."
"Nuts! From what you said, the machine is like a TV set; it takes a lot of power to get it started, but then on it coasts on its own generators."
"There's something to what you say," I admitted in the face of his unexpected information. "But I can hardly turn my invention over to your entirely persuasive salesmen, I'm sure. This is part of the results of an investigation for the government. Washington will have to decide what to do with the machine."
"Listen, Professor," Carmen began, "the Mafia—"
"What makes you think I'm any more afraid of the Mafia than I am of the F.B.I.? I may have already sealed my fate by letting you in on this much. Machinegunning is hardly a less attractive fate to me than a poor security rating. To me, being dead professionally would be as bad as being dead biologically."
Tony Carmen laid a heavy hand on my shoulder. I finally deduced he intended to be cordial.
"Of course," he said smoothly "you have to give this to Washington but there are ways , Professor. I know. I'm a business man—"
"You are ?" I said.
He named some of the businesses in which he held large shares of stock.
"You are ."
"I've had experience in this sort of thing. We simply leak the information to a few hundred well selected persons about all that your machine can do. We'll call 'em Expendables, because they can expend anything."
"I," I interjected, "planned to call it the Venetti Machine."
"Professor, who calls the radio the Marconi these days?"
"There are Geiger-Muller Counters, though," I said.
"You don't have to give a Geiger counter the sex appeal of a TV set or a hardtop convertible. We'll call them Expendables. No home will be complete without one."
"Perfect for disposing of unwanted bodies," I mused. "The murder rate will go alarmingly with those devices within easy reach."
"Did that stop Sam Colt or Henry Ford?" Tony Carmen asked reasonably....
Naturally, I was aware that the government would not be interested in my machine. I am not a Fortean, a psychic, a psionicist or a screwball. But the government frequently gets things it doesn't know what to do with—like airplanes in the 'twenties. When it doesn't know what to do, it doesn't do it.
There have been hundreds of workable perpetual motion machines patented, for example. Of course, they weren't vices in the strictest sense of the word. Many of them used the external power of gravity, they would wear out or slow down in time from friction, but for the meanwhile, for some ten to two hundred years they would just sit there, moving. No one had ever been able to figure out what to do with them.
I knew the AEC wasn't going to dump tons of radioactive waste (with some possible future reclaimation value) into a machine which they didn't believe actually could work.
Tony Carmen knew exactly what to do with an Expendable once he got his hands on it.
Naturally, that was what I had been afraid of.
The closed sedan was warm, even in early December.
Outside, the street was a progression of shadowed block forms. I was shivering slightly, my teeth rattling like the porcelain they were. Was this the storied "ride," I wondered?
Carmen finally returned to the car, unlatched the door and slid in. He did not reinsert the ignition key. I did not feel like sprinting down the deserted street.
"The boys will have it set up in a minute," Tony the racketeer informed me.
"What?" The firing squad?
"The Expendable, of course."
"Here? You dragged me out here to see how you have prostituted my invention? I presume you've set it up with a 'Keep Our City Clean' sign pasted on it."
He chuckled. It was a somewhat nasty sound, or so I imagined.
A flashlight winked in the sooty twilight.
"Okay. Let's go," Tony said, slapping my shoulder.
I got out of the car, rubbing my flabby bicep. Whenever I took my teen-age daughter to the beach from my late wife's parents' home, I frequently found 230 pound bullies did kick sand in my ears.
The machine was installed on the corner, half covered with a gloomy white shroud, and fearlessly plugged into the city lighting system via a blanketed streetlamp. Two hoods hovered in a doorway ready to take care of the first cop with a couple of fifties or a single .38, as necessity dictated.
Tony guided my elbow. "Okay, Professor, I think I understand the bit now, but I'll let you run it up with the flagpole for me, to see how it waves to the national anthem."
"Here?" I spluttered once more. "I told you, Carmen, I wanted nothing more to do with you. Your check is still on deposit...."
"You didn't want anything to do with me in the first place." The thug's teeth flashed in the night. "Throw your contraption into gear, buddy."
That was the first time the tone of respect, even if faked, had gone out of his voice. I moved to the switchboard of my invention. What remained was as simple as adjusting a modern floor lamp to a medium light position. I flipped.
Restraining any impulse toward colloqualism, I was also deeply disturbed by what next occurred.
One of the massive square shapes on the horizon vanished.
"What have you done?" I yelped, ripping the cover off the machine.
Even under the uncertain illumination of the smogged stars I could see that the unit was half gone—in fact, exactly halved.
"Squint the Seal is one of my boys. He used to be a mechanic in the old days for Burger, Madle, the guys who used to rob banks and stuff." There was an unmistakable note of boyish admiration in Carmen's voice.
"He figured the thing would work like that. Separate the poles and you increase the size of the working area."
"You mean square the operational field. Your idiot doesn't even know mechanics."
"No, but he knows all about how any kind of machine works."
"You call that working?" I demanded. "Do you realize what you have there, Carmen?"
"Sure. A disintegrator ray, straight out of Startling Stories ."
My opinion as to the type of person who followed the pages of science-fiction magazines with fluttering lips and tracing finger was upheld.
I looked at the old warehouse and of course didn't see it.
"What was this a test for?" I asked, fearful of the Frankenstein I had made. "What are you planning to do now?"
"This was no test, Venetti. This was it. I just wiped out Harry Keno and his intimates right in the middle of their confidential squat."
"Good heavens. That's uncouthly old-fashioned of you, Carmen! Why, that's murder ."
"Not," Carmen said, "without no corpus delecti ."
"The body of the crime remains without the body of the victim," I remembered from my early Ellery Queen training.
"You're talking too much, Professor," Tony suggested. "Remember, you did it with your machine."
"Yes," I said at length. "And why are we standing here letting those machines sit there?"
There were two small items of interest to me in the Times the following morning.
One two-inch story—barely making page one because of a hole to fill at the bottom of an account of the number of victims of Indian summer heat prostration—told of the incineration of a warehouse on Fleet Street by an ingenious new arson bomb that left "virtually" no trace. (Maybe the fire inspector had planted a few traces to make his explanation more creditable.)
The second item was further over in a science column just off the editorial page. It told of the government—!—developing a new process of waste disposal rivaling the old Buck Rogers disintegrator ray.
This, I presumed, was one of Tony Carmen's information leaks.
If he hoped to arouse the public into demanding my invention I doubted he would succeed. The public had been told repeatedly of a new radioactive process for preserving food and a painless way of spraying injections through the skin. But they were still stuck with refrigerators and hypodermic needles.
I had forced my way half-way through the paper and the terrible coffee I made when the doorbell rang.
I was hardly surprised when it turned out to be Tony Carmen behind the front door.
He pushed in, slapping a rolled newspaper in his palm. "Action, Professor."
"The district attorney has indicted you?" I asked hopefully.
"He's not even indicted you , Venetti. No, I got a feeler on this plant in the Times ."
I shook my head. "The government will take over the invention, no matter what the public wants."
"The public? Who cares about the public? The Arcivox corporation wants this machine of yours. They have their agents tracing the plant now. They will go from the columnist to his legman to my man and finally to you. Won't be long before they get here. An hour maybe."
"Arcivox makes radios and TV sets. What do they want with the Expendables?"
"Opening up a new appliance line with real innovations. I hear they got a new refrigerator. All open. Just shelves—no doors or sides. They want a revolutionary garbage disposal too."
"Do you own stock in the company? Is that how you know?"
"I own stock in a competitor. That's how I know," Carmen informed me.
"Listen, Professor, you can sell to Arcivox and still keep control of the patents through a separate corporation. And I'll give you 49% of its stock."
This was Carmen's idea of a magnanimous offer for my invention. It was a pretty good offer—49% and my good health.
"But will the government let Arcivox have the machine for commercial use?"
"The government would let Arcivox have the hydrogen bomb if they found a commercial use for it."
There was a sturdy knock on the door, not a shrill ring of the bell.
"That must be Arcivox now," Carmen growled. "They have the best detectives in the business. You know what to tell them?"
I knew what to tell them.
I peeled off my wet shirt and threw it across the corner of my desk, casting a reproving eye at the pastel air-conditioner in the window. It wasn't really the machine's fault—The water department reported the reservoir too low to run water-cooled systems. It would be a day or two before I could get the gas type into my office.
Miss Brown, my secretary, was getting a good look at my pale, bony chest. Well, for the salary she got, she could stand to look. Of course, she herself was wearing a modest one-strap sun dress, not shorts and halters like some of the girls.
"My," she observed "it certainly is humid for March, isn't it, Professor Venetti?"
I agreed that it was.
She got her pad and pencil ready.
"Wheedling form letter to Better Mousetraps. Where are our royalties for the last quarter of the year? We know we didn't have a full three months with our Expendable Field in operation on the new traps, but we want the payola for what we have coming.
"Condescending form letter to Humane Lethal Equipment. Absolutely do not send the California penal system any chambers equipped with our patented field until legislature officially approves them. We got away with it in New Mexico, but we're older and wiser now.
"Rush priority telegram to President, United States, any time in the next ten days. Thanks for citation, et cetera. Glad buddy system working out well in training battlefield disintegrator teams.
"Indignant form letter to Arcivox. We do not feel we are properly a co-respondent in your damage suits. Small children and appliances have always been a problem, viz ice boxes and refrigerators. Suggest you put a more complicated latch on the handles of the dangerously inferior doors you have covering our efficient, patented field."
I leaned back and took a breather. There was no getting around it—I just wasn't happy as a business man. I had been counting on being only a figurehead in the Expendable Patent Holding Corporation, but Tony Carmen didn't like office work. And he hadn't anyone he trusted any more than me. Even.
I jerked open a drawer and pulled off a paper towel from the roll I had stolen in the men's room. Scrubbing my chest and neck with it, I smoothed it out and dropped it into the wastebasket. It slid down the tapering sides and through the narrow slot above the Expendable Field. I had redesigned the wastebaskets after a janitor had stepped in one. But Gimpy was happy now, with the $50,000 we paid him.
I opened my mouth and Miss Brown's pencil perked up its eraser, reflecting her fierce alertness.
Tony Carmen banged open the door, and I closed my mouth.
"G-men on the way here," he blurted and collapsed into a chair opposite Miss Brown.
"Don't revert to type," I warned him. "What kind of G-Men? FBI? FCC? CIA? FDA? USTD?"
"Investigators for the Atomic Energy Commission."
The solemn, conservatively dressed young man in the door touched the edge of his snap-brim hat as he said it.
"Miss Brown, would you mind letting our visitor use your chair?" I asked.
"Not at all, sir," she said dreamily.
"May I suggest," I said, "that we might get more business done if you then removed yourself from the chair first."
Miss Brown leaped to her feet with a healthy galvanic response and quit the vicinity with her usual efficiency.
Once seated, the AEC man said "I'll get right to the point. You may find this troublesome, gentlemen, but your government intends to confiscate all of the devices using your so-called Expendable field, and forever bar their manufacture in this country or their importation."
"You stinking G-men aren't getting away with this," Carmen said ingratiatingly. "Ever hear of the Mafia?"
"Not much," the young man admitted earnestly, "since the FBI finished with its deportations a few years back."
I cleared my throat. "I must admit that the destruction of a multi-billion business is disconcerting before lunch. May we ask why you took this step?"
The agent inserted a finger between his collar and tie. "Have you noticed how unseasonably warm it is?"
"I wondered if you had. You're going to have heat prostration if you keep that suit coat on five minutes more."
The young man collapsed back in his chair, loosening the top button of his ivy league jacket, looking from my naked hide to the gossomer scrap of sport shirt Carmen wore. "We have to dress inconspicuously in the service," he panted weakly.
I nodded understandingly. "What does the heat have to do with the outlawing of the Expendables?"
"At first we thought there might be some truth in the folk nonsense that nuclear tests had something to do with raising the mean temperature of the world," the AEC man said. "But our scientists quickly found they weren't to blame."
"Clever of them."
"Yes, they saw that the widespread use of your machines was responsible for the higher temperature. Your device violates the law of conservation of energy, seemingly . It seemingly destroys matter without creating energy. Actually—"
He paused dramatically.
"Actually, your device added the energy it created in destroying matter to the energy potential of the planet in the form of heat . You see what that means? If your devices continue in operation, the mean temperature of Earth will rise to the point where we burst into flame. They must be outlawed!"
"I agree," I said reluctantly.
Tony Carmen spoke up. "No, you don't, Professor. We don't agree to that."
I waved his protests aside.
"I would agree," I said, "except that it wouldn't work. Explain the danger to the public, let them feel the heat rise themselves, and they will hoard Expendables against seizure and continue to use them, until we do burst into flame, as you put it so religiously."
"Why?" the young man demanded.
"Because Expendables are convenient. There is a ban on frivolous use of water due to the dire need. But the police still have to go stop people from watering lawns, and I suspect not a few swimming pools are being filled on the sly. Water is somebody else's worry. So will be generating enough heat to turn Eden into Hell."
"Mass psychology isn't my strongest point," the young man said worriedly. "But I suspect you may be right. Then—we'll be damned?"
"No, not necessarily," I told him comfortingly. "All we have to do is use up the excess energy with engines of a specific design."
"But can we design those engines in time?" the young man wondered with uncharacteristic gloom.
"Certainly," I said, practising the power of positive thinking. "Now that your world-wide testing laboratories have confirmed a vague fear of mine, I can easily reverse the field of the Expendable device and create a rather low-efficiency engine that consumes the excess energy in our planetary potential."
The agent of the AEC whose name I can never remember was present along
with Tony Carmen the night my assistants finished with the work I had
outlined.
While it was midnight outside, the fluorescents made the scene more
visible than sunlight. My Disexpendable was a medium-sized drum in a
tripod frame with an unturned coolie's hat at the bottom.
Breathlessly, I closed the switch and the scooped disc began slowly to
revolve.
"Is it my imagination," the agent asked, "or is it getting cooler in
here?"
"Professor." Carmen gave me a warning nudge.
There was now something on the revolving disc. It was a bar of some
shiny gray metal.
"Kill the power, Professor," Carmen said.
"Can it be," I wondered, "that the machine is somehow recreating or
drawing back the processed material from some other time or dimension?"
"Shut the thing off, Venetti!" the racketeer demanded.
But too late.
There was now a somewhat dead man sitting in the saddle of the turning
circle of metal.
If Harry Keno had only been sane when he turned up on that
merry-go-round in Boston I feel we would have learned much of immense
value on the nature of time and space.
As it is, I feel that it is a miscarriage of justice to hold me in
connection with the murders I am sure Tony Carmen did commit.
I hope this personal account when published will end the vicious
story supported by the district attorney that it was I who sought Tony
Carmen out and offered to dispose of his enemies and that I sought his
financial backing for the exploitation of my invention.
This is the true, and only true, account of the development of the
machine known as the Expendable.
I am only sorry, now that the temperature has been standardized once
more, that the Expendable's antithesis, the Disexpendable, is of too
low an order of efficiency to be of much value as a power source in
these days of nuclear and solar energy. So the world is again stuck
with the problem of waste disposal ... including all that I dumped
before. But as a great American once said, you can't win 'em all.
If you so desire, you may send your generous and fruitful letters
towards my upcoming defense in care of this civic-minded publication.
Question:
What is the plot of the story?
Answer:
|
[
"A racketeer, Tony Carmen, comes to Professor Venetti, demanding him figure out how to get rid of the corpse in his house without leaving any traces by using the information Professor Venetti has in his job for the U.S. government that is related to the disposal problem of nuclear waste. Tony threatens Professor Venetti that if Professor Venetti does not abide by what he says, his connection with Mafia will cause Professor Venetti a lot of trouble. Afraid of what the Mafia may do, Professor Venetti finally accepts his request. However, professor Venetti does not abide by the safety and careful principles when he invents the machine, which is named Expendable late after by Tony. He does not know how the machine works either; he creates a device that can turn physical mass into nothingness without knowing where the disposed of mass or energy goes. When he gives the machine to Tony, Tony asks how the machine works, but Professor Venetti cannot explain. Later on, Tony sets up the device on the street, ordering Professor Venetti to turn on the machine, which is modified by a boy who used to be a mechanic, and Professor Venetti does. The machine destroys a warehouse, including the people inside. Professor Venetti condemns Tony for committing a crime, but Tony does not care as there is no corpse to prove the crime. \n\nTony persuades Professor Venetti to put the Expendables into business. He leaks the information about the machine through newspapers to attract big corporations to come for them. As they make more profits from the product and go through all the business matters, an agent from Atomic Energy Commission comes. The agent informs them about the ban of their products because there is a research finding that the side effect of their product is the heat transformed from the mass, which results in the rising temperature. Professor Venetti believes that people would not stop using the products even if they knew what environmental damage they would cause. He creates a reverse version of the machine, called Disexpendable, which would consume the excess energy produced by the Expendables. After he completes it, he turns it on. As the Disexpendable operates, the temperature gets colder, and the corpse, once decomposed, appears in the room in front of the agent. At the same time, Tony orders Professor Venetti to turn off the machine.\n",
"Tony Carmen, a criminal with connections in the Mafia, comes to professor Venetti with a request to create some method of getting rid of human corpses with no traces. He says that these are bodies of accident victims left by Harry Keno. Professor tries to come up with different conventional methods. Carmen mentions that he knows Venetti’s affiliation with the radioactive waste disposal program coordinated by the government and wants something more scientifically-based. Venetti thinks about all the attempts the government made to dispose of radioactive waste, but they were all futile since there was no way of creating an effective mechanism without breaking the law of energy conservation. He experiments and manages to create a machine that erases any physical object without any thermal or gravitational traces. When Tony Carmen asks where the matter goes, the professor honestly admits that he doesn’t know. Carmen is suspicious, but Venetti firmly states that even if the objects go to the future or the past, there is a small chance of them appearing again soon. Tony starts talking about the mass-production of these machines, but Venetti initially protests, scared of legal prosecution and reputational damage. But eventually, the professor gives up, realizing that this mechanism - Tony calls it an Expendable - won’t be useful to the government. Sometime later, Camren and Venetti decide to test the machine outside. After flipping the switch, Venetti sees that a distant warehouse building disappears. He is shocked and soon notices that the unit is halved. Tony says that his friend separated the mechanism to square the operational field, and it worked. He also says that his enemy Harry Keno just got wiped out together with his intimates and their confidential squat. The following morning, the Times mentions the vanishing of the building and that the government is developing a disintegrating process for waste. Tony comes to him and tells him that Arcivox - a company producing radios and TV sets - wants to buy the machine. Tony suggests selling the potent and keeping it in control through a separate corporation. Several months later, professor Venetti is in his office talking to his secretary, Miss Brown, about the future business communications. Suddenly Tony bangs open the door and says that G-men are on their way. Seconds later, an investigator from the Atomic Energy Commission comes in. He quickly states that the manufacturing of the Expendable will soon be banned. He explains that their scientists understood that the energy the machine seemingly destroyed actually turned into heat. This process increased the mean temperature. The professor agrees but adds that people are too stubborn to stop using the machine. He suggests creating an engine that would use up this extra energy. When they switch the disexpendable on, slowly the body of Harry Keno appears on the revolving disc. At the end, Venetti claims that his inventions are useless now and that this story is true, and he encourages the readers to write letters towards his upcoming defense.",
"The story follows a scientist who works for the U.S. Government. He is trying to find ways that the Government can get rid of radioactive and nuclear waste cleanly and safely. He is approached by a member of the Italian Mob. He asks Venetti to continue making this instrument, and to give him a copy when he makes it, because he needs to find a way to get rid of human bodies. At the beginning Venetti doubts doing this, but he believes it is a good way to make money. Venetti finally makes it and it, and gives Venetti one of the machines. The machine seems to get rid of anything that is put in it, without leaving behind any trace. Together, they start a company and commercially sell the boxes as expendables. They start to gain a lot of money, because it makes life easier for a lot of people. Their company grows a lot, and they start to get a lot of. Finally, it is revealed that the expendables have been contributing to global warming, as it excretes the energy into the environment. Venetti develops another machine in order to counteract the effects of the original expendable, which leads to regenerating everything that was put in the machine, including the dead bodies. This leads to Venetti being sued for the expendables, as people believe that he approached the member of the mob first. ",
"The Expendables is written in the form of a personal account by scientist Professor Venetti. He is approached by a stranger claiming to know the Mafia, Tony Carmen, who asks him for a favor to which Venetti initially refuses. Carmen is trying to use the professor’s potential invention to get rid of dead bodies Carmen has. After Carmen makes Venetti aware that he knows about his secret project with the government to develop an innovation that would get rid of radioactive wastes, Carmen manages to make Venetti agree to help him. Prof. Venetti makes him promise that he did not kill the bodies. Venetti has yet to succeed in finding such an invention because this requires a neutralization of the radioactive emanations while he has only been able to reduce the radioactive mass. With less responsibility and credibility associated with Tony’s request compared to the government’s, he decides to perform more risky experimentations. He finds a way to make trash disappear but by completely destroying its mass. Venetti thinks that contrary to the government, Carmen would not be curious enough to ask where the mass actually goes. Carmen does in fact ask this when Venetti shows him the machine as he is concerned that he will get caught. Venetti genuinely does not know the answer and Carmen proposes that they launch the machine as the “Expendable”. With his business expertise, Carmen promises to help with the launch while Venetti is still concerned with the ethical implications such as a possible rise in murder rate. Together, they go test the machine on an empty, wide land with bodyguards around in case any policemen show up. When they use it, a square shape of the horizon disappears and Tony uses the machine for corpses which Venetti ultimately understands were results of Carmen’s own crime. The next morning, the innovation is featured in the newspaper as a rumor. Arcivox, a radio and TV company, expresses interest. Tony convinces Venetti to accept the offer when they come forward, saying that he will give him a large portion of the stocks.\n\nFlash forward into time, after taking the offer, Venetti is now a business man but he is not enjoying it. One day, the Atomic Energy Commission approaches his team, telling him they need to end the Expendables. They explain that their scientists used to think that the increasing hot weather was due to nuclear testing but they found that it was in fact due to the Expendables. The machines merely destroy matter but do not create any, violating the law of conversion of energy which could raise the Earth temperature to worrying extremities. Venetti argues that the public would not be willing to stop its use because of how convenient it is and instead agrees to create “Disexpendibles” which would create the opposite effect. When put to use, the temperature readjusts but trash reappears and so do the bodies that Tony wanted gone. At the very least, this held Tony accountable for his actions.\n"
] |
61171
|
THE EXPENDABLES
BY JIM HARMON
It was just a little black box, useful for getting rid of things. Trouble was, it worked too well!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
"You see my problem, Professor?" Tony Carmen held his pinkly manicured, flashily ringed hands wide.
I saw his problem and it was warmly embarrassing.
"Really, Mr. Carmen," I said, "this isn't the sort of thing you discuss with a total stranger. I'm not a doctor—not of medicine, anyway—or a lawyer."
"They can't help me. I need an operator in your line."
"I work for the United States government. I can't become involved in anything illegal."
Carmen smoothed down the front of his too-tight midnight blue suit and touched the diamond sticking in his silver tie. "You can't, Professor Venetti? Ever hear of the Mafia?"
"I've heard of it," I said uneasily. "An old fraternal organization something like the Moose or Rosicrucians, founded in Sicily. It allegedly controls organized crime in the U.S. But that is a responsibility-eluding myth that honest Italian-Americans are stamping out. We don't even like to see the word in print."
"I can understand honest Italian-Americans feeling that way. But guys like me know the Mafia is still with it. We can put the squeeze on marks like you pretty easy."
You don't have to tell even a third generation American about the Mafia. Maybe that was the trouble. I had heard too much and for too long. All the stories I had ever heard about the Mafia, true or false, built up an unendurable threat.
"All right, I'll try to help you, Carmen. But ... that is, you didn't kill any of these people?"
He snorted. "I haven't killed anybody since early 1943."
"Please," I said weakly. "You needn't incriminate yourself with me."
"I was in the Marines," Carmen said hotly. "Listen, Professor, these aren't no Prohibition times. Not many people get made for a hit these days. Mother, most of these bodies they keep ditching at my club haven't been murdered by anybody. They're accident victims. Rumbums with too much anti-freeze for a summer's day, Spanish-American War vets going to visit Teddy in the natural course of events. Harry Keno just stows them at my place to embarrass me. Figures to make me lose my liquor license or take a contempt before the Grand Jury."
"I don't suppose you could just go to the police—" I saw the answer in his eyes. "No. I don't suppose you could."
"I told you once, Professor, but I'll tell you again. I have to get rid of these bodies they keep leaving in my kitchen. I can take 'em and throw them in the river, sure. But what if me or my boys are stopped en route by some tipped badge?"
"Quicklime?" I suggested automatically.
"What are you talking about? Are you sure you're some kind of scientist? Lime doesn't do much to a stiff at all. Kind of putrifies them like...."
"I forgot," I admitted. "I'd read it in so many stories I'd forgotten it wouldn't work. And I suppose the furnace leaves ashes and there's always traces of hair and teeth in the garbage disposal... An interesting problem, at that."
"I figured you could handle it," Carmen said, leaning back comfortably in the favorite chair of my bachelor apartment. "I heard you were working on something to get rid of trash for the government."
"That," I told him, "is restricted information. I subcontracted that work from the big telephone laboratories. How did you find it out?"
"Ways, Professor, ways."
The government did want me to find a way to dispose of wastes—radioactive wastes. It was the most important problem any country could have in this time of growing atomic industry. Now a small-time gangster was asking me to use this research to help him dispose of hot corpses. It made my scientific blood seethe. But the shadow of the Black Hand cooled it off.
"Maybe I can find something in that area of research to help you," I said. "I'll call you."
"Don't take too long, Professor," Carmen said cordially.
The big drum topped with a metallic coolie's hat had started out as a neutralizer for radioactivity. Now I didn't know what to call it.
The AEC had found burying canisters of hot rubbish in the desert or in the Gulf had eventually proved unsatisfactory. Earth tremors or changes of temperature split the tanks in the ground, causing leaks. The undersea containers rusted and corroded through the time, poisoning fish and fishermen.
Through the SBA I had been awarded a subcontract to work on the problem. The ideal solution would be to find a way to neutralize radioactive emanations, alpha, beta, X et cetera. (No, my dear, et cetera rays aren't any more dangerous than the rest.) But this is easier written than done.
Of course, getting energy to destroy energy without producing energy or matter is a violation of the maxim of the conservation of energy. But I didn't let that stop me—any more than I would have let the velocity of light put any limitations on a spacecraft engine had I been engaged to work on one. You can't allow other people's ideas to tie you hand and foot. There are some who tell me, however, that my refusal to honor such time-tested cliches is why I only have a small private laboratory owned by myself, my late wife's father and the bank, instead of working in the vast facilities of Bell, Du Pont, or General Motors. To this, I can only smile and nod.
But even refusing to be balked by conservative ideas, I failed.
I could not neutralize radioactivity. All I had been able to do (by a basic disturbance in the electromagnetogravitational co-ordinant system for Earth-Sun) was to reduce the mass of the radioactive matter.
This only concentrated the radiations, as in boiling contaminated water. It did make the hot stuff vaguely easier to handle, but it was no breakthrough on the central problem.
Now, in the middle of this, I was supposed to find a way to get rid of some damned bodies for Carmen.
Pressed for time and knowing the results wouldn't have to be so precise or carefully defined for a racketeer as for the United States government, I began experimenting.
I cut corners.
I bypassed complete safety circuits.
I put dangerous overloads on some transformers and doodled with the wiring diagrams. If I got some kind of passable incinerator I would be happy.
I turned the machine on.
The lights popped out.
There were changes that should be made before I tried that again, but instead I only found a larger fuse for a heavier load and jammed that in the switchbox.
I flipped my machine into service once again. The lights flickered and held.
The dials on my control board told me the story. It was hard to take.
But there it was.
The internal Scale showed zero.
I had had a slightly hot bar of silver alloy inside. It was completely gone. Mass zero. The temperature gauge showed that there had been no change in centigrade reading that couldn't be explained by the mechanical operation of the machine itself. There had been no sudden discharge of electricity or radioactivity. I checked for a standard anti-gravity effect but there was none. Gravity inside the cylinder had gone to zero but never to minus.
I was at last violating conservation of energy—not by successfully inverting the cube of the ionization factor, but by destroying mass ... by simply making it cease to exist with no cause-and-effect side effects.
I knew the government wouldn't be interested, since I couldn't explain how my device worked. No amount of successful demonstration could ever convince anybody with any scientific training that it actually did work.
But I shrewdly judged that Tony Carmen wouldn't ask an embarrassing
"how" when he was incapable of understanding the explanation.
"Yeah, but how does it work?" Tony Carmen demanded of me, sleeking his mirror-black hair and staring up at the disk-topped drum.
"Why do you care?" I asked irritably. "It will dispose of your bodies for you."
"I got a reason that goes beyond the stiff, but let's stick to that just for now. Where are these bodies going? I don't want them winding up in the D.A.'s bathtub."
"Why not? How could they trace them back to you?"
"You're the scientist," Tony said hotly. "I got great respect for those crime lab boys. Maybe the stiff got some of my exclusive brand of talc on it, I don't know."
"Listen here, Carmen," I said, "what makes you think these bodies are going somewhere? Think of it only as a kind of—incinerator."
"Not on your life, Professor. The gadget don't get hot so how can it burn? It don't use enough electricity to fry. It don't cut 'em up or crush 'em down, or dissolve them in acid. I've seen disappearing cabinets before."
Mafia or not, I saw red. "Are you daring to suggest that I am working some trick with trap doors or sliding panels?"
"Easy, Professor," Carmen said, effortlessly shoving me back with one palm. "I'm not saying you have the machine rigged. It's just that you have to be dropping the stuff through a sliding panel in—well, everything around us. You're sliding all that aside and dropping things through. But I want to know where they wind up. Reasonable?"
Carmen was an uneducated lout and a criminal but he had an instinctive feel for the mechanics of physics.
"I don't know where the stuff goes, Carmen," I finally admitted. "It might go into another plane of existence. 'Another dimension' the writers for the American Weekly would describe it. Or into our past, or our future."
The swarthy racketeer pursed his lips and apparently did some rapid calculation.
"I don't mind the first two, but I don't like them going into the future. If they do that, they may show up again in six months."
"Or six million years."
"You'll have to cut that future part out, Professor."
I was beginning to get a trifle impatient. All those folk tales I had heard about the Mafia were getting more distant. "See here, Carmen, I could lie to you and say they went into the prehistoric past and you would never know the difference. But the truth is, I just don't know where the processed material goes. There's a chance it may go into the future, yes. But unless it goes exactly one year or exactly so many years it would appear in empty space ... because the earth will have moved from the spot it was transmitted. I don't know for sure. Perhaps the slight Deneb-ward movement of the Solar System would wreck a perfect three-point landing even then and cause the dispatched materials to burn up from atmospheric friction, like meteors. You will just have to take a chance on the future. That's the best I can do."
Carmen inhaled deeply. "Okay. I'll risk it. Pretty long odds against any squeal on the play. How many of these things can you turn out, Professor?"
"I can construct a duplicate of this device so that you may destroy the unwanted corpses that you would have me believe are delivered to you with the regularity of the morning milk run."
The racketeer waved that suggestion aside. "I'm talking about a big operation, Venetti. These things can take the place of incinerators, garbage disposals, waste baskets...."
"Impractical," I snorted. "You don't realize the tremendous amount of electrical power these devices require...."
"Nuts! From what you said, the machine is like a TV set; it takes a lot of power to get it started, but then on it coasts on its own generators."
"There's something to what you say," I admitted in the face of his unexpected information. "But I can hardly turn my invention over to your entirely persuasive salesmen, I'm sure. This is part of the results of an investigation for the government. Washington will have to decide what to do with the machine."
"Listen, Professor," Carmen began, "the Mafia—"
"What makes you think I'm any more afraid of the Mafia than I am of the F.B.I.? I may have already sealed my fate by letting you in on this much. Machinegunning is hardly a less attractive fate to me than a poor security rating. To me, being dead professionally would be as bad as being dead biologically."
Tony Carmen laid a heavy hand on my shoulder. I finally deduced he intended to be cordial.
"Of course," he said smoothly "you have to give this to Washington but there are ways , Professor. I know. I'm a business man—"
"You are ?" I said.
He named some of the businesses in which he held large shares of stock.
"You are ."
"I've had experience in this sort of thing. We simply leak the information to a few hundred well selected persons about all that your machine can do. We'll call 'em Expendables, because they can expend anything."
"I," I interjected, "planned to call it the Venetti Machine."
"Professor, who calls the radio the Marconi these days?"
"There are Geiger-Muller Counters, though," I said.
"You don't have to give a Geiger counter the sex appeal of a TV set or a hardtop convertible. We'll call them Expendables. No home will be complete without one."
"Perfect for disposing of unwanted bodies," I mused. "The murder rate will go alarmingly with those devices within easy reach."
"Did that stop Sam Colt or Henry Ford?" Tony Carmen asked reasonably....
Naturally, I was aware that the government would not be interested in my machine. I am not a Fortean, a psychic, a psionicist or a screwball. But the government frequently gets things it doesn't know what to do with—like airplanes in the 'twenties. When it doesn't know what to do, it doesn't do it.
There have been hundreds of workable perpetual motion machines patented, for example. Of course, they weren't vices in the strictest sense of the word. Many of them used the external power of gravity, they would wear out or slow down in time from friction, but for the meanwhile, for some ten to two hundred years they would just sit there, moving. No one had ever been able to figure out what to do with them.
I knew the AEC wasn't going to dump tons of radioactive waste (with some possible future reclaimation value) into a machine which they didn't believe actually could work.
Tony Carmen knew exactly what to do with an Expendable once he got his hands on it.
Naturally, that was what I had been afraid of.
The closed sedan was warm, even in early December.
Outside, the street was a progression of shadowed block forms. I was shivering slightly, my teeth rattling like the porcelain they were. Was this the storied "ride," I wondered?
Carmen finally returned to the car, unlatched the door and slid in. He did not reinsert the ignition key. I did not feel like sprinting down the deserted street.
"The boys will have it set up in a minute," Tony the racketeer informed me.
"What?" The firing squad?
"The Expendable, of course."
"Here? You dragged me out here to see how you have prostituted my invention? I presume you've set it up with a 'Keep Our City Clean' sign pasted on it."
He chuckled. It was a somewhat nasty sound, or so I imagined.
A flashlight winked in the sooty twilight.
"Okay. Let's go," Tony said, slapping my shoulder.
I got out of the car, rubbing my flabby bicep. Whenever I took my teen-age daughter to the beach from my late wife's parents' home, I frequently found 230 pound bullies did kick sand in my ears.
The machine was installed on the corner, half covered with a gloomy white shroud, and fearlessly plugged into the city lighting system via a blanketed streetlamp. Two hoods hovered in a doorway ready to take care of the first cop with a couple of fifties or a single .38, as necessity dictated.
Tony guided my elbow. "Okay, Professor, I think I understand the bit now, but I'll let you run it up with the flagpole for me, to see how it waves to the national anthem."
"Here?" I spluttered once more. "I told you, Carmen, I wanted nothing more to do with you. Your check is still on deposit...."
"You didn't want anything to do with me in the first place." The thug's teeth flashed in the night. "Throw your contraption into gear, buddy."
That was the first time the tone of respect, even if faked, had gone out of his voice. I moved to the switchboard of my invention. What remained was as simple as adjusting a modern floor lamp to a medium light position. I flipped.
Restraining any impulse toward colloqualism, I was also deeply disturbed by what next occurred.
One of the massive square shapes on the horizon vanished.
"What have you done?" I yelped, ripping the cover off the machine.
Even under the uncertain illumination of the smogged stars I could see that the unit was half gone—in fact, exactly halved.
"Squint the Seal is one of my boys. He used to be a mechanic in the old days for Burger, Madle, the guys who used to rob banks and stuff." There was an unmistakable note of boyish admiration in Carmen's voice.
"He figured the thing would work like that. Separate the poles and you increase the size of the working area."
"You mean square the operational field. Your idiot doesn't even know mechanics."
"No, but he knows all about how any kind of machine works."
"You call that working?" I demanded. "Do you realize what you have there, Carmen?"
"Sure. A disintegrator ray, straight out of Startling Stories ."
My opinion as to the type of person who followed the pages of science-fiction magazines with fluttering lips and tracing finger was upheld.
I looked at the old warehouse and of course didn't see it.
"What was this a test for?" I asked, fearful of the Frankenstein I had made. "What are you planning to do now?"
"This was no test, Venetti. This was it. I just wiped out Harry Keno and his intimates right in the middle of their confidential squat."
"Good heavens. That's uncouthly old-fashioned of you, Carmen! Why, that's murder ."
"Not," Carmen said, "without no corpus delecti ."
"The body of the crime remains without the body of the victim," I remembered from my early Ellery Queen training.
"You're talking too much, Professor," Tony suggested. "Remember, you did it with your machine."
"Yes," I said at length. "And why are we standing here letting those machines sit there?"
There were two small items of interest to me in the Times the following morning.
One two-inch story—barely making page one because of a hole to fill at the bottom of an account of the number of victims of Indian summer heat prostration—told of the incineration of a warehouse on Fleet Street by an ingenious new arson bomb that left "virtually" no trace. (Maybe the fire inspector had planted a few traces to make his explanation more creditable.)
The second item was further over in a science column just off the editorial page. It told of the government—!—developing a new process of waste disposal rivaling the old Buck Rogers disintegrator ray.
This, I presumed, was one of Tony Carmen's information leaks.
If he hoped to arouse the public into demanding my invention I doubted he would succeed. The public had been told repeatedly of a new radioactive process for preserving food and a painless way of spraying injections through the skin. But they were still stuck with refrigerators and hypodermic needles.
I had forced my way half-way through the paper and the terrible coffee I made when the doorbell rang.
I was hardly surprised when it turned out to be Tony Carmen behind the front door.
He pushed in, slapping a rolled newspaper in his palm. "Action, Professor."
"The district attorney has indicted you?" I asked hopefully.
"He's not even indicted you , Venetti. No, I got a feeler on this plant in the Times ."
I shook my head. "The government will take over the invention, no matter what the public wants."
"The public? Who cares about the public? The Arcivox corporation wants this machine of yours. They have their agents tracing the plant now. They will go from the columnist to his legman to my man and finally to you. Won't be long before they get here. An hour maybe."
"Arcivox makes radios and TV sets. What do they want with the Expendables?"
"Opening up a new appliance line with real innovations. I hear they got a new refrigerator. All open. Just shelves—no doors or sides. They want a revolutionary garbage disposal too."
"Do you own stock in the company? Is that how you know?"
"I own stock in a competitor. That's how I know," Carmen informed me.
"Listen, Professor, you can sell to Arcivox and still keep control of the patents through a separate corporation. And I'll give you 49% of its stock."
This was Carmen's idea of a magnanimous offer for my invention. It was a pretty good offer—49% and my good health.
"But will the government let Arcivox have the machine for commercial use?"
"The government would let Arcivox have the hydrogen bomb if they found a commercial use for it."
There was a sturdy knock on the door, not a shrill ring of the bell.
"That must be Arcivox now," Carmen growled. "They have the best detectives in the business. You know what to tell them?"
I knew what to tell them.
I peeled off my wet shirt and threw it across the corner of my desk, casting a reproving eye at the pastel air-conditioner in the window. It wasn't really the machine's fault—The water department reported the reservoir too low to run water-cooled systems. It would be a day or two before I could get the gas type into my office.
Miss Brown, my secretary, was getting a good look at my pale, bony chest. Well, for the salary she got, she could stand to look. Of course, she herself was wearing a modest one-strap sun dress, not shorts and halters like some of the girls.
"My," she observed "it certainly is humid for March, isn't it, Professor Venetti?"
I agreed that it was.
She got her pad and pencil ready.
"Wheedling form letter to Better Mousetraps. Where are our royalties for the last quarter of the year? We know we didn't have a full three months with our Expendable Field in operation on the new traps, but we want the payola for what we have coming.
"Condescending form letter to Humane Lethal Equipment. Absolutely do not send the California penal system any chambers equipped with our patented field until legislature officially approves them. We got away with it in New Mexico, but we're older and wiser now.
"Rush priority telegram to President, United States, any time in the next ten days. Thanks for citation, et cetera. Glad buddy system working out well in training battlefield disintegrator teams.
"Indignant form letter to Arcivox. We do not feel we are properly a co-respondent in your damage suits. Small children and appliances have always been a problem, viz ice boxes and refrigerators. Suggest you put a more complicated latch on the handles of the dangerously inferior doors you have covering our efficient, patented field."
I leaned back and took a breather. There was no getting around it—I just wasn't happy as a business man. I had been counting on being only a figurehead in the Expendable Patent Holding Corporation, but Tony Carmen didn't like office work. And he hadn't anyone he trusted any more than me. Even.
I jerked open a drawer and pulled off a paper towel from the roll I had stolen in the men's room. Scrubbing my chest and neck with it, I smoothed it out and dropped it into the wastebasket. It slid down the tapering sides and through the narrow slot above the Expendable Field. I had redesigned the wastebaskets after a janitor had stepped in one. But Gimpy was happy now, with the $50,000 we paid him.
I opened my mouth and Miss Brown's pencil perked up its eraser, reflecting her fierce alertness.
Tony Carmen banged open the door, and I closed my mouth.
"G-men on the way here," he blurted and collapsed into a chair opposite Miss Brown.
"Don't revert to type," I warned him. "What kind of G-Men? FBI? FCC? CIA? FDA? USTD?"
"Investigators for the Atomic Energy Commission."
The solemn, conservatively dressed young man in the door touched the edge of his snap-brim hat as he said it.
"Miss Brown, would you mind letting our visitor use your chair?" I asked.
"Not at all, sir," she said dreamily.
"May I suggest," I said, "that we might get more business done if you then removed yourself from the chair first."
Miss Brown leaped to her feet with a healthy galvanic response and quit the vicinity with her usual efficiency.
Once seated, the AEC man said "I'll get right to the point. You may find this troublesome, gentlemen, but your government intends to confiscate all of the devices using your so-called Expendable field, and forever bar their manufacture in this country or their importation."
"You stinking G-men aren't getting away with this," Carmen said ingratiatingly. "Ever hear of the Mafia?"
"Not much," the young man admitted earnestly, "since the FBI finished with its deportations a few years back."
I cleared my throat. "I must admit that the destruction of a multi-billion business is disconcerting before lunch. May we ask why you took this step?"
The agent inserted a finger between his collar and tie. "Have you noticed how unseasonably warm it is?"
"I wondered if you had. You're going to have heat prostration if you keep that suit coat on five minutes more."
The young man collapsed back in his chair, loosening the top button of his ivy league jacket, looking from my naked hide to the gossomer scrap of sport shirt Carmen wore. "We have to dress inconspicuously in the service," he panted weakly.
I nodded understandingly. "What does the heat have to do with the outlawing of the Expendables?"
"At first we thought there might be some truth in the folk nonsense that nuclear tests had something to do with raising the mean temperature of the world," the AEC man said. "But our scientists quickly found they weren't to blame."
"Clever of them."
"Yes, they saw that the widespread use of your machines was responsible for the higher temperature. Your device violates the law of conservation of energy, seemingly . It seemingly destroys matter without creating energy. Actually—"
He paused dramatically.
"Actually, your device added the energy it created in destroying matter to the energy potential of the planet in the form of heat . You see what that means? If your devices continue in operation, the mean temperature of Earth will rise to the point where we burst into flame. They must be outlawed!"
"I agree," I said reluctantly.
Tony Carmen spoke up. "No, you don't, Professor. We don't agree to that."
I waved his protests aside.
"I would agree," I said, "except that it wouldn't work. Explain the danger to the public, let them feel the heat rise themselves, and they will hoard Expendables against seizure and continue to use them, until we do burst into flame, as you put it so religiously."
"Why?" the young man demanded.
"Because Expendables are convenient. There is a ban on frivolous use of water due to the dire need. But the police still have to go stop people from watering lawns, and I suspect not a few swimming pools are being filled on the sly. Water is somebody else's worry. So will be generating enough heat to turn Eden into Hell."
"Mass psychology isn't my strongest point," the young man said worriedly. "But I suspect you may be right. Then—we'll be damned?"
"No, not necessarily," I told him comfortingly. "All we have to do is use up the excess energy with engines of a specific design."
"But can we design those engines in time?" the young man wondered with uncharacteristic gloom.
"Certainly," I said, practising the power of positive thinking. "Now that your world-wide testing laboratories have confirmed a vague fear of mine, I can easily reverse the field of the Expendable device and create a rather low-efficiency engine that consumes the excess energy in our planetary potential."
The agent of the AEC whose name I can never remember was present along
with Tony Carmen the night my assistants finished with the work I had
outlined.
While it was midnight outside, the fluorescents made the scene more
visible than sunlight. My Disexpendable was a medium-sized drum in a
tripod frame with an unturned coolie's hat at the bottom.
Breathlessly, I closed the switch and the scooped disc began slowly to
revolve.
"Is it my imagination," the agent asked, "or is it getting cooler in
here?"
"Professor." Carmen gave me a warning nudge.
There was now something on the revolving disc. It was a bar of some
shiny gray metal.
"Kill the power, Professor," Carmen said.
"Can it be," I wondered, "that the machine is somehow recreating or
drawing back the processed material from some other time or dimension?"
"Shut the thing off, Venetti!" the racketeer demanded.
But too late.
There was now a somewhat dead man sitting in the saddle of the turning
circle of metal.
If Harry Keno had only been sane when he turned up on that
merry-go-round in Boston I feel we would have learned much of immense
value on the nature of time and space.
As it is, I feel that it is a miscarriage of justice to hold me in
connection with the murders I am sure Tony Carmen did commit.
I hope this personal account when published will end the vicious
story supported by the district attorney that it was I who sought Tony
Carmen out and offered to dispose of his enemies and that I sought his
financial backing for the exploitation of my invention.
This is the true, and only true, account of the development of the
machine known as the Expendable.
I am only sorry, now that the temperature has been standardized once
more, that the Expendable's antithesis, the Disexpendable, is of too
low an order of efficiency to be of much value as a power source in
these days of nuclear and solar energy. So the world is again stuck
with the problem of waste disposal ... including all that I dumped
before. But as a great American once said, you can't win 'em all.
If you so desire, you may send your generous and fruitful letters
towards my upcoming defense in care of this civic-minded publication.
|
What effect does Farquar have on the story?
|
After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about Appointment In Tomorrow by Fritz Leiber.
Relevant chunks:
Appointment in Tomorrow
BY FRITZ LEIBER
Illustrated by ED ALEXANDER
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction July 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Is it possible to have a world without moral values? Or does lack of morality become a moral value, also?
The first angry rays of the sun—which, startlingly enough, still rose in the east at 24 hour intervals—pierced the lacy tops of Atlantic combers and touched thousands of sleeping Americans with unconscious fear, because of their unpleasant similarity to the rays from World War III's atomic bombs.
They turned to blood the witch-circle of rusty steel skeletons around Inferno in Manhattan. Without comment, they pointed a cosmic finger at the tarnished brass plaque commemorating the martyrdom of the Three Physicists after the dropping of the Hell Bomb. They tenderly touched the rosy skin and strawberry bruises on the naked shoulders of a girl sleeping off a drunk on the furry and radiantly heated floor of a nearby roof garden. They struck green magic from the glassy blot that was Old Washington. Twelve hours before, they had revealed things as eerily beautiful, and as ravaged, in Asia and Russia. They pinked the white walls of the Colonial dwelling of Morton Opperly near the Institute for Advanced Studies; upstairs they slanted impartially across the Pharoahlike and open-eyed face of the elderly physicist and the ugly, sleep-surly one of young Willard Farquar in the next room. And in nearby New Washington they made of the spire of the Thinkers' Foundation a blue and optimistic glory that outshone White House, Jr.
It was America approaching the end of the Twentieth Century. America of juke-box burlesque and your local radiation hospital. America of the mask-fad for women and Mystic Christianity. America of the off-the-bosom dress and the New Blue Laws. America of the Endless War and the loyalty detector. America of marvelous Maizie and the monthly rocket to Mars. America of the Thinkers and (a few remembered) the Institute. "Knock on titanium," "Whadya do for black-outs," "Please, lover, don't think when I'm around," America, as combat-shocked and crippled as the rest of the bomb-shattered planet.
Not one impudent photon of the sunlight penetrated the triple-paned, polarizing windows of Jorj Helmuth's bedroom in the Thinker's Foundation, yet the clock in his brain awakened him to the minute, or almost. Switching off the Educational Sandman in the midst of the phrase, "... applying tensor calculus to the nucleus," he took a deep, even breath and cast his mind to the limits of the world and his knowledge. It was a somewhat shadowy vision, but, he noted with impartial approval, definitely less shadowy than yesterday morning.
Employing a rapid mental scanning technique, he next cleared his memory chains of false associations, including those acquired while asleep. These chores completed, he held his finger on a bedside button, which rotated the polarizing window panes until the room slowly filled with a muted daylight. Then, still flat on his back, he turned his head until he could look at the remarkably beautiful blonde girl asleep beside him.
Remembering last night, he felt a pang of exasperation, which he instantly quelled by taking his mind to a higher and dispassionate level from which he could look down on the girl and even himself as quaint, clumsy animals. Still, he grumbled silently, Caddy might have had enough consideration to clear out before he awoke. He wondered if he shouldn't have used his hypnotic control of the girl to smooth their relationship last night, and for a moment the word that would send her into deep trance trembled on the tip of his tongue. But no, that special power of his over her was reserved for far more important purposes.
Pumping dynamic tension into his 20-year-old muscles and confidence into his 60-year-old mind, the 40-year-old Thinker rose from bed. No covers had to be thrown off; the nuclear heating unit made them unnecessary. He stepped into his clothing—the severe tunic, tights and sockassins of the modern business man. Next he glanced at the message tape beside his phone, washed down with ginger ale a vita-amino-enzyme tablet, and walked to the window. There, gazing along the rows of newly planted mutant oaks lining Decontamination Avenue, his smooth face broke into a smile.
It had come to him, the next big move in the intricate game making up his life—and mankind's. Come to him during sleep, as so many of his best decisions did, because he regularly employed the time-saving technique of somno-thought, which could function at the same time as somno-learning.
He set his who?-where? robot for "Rocket Physicist" and "Genius Class." While it worked, he dictated to his steno-robot the following brief message:
Dear Fellow Scientist:
A project is contemplated that will have a crucial bearing on man's future in deep space. Ample non-military Government funds are available. There was a time when professional men scoffed at the Thinkers. Then there was a time when the Thinkers perforce neglected the professional men. Now both times are past. May they never return! I would like to consult you this afternoon, three o'clock sharp, Thinkers' Foundation I.
Jorj Helmuth
Meanwhile the who?-where? had tossed out a dozen cards. He glanced through them, hesitated at the name "Willard Farquar," looked at the sleeping girl, then quickly tossed them all into the addresso-robot and plugged in the steno-robot.
The buzz-light blinked green and he switched the phone to audio.
"The President is waiting to see Maizie, sir," a clear feminine voice announced. "He has the general staff with him."
"Martian peace to him," Jorj Helmuth said. "Tell him I'll be down in a few minutes."
Huge as a primitive nuclear reactor, the great electronic brain loomed above the knot of hush-voiced men. It almost filled a two-story room in the Thinkers' Foundation. Its front was an orderly expanse of controls, indicators, telltales, and terminals, the upper ones reached by a chair on a boom.
Although, as far as anyone knew, it could sense only the information and questions fed into it on a tape, the human visitors could not resist the impulse to talk in whispers and glance uneasily at the great cryptic cube. After all, it had lately taken to moving some of its own controls—the permissible ones—and could doubtless improvise a hearing apparatus if it wanted to.
For this was the thinking machine beside which the Marks and Eniacs and Maniacs and Maddidas and Minervas and Mimirs were less than Morons. This was the machine with a million times as many synapses as the human brain, the machine that remembered by cutting delicate notches in the rims of molecules (instead of kindergarten paper-punching or the Coney Island shimmying of columns of mercury). This was the machine that had given instructions on building the last three-quarters of itself. This was the goal, perhaps, toward which fallible human reasoning and biased human judgment and feeble human ambition had evolved.
This was the machine that really thought—a million-plus!
This was the machine that the timid cyberneticists and stuffy professional scientists had said could not be built. Yet this was the machine that the Thinkers, with characteristic Yankee push, had built. And nicknamed, with characteristic Yankee irreverence and girl-fondness, "Maizie."
Gazing up at it, the President of the United States felt a chord plucked within him that hadn't been sounded for decades, the dark and shivery organ chord of his Baptist childhood. Here, in a strange sense, although his reason rejected it, he felt he stood face to face with the living God: infinitely stern with the sternness of reality, yet infinitely just. No tiniest error or wilful misstep could ever escape the scrutiny of this vast mentality. He shivered.
The grizzled general—there was also one who was gray—was thinking that this was a very odd link in the chain of command. Some shadowy and usually well-controlled memories from World War II faintly stirred his ire. Here he was giving orders to a being immeasurably more intelligent than himself. And always orders of the "Tell me how to kill that man" rather than the "Kill that man" sort. The distinction bothered him obscurely. It relieved him to know that Maizie had built-in controls which made her always the servant of humanity, or of humanity's right-minded leaders—even the Thinkers weren't certain which.
The gray general was thinking uneasily, and, like the President, at a more turbid level, of the resemblance between Papal infallibility and the dictates of the machine. Suddenly his bony wrists began to tremble. He asked himself: Was this the Second Coming? Mightn't an incarnation be in metal rather than flesh?
The austere Secretary of State was remembering what he'd taken such pains to make everyone forget: his youthful flirtation at Lake Success with Buddhism. Sitting before his guru , his teacher, feeling the Occidental's awe at the wisdom of the East, or its pretense, he had felt a little like this.
The burly Secretary of Space, who had come up through United Rockets, was thanking his stars that at any rate the professional scientists weren't responsible for this job. Like the grizzled general, he'd always felt suspicious of men who kept telling you how to do things, rather than doing them themselves. In World War III he'd had his fill of the professional physicists, with their eternal taint of a misty sort of radicalism and free-thinking. The Thinkers were better—more disciplined, more human. They'd called their brain-machine Maizie, which helped take the curse off her. Somewhat.
The President's Secretary, a paunchy veteran of party caucuses, was also glad that it was the Thinkers who had created the machine, though he trembled at the power that it gave them over the Administration. Still, you could do business with the Thinkers. And nobody (not even the Thinkers) could do business (that sort of business) with Maizie!
Before that great square face with its thousands of tiny metal features, only Jorj Helmuth seemed at ease, busily entering on the tape the complex Questions of the Day that the high officials had handed him: logistics for the Endless War in Pakistan, optimum size for next year's sugar-corn crop, current thought trends in average Soviet minds—profound questions, yet many of them phrased with surprising simplicity. For figures, technical jargon, and layman's language were alike to Maizie; there was no need to translate into mathematical shorthand, as with the lesser brain-machines.
The click of the taper went on until the Secretary of State had twice nervously fired a cigaret with his ultrasonic lighter and twice quickly put it away. No one spoke.
Jorj looked up at the Secretary of Space. "Section Five, Question Four—whom would that come from?"
The burly man frowned. "That would be the physics boys, Opperly's group. Is anything wrong?"
Jorj did not answer. A bit later he quit taping and began to adjust controls, going up on the boom-chair to reach some of them. Eventually he came down and touched a few more, then stood waiting.
From the great cube came a profound, steady purring. Involuntarily the six officials backed off a bit. Somehow it was impossible for a man to get used to the sound of Maizie starting to think.
Jorj turned, smiling. "And now, gentlemen, while we wait for Maizie to celebrate, there should be just enough time for us to watch the takeoff of the Mars rocket." He switched on a giant television screen. The others made a quarter turn, and there before them glowed the rich ochres and blues of a New Mexico sunrise and, in the middle distance, a silvery mighty spindle.
Like the generals, the Secretary of Space suppressed a scowl. Here was something that ought to be spang in the center of his official territory, and the Thinkers had locked him completely out of it. That rocket there—just an ordinary Earth satellite vehicle commandeered from the Army, but equipped by the Thinkers with Maizie-designed nuclear motors capable of the Mars journey and more. The first spaceship—and the Secretary of Space was not in on it!
Still, he told himself, Maizie had decreed it that way. And when he remembered what the Thinkers had done for him in rescuing him from breakdown with their mental science, in rescuing the whole Administration from collapse he realized he had to be satisfied. And that was without taking into consideration the amazing additional mental discoveries that the Thinkers were bringing down from Mars.
"Lord," the President said to Jorj as if voicing the Secretary's feeling, "I wish you people could bring a couple of those wise little devils back with you this trip. Be a good thing for the country."
Jorj looked at him a bit coldly. "It's quite unthinkable," he said.
"The telepathic abilities of the Martians make them extremely sensitive. The conflicts of ordinary Earth minds would impinge on them psychotically, even fatally. As you know, the Thinkers were able to contact them only because of our degree of learned mental poise and errorless memory-chains. So for the present it must be our task alone to glean from the Martians their astounding mental skills. Of course, some day in the future, when we have discovered how to armor the minds of the Martians—"
"Sure, I know," the President said hastily. "Shouldn't have mentioned it, Jorj."
Conversation ceased. They waited with growing tension for the great violet flames to bloom from the base of the silvery shaft.
Meanwhile the question tape, like a New Year's streamer tossed out a high window into the night, sped on its dark way along spinning rollers. Curling with an intricate aimlessness curiously like that of such a streamer, it tantalized the silvery fingers of a thousand relays, saucily evaded the glances of ten thousand electric eyes, impishly darted down a narrow black alleyway of memory banks, and, reaching the center of the cube, suddenly emerged into a small room where a suave fat man in shorts sat drinking beer.
He flipped the tape over to him with practiced finger, eyeing it as a stockbroker might have studied a ticker tape. He read the first question, closed his eyes and frowned for five seconds. Then with the staccato self-confidence of a hack writer, he began to tape out the answer.
For many minutes the only sounds were the rustle of the paper ribbon and the click of the taper, except for the seconds the fat man took to close his eyes, or to drink or pour beer. Once, too, he lifted a phone, asked a concise question, waited half a minute, listened to an answer, then went back to the grind.
Until he came to Section Five, Question Four. That time he did his thinking with his eyes open.
The question was: "Does Maizie stand for Maelzel?"
He sat for a while slowly scratching his thigh. His loose, persuasive lips tightened, without closing, into the shape of a snarl.
Suddenly he began to tape again.
"Maizie does not stand for Maelzel. Maizie stands for amazing, humorously given the form of a girl's name. Section Six, Answer One: The mid-term election viewcasts should be spaced as follows...."
But his lips didn't lose the shape of a snarl.
Five hundred miles above the ionosphere, the Mars rocket cut off its fuel and slumped gratefully into an orbit that would carry it effortlessly around the world at that altitude. The pilot unstrapped himself and stretched, but he didn't look out the viewport at the dried-mud disc that was Earth, cloaked in its haze of blue sky. He knew he had two maddening months ahead of him in which to do little more than that. Instead, he unstrapped Sappho.
Used to free fall from two previous experiences, and loving it, the fluffy little cat was soon bounding about the cabin in curves and gyrations that would have made her the envy of all back-alley and parlor felines on the planet below. A miracle cat in the dream world of free fall. For a long time she played with a string that the man would toss out lazily. Sometimes she caught the string on the fly, sometimes she swam for it frantically.
After a while the man grew bored with the game. He unlocked a drawer and began to study the details of the wisdom he would discover on Mars this trip—priceless spiritual insights that would be balm to war-battered mankind.
The cat carefully selected a spot three feet off the floor, curled up on the air, and went to sleep.
Jorj Helmuth snipped the emerging answer tape into sections and handed each to the appropriate man. Most of them carefully tucked theirs away with little more than a glance, but the Secretary of Space puzzled over his.
"Who the devil would Maelzel be?" he asked.
A remote look came into the eyes of the Secretary of State. "Edgar Allen Poe," he said frowningly, with eyes half-closed.
The grizzled general snapped his fingers. "Sure! Maelzel's Chess player. Read it when I was a kid. About an automaton that was supposed to play chess. Poe proved it hid a man inside it."
The Secretary of Space frowned. "Now what's the point in a fool question like that?"
"You said it came from Opperly's group?" Jorj asked sharply.
The Secretary of Space nodded. The others looked at the two men puzzledly.
"Who would that be?" Jorj pressed. "The group, I mean."
The Secretary of Space shrugged. "Oh, the usual little bunch over at the Institute. Hindeman, Gregory, Opperly himself. Oh, yes, and young Farquar."
"Sounds like Opperly's getting senile," Jorj commented coldly. "I'd investigate."
The Secretary of Space nodded. He suddenly looked tough. "I will. Right away."
Sunlight striking through French windows spotlighted a ballet of dust motes untroubled by air-conditioning. Morton Opperly's living room was well-kept but worn and quite behind the times. Instead of reading tapes there were books; instead of steno-robots, pen and ink; while in place of a four by six TV screen, a Picasso hung on the wall. Only Opperly knew that the painting was still faintly radioactive, that it had been riskily so when he'd smuggled it out of his bomb-singed apartment in New York City.
The two physicists fronted each other across a coffee table. The face of the elder was cadaverous, large-eyed, and tender—fined down by a long life of abstract thought. That of the younger was forceful, sensuous, bulky as his body, and exceptionally ugly. He looked rather like a bear.
Opperly was saying, "So when he asked who was responsible for the Maelzel question, I said I didn't remember." He smiled. "They still allow me my absent-mindedness, since it nourishes their contempt. Almost my sole remaining privilege." The smile faded. "Why do you keep on teasing the zoo animals, Willard?" he asked without rancor. "I've maintained many times that we shouldn't truckle to them by yielding to their demand that we ask Maizie questions. You and the rest have overruled me. But then to use those questions to convey veiled insults isn't reasonable. Apparently the Secretary of Space was bothered enough about this last one to pay me a 'copter call within twenty minutes of this morning's meeting at the Foundation. Why do you do it, Willard?"
The features of the other convulsed unpleasantly. "Because the Thinkers are charlatans who must be exposed," he rapped out. "We know their Maizie is no more than a tealeaf-reading fake. We've traced their Mars rockets and found they go nowhere. We know their Martian mental science is bunk."
"But we've already exposed the Thinkers very thoroughly," Opperly interposed quietly. "You know the good it did."
Farquar hunched his Japanese-wrestler shoulders. "Then it's got to be done until it takes."
Opperly studied the bowl of mutated flowers by the coffee pot. "I think you just want to tease the animals, for some personal reason of which you probably aren't aware."
Farquar scowled. "We're the ones in the cages."
Opperly continued his inspection of the flowers' bells. "All the more reason not to poke sticks through the bars at the lions and tigers strolling outside. No, Willard, I'm not counseling appeasement. But consider the age in which we live. It wants magicians." His voice grew especially tranquil. "A scientist tells people the truth. When times are good—that is, when the truth offers no threat—people don't mind. But when times are very, very bad...." A shadow darkened his eyes.
"Well, we all know what happened to—" And he mentioned three names that had been household words in the middle of the century. They were the names on the brass plaque dedicated to the martyred three physicists.
He went on, "A magician, on the other hand, tells people what they wish were true—that perpetual motion works, that cancer can be cured by colored lights, that a psychosis is no worse than a head cold, that they'll live forever. In good times magicians are laughed at. They're a luxury of the spoiled wealthy few. But in bad times people sell their souls for magic cures, and buy perpetual motion machines to power their war rockets."
Farquar clenched his fist. "All the more reason to keep chipping away at the Thinkers. Are we supposed to beg off from a job because it's difficult and dangerous?"
Opperly shook his head. "We're to keep clear of the infection of violence. In my day, Willard, I was one of the Frightened Men. Later I was one of the Angry Men and then one of the Minds of Despair. Now I'm convinced that all my reactions were futile."
"Exactly!" Farquar agreed harshly. "You reacted. You didn't act. If you men who discovered atomic energy had only formed a secret league, if you'd only had the foresight and the guts to use your tremendous bargaining position to demand the power to shape mankind's future...."
"By the time you were born, Willard," Opperly interrupted dreamily,
"Hitler was merely a name in the history books. We scientists weren't the stuff out of which cloak-and-dagger men are made. Can you imagine Oppenheimer wearing a mask or Einstein sneaking into the Old White House with a bomb in his briefcase?" He smiled. "Besides, that's not the way power is seized. New ideas aren't useful to the man bargaining for power—only established facts or lies are."
"Just the same, it would have been a good thing if you'd had a little violence in you."
"No," Opperly said.
"I've got violence in me," Farquar announced, shoving himself to his feet.
Opperly looked up from the flowers. "I think you have," he agreed.
"But what are we to do?" Farquar demanded. "Surrender the world to charlatans without a struggle?"
Opperly mused for a while. "I don't know what the world needs now. Everyone knows Newton as the great scientist. Few remember that he spent half his life muddling with alchemy, looking for the philosopher's stone. Which Newton did the world need then?"
"Now you are justifying the Thinkers!"
"No, I leave that to history."
"And history consists of the actions of men," Farquar concluded. "I intend to act. The Thinkers are vulnerable, their power fantastically precarious. What's it based on? A few lucky guesses. Faith-healing. Some science hocus-pocus, on the level of those juke-box burlesque acts between the strips. Dubious mental comfort given to a few nerve-torn neurotics in the Inner Cabinet—and their wives. The fact that the Thinkers' clever stage-managing won the President a doubtful election. The erroneous belief that the Soviets pulled out of Iraq and Iran because of the Thinkers' Mind Bomb threat. A brain-machine that's just a cover for Jan Tregarron's guesswork. Oh, yes, and that hogwash of
'Martian wisdom.' All of it mere bluff! A few pushes at the right times and points are all that are needed—and the Thinkers know it! I'll bet they're terrified already, and will be more so when they find that we're gunning for them. Eventually they'll be making overtures to us, turning to us for help. You wait and see."
"I am thinking again of Hitler," Opperly interposed quietly. "On his first half dozen big steps, he had nothing but bluff. His generals were against him. They knew they were in a cardboard fort. Yet he won every battle, until the last. Moreover," he pressed on, cutting Farquar short, "the power of the Thinkers isn't based on what they've got, but on what the world hasn't got—peace, honor, a good conscience...."
The front-door knocker clanked. Farquar answered it. A skinny old man with a radiation scar twisting across his temple handed him a tiny cylinder. "Radiogram for you, Willard." He grinned across the hall at Opperly. "When are you going to get a phone put in, Mr. Opperly?"
The physicist waved to him. "Next year, perhaps, Mr. Berry."
The old man snorted with good-humored incredulity and trudged off.
"What did I tell you about the Thinkers making overtures?" Farquar chortled suddenly. "It's come sooner than I expected. Look at this."
He held out the radiogram, but the older man didn't take it. Instead he asked, "Who's it from? Tregarron?"
"No, from Helmuth. There's a lot of sugar corn about man's future in deep space, but the real reason is clear. They know that they're going to have to produce an actual nuclear rocket pretty soon, and for that they'll need our help."
"An invitation?"
Farquar nodded. "For this afternoon." He noticed Opperly's anxious though distant frown. "What's the matter?" he asked. "Are you bothered about my going? Are you thinking it might be a trap—that after the Maelzel question they may figure I'm better rubbed out?"
The older man shook his head. "I'm not afraid for your life, Willard. That's yours to risk as you choose. No, I'm worried about other things they might do to you."
"What do you mean?" Farquar asked.
Opperly looked at him with a gentle appraisal. "You're a strong and vital man, Willard, with a strong man's prides and desires." His voice trailed off for a bit. Then, "Excuse me, Willard, but wasn't there a girl once? A Miss Arkady?"
Farquar's ungainly figure froze. He nodded curtly, face averted.
"And didn't she go off with a Thinker?"
"If girls find me ugly, that's their business," Farquar said harshly, still not looking at Opperly. "What's that got to do with this invitation?"
Opperly didn't answer the question. His eyes got more distant. Finally he said, "In my day we had it a lot easier. A scientist was an academician, cushioned by tradition."
Willard snorted. "Science had already entered the era of the police inspectors, with laboratory directors and political appointees stifling enterprise."
"Perhaps," Opperly agreed. "Still, the scientist lived the safe, restricted, highly respectable life of a university man. He wasn't exposed to the temptations of the world."
Farquar turned on him. "Are you implying that the Thinkers will somehow be able to buy me off?"
"Not exactly."
"You think I'll be persuaded to change my aims?" Farquar demanded angrily.
Opperly shrugged his helplessness. "No, I don't think you'll change your aims."
Clouds encroaching from the west blotted the parallelogram of sunlight between the two men.
As the slideway whisked him gently along the corridor toward his apartment, Jorj was thinking of his spaceship. For a moment the silver-winged vision crowded everything else out of his mind.
Just think, a spaceship with sails! He smiled a bit, marveling at the paradox.
Direct atomic power. Direct utilization of the force of the flying neutrons. No more ridiculous business of using a reactor to drive a steam engine, or boil off something for a jet exhaust—processes that were as primitive and wasteful as burning gunpowder to keep yourself warm.
Chemical jets would carry his spaceship above the atmosphere. Then would come the thrilling order, "Set sail for Mars!" The vast umbrella would unfold and open out around the stern, its rear or Earthward side a gleaming expanse of radioactive ribbon perhaps only an atom thick and backed with a material that would reflect neutrons. Atoms in the ribbon would split, blasting neutrons astern at fantastic velocities. Reaction would send the spaceship hurtling forward.
In airless space, the expanse of sails would naturally not retard the ship. More radioactive ribbon, manufactured as needed in the ship itself, would feed out onto the sail as that already there became exhausted.
A spaceship with direct nuclear drive—and he, a Thinker, had conceived it completely except for the technical details! Having strengthened his mind by hard years of somno-learning, mind-casting, memory-straightening, and sensory training, he had assured himself of the executive power to control the technicians and direct their specialized abilities. Together they would build the true Mars rocket.
But that would only be a beginning. They would build the true Mind Bomb. They would build the true Selective Microbe Slayer. They would discover the true laws of ESP and the inner life. They would even—his imagination hesitated a moment, then strode boldly forward—build the true Maizie!
And then ... then the Thinkers would be on even terms with the scientists. Rather, they'd be far ahead. No more deception.
He was so exalted by this thought that he almost let the slideway carry him past his door. He stepped inside and called, "Caddy!" He waited a moment, then walked through the apartment, but she wasn't there.
Confound the girl, he couldn't help thinking. This morning, when she should have made herself scarce, she'd sprawled about sleeping. Now, when he felt like seeing her, when her presence would have added a pleasant final touch to his glowing mood, she chose to be absent. He really should use his hypnotic control on her, he decided, and again there sprang into his mind the word—a pet form of her name—that would send her into obedient trance.
No, he told himself again, that was to be reserved for some moment of crisis or desperate danger, when he would need someone to strike suddenly and unquestioningly for himself and mankind. Caddy was merely a wilful and rather silly girl, incapable at present of understanding the tremendous tensions under which he operated. When he had time for it, he would train her up to be a fitting companion without hypnosis.
Yet the fact of her absence had a subtly disquieting effect. It shook his perfect self-confidence just a fraction. He asked himself if he'd been wise in summoning the rocket physicists without consulting Tregarron.
But this mood, too, he conquered quickly. Tregarron wasn't his boss, but just the Thinker's most clever salesman, an expert in the mumbo-jumbo so necessary for social control in this chaotic era. He himself, Jorj Helmuth, was the real leader in theoretics and all-over strategy, the mind behind the mind behind Maizie.
He stretched himself on the bed, almost instantly achieved maximum relaxation, turned on the somno-learner, and began the two hour rest he knew would be desirable before the big conference.
Question:
What effect does Farquar have on the story?
Answer:
|
[
"Farquar sparks the driving conflict of the story; the question he submits threatens the authority and legitimacy of the Thinkers, implying that the machine that guides society's decisions is a fake. This question disturbs the officials present at Maizie's event. Farquar also attempts to convince Opperly, a major Scientist, that the Thinkers should be exposed and called out for their deception. He is eager to take action against them. Farquar plays an additional role in the story as someone who Jorj must turn to for help; he is a skilled physician that the Thinkers need in order to develop their idea for a nuclear rocket. Farquar determines the fate of Jorj and the Thinkers as someone who both poses a threat to them and is needed by them.",
"Willard Farquar is a physicist who is a member of Morton Opperly’s group. He is a large individual with strong and ugly features. He has traced the path of the Thinker’s spaceship and found that, contrary to the Thinkers’ claims, the spaceships do not travel to Mars. Through Opperly, Farquar submits a revealing question to the Thinkers’ machine Maizie, antagonizing the Thinkers. \nIn Opperly’s residence, Farquar proposes further chipping away at their deception, saying that they shouldn’t avoid a task merely because of its difficulty. Opperly, who is from the previous generation of academic physicists, disagrees. Farquar condemns his generation, saying that they wasted the power of atomic energy which they could have used to influence humanity. As he is saying that the Thinkers will soon need the help of scientists to support their bluffing, an invitation from the leader of the Thinkers arrives, inviting Farquar to the Thinkers’ Foundation. We learn that one of Farquar’s previous love interests had left him for a Thinker. \n",
"Farquar creates a question for an examination that hints to the Secretary of State and Jorj that he knows the secret that they are hiding. He knows that Maizie is not the intelligent and amazing piece of machinery that they claim. He knows that there is a person behind Maizie that is helping to create the illusion that Maizie is an intelligent cubic piece of machinery. Farquar wants to fight in an act of violence against the Thinkers because of their deceit towards the population. He is upset that they lie about Maizie’s capabilities, their Mars rockets, and their Martian mental science. ",
"Farquar is a physicist who knows that the Thinkers do not have a real Maizie. He has sent the question about whether Maizie is a Maelzel to the Thinkers, teasing them. Farquar’s argument with Opperly allow us to learn about the Thinkers and the physicists. The Thinkers have the government’s control because they seems to be able to do things that the physicists are not able to, such as going to Mars, learning about their mental sciences, as well building a human-brain machine. However, we learn from Farquar that none of that is true. There is no landing on Mars, designing a human-brain machine, which is why they need the physicists help. \n\nJorj indeed decide to send an invitation to the physicists after seeing the girl that he hypnotically controls, thus the girl should be the reason that the invitation is sent to Farquar. Later we learn from Opperly that there was a girl named Miss Arkady who had been with Farquar. She could be the Caddy that Jorj mentioned. Miss Arkady apparently went off with a Thinker, and Opperly thinks that this could be the reason that they are sending this invitation to them. However, Farquar does not believe it."
] |
51152
|
Appointment in Tomorrow
BY FRITZ LEIBER
Illustrated by ED ALEXANDER
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction July 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Is it possible to have a world without moral values? Or does lack of morality become a moral value, also?
The first angry rays of the sun—which, startlingly enough, still rose in the east at 24 hour intervals—pierced the lacy tops of Atlantic combers and touched thousands of sleeping Americans with unconscious fear, because of their unpleasant similarity to the rays from World War III's atomic bombs.
They turned to blood the witch-circle of rusty steel skeletons around Inferno in Manhattan. Without comment, they pointed a cosmic finger at the tarnished brass plaque commemorating the martyrdom of the Three Physicists after the dropping of the Hell Bomb. They tenderly touched the rosy skin and strawberry bruises on the naked shoulders of a girl sleeping off a drunk on the furry and radiantly heated floor of a nearby roof garden. They struck green magic from the glassy blot that was Old Washington. Twelve hours before, they had revealed things as eerily beautiful, and as ravaged, in Asia and Russia. They pinked the white walls of the Colonial dwelling of Morton Opperly near the Institute for Advanced Studies; upstairs they slanted impartially across the Pharoahlike and open-eyed face of the elderly physicist and the ugly, sleep-surly one of young Willard Farquar in the next room. And in nearby New Washington they made of the spire of the Thinkers' Foundation a blue and optimistic glory that outshone White House, Jr.
It was America approaching the end of the Twentieth Century. America of juke-box burlesque and your local radiation hospital. America of the mask-fad for women and Mystic Christianity. America of the off-the-bosom dress and the New Blue Laws. America of the Endless War and the loyalty detector. America of marvelous Maizie and the monthly rocket to Mars. America of the Thinkers and (a few remembered) the Institute. "Knock on titanium," "Whadya do for black-outs," "Please, lover, don't think when I'm around," America, as combat-shocked and crippled as the rest of the bomb-shattered planet.
Not one impudent photon of the sunlight penetrated the triple-paned, polarizing windows of Jorj Helmuth's bedroom in the Thinker's Foundation, yet the clock in his brain awakened him to the minute, or almost. Switching off the Educational Sandman in the midst of the phrase, "... applying tensor calculus to the nucleus," he took a deep, even breath and cast his mind to the limits of the world and his knowledge. It was a somewhat shadowy vision, but, he noted with impartial approval, definitely less shadowy than yesterday morning.
Employing a rapid mental scanning technique, he next cleared his memory chains of false associations, including those acquired while asleep. These chores completed, he held his finger on a bedside button, which rotated the polarizing window panes until the room slowly filled with a muted daylight. Then, still flat on his back, he turned his head until he could look at the remarkably beautiful blonde girl asleep beside him.
Remembering last night, he felt a pang of exasperation, which he instantly quelled by taking his mind to a higher and dispassionate level from which he could look down on the girl and even himself as quaint, clumsy animals. Still, he grumbled silently, Caddy might have had enough consideration to clear out before he awoke. He wondered if he shouldn't have used his hypnotic control of the girl to smooth their relationship last night, and for a moment the word that would send her into deep trance trembled on the tip of his tongue. But no, that special power of his over her was reserved for far more important purposes.
Pumping dynamic tension into his 20-year-old muscles and confidence into his 60-year-old mind, the 40-year-old Thinker rose from bed. No covers had to be thrown off; the nuclear heating unit made them unnecessary. He stepped into his clothing—the severe tunic, tights and sockassins of the modern business man. Next he glanced at the message tape beside his phone, washed down with ginger ale a vita-amino-enzyme tablet, and walked to the window. There, gazing along the rows of newly planted mutant oaks lining Decontamination Avenue, his smooth face broke into a smile.
It had come to him, the next big move in the intricate game making up his life—and mankind's. Come to him during sleep, as so many of his best decisions did, because he regularly employed the time-saving technique of somno-thought, which could function at the same time as somno-learning.
He set his who?-where? robot for "Rocket Physicist" and "Genius Class." While it worked, he dictated to his steno-robot the following brief message:
Dear Fellow Scientist:
A project is contemplated that will have a crucial bearing on man's future in deep space. Ample non-military Government funds are available. There was a time when professional men scoffed at the Thinkers. Then there was a time when the Thinkers perforce neglected the professional men. Now both times are past. May they never return! I would like to consult you this afternoon, three o'clock sharp, Thinkers' Foundation I.
Jorj Helmuth
Meanwhile the who?-where? had tossed out a dozen cards. He glanced through them, hesitated at the name "Willard Farquar," looked at the sleeping girl, then quickly tossed them all into the addresso-robot and plugged in the steno-robot.
The buzz-light blinked green and he switched the phone to audio.
"The President is waiting to see Maizie, sir," a clear feminine voice announced. "He has the general staff with him."
"Martian peace to him," Jorj Helmuth said. "Tell him I'll be down in a few minutes."
Huge as a primitive nuclear reactor, the great electronic brain loomed above the knot of hush-voiced men. It almost filled a two-story room in the Thinkers' Foundation. Its front was an orderly expanse of controls, indicators, telltales, and terminals, the upper ones reached by a chair on a boom.
Although, as far as anyone knew, it could sense only the information and questions fed into it on a tape, the human visitors could not resist the impulse to talk in whispers and glance uneasily at the great cryptic cube. After all, it had lately taken to moving some of its own controls—the permissible ones—and could doubtless improvise a hearing apparatus if it wanted to.
For this was the thinking machine beside which the Marks and Eniacs and Maniacs and Maddidas and Minervas and Mimirs were less than Morons. This was the machine with a million times as many synapses as the human brain, the machine that remembered by cutting delicate notches in the rims of molecules (instead of kindergarten paper-punching or the Coney Island shimmying of columns of mercury). This was the machine that had given instructions on building the last three-quarters of itself. This was the goal, perhaps, toward which fallible human reasoning and biased human judgment and feeble human ambition had evolved.
This was the machine that really thought—a million-plus!
This was the machine that the timid cyberneticists and stuffy professional scientists had said could not be built. Yet this was the machine that the Thinkers, with characteristic Yankee push, had built. And nicknamed, with characteristic Yankee irreverence and girl-fondness, "Maizie."
Gazing up at it, the President of the United States felt a chord plucked within him that hadn't been sounded for decades, the dark and shivery organ chord of his Baptist childhood. Here, in a strange sense, although his reason rejected it, he felt he stood face to face with the living God: infinitely stern with the sternness of reality, yet infinitely just. No tiniest error or wilful misstep could ever escape the scrutiny of this vast mentality. He shivered.
The grizzled general—there was also one who was gray—was thinking that this was a very odd link in the chain of command. Some shadowy and usually well-controlled memories from World War II faintly stirred his ire. Here he was giving orders to a being immeasurably more intelligent than himself. And always orders of the "Tell me how to kill that man" rather than the "Kill that man" sort. The distinction bothered him obscurely. It relieved him to know that Maizie had built-in controls which made her always the servant of humanity, or of humanity's right-minded leaders—even the Thinkers weren't certain which.
The gray general was thinking uneasily, and, like the President, at a more turbid level, of the resemblance between Papal infallibility and the dictates of the machine. Suddenly his bony wrists began to tremble. He asked himself: Was this the Second Coming? Mightn't an incarnation be in metal rather than flesh?
The austere Secretary of State was remembering what he'd taken such pains to make everyone forget: his youthful flirtation at Lake Success with Buddhism. Sitting before his guru , his teacher, feeling the Occidental's awe at the wisdom of the East, or its pretense, he had felt a little like this.
The burly Secretary of Space, who had come up through United Rockets, was thanking his stars that at any rate the professional scientists weren't responsible for this job. Like the grizzled general, he'd always felt suspicious of men who kept telling you how to do things, rather than doing them themselves. In World War III he'd had his fill of the professional physicists, with their eternal taint of a misty sort of radicalism and free-thinking. The Thinkers were better—more disciplined, more human. They'd called their brain-machine Maizie, which helped take the curse off her. Somewhat.
The President's Secretary, a paunchy veteran of party caucuses, was also glad that it was the Thinkers who had created the machine, though he trembled at the power that it gave them over the Administration. Still, you could do business with the Thinkers. And nobody (not even the Thinkers) could do business (that sort of business) with Maizie!
Before that great square face with its thousands of tiny metal features, only Jorj Helmuth seemed at ease, busily entering on the tape the complex Questions of the Day that the high officials had handed him: logistics for the Endless War in Pakistan, optimum size for next year's sugar-corn crop, current thought trends in average Soviet minds—profound questions, yet many of them phrased with surprising simplicity. For figures, technical jargon, and layman's language were alike to Maizie; there was no need to translate into mathematical shorthand, as with the lesser brain-machines.
The click of the taper went on until the Secretary of State had twice nervously fired a cigaret with his ultrasonic lighter and twice quickly put it away. No one spoke.
Jorj looked up at the Secretary of Space. "Section Five, Question Four—whom would that come from?"
The burly man frowned. "That would be the physics boys, Opperly's group. Is anything wrong?"
Jorj did not answer. A bit later he quit taping and began to adjust controls, going up on the boom-chair to reach some of them. Eventually he came down and touched a few more, then stood waiting.
From the great cube came a profound, steady purring. Involuntarily the six officials backed off a bit. Somehow it was impossible for a man to get used to the sound of Maizie starting to think.
Jorj turned, smiling. "And now, gentlemen, while we wait for Maizie to celebrate, there should be just enough time for us to watch the takeoff of the Mars rocket." He switched on a giant television screen. The others made a quarter turn, and there before them glowed the rich ochres and blues of a New Mexico sunrise and, in the middle distance, a silvery mighty spindle.
Like the generals, the Secretary of Space suppressed a scowl. Here was something that ought to be spang in the center of his official territory, and the Thinkers had locked him completely out of it. That rocket there—just an ordinary Earth satellite vehicle commandeered from the Army, but equipped by the Thinkers with Maizie-designed nuclear motors capable of the Mars journey and more. The first spaceship—and the Secretary of Space was not in on it!
Still, he told himself, Maizie had decreed it that way. And when he remembered what the Thinkers had done for him in rescuing him from breakdown with their mental science, in rescuing the whole Administration from collapse he realized he had to be satisfied. And that was without taking into consideration the amazing additional mental discoveries that the Thinkers were bringing down from Mars.
"Lord," the President said to Jorj as if voicing the Secretary's feeling, "I wish you people could bring a couple of those wise little devils back with you this trip. Be a good thing for the country."
Jorj looked at him a bit coldly. "It's quite unthinkable," he said.
"The telepathic abilities of the Martians make them extremely sensitive. The conflicts of ordinary Earth minds would impinge on them psychotically, even fatally. As you know, the Thinkers were able to contact them only because of our degree of learned mental poise and errorless memory-chains. So for the present it must be our task alone to glean from the Martians their astounding mental skills. Of course, some day in the future, when we have discovered how to armor the minds of the Martians—"
"Sure, I know," the President said hastily. "Shouldn't have mentioned it, Jorj."
Conversation ceased. They waited with growing tension for the great violet flames to bloom from the base of the silvery shaft.
Meanwhile the question tape, like a New Year's streamer tossed out a high window into the night, sped on its dark way along spinning rollers. Curling with an intricate aimlessness curiously like that of such a streamer, it tantalized the silvery fingers of a thousand relays, saucily evaded the glances of ten thousand electric eyes, impishly darted down a narrow black alleyway of memory banks, and, reaching the center of the cube, suddenly emerged into a small room where a suave fat man in shorts sat drinking beer.
He flipped the tape over to him with practiced finger, eyeing it as a stockbroker might have studied a ticker tape. He read the first question, closed his eyes and frowned for five seconds. Then with the staccato self-confidence of a hack writer, he began to tape out the answer.
For many minutes the only sounds were the rustle of the paper ribbon and the click of the taper, except for the seconds the fat man took to close his eyes, or to drink or pour beer. Once, too, he lifted a phone, asked a concise question, waited half a minute, listened to an answer, then went back to the grind.
Until he came to Section Five, Question Four. That time he did his thinking with his eyes open.
The question was: "Does Maizie stand for Maelzel?"
He sat for a while slowly scratching his thigh. His loose, persuasive lips tightened, without closing, into the shape of a snarl.
Suddenly he began to tape again.
"Maizie does not stand for Maelzel. Maizie stands for amazing, humorously given the form of a girl's name. Section Six, Answer One: The mid-term election viewcasts should be spaced as follows...."
But his lips didn't lose the shape of a snarl.
Five hundred miles above the ionosphere, the Mars rocket cut off its fuel and slumped gratefully into an orbit that would carry it effortlessly around the world at that altitude. The pilot unstrapped himself and stretched, but he didn't look out the viewport at the dried-mud disc that was Earth, cloaked in its haze of blue sky. He knew he had two maddening months ahead of him in which to do little more than that. Instead, he unstrapped Sappho.
Used to free fall from two previous experiences, and loving it, the fluffy little cat was soon bounding about the cabin in curves and gyrations that would have made her the envy of all back-alley and parlor felines on the planet below. A miracle cat in the dream world of free fall. For a long time she played with a string that the man would toss out lazily. Sometimes she caught the string on the fly, sometimes she swam for it frantically.
After a while the man grew bored with the game. He unlocked a drawer and began to study the details of the wisdom he would discover on Mars this trip—priceless spiritual insights that would be balm to war-battered mankind.
The cat carefully selected a spot three feet off the floor, curled up on the air, and went to sleep.
Jorj Helmuth snipped the emerging answer tape into sections and handed each to the appropriate man. Most of them carefully tucked theirs away with little more than a glance, but the Secretary of Space puzzled over his.
"Who the devil would Maelzel be?" he asked.
A remote look came into the eyes of the Secretary of State. "Edgar Allen Poe," he said frowningly, with eyes half-closed.
The grizzled general snapped his fingers. "Sure! Maelzel's Chess player. Read it when I was a kid. About an automaton that was supposed to play chess. Poe proved it hid a man inside it."
The Secretary of Space frowned. "Now what's the point in a fool question like that?"
"You said it came from Opperly's group?" Jorj asked sharply.
The Secretary of Space nodded. The others looked at the two men puzzledly.
"Who would that be?" Jorj pressed. "The group, I mean."
The Secretary of Space shrugged. "Oh, the usual little bunch over at the Institute. Hindeman, Gregory, Opperly himself. Oh, yes, and young Farquar."
"Sounds like Opperly's getting senile," Jorj commented coldly. "I'd investigate."
The Secretary of Space nodded. He suddenly looked tough. "I will. Right away."
Sunlight striking through French windows spotlighted a ballet of dust motes untroubled by air-conditioning. Morton Opperly's living room was well-kept but worn and quite behind the times. Instead of reading tapes there were books; instead of steno-robots, pen and ink; while in place of a four by six TV screen, a Picasso hung on the wall. Only Opperly knew that the painting was still faintly radioactive, that it had been riskily so when he'd smuggled it out of his bomb-singed apartment in New York City.
The two physicists fronted each other across a coffee table. The face of the elder was cadaverous, large-eyed, and tender—fined down by a long life of abstract thought. That of the younger was forceful, sensuous, bulky as his body, and exceptionally ugly. He looked rather like a bear.
Opperly was saying, "So when he asked who was responsible for the Maelzel question, I said I didn't remember." He smiled. "They still allow me my absent-mindedness, since it nourishes their contempt. Almost my sole remaining privilege." The smile faded. "Why do you keep on teasing the zoo animals, Willard?" he asked without rancor. "I've maintained many times that we shouldn't truckle to them by yielding to their demand that we ask Maizie questions. You and the rest have overruled me. But then to use those questions to convey veiled insults isn't reasonable. Apparently the Secretary of Space was bothered enough about this last one to pay me a 'copter call within twenty minutes of this morning's meeting at the Foundation. Why do you do it, Willard?"
The features of the other convulsed unpleasantly. "Because the Thinkers are charlatans who must be exposed," he rapped out. "We know their Maizie is no more than a tealeaf-reading fake. We've traced their Mars rockets and found they go nowhere. We know their Martian mental science is bunk."
"But we've already exposed the Thinkers very thoroughly," Opperly interposed quietly. "You know the good it did."
Farquar hunched his Japanese-wrestler shoulders. "Then it's got to be done until it takes."
Opperly studied the bowl of mutated flowers by the coffee pot. "I think you just want to tease the animals, for some personal reason of which you probably aren't aware."
Farquar scowled. "We're the ones in the cages."
Opperly continued his inspection of the flowers' bells. "All the more reason not to poke sticks through the bars at the lions and tigers strolling outside. No, Willard, I'm not counseling appeasement. But consider the age in which we live. It wants magicians." His voice grew especially tranquil. "A scientist tells people the truth. When times are good—that is, when the truth offers no threat—people don't mind. But when times are very, very bad...." A shadow darkened his eyes.
"Well, we all know what happened to—" And he mentioned three names that had been household words in the middle of the century. They were the names on the brass plaque dedicated to the martyred three physicists.
He went on, "A magician, on the other hand, tells people what they wish were true—that perpetual motion works, that cancer can be cured by colored lights, that a psychosis is no worse than a head cold, that they'll live forever. In good times magicians are laughed at. They're a luxury of the spoiled wealthy few. But in bad times people sell their souls for magic cures, and buy perpetual motion machines to power their war rockets."
Farquar clenched his fist. "All the more reason to keep chipping away at the Thinkers. Are we supposed to beg off from a job because it's difficult and dangerous?"
Opperly shook his head. "We're to keep clear of the infection of violence. In my day, Willard, I was one of the Frightened Men. Later I was one of the Angry Men and then one of the Minds of Despair. Now I'm convinced that all my reactions were futile."
"Exactly!" Farquar agreed harshly. "You reacted. You didn't act. If you men who discovered atomic energy had only formed a secret league, if you'd only had the foresight and the guts to use your tremendous bargaining position to demand the power to shape mankind's future...."
"By the time you were born, Willard," Opperly interrupted dreamily,
"Hitler was merely a name in the history books. We scientists weren't the stuff out of which cloak-and-dagger men are made. Can you imagine Oppenheimer wearing a mask or Einstein sneaking into the Old White House with a bomb in his briefcase?" He smiled. "Besides, that's not the way power is seized. New ideas aren't useful to the man bargaining for power—only established facts or lies are."
"Just the same, it would have been a good thing if you'd had a little violence in you."
"No," Opperly said.
"I've got violence in me," Farquar announced, shoving himself to his feet.
Opperly looked up from the flowers. "I think you have," he agreed.
"But what are we to do?" Farquar demanded. "Surrender the world to charlatans without a struggle?"
Opperly mused for a while. "I don't know what the world needs now. Everyone knows Newton as the great scientist. Few remember that he spent half his life muddling with alchemy, looking for the philosopher's stone. Which Newton did the world need then?"
"Now you are justifying the Thinkers!"
"No, I leave that to history."
"And history consists of the actions of men," Farquar concluded. "I intend to act. The Thinkers are vulnerable, their power fantastically precarious. What's it based on? A few lucky guesses. Faith-healing. Some science hocus-pocus, on the level of those juke-box burlesque acts between the strips. Dubious mental comfort given to a few nerve-torn neurotics in the Inner Cabinet—and their wives. The fact that the Thinkers' clever stage-managing won the President a doubtful election. The erroneous belief that the Soviets pulled out of Iraq and Iran because of the Thinkers' Mind Bomb threat. A brain-machine that's just a cover for Jan Tregarron's guesswork. Oh, yes, and that hogwash of
'Martian wisdom.' All of it mere bluff! A few pushes at the right times and points are all that are needed—and the Thinkers know it! I'll bet they're terrified already, and will be more so when they find that we're gunning for them. Eventually they'll be making overtures to us, turning to us for help. You wait and see."
"I am thinking again of Hitler," Opperly interposed quietly. "On his first half dozen big steps, he had nothing but bluff. His generals were against him. They knew they were in a cardboard fort. Yet he won every battle, until the last. Moreover," he pressed on, cutting Farquar short, "the power of the Thinkers isn't based on what they've got, but on what the world hasn't got—peace, honor, a good conscience...."
The front-door knocker clanked. Farquar answered it. A skinny old man with a radiation scar twisting across his temple handed him a tiny cylinder. "Radiogram for you, Willard." He grinned across the hall at Opperly. "When are you going to get a phone put in, Mr. Opperly?"
The physicist waved to him. "Next year, perhaps, Mr. Berry."
The old man snorted with good-humored incredulity and trudged off.
"What did I tell you about the Thinkers making overtures?" Farquar chortled suddenly. "It's come sooner than I expected. Look at this."
He held out the radiogram, but the older man didn't take it. Instead he asked, "Who's it from? Tregarron?"
"No, from Helmuth. There's a lot of sugar corn about man's future in deep space, but the real reason is clear. They know that they're going to have to produce an actual nuclear rocket pretty soon, and for that they'll need our help."
"An invitation?"
Farquar nodded. "For this afternoon." He noticed Opperly's anxious though distant frown. "What's the matter?" he asked. "Are you bothered about my going? Are you thinking it might be a trap—that after the Maelzel question they may figure I'm better rubbed out?"
The older man shook his head. "I'm not afraid for your life, Willard. That's yours to risk as you choose. No, I'm worried about other things they might do to you."
"What do you mean?" Farquar asked.
Opperly looked at him with a gentle appraisal. "You're a strong and vital man, Willard, with a strong man's prides and desires." His voice trailed off for a bit. Then, "Excuse me, Willard, but wasn't there a girl once? A Miss Arkady?"
Farquar's ungainly figure froze. He nodded curtly, face averted.
"And didn't she go off with a Thinker?"
"If girls find me ugly, that's their business," Farquar said harshly, still not looking at Opperly. "What's that got to do with this invitation?"
Opperly didn't answer the question. His eyes got more distant. Finally he said, "In my day we had it a lot easier. A scientist was an academician, cushioned by tradition."
Willard snorted. "Science had already entered the era of the police inspectors, with laboratory directors and political appointees stifling enterprise."
"Perhaps," Opperly agreed. "Still, the scientist lived the safe, restricted, highly respectable life of a university man. He wasn't exposed to the temptations of the world."
Farquar turned on him. "Are you implying that the Thinkers will somehow be able to buy me off?"
"Not exactly."
"You think I'll be persuaded to change my aims?" Farquar demanded angrily.
Opperly shrugged his helplessness. "No, I don't think you'll change your aims."
Clouds encroaching from the west blotted the parallelogram of sunlight between the two men.
As the slideway whisked him gently along the corridor toward his apartment, Jorj was thinking of his spaceship. For a moment the silver-winged vision crowded everything else out of his mind.
Just think, a spaceship with sails! He smiled a bit, marveling at the paradox.
Direct atomic power. Direct utilization of the force of the flying neutrons. No more ridiculous business of using a reactor to drive a steam engine, or boil off something for a jet exhaust—processes that were as primitive and wasteful as burning gunpowder to keep yourself warm.
Chemical jets would carry his spaceship above the atmosphere. Then would come the thrilling order, "Set sail for Mars!" The vast umbrella would unfold and open out around the stern, its rear or Earthward side a gleaming expanse of radioactive ribbon perhaps only an atom thick and backed with a material that would reflect neutrons. Atoms in the ribbon would split, blasting neutrons astern at fantastic velocities. Reaction would send the spaceship hurtling forward.
In airless space, the expanse of sails would naturally not retard the ship. More radioactive ribbon, manufactured as needed in the ship itself, would feed out onto the sail as that already there became exhausted.
A spaceship with direct nuclear drive—and he, a Thinker, had conceived it completely except for the technical details! Having strengthened his mind by hard years of somno-learning, mind-casting, memory-straightening, and sensory training, he had assured himself of the executive power to control the technicians and direct their specialized abilities. Together they would build the true Mars rocket.
But that would only be a beginning. They would build the true Mind Bomb. They would build the true Selective Microbe Slayer. They would discover the true laws of ESP and the inner life. They would even—his imagination hesitated a moment, then strode boldly forward—build the true Maizie!
And then ... then the Thinkers would be on even terms with the scientists. Rather, they'd be far ahead. No more deception.
He was so exalted by this thought that he almost let the slideway carry him past his door. He stepped inside and called, "Caddy!" He waited a moment, then walked through the apartment, but she wasn't there.
Confound the girl, he couldn't help thinking. This morning, when she should have made herself scarce, she'd sprawled about sleeping. Now, when he felt like seeing her, when her presence would have added a pleasant final touch to his glowing mood, she chose to be absent. He really should use his hypnotic control on her, he decided, and again there sprang into his mind the word—a pet form of her name—that would send her into obedient trance.
No, he told himself again, that was to be reserved for some moment of crisis or desperate danger, when he would need someone to strike suddenly and unquestioningly for himself and mankind. Caddy was merely a wilful and rather silly girl, incapable at present of understanding the tremendous tensions under which he operated. When he had time for it, he would train her up to be a fitting companion without hypnosis.
Yet the fact of her absence had a subtly disquieting effect. It shook his perfect self-confidence just a fraction. He asked himself if he'd been wise in summoning the rocket physicists without consulting Tregarron.
But this mood, too, he conquered quickly. Tregarron wasn't his boss, but just the Thinker's most clever salesman, an expert in the mumbo-jumbo so necessary for social control in this chaotic era. He himself, Jorj Helmuth, was the real leader in theoretics and all-over strategy, the mind behind the mind behind Maizie.
He stretched himself on the bed, almost instantly achieved maximum relaxation, turned on the somno-learner, and began the two hour rest he knew would be desirable before the big conference.
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What is the setting of the story?
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After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about The Girls from Fieu Dayol by Robert F. Young.
Relevant chunks:
The Girls From Fieu Dayol
By ROBERT F. YOUNG
They were lovely and quick to learn—and their only faults were little ones!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Up until the moment when he first looked into Hippolyte Adolphe Taine's History of English Literature , Herbert Quidley's penchant for old books had netted him nothing in the way of romance and intrigue. Not that he was a stranger to either. Far from it. But hitherto the background for both had been bedrooms and bars, not libraries.
On page 21 of the Taine tome he happened upon a sheet of yellow copy paper folded in four. Unfolding it, he read:
asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj Cai: Sities towms copeis wotnid. Gind snoll doper nckli! Wilbe Fieu Dayol fot ig habe mot toseo knwo—te bijk weil en snoll doper—Klio, asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj
Since when, Quidley wondered, refolding the paper and putting it back in the book, had high-school typing students taken to reading Taine? Thoughtfully he replaced the book on the shelf and moved deeper into the literature section.
He had just taken down Xenophon's Anabasis when he saw the girl walk in the door.
Let it be said forthwith that old books were not the only item on Herbert Quidley's penchant-list. He liked old wood, too, and old paintings, not to mention old wine and old whiskey. But most of all he liked young girls. He especially liked them when they looked the way Helen of Troy must have looked when Paris took one gander at her and started building his ladder. This one was tall, with hyacinth hair and liquid blue eyes, and she had a Grecian symmetry of shape that would have made Paris' eyes pop had he been around to take notice. Paris wasn't, but Quidley's eyes, did the job.
After coming in the door, the girl deposited a book on the librarian's desk and headed for the literature section. Quickly Quidley lowered his eyes to the Anabasis and henceforth followed her progress out of their corners. When she came to the O's she paused, took down a book and glanced through it. Then she replaced it and moved on to the P's ... the Q's ... the R's. Barely three feet from him she paused again and took down Taine's History of English Literature .
He simply could not believe it. The odds against two persons taking an interest in so esoteric a volume on a single night in a single library were ten thousand to one. And yet there was no gainsaying that the volume was in the girl's hands, and that she was riffling through it with the air of a seasoned browser.
Presently she returned the book to the shelf, selected another—seemingly at random—and took it over to the librarian's desk. She waited statuesquely while the librarian processed it, then tucked it under her arm and whisked out the door into the misty April night. As soon as she disappeared, Quidley stepped over to the T's and took Taine down once more. Just as he had suspected. The makeshift bookmark was gone.
He remembered how the asdf-;lkj exercise had given way to several lines of gibberish and then reappeared again. A camouflaged message? Or was it merely what it appeared to be on the surface—the efforts of an impatient typing student to type before his time?
He returned Taine to the shelf. After learning from the librarian that the girl's name was Kay Smith, he went out and got in his hardtop. The name rang a bell. Halfway home he realized why. The typing exercise had contained the word "Cai", and if you pronounced it with hard c, you got
"Kai"—or "Kay". Obviously, then, the exercise had been a message, and had been deliberately inserted in a book no average person would dream of borrowing.
By whom—her boy friend?
Quidley winced. He was allergic to the term. Not that he ever let the presence of a boy friend deter him when he set out to conquer, but because the term itself brought to mind the word "fiance," and the word
"fiance" brought to mind still another word, one which repelled him violently. I.e., "marriage". Just the same, he decided to keep Taine's History under observation for a while.
Her boy friend turned out to be her girl friend, and her girl friend turned out to be a tall and lissome, lovely with a Helenesque air of her own. From the vantage point of a strategically located reading table, where he was keeping company with his favorite little magazine, The Zeitgeist , Quidley watched her take a seemingly haphazard route to the shelf where Taine's History reposed, take the volume down, surreptitiously slip a folded sheet of yellow paper between its pages and return it to the shelf.
After she left he wasted no time in acquainting himself with the second message. It was as unintelligible as the first:
asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj Cai: Habe wotnid ig ist ending ifedererer te. T'lide sid Fieu Dayol po jestig toseo knwo, bijk weil en snoll doper entling—Yoolna. asdf ;lkj asdf
;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj
Well, perhaps not quite as unintelligible. He knew, at least, who Cai was, and he knew—from the reappearance of the words wotnid , Fieu Dayol and snoll doper —that the two communications were in the same code. And certainly it was reasonable to assume that the last word— Yoolna —was the name of the girl he had just seen, and that she was a different person from the Klio whose name had appended the first message.
He refolded the paper, replaced it between the pages, returned the book to the shelf and went back to the reading table and The Zeitgeist .
Kay didn't show up till almost closing time, and he was beginning to think that perhaps she wouldn't come around for the pickup till tomorrow when she finally walked in the door. She employed the same tactics she had employed the previous night, arriving, as though by chance, at the T-section and transferring the message with the same undetectable legerdemain to her purse. This time, when she walked out the door, he was not far behind her.
She climbed into a sleek convertible and pulled into the street. It took him but a moment to gain his hardtop and start out after her. When, several blocks later, she pulled to the curb in front of an all-night coffee bar, he followed suit. After that, it was merely a matter of following her inside.
He decided on Operation Spill-the-sugar. It had stood him in good stead before, and he was rather fond of it. The procedure was quite simple. First you took note of the position of the sugar dispensers, then you situated yourself so that your intended victim was between you and the nearest one, then you ordered coffee without sugar in a low voice, and after the counterman or countergirl had served you, you waited till he/she was out of earshot and asked your i.v. to please pass the sugar. When she did so you let the dispenser slip from your fingers in such a way that some of its contents spilled on her lap—
"I'm terribly sorry," he said, righting it. "Here, let me brush it off."
"It's all right, it's only sugar," she said, laughing.
"I'm hopelessly clumsy," he continued smoothly, brushing the gleaming crystals from her pleated skirt, noting the clean sweep of her thighs.
"I beseech you to forgive me."
"You're forgiven," she said, and he noticed then that she spoke with a slight accent.
"If you like, you can send it to the cleaners and have them send the bill to me. My address is 61 Park Place." He pulled out his wallet, chose an appropriate card, and handed it to her—
Herbert Quidley: Profiliste
Her forehead crinkled. " Profiliste? "
"I paint profiles with words," he said. "You may have run across some of my pieces in the Better Magazines. I employ a variety of pseudonyms, of course."
"How interesting." She pronounced it "anteresting."
"Not famous profiles, you understand. Just profiles that strike my fancy." He paused. She had raised her cup to her lips and was taking a dainty sip. "You have a rather striking profile yourself, Miss—"
"Smith. Kay Smith." She set the cup back on the counter and turned and faced him. For a second her eyes seemed to expand till they preoccupied his entire vision, till he could see nothing but their disturbingly clear—and suddenly cold—blueness. Panic touched him, then vanished when she said, "Would you really consider word-painting my profile, Mr. Quidley?"
Would he! "When can I call?"
She hesitated for a moment. Then: "I think it will be better if I call on you. There are quite a number of people living in our—our house. I'm afraid the quarters would be much too cramped for an artist like yourself to concentrate."
Quidley glowed. Usually it required two or three days, and sometimes a week, to reach the apartment phase. "Fine," he said. "When can I expect you?"
She stood up and he got to his feet beside her. She was even taller than he had thought. In fact, if he hadn't been wearing Cuban heels, she'd have been taller than he was. "I'll be in town night after next," she said. "Will nine o'clock be convenient for you?"
"Perfectly."
"Good-by for now then, Mr. Quidley."
He was so elated that when he arrived at his apartment he actually did try to write a profile. His own, of course. He sat down at his custom-built chrome-trimmed desk, inserted a blank sheet of paper in his custom-built typewriter and tried to arrange his thoughts. But as usual his mind raced ahead of the moment, and he saw the title, Self Profile , nestling noticeably on the contents page of one of the Better Magazines, and presently he saw the piece itself in all its splendid array of colorful rhetoric, sparkling imagery and scintillating wit, occupying a two-page spread.
It was some time before he returned to reality, and when he did the first thing that met his eyes was the uncompromisingly blank sheet of paper. Hurriedly he typed out a letter to his father, requesting an advance on his allowance, then, after a tall glass of vintage wine, he went to bed.
In telling him that she would be in town two nights hence, Kay had unwittingly apprised him that there would be no exchange of messages until that time, so the next evening he skipped his vigil at the library. The following evening, however, after readying his apartment for the forthcoming assignation, he hied himself to his reading-table post and took up The Zeitgeist once again.
He had not thought it possible that there could be a third such woman.
And yet there she was, walking in the door, tall and blue-eyed and graceful; dark of hair and noble of mien; browsing in the philosophy section now, now the fiction section, now moving leisurely into the literature aisle and toward the T's....
The camouflage had varied, but the message was typical enough:
fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; Cai: Gind en snoll doper nckli! Wotnid antwaterer Fieu Dayol hid jestig snoll doper ifedererer te. Dep gogensplo snoll dopers ensing!—Gorka. fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl;
Judging from the repeated use of the words, snoll dopers were the topic of the day. Annoyed, Quidley replaced the message and put the book back on the shelf. Then he returned to his apartment to await Kay.
He wondered what her reaction would be if he asked her point-blank what a snoll doper was; whether she would reveal the nature of the amateur secret society to which she and Klio and Yoolna and Gorka belonged. It virtually had to be an amateur secret society. Unless, of course, they were foreigners. But what on earth foreign organization would be quixotic enough to employ Taine's History of English Literature as a communications medium when there was a telephone in every drugstore and a mailbox on every corner?
Somehow the words "what on earth foreign organization" got turned around in his mind and became "what foreign organization on earth" and before he could summon his common sense to succor him, he experienced a rather bad moment. By the time the door chimes sounded he was his normal self again.
He straightened his tie with nervous fingers, checked to see if his shirt cuffs protruded the proper length from his coat sleeves, and looked around the room to see if everything was in place. Everything was—the typewriter uncovered and centered on the chrome-trimmed desk, with the sheaf of crinkly first-sheets beside it; the reference books stacked imposingly nearby; Harper's , The Atlantic and The Saturday Review showing conspicuously in the magazine rack; the newly opened bottle of bourbon and the two snifter glasses on the sideboard; the small table set cozily for two—
The chimes sounded again. He opened the door.
She walked in with a demure, "Hello." He took her wrap. When he saw what she was wearing he had to tilt his head back so that his eyes wouldn't fall out of their sockets.
Skin, mostly, in the upper regions. White, glowing skin on which her long hair lay like forest pools. As for her dress, it was as though she had fallen forward into immaculate snow, half-burying her breasts before catching herself on her elbows, then turning into a sitting position, the snow clinging to her skin in a glistening veneer; arising finally to her feet, resplendently attired.
He went over to the sideboard, picked up the bottle of bourbon. She followed. He set the two snifter glasses side by side and tilted the bottle. "Say when." "When!" "I admire your dress—never saw anything quite like it." "Thank you. The material is something new. Feel it."
"It's—it's almost like foam rubber. Cigarette?" "Thanks.... Is something wrong, Mr. Quidley?" "No, of course not. Why?" "Your hands are trembling." "Oh. I'm—I'm afraid it's the present company, Miss Smith." "Call me Kay."
They touched glasses: "Your liquor is as exquisite as your living room, Herbert. I shall have to come here more often." "I hope you will, Kay."
"Though such conduct, I'm told, is morally reprehensible on the planet Earth." "Not in this particular circle. Your hair is lovely." "Thank you.... You haven't mentioned my perfume yet. Perhaps I'm standing too far away.... There!" "It's—it's as lovely as your hair, Kay." "Um, kiss me again." "I—I never figured—I mean, I engaged a caterer to serve us dinner at 9:30." "Call him up. Make it 10:30."
The following evening found Quidley on tenter-hooks. The snoll-doper mystery had acquired a new tang. He could hardly wait till the next message transfer took place.
He decided to spend the evening plotting the epic novel which he intended to write someday. He set to work immediately. He plotted mentally, of course—notes were for the hacks and the other commercial non-geniuses who infested the modern literary world. Closing his eyes, he saw the whole vivid panorama of epic action and grand adventure flowing like a mighty and majestic river before his literary vision: the authentic and awe-inspiring background; the hordes of colorful characters; the handsome virile hero, the compelling Helenesque heroine.... God, it was going to be great! The best thing he'd ever done! See, already there was a crowd of book lovers in front of the bookstore, staring into the window where the new Herbert Quidley was on display, trying to force its way into the jammed interior.... Cut to interior. FIRST EAGER CUSTOMER: Tell me quickly, are there any more copies of the new Herbert Quidley left? BOOK CLERK: A few. You don't know how lucky you are to get here before the first printing ran out. FIRST EAGER CUSTOMER: Give me a dozen. I want to make sure that my children and my children's children have a plentiful supply. BOOK CLERK: Sorry. Only one to a customer. Next? SECOND EAGER CUSTOMER: Tell me quickly, are ... there ... any ... more ... copies ... of—
ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ....
Message no. 4, except for a slight variation in camouflage, ran true to form:
a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj Cai: Habe te snoll dopers ensing? Wotnid ne Fieu Dayol ist ifederereret, hid jestig snoll doper. Gind ed, olro—Jilka. a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj
Quidley sighed. What, he asked himself, standing in the library aisle and staring at the indecipherable words, was a normal girl like Kay doing in such a childish secret society? From the way she and her correspondents carried on you'd almost think they were Martian girl scouts on an interplanetary camping trip, trying for their merit badges in communications!
You could hardly call Kay a girl scout, though.
Nevertheless, she was the key figure in the snoll-doper enigma. The fact annoyed him, especially when he considered that a snoll doper , for all he knew, could be anything from a Chinese fortune cooky to an H-bomb.
He remembered Kay's odd accent. Was that the way a person would speak English if her own language ran something like " ist ifedereret, hid jestig snoll doper adwo ?"
He remembered the way she had looked at him in the coffee bar.
He remembered the material of her dress.
He remembered how she had come to his room.
"I didn't know you had a taste for Taine."
Her voice seemed to come from far away, but she was standing right beside him, tall and bewitching; Helenesque as ever. Her blue eyes became great wells into which he found himself falling. With an effort, he pulled himself back. "You're early tonight," he said lamely.
She appropriated the message, read it. "Put the book back," she said presently. Then, when he complied: "Come on."
"Where are we going?"
"I'm going to deliver a snoll doper to Jilka. After that I'm going to take you home to meet my folks."
The relieved sigh he heard was his own.
They climbed into her convertible and she nosed it into the moving line of cars. "How long have you been reading my mail?" she asked.
"Since the night before I met you."
"Was that the reason you spilled the sugar?"
"Part of the reason," he said. "What's a snoll doper ?"
She laughed. "I don't think I'd better tell you just yet."
He sighed again. "But if Jilka wanted a snoll doper ," he said after a while, "why in the world didn't she call you up and say so?"
"Regulations." She pulled over to the curb in front of a brick apartment building. "This is where Jilka lives. I'll explain when I get back."
He watched her get out, walk up the walk to the entrance and let herself in. He leaned his head back on the seat, lit a cigarette and exhaled a mixture of smoke and relief. On the way to meet her folks. So it was just an ordinary secret society after all. And here he'd been thinking that she was the key figure in a Martian plot to blow up Earth—
Her folks !
Abruptly the full implication of the words got through to him, and he sat bolt-up-right on the seat. He was starting to climb out of the car when he saw Kay coming down the walk. Anyway, running away wouldn't solve his problem. A complete disappearing act was in order, and a complete disappearing act would take time. Meanwhile he would play along with her.
A station wagon came up behind them, slowed, and matched its speed with theirs. "Someone's following us," Quidley said.
"Probably Jilka."
Five minutes later the station wagon turned down a side street and disappeared. "She's no longer with us," Quidley said.
"She's got to pick someone up. She'll meet us later."
"At your folks'?"
"At the ship."
The city was thinning out around them now, and a few stars were visible in the night sky. Quidley watched them thoughtfully for a while. Then:
"What ship?" he said.
"The one we're going to Fieu Dayol on."
" Fieu Dayol? "
"Persei 17 to you. I said I was going to take you home to meet my folks, didn't I?"
"In other words, you're kidnapping me."
She shook her head vehemently. "I most certainly am not! Neither according to interstellar law or your own. When you compromised me, you made yourself liable in the eyes of both."
"But why pick on me? There must be plenty of men on Fieu Dayol . Why don't you marry one of them?"
"For two reasons: one, you're the particular man who compromised me. Two, there are not plenty of men on Fieu Dayol . Our race is identical to yours in everything except population-balance between the sexes. At periodic intervals the women on Fieu Dayol so greatly outnumber the men that those of us who are temperamentally and emotionally unfitted to become spinsters have to look for wotnids —or mates—on other worlds. It's quite legal and quite respectable. As a matter of fact, we even have schools specializing in alien cultures to expedite our activities. Our biggest problem is the Interstellar statute forbidding us the use of local communications services and forbidding us to appear in public places. It was devised to facilitate the prosecution of interstellar black marketeers, but we're subject to it, too, and have to contrive communications systems of our own."
"But why were all the messages addressed to you?"
"They weren't messages. They were requisitions. I'm the ship's stock girl."
April fields stretched darkly away on either side of the highway. Presently she turned down a rutted road between two of them and they bounced and swayed back to a black blur of trees. "Here we are," she said.
Gradually he made out the sphere. It blended so flawlessly with its background that he wouldn't have been able to see it at all if he hadn't been informed of its existence. A gangplank sloped down from an open lock and came to rest just within the fringe of the trees.
Lights danced in the darkness behind them as another car jounced down the rutted road. "Jilka," Kay said. "I wonder if she got him."
Apparently she had. At least there was a man with her—a rather woebegone, wilted creature who didn't even look up as they passed. Quidley watched them ascend the gangplank, the man in the lead, and disappear into the ship.
"Next," Kay said.
Quidley shook his head. "You're not taking me to another planet!"
She opened her purse and pulled out a small metallic object "A little while ago you asked me what a snoll doper was," she said.
"Unfortunately interstellar law severely limits us in our choice of marriageable males, and we can take only those who refuse to conform to the sexual mores of their own societies." She did something to the object that caused it to extend itself into a long, tubular affair.
" This is a snoll doper ."
She prodded his ribs. "March," she said.
He marched. Halfway up the plank he glanced back over his shoulder for a better look at the object pressed against his back.
It bore a striking resemblance to a shotgun.
Question:
What is the setting of the story?
Answer:
|
[
"The first scene is in the library. Hippolyte Adolphe Taine’s History of English Literature is in the literature section. The books are categorized in alphabetical order. Taine’s book is in the T-section. The secret letters are always hidden in Taine’s book in the T section, where the girls from Fieu Dayol always stop and take the book. A librarian sits at the front desk to handle administrative stuff. There are reading tables. The second scene is in an all-night coffee bar where Herbert Quidley conducts his Spill-the-sugar operation to start the conversation with the girl next to him. There is a sugar dispenser on the counter. \n\nThe third scene is in Quidley’s apartment. There is a custom-built chrome-trimmed desk, a typewriter inserted with a blank sheet of paper, and the reference books stacked nearby. The magazine rack has Better Magazines, Harper’s, The Atlantic, and The Saturday Review. There is also a small table and a sideboard with a bottle of bourbon and two snifter glasses on top. The fourth scene is on the highway where Quidley is stuck in the car. The rutted road with trees points towards a ship. A ship with its lock open is hiding in the trees. It is dark.",
"The story is set in a city, but most of the action takes place in a library. While searching for a book in the library, Herbert comes across the weird messages that Kay and her crew used to communicate with each other. Some parts of the story also take place in a bar, which is where Kay and Herbert actually met. Herbert’s apartment is also an important location, as it was where Herbert and Kay became closer. Lastly, Kay’ ship is hidden within a forest, which is where the story ends. ",
"The story is set on planet Earth. It is set in a city, and the beginning of the story is inside of a library. There is a great number of books inside of the library, including old tomes. Whenever one of the women has to leave a message, they go to the ‘T’ section of English literature. The city also has an all-night coffee shop, where Quidley goes to bump into Kay in order to find out more about her. Quidley has an apartment himself, and Jillka is noted to live in a brick apartment building. It is later revealed that there is also a ship to take everybody back to Fieu Dayol, or Persei 17. It is noted that there is an unequal population-balance between the men and women there. \n",
"The story starts at the library, where Quidley finds the undecipherable messages inside Taine's novel. The next day, he comes back there and then decides to follow Kay. He gets in his car and drives behind her until they both stop near an all-night coffee bar. They sit at the bar counter and talk. Two days later, Quidley goes to the library again and notices another girl. Later this evening, Kay arrives at his place. The room has a typewriter on his chrome-trimmed desk with crinkly sheets and reference books beside it, a bottle of bourbon and glasses on a sideboard, and a small table set for two. When Kay catches him reading their new message, she orders him to follow her. They get in her convertible and drive to a brick apartment building. She pulls over and enters the building. Minutes later, she walks back to the car, and they drive along a highway away from the city. She turns down a rutted road, and soon they reach a black blur of trees and a spherical ship that blends with its background. At the end, Quidley marches up the ship’s plank. \n"
] |
61048
|
The Girls From Fieu Dayol
By ROBERT F. YOUNG
They were lovely and quick to learn—and their only faults were little ones!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, September 1961. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Up until the moment when he first looked into Hippolyte Adolphe Taine's History of English Literature , Herbert Quidley's penchant for old books had netted him nothing in the way of romance and intrigue. Not that he was a stranger to either. Far from it. But hitherto the background for both had been bedrooms and bars, not libraries.
On page 21 of the Taine tome he happened upon a sheet of yellow copy paper folded in four. Unfolding it, he read:
asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj Cai: Sities towms copeis wotnid. Gind snoll doper nckli! Wilbe Fieu Dayol fot ig habe mot toseo knwo—te bijk weil en snoll doper—Klio, asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj
Since when, Quidley wondered, refolding the paper and putting it back in the book, had high-school typing students taken to reading Taine? Thoughtfully he replaced the book on the shelf and moved deeper into the literature section.
He had just taken down Xenophon's Anabasis when he saw the girl walk in the door.
Let it be said forthwith that old books were not the only item on Herbert Quidley's penchant-list. He liked old wood, too, and old paintings, not to mention old wine and old whiskey. But most of all he liked young girls. He especially liked them when they looked the way Helen of Troy must have looked when Paris took one gander at her and started building his ladder. This one was tall, with hyacinth hair and liquid blue eyes, and she had a Grecian symmetry of shape that would have made Paris' eyes pop had he been around to take notice. Paris wasn't, but Quidley's eyes, did the job.
After coming in the door, the girl deposited a book on the librarian's desk and headed for the literature section. Quickly Quidley lowered his eyes to the Anabasis and henceforth followed her progress out of their corners. When she came to the O's she paused, took down a book and glanced through it. Then she replaced it and moved on to the P's ... the Q's ... the R's. Barely three feet from him she paused again and took down Taine's History of English Literature .
He simply could not believe it. The odds against two persons taking an interest in so esoteric a volume on a single night in a single library were ten thousand to one. And yet there was no gainsaying that the volume was in the girl's hands, and that she was riffling through it with the air of a seasoned browser.
Presently she returned the book to the shelf, selected another—seemingly at random—and took it over to the librarian's desk. She waited statuesquely while the librarian processed it, then tucked it under her arm and whisked out the door into the misty April night. As soon as she disappeared, Quidley stepped over to the T's and took Taine down once more. Just as he had suspected. The makeshift bookmark was gone.
He remembered how the asdf-;lkj exercise had given way to several lines of gibberish and then reappeared again. A camouflaged message? Or was it merely what it appeared to be on the surface—the efforts of an impatient typing student to type before his time?
He returned Taine to the shelf. After learning from the librarian that the girl's name was Kay Smith, he went out and got in his hardtop. The name rang a bell. Halfway home he realized why. The typing exercise had contained the word "Cai", and if you pronounced it with hard c, you got
"Kai"—or "Kay". Obviously, then, the exercise had been a message, and had been deliberately inserted in a book no average person would dream of borrowing.
By whom—her boy friend?
Quidley winced. He was allergic to the term. Not that he ever let the presence of a boy friend deter him when he set out to conquer, but because the term itself brought to mind the word "fiance," and the word
"fiance" brought to mind still another word, one which repelled him violently. I.e., "marriage". Just the same, he decided to keep Taine's History under observation for a while.
Her boy friend turned out to be her girl friend, and her girl friend turned out to be a tall and lissome, lovely with a Helenesque air of her own. From the vantage point of a strategically located reading table, where he was keeping company with his favorite little magazine, The Zeitgeist , Quidley watched her take a seemingly haphazard route to the shelf where Taine's History reposed, take the volume down, surreptitiously slip a folded sheet of yellow paper between its pages and return it to the shelf.
After she left he wasted no time in acquainting himself with the second message. It was as unintelligible as the first:
asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj Cai: Habe wotnid ig ist ending ifedererer te. T'lide sid Fieu Dayol po jestig toseo knwo, bijk weil en snoll doper entling—Yoolna. asdf ;lkj asdf
;lkj asdf ;lkj asdf ;lkj
Well, perhaps not quite as unintelligible. He knew, at least, who Cai was, and he knew—from the reappearance of the words wotnid , Fieu Dayol and snoll doper —that the two communications were in the same code. And certainly it was reasonable to assume that the last word— Yoolna —was the name of the girl he had just seen, and that she was a different person from the Klio whose name had appended the first message.
He refolded the paper, replaced it between the pages, returned the book to the shelf and went back to the reading table and The Zeitgeist .
Kay didn't show up till almost closing time, and he was beginning to think that perhaps she wouldn't come around for the pickup till tomorrow when she finally walked in the door. She employed the same tactics she had employed the previous night, arriving, as though by chance, at the T-section and transferring the message with the same undetectable legerdemain to her purse. This time, when she walked out the door, he was not far behind her.
She climbed into a sleek convertible and pulled into the street. It took him but a moment to gain his hardtop and start out after her. When, several blocks later, she pulled to the curb in front of an all-night coffee bar, he followed suit. After that, it was merely a matter of following her inside.
He decided on Operation Spill-the-sugar. It had stood him in good stead before, and he was rather fond of it. The procedure was quite simple. First you took note of the position of the sugar dispensers, then you situated yourself so that your intended victim was between you and the nearest one, then you ordered coffee without sugar in a low voice, and after the counterman or countergirl had served you, you waited till he/she was out of earshot and asked your i.v. to please pass the sugar. When she did so you let the dispenser slip from your fingers in such a way that some of its contents spilled on her lap—
"I'm terribly sorry," he said, righting it. "Here, let me brush it off."
"It's all right, it's only sugar," she said, laughing.
"I'm hopelessly clumsy," he continued smoothly, brushing the gleaming crystals from her pleated skirt, noting the clean sweep of her thighs.
"I beseech you to forgive me."
"You're forgiven," she said, and he noticed then that she spoke with a slight accent.
"If you like, you can send it to the cleaners and have them send the bill to me. My address is 61 Park Place." He pulled out his wallet, chose an appropriate card, and handed it to her—
Herbert Quidley: Profiliste
Her forehead crinkled. " Profiliste? "
"I paint profiles with words," he said. "You may have run across some of my pieces in the Better Magazines. I employ a variety of pseudonyms, of course."
"How interesting." She pronounced it "anteresting."
"Not famous profiles, you understand. Just profiles that strike my fancy." He paused. She had raised her cup to her lips and was taking a dainty sip. "You have a rather striking profile yourself, Miss—"
"Smith. Kay Smith." She set the cup back on the counter and turned and faced him. For a second her eyes seemed to expand till they preoccupied his entire vision, till he could see nothing but their disturbingly clear—and suddenly cold—blueness. Panic touched him, then vanished when she said, "Would you really consider word-painting my profile, Mr. Quidley?"
Would he! "When can I call?"
She hesitated for a moment. Then: "I think it will be better if I call on you. There are quite a number of people living in our—our house. I'm afraid the quarters would be much too cramped for an artist like yourself to concentrate."
Quidley glowed. Usually it required two or three days, and sometimes a week, to reach the apartment phase. "Fine," he said. "When can I expect you?"
She stood up and he got to his feet beside her. She was even taller than he had thought. In fact, if he hadn't been wearing Cuban heels, she'd have been taller than he was. "I'll be in town night after next," she said. "Will nine o'clock be convenient for you?"
"Perfectly."
"Good-by for now then, Mr. Quidley."
He was so elated that when he arrived at his apartment he actually did try to write a profile. His own, of course. He sat down at his custom-built chrome-trimmed desk, inserted a blank sheet of paper in his custom-built typewriter and tried to arrange his thoughts. But as usual his mind raced ahead of the moment, and he saw the title, Self Profile , nestling noticeably on the contents page of one of the Better Magazines, and presently he saw the piece itself in all its splendid array of colorful rhetoric, sparkling imagery and scintillating wit, occupying a two-page spread.
It was some time before he returned to reality, and when he did the first thing that met his eyes was the uncompromisingly blank sheet of paper. Hurriedly he typed out a letter to his father, requesting an advance on his allowance, then, after a tall glass of vintage wine, he went to bed.
In telling him that she would be in town two nights hence, Kay had unwittingly apprised him that there would be no exchange of messages until that time, so the next evening he skipped his vigil at the library. The following evening, however, after readying his apartment for the forthcoming assignation, he hied himself to his reading-table post and took up The Zeitgeist once again.
He had not thought it possible that there could be a third such woman.
And yet there she was, walking in the door, tall and blue-eyed and graceful; dark of hair and noble of mien; browsing in the philosophy section now, now the fiction section, now moving leisurely into the literature aisle and toward the T's....
The camouflage had varied, but the message was typical enough:
fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; Cai: Gind en snoll doper nckli! Wotnid antwaterer Fieu Dayol hid jestig snoll doper ifedererer te. Dep gogensplo snoll dopers ensing!—Gorka. fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl; fdsa jkl;
Judging from the repeated use of the words, snoll dopers were the topic of the day. Annoyed, Quidley replaced the message and put the book back on the shelf. Then he returned to his apartment to await Kay.
He wondered what her reaction would be if he asked her point-blank what a snoll doper was; whether she would reveal the nature of the amateur secret society to which she and Klio and Yoolna and Gorka belonged. It virtually had to be an amateur secret society. Unless, of course, they were foreigners. But what on earth foreign organization would be quixotic enough to employ Taine's History of English Literature as a communications medium when there was a telephone in every drugstore and a mailbox on every corner?
Somehow the words "what on earth foreign organization" got turned around in his mind and became "what foreign organization on earth" and before he could summon his common sense to succor him, he experienced a rather bad moment. By the time the door chimes sounded he was his normal self again.
He straightened his tie with nervous fingers, checked to see if his shirt cuffs protruded the proper length from his coat sleeves, and looked around the room to see if everything was in place. Everything was—the typewriter uncovered and centered on the chrome-trimmed desk, with the sheaf of crinkly first-sheets beside it; the reference books stacked imposingly nearby; Harper's , The Atlantic and The Saturday Review showing conspicuously in the magazine rack; the newly opened bottle of bourbon and the two snifter glasses on the sideboard; the small table set cozily for two—
The chimes sounded again. He opened the door.
She walked in with a demure, "Hello." He took her wrap. When he saw what she was wearing he had to tilt his head back so that his eyes wouldn't fall out of their sockets.
Skin, mostly, in the upper regions. White, glowing skin on which her long hair lay like forest pools. As for her dress, it was as though she had fallen forward into immaculate snow, half-burying her breasts before catching herself on her elbows, then turning into a sitting position, the snow clinging to her skin in a glistening veneer; arising finally to her feet, resplendently attired.
He went over to the sideboard, picked up the bottle of bourbon. She followed. He set the two snifter glasses side by side and tilted the bottle. "Say when." "When!" "I admire your dress—never saw anything quite like it." "Thank you. The material is something new. Feel it."
"It's—it's almost like foam rubber. Cigarette?" "Thanks.... Is something wrong, Mr. Quidley?" "No, of course not. Why?" "Your hands are trembling." "Oh. I'm—I'm afraid it's the present company, Miss Smith." "Call me Kay."
They touched glasses: "Your liquor is as exquisite as your living room, Herbert. I shall have to come here more often." "I hope you will, Kay."
"Though such conduct, I'm told, is morally reprehensible on the planet Earth." "Not in this particular circle. Your hair is lovely." "Thank you.... You haven't mentioned my perfume yet. Perhaps I'm standing too far away.... There!" "It's—it's as lovely as your hair, Kay." "Um, kiss me again." "I—I never figured—I mean, I engaged a caterer to serve us dinner at 9:30." "Call him up. Make it 10:30."
The following evening found Quidley on tenter-hooks. The snoll-doper mystery had acquired a new tang. He could hardly wait till the next message transfer took place.
He decided to spend the evening plotting the epic novel which he intended to write someday. He set to work immediately. He plotted mentally, of course—notes were for the hacks and the other commercial non-geniuses who infested the modern literary world. Closing his eyes, he saw the whole vivid panorama of epic action and grand adventure flowing like a mighty and majestic river before his literary vision: the authentic and awe-inspiring background; the hordes of colorful characters; the handsome virile hero, the compelling Helenesque heroine.... God, it was going to be great! The best thing he'd ever done! See, already there was a crowd of book lovers in front of the bookstore, staring into the window where the new Herbert Quidley was on display, trying to force its way into the jammed interior.... Cut to interior. FIRST EAGER CUSTOMER: Tell me quickly, are there any more copies of the new Herbert Quidley left? BOOK CLERK: A few. You don't know how lucky you are to get here before the first printing ran out. FIRST EAGER CUSTOMER: Give me a dozen. I want to make sure that my children and my children's children have a plentiful supply. BOOK CLERK: Sorry. Only one to a customer. Next? SECOND EAGER CUSTOMER: Tell me quickly, are ... there ... any ... more ... copies ... of—
ZZZZZZZZZZZZZ....
Message no. 4, except for a slight variation in camouflage, ran true to form:
a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj Cai: Habe te snoll dopers ensing? Wotnid ne Fieu Dayol ist ifederereret, hid jestig snoll doper. Gind ed, olro—Jilka. a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj a;sldkfj
Quidley sighed. What, he asked himself, standing in the library aisle and staring at the indecipherable words, was a normal girl like Kay doing in such a childish secret society? From the way she and her correspondents carried on you'd almost think they were Martian girl scouts on an interplanetary camping trip, trying for their merit badges in communications!
You could hardly call Kay a girl scout, though.
Nevertheless, she was the key figure in the snoll-doper enigma. The fact annoyed him, especially when he considered that a snoll doper , for all he knew, could be anything from a Chinese fortune cooky to an H-bomb.
He remembered Kay's odd accent. Was that the way a person would speak English if her own language ran something like " ist ifedereret, hid jestig snoll doper adwo ?"
He remembered the way she had looked at him in the coffee bar.
He remembered the material of her dress.
He remembered how she had come to his room.
"I didn't know you had a taste for Taine."
Her voice seemed to come from far away, but she was standing right beside him, tall and bewitching; Helenesque as ever. Her blue eyes became great wells into which he found himself falling. With an effort, he pulled himself back. "You're early tonight," he said lamely.
She appropriated the message, read it. "Put the book back," she said presently. Then, when he complied: "Come on."
"Where are we going?"
"I'm going to deliver a snoll doper to Jilka. After that I'm going to take you home to meet my folks."
The relieved sigh he heard was his own.
They climbed into her convertible and she nosed it into the moving line of cars. "How long have you been reading my mail?" she asked.
"Since the night before I met you."
"Was that the reason you spilled the sugar?"
"Part of the reason," he said. "What's a snoll doper ?"
She laughed. "I don't think I'd better tell you just yet."
He sighed again. "But if Jilka wanted a snoll doper ," he said after a while, "why in the world didn't she call you up and say so?"
"Regulations." She pulled over to the curb in front of a brick apartment building. "This is where Jilka lives. I'll explain when I get back."
He watched her get out, walk up the walk to the entrance and let herself in. He leaned his head back on the seat, lit a cigarette and exhaled a mixture of smoke and relief. On the way to meet her folks. So it was just an ordinary secret society after all. And here he'd been thinking that she was the key figure in a Martian plot to blow up Earth—
Her folks !
Abruptly the full implication of the words got through to him, and he sat bolt-up-right on the seat. He was starting to climb out of the car when he saw Kay coming down the walk. Anyway, running away wouldn't solve his problem. A complete disappearing act was in order, and a complete disappearing act would take time. Meanwhile he would play along with her.
A station wagon came up behind them, slowed, and matched its speed with theirs. "Someone's following us," Quidley said.
"Probably Jilka."
Five minutes later the station wagon turned down a side street and disappeared. "She's no longer with us," Quidley said.
"She's got to pick someone up. She'll meet us later."
"At your folks'?"
"At the ship."
The city was thinning out around them now, and a few stars were visible in the night sky. Quidley watched them thoughtfully for a while. Then:
"What ship?" he said.
"The one we're going to Fieu Dayol on."
" Fieu Dayol? "
"Persei 17 to you. I said I was going to take you home to meet my folks, didn't I?"
"In other words, you're kidnapping me."
She shook her head vehemently. "I most certainly am not! Neither according to interstellar law or your own. When you compromised me, you made yourself liable in the eyes of both."
"But why pick on me? There must be plenty of men on Fieu Dayol . Why don't you marry one of them?"
"For two reasons: one, you're the particular man who compromised me. Two, there are not plenty of men on Fieu Dayol . Our race is identical to yours in everything except population-balance between the sexes. At periodic intervals the women on Fieu Dayol so greatly outnumber the men that those of us who are temperamentally and emotionally unfitted to become spinsters have to look for wotnids —or mates—on other worlds. It's quite legal and quite respectable. As a matter of fact, we even have schools specializing in alien cultures to expedite our activities. Our biggest problem is the Interstellar statute forbidding us the use of local communications services and forbidding us to appear in public places. It was devised to facilitate the prosecution of interstellar black marketeers, but we're subject to it, too, and have to contrive communications systems of our own."
"But why were all the messages addressed to you?"
"They weren't messages. They were requisitions. I'm the ship's stock girl."
April fields stretched darkly away on either side of the highway. Presently she turned down a rutted road between two of them and they bounced and swayed back to a black blur of trees. "Here we are," she said.
Gradually he made out the sphere. It blended so flawlessly with its background that he wouldn't have been able to see it at all if he hadn't been informed of its existence. A gangplank sloped down from an open lock and came to rest just within the fringe of the trees.
Lights danced in the darkness behind them as another car jounced down the rutted road. "Jilka," Kay said. "I wonder if she got him."
Apparently she had. At least there was a man with her—a rather woebegone, wilted creature who didn't even look up as they passed. Quidley watched them ascend the gangplank, the man in the lead, and disappear into the ship.
"Next," Kay said.
Quidley shook his head. "You're not taking me to another planet!"
She opened her purse and pulled out a small metallic object "A little while ago you asked me what a snoll doper was," she said.
"Unfortunately interstellar law severely limits us in our choice of marriageable males, and we can take only those who refuse to conform to the sexual mores of their own societies." She did something to the object that caused it to extend itself into a long, tubular affair.
" This is a snoll doper ."
She prodded his ribs. "March," she said.
He marched. Halfway up the plank he glanced back over his shoulder for a better look at the object pressed against his back.
It bore a striking resemblance to a shotgun.
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How is the theme of capitalism explored throughout the story?
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After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about The Expendables by Jim Harmon.
Relevant chunks:
THE EXPENDABLES
BY JIM HARMON
It was just a little black box, useful for getting rid of things. Trouble was, it worked too well!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
"You see my problem, Professor?" Tony Carmen held his pinkly manicured, flashily ringed hands wide.
I saw his problem and it was warmly embarrassing.
"Really, Mr. Carmen," I said, "this isn't the sort of thing you discuss with a total stranger. I'm not a doctor—not of medicine, anyway—or a lawyer."
"They can't help me. I need an operator in your line."
"I work for the United States government. I can't become involved in anything illegal."
Carmen smoothed down the front of his too-tight midnight blue suit and touched the diamond sticking in his silver tie. "You can't, Professor Venetti? Ever hear of the Mafia?"
"I've heard of it," I said uneasily. "An old fraternal organization something like the Moose or Rosicrucians, founded in Sicily. It allegedly controls organized crime in the U.S. But that is a responsibility-eluding myth that honest Italian-Americans are stamping out. We don't even like to see the word in print."
"I can understand honest Italian-Americans feeling that way. But guys like me know the Mafia is still with it. We can put the squeeze on marks like you pretty easy."
You don't have to tell even a third generation American about the Mafia. Maybe that was the trouble. I had heard too much and for too long. All the stories I had ever heard about the Mafia, true or false, built up an unendurable threat.
"All right, I'll try to help you, Carmen. But ... that is, you didn't kill any of these people?"
He snorted. "I haven't killed anybody since early 1943."
"Please," I said weakly. "You needn't incriminate yourself with me."
"I was in the Marines," Carmen said hotly. "Listen, Professor, these aren't no Prohibition times. Not many people get made for a hit these days. Mother, most of these bodies they keep ditching at my club haven't been murdered by anybody. They're accident victims. Rumbums with too much anti-freeze for a summer's day, Spanish-American War vets going to visit Teddy in the natural course of events. Harry Keno just stows them at my place to embarrass me. Figures to make me lose my liquor license or take a contempt before the Grand Jury."
"I don't suppose you could just go to the police—" I saw the answer in his eyes. "No. I don't suppose you could."
"I told you once, Professor, but I'll tell you again. I have to get rid of these bodies they keep leaving in my kitchen. I can take 'em and throw them in the river, sure. But what if me or my boys are stopped en route by some tipped badge?"
"Quicklime?" I suggested automatically.
"What are you talking about? Are you sure you're some kind of scientist? Lime doesn't do much to a stiff at all. Kind of putrifies them like...."
"I forgot," I admitted. "I'd read it in so many stories I'd forgotten it wouldn't work. And I suppose the furnace leaves ashes and there's always traces of hair and teeth in the garbage disposal... An interesting problem, at that."
"I figured you could handle it," Carmen said, leaning back comfortably in the favorite chair of my bachelor apartment. "I heard you were working on something to get rid of trash for the government."
"That," I told him, "is restricted information. I subcontracted that work from the big telephone laboratories. How did you find it out?"
"Ways, Professor, ways."
The government did want me to find a way to dispose of wastes—radioactive wastes. It was the most important problem any country could have in this time of growing atomic industry. Now a small-time gangster was asking me to use this research to help him dispose of hot corpses. It made my scientific blood seethe. But the shadow of the Black Hand cooled it off.
"Maybe I can find something in that area of research to help you," I said. "I'll call you."
"Don't take too long, Professor," Carmen said cordially.
The big drum topped with a metallic coolie's hat had started out as a neutralizer for radioactivity. Now I didn't know what to call it.
The AEC had found burying canisters of hot rubbish in the desert or in the Gulf had eventually proved unsatisfactory. Earth tremors or changes of temperature split the tanks in the ground, causing leaks. The undersea containers rusted and corroded through the time, poisoning fish and fishermen.
Through the SBA I had been awarded a subcontract to work on the problem. The ideal solution would be to find a way to neutralize radioactive emanations, alpha, beta, X et cetera. (No, my dear, et cetera rays aren't any more dangerous than the rest.) But this is easier written than done.
Of course, getting energy to destroy energy without producing energy or matter is a violation of the maxim of the conservation of energy. But I didn't let that stop me—any more than I would have let the velocity of light put any limitations on a spacecraft engine had I been engaged to work on one. You can't allow other people's ideas to tie you hand and foot. There are some who tell me, however, that my refusal to honor such time-tested cliches is why I only have a small private laboratory owned by myself, my late wife's father and the bank, instead of working in the vast facilities of Bell, Du Pont, or General Motors. To this, I can only smile and nod.
But even refusing to be balked by conservative ideas, I failed.
I could not neutralize radioactivity. All I had been able to do (by a basic disturbance in the electromagnetogravitational co-ordinant system for Earth-Sun) was to reduce the mass of the radioactive matter.
This only concentrated the radiations, as in boiling contaminated water. It did make the hot stuff vaguely easier to handle, but it was no breakthrough on the central problem.
Now, in the middle of this, I was supposed to find a way to get rid of some damned bodies for Carmen.
Pressed for time and knowing the results wouldn't have to be so precise or carefully defined for a racketeer as for the United States government, I began experimenting.
I cut corners.
I bypassed complete safety circuits.
I put dangerous overloads on some transformers and doodled with the wiring diagrams. If I got some kind of passable incinerator I would be happy.
I turned the machine on.
The lights popped out.
There were changes that should be made before I tried that again, but instead I only found a larger fuse for a heavier load and jammed that in the switchbox.
I flipped my machine into service once again. The lights flickered and held.
The dials on my control board told me the story. It was hard to take.
But there it was.
The internal Scale showed zero.
I had had a slightly hot bar of silver alloy inside. It was completely gone. Mass zero. The temperature gauge showed that there had been no change in centigrade reading that couldn't be explained by the mechanical operation of the machine itself. There had been no sudden discharge of electricity or radioactivity. I checked for a standard anti-gravity effect but there was none. Gravity inside the cylinder had gone to zero but never to minus.
I was at last violating conservation of energy—not by successfully inverting the cube of the ionization factor, but by destroying mass ... by simply making it cease to exist with no cause-and-effect side effects.
I knew the government wouldn't be interested, since I couldn't explain how my device worked. No amount of successful demonstration could ever convince anybody with any scientific training that it actually did work.
But I shrewdly judged that Tony Carmen wouldn't ask an embarrassing
"how" when he was incapable of understanding the explanation.
"Yeah, but how does it work?" Tony Carmen demanded of me, sleeking his mirror-black hair and staring up at the disk-topped drum.
"Why do you care?" I asked irritably. "It will dispose of your bodies for you."
"I got a reason that goes beyond the stiff, but let's stick to that just for now. Where are these bodies going? I don't want them winding up in the D.A.'s bathtub."
"Why not? How could they trace them back to you?"
"You're the scientist," Tony said hotly. "I got great respect for those crime lab boys. Maybe the stiff got some of my exclusive brand of talc on it, I don't know."
"Listen here, Carmen," I said, "what makes you think these bodies are going somewhere? Think of it only as a kind of—incinerator."
"Not on your life, Professor. The gadget don't get hot so how can it burn? It don't use enough electricity to fry. It don't cut 'em up or crush 'em down, or dissolve them in acid. I've seen disappearing cabinets before."
Mafia or not, I saw red. "Are you daring to suggest that I am working some trick with trap doors or sliding panels?"
"Easy, Professor," Carmen said, effortlessly shoving me back with one palm. "I'm not saying you have the machine rigged. It's just that you have to be dropping the stuff through a sliding panel in—well, everything around us. You're sliding all that aside and dropping things through. But I want to know where they wind up. Reasonable?"
Carmen was an uneducated lout and a criminal but he had an instinctive feel for the mechanics of physics.
"I don't know where the stuff goes, Carmen," I finally admitted. "It might go into another plane of existence. 'Another dimension' the writers for the American Weekly would describe it. Or into our past, or our future."
The swarthy racketeer pursed his lips and apparently did some rapid calculation.
"I don't mind the first two, but I don't like them going into the future. If they do that, they may show up again in six months."
"Or six million years."
"You'll have to cut that future part out, Professor."
I was beginning to get a trifle impatient. All those folk tales I had heard about the Mafia were getting more distant. "See here, Carmen, I could lie to you and say they went into the prehistoric past and you would never know the difference. But the truth is, I just don't know where the processed material goes. There's a chance it may go into the future, yes. But unless it goes exactly one year or exactly so many years it would appear in empty space ... because the earth will have moved from the spot it was transmitted. I don't know for sure. Perhaps the slight Deneb-ward movement of the Solar System would wreck a perfect three-point landing even then and cause the dispatched materials to burn up from atmospheric friction, like meteors. You will just have to take a chance on the future. That's the best I can do."
Carmen inhaled deeply. "Okay. I'll risk it. Pretty long odds against any squeal on the play. How many of these things can you turn out, Professor?"
"I can construct a duplicate of this device so that you may destroy the unwanted corpses that you would have me believe are delivered to you with the regularity of the morning milk run."
The racketeer waved that suggestion aside. "I'm talking about a big operation, Venetti. These things can take the place of incinerators, garbage disposals, waste baskets...."
"Impractical," I snorted. "You don't realize the tremendous amount of electrical power these devices require...."
"Nuts! From what you said, the machine is like a TV set; it takes a lot of power to get it started, but then on it coasts on its own generators."
"There's something to what you say," I admitted in the face of his unexpected information. "But I can hardly turn my invention over to your entirely persuasive salesmen, I'm sure. This is part of the results of an investigation for the government. Washington will have to decide what to do with the machine."
"Listen, Professor," Carmen began, "the Mafia—"
"What makes you think I'm any more afraid of the Mafia than I am of the F.B.I.? I may have already sealed my fate by letting you in on this much. Machinegunning is hardly a less attractive fate to me than a poor security rating. To me, being dead professionally would be as bad as being dead biologically."
Tony Carmen laid a heavy hand on my shoulder. I finally deduced he intended to be cordial.
"Of course," he said smoothly "you have to give this to Washington but there are ways , Professor. I know. I'm a business man—"
"You are ?" I said.
He named some of the businesses in which he held large shares of stock.
"You are ."
"I've had experience in this sort of thing. We simply leak the information to a few hundred well selected persons about all that your machine can do. We'll call 'em Expendables, because they can expend anything."
"I," I interjected, "planned to call it the Venetti Machine."
"Professor, who calls the radio the Marconi these days?"
"There are Geiger-Muller Counters, though," I said.
"You don't have to give a Geiger counter the sex appeal of a TV set or a hardtop convertible. We'll call them Expendables. No home will be complete without one."
"Perfect for disposing of unwanted bodies," I mused. "The murder rate will go alarmingly with those devices within easy reach."
"Did that stop Sam Colt or Henry Ford?" Tony Carmen asked reasonably....
Naturally, I was aware that the government would not be interested in my machine. I am not a Fortean, a psychic, a psionicist or a screwball. But the government frequently gets things it doesn't know what to do with—like airplanes in the 'twenties. When it doesn't know what to do, it doesn't do it.
There have been hundreds of workable perpetual motion machines patented, for example. Of course, they weren't vices in the strictest sense of the word. Many of them used the external power of gravity, they would wear out or slow down in time from friction, but for the meanwhile, for some ten to two hundred years they would just sit there, moving. No one had ever been able to figure out what to do with them.
I knew the AEC wasn't going to dump tons of radioactive waste (with some possible future reclaimation value) into a machine which they didn't believe actually could work.
Tony Carmen knew exactly what to do with an Expendable once he got his hands on it.
Naturally, that was what I had been afraid of.
The closed sedan was warm, even in early December.
Outside, the street was a progression of shadowed block forms. I was shivering slightly, my teeth rattling like the porcelain they were. Was this the storied "ride," I wondered?
Carmen finally returned to the car, unlatched the door and slid in. He did not reinsert the ignition key. I did not feel like sprinting down the deserted street.
"The boys will have it set up in a minute," Tony the racketeer informed me.
"What?" The firing squad?
"The Expendable, of course."
"Here? You dragged me out here to see how you have prostituted my invention? I presume you've set it up with a 'Keep Our City Clean' sign pasted on it."
He chuckled. It was a somewhat nasty sound, or so I imagined.
A flashlight winked in the sooty twilight.
"Okay. Let's go," Tony said, slapping my shoulder.
I got out of the car, rubbing my flabby bicep. Whenever I took my teen-age daughter to the beach from my late wife's parents' home, I frequently found 230 pound bullies did kick sand in my ears.
The machine was installed on the corner, half covered with a gloomy white shroud, and fearlessly plugged into the city lighting system via a blanketed streetlamp. Two hoods hovered in a doorway ready to take care of the first cop with a couple of fifties or a single .38, as necessity dictated.
Tony guided my elbow. "Okay, Professor, I think I understand the bit now, but I'll let you run it up with the flagpole for me, to see how it waves to the national anthem."
"Here?" I spluttered once more. "I told you, Carmen, I wanted nothing more to do with you. Your check is still on deposit...."
"You didn't want anything to do with me in the first place." The thug's teeth flashed in the night. "Throw your contraption into gear, buddy."
That was the first time the tone of respect, even if faked, had gone out of his voice. I moved to the switchboard of my invention. What remained was as simple as adjusting a modern floor lamp to a medium light position. I flipped.
Restraining any impulse toward colloqualism, I was also deeply disturbed by what next occurred.
One of the massive square shapes on the horizon vanished.
"What have you done?" I yelped, ripping the cover off the machine.
Even under the uncertain illumination of the smogged stars I could see that the unit was half gone—in fact, exactly halved.
"Squint the Seal is one of my boys. He used to be a mechanic in the old days for Burger, Madle, the guys who used to rob banks and stuff." There was an unmistakable note of boyish admiration in Carmen's voice.
"He figured the thing would work like that. Separate the poles and you increase the size of the working area."
"You mean square the operational field. Your idiot doesn't even know mechanics."
"No, but he knows all about how any kind of machine works."
"You call that working?" I demanded. "Do you realize what you have there, Carmen?"
"Sure. A disintegrator ray, straight out of Startling Stories ."
My opinion as to the type of person who followed the pages of science-fiction magazines with fluttering lips and tracing finger was upheld.
I looked at the old warehouse and of course didn't see it.
"What was this a test for?" I asked, fearful of the Frankenstein I had made. "What are you planning to do now?"
"This was no test, Venetti. This was it. I just wiped out Harry Keno and his intimates right in the middle of their confidential squat."
"Good heavens. That's uncouthly old-fashioned of you, Carmen! Why, that's murder ."
"Not," Carmen said, "without no corpus delecti ."
"The body of the crime remains without the body of the victim," I remembered from my early Ellery Queen training.
"You're talking too much, Professor," Tony suggested. "Remember, you did it with your machine."
"Yes," I said at length. "And why are we standing here letting those machines sit there?"
There were two small items of interest to me in the Times the following morning.
One two-inch story—barely making page one because of a hole to fill at the bottom of an account of the number of victims of Indian summer heat prostration—told of the incineration of a warehouse on Fleet Street by an ingenious new arson bomb that left "virtually" no trace. (Maybe the fire inspector had planted a few traces to make his explanation more creditable.)
The second item was further over in a science column just off the editorial page. It told of the government—!—developing a new process of waste disposal rivaling the old Buck Rogers disintegrator ray.
This, I presumed, was one of Tony Carmen's information leaks.
If he hoped to arouse the public into demanding my invention I doubted he would succeed. The public had been told repeatedly of a new radioactive process for preserving food and a painless way of spraying injections through the skin. But they were still stuck with refrigerators and hypodermic needles.
I had forced my way half-way through the paper and the terrible coffee I made when the doorbell rang.
I was hardly surprised when it turned out to be Tony Carmen behind the front door.
He pushed in, slapping a rolled newspaper in his palm. "Action, Professor."
"The district attorney has indicted you?" I asked hopefully.
"He's not even indicted you , Venetti. No, I got a feeler on this plant in the Times ."
I shook my head. "The government will take over the invention, no matter what the public wants."
"The public? Who cares about the public? The Arcivox corporation wants this machine of yours. They have their agents tracing the plant now. They will go from the columnist to his legman to my man and finally to you. Won't be long before they get here. An hour maybe."
"Arcivox makes radios and TV sets. What do they want with the Expendables?"
"Opening up a new appliance line with real innovations. I hear they got a new refrigerator. All open. Just shelves—no doors or sides. They want a revolutionary garbage disposal too."
"Do you own stock in the company? Is that how you know?"
"I own stock in a competitor. That's how I know," Carmen informed me.
"Listen, Professor, you can sell to Arcivox and still keep control of the patents through a separate corporation. And I'll give you 49% of its stock."
This was Carmen's idea of a magnanimous offer for my invention. It was a pretty good offer—49% and my good health.
"But will the government let Arcivox have the machine for commercial use?"
"The government would let Arcivox have the hydrogen bomb if they found a commercial use for it."
There was a sturdy knock on the door, not a shrill ring of the bell.
"That must be Arcivox now," Carmen growled. "They have the best detectives in the business. You know what to tell them?"
I knew what to tell them.
I peeled off my wet shirt and threw it across the corner of my desk, casting a reproving eye at the pastel air-conditioner in the window. It wasn't really the machine's fault—The water department reported the reservoir too low to run water-cooled systems. It would be a day or two before I could get the gas type into my office.
Miss Brown, my secretary, was getting a good look at my pale, bony chest. Well, for the salary she got, she could stand to look. Of course, she herself was wearing a modest one-strap sun dress, not shorts and halters like some of the girls.
"My," she observed "it certainly is humid for March, isn't it, Professor Venetti?"
I agreed that it was.
She got her pad and pencil ready.
"Wheedling form letter to Better Mousetraps. Where are our royalties for the last quarter of the year? We know we didn't have a full three months with our Expendable Field in operation on the new traps, but we want the payola for what we have coming.
"Condescending form letter to Humane Lethal Equipment. Absolutely do not send the California penal system any chambers equipped with our patented field until legislature officially approves them. We got away with it in New Mexico, but we're older and wiser now.
"Rush priority telegram to President, United States, any time in the next ten days. Thanks for citation, et cetera. Glad buddy system working out well in training battlefield disintegrator teams.
"Indignant form letter to Arcivox. We do not feel we are properly a co-respondent in your damage suits. Small children and appliances have always been a problem, viz ice boxes and refrigerators. Suggest you put a more complicated latch on the handles of the dangerously inferior doors you have covering our efficient, patented field."
I leaned back and took a breather. There was no getting around it—I just wasn't happy as a business man. I had been counting on being only a figurehead in the Expendable Patent Holding Corporation, but Tony Carmen didn't like office work. And he hadn't anyone he trusted any more than me. Even.
I jerked open a drawer and pulled off a paper towel from the roll I had stolen in the men's room. Scrubbing my chest and neck with it, I smoothed it out and dropped it into the wastebasket. It slid down the tapering sides and through the narrow slot above the Expendable Field. I had redesigned the wastebaskets after a janitor had stepped in one. But Gimpy was happy now, with the $50,000 we paid him.
I opened my mouth and Miss Brown's pencil perked up its eraser, reflecting her fierce alertness.
Tony Carmen banged open the door, and I closed my mouth.
"G-men on the way here," he blurted and collapsed into a chair opposite Miss Brown.
"Don't revert to type," I warned him. "What kind of G-Men? FBI? FCC? CIA? FDA? USTD?"
"Investigators for the Atomic Energy Commission."
The solemn, conservatively dressed young man in the door touched the edge of his snap-brim hat as he said it.
"Miss Brown, would you mind letting our visitor use your chair?" I asked.
"Not at all, sir," she said dreamily.
"May I suggest," I said, "that we might get more business done if you then removed yourself from the chair first."
Miss Brown leaped to her feet with a healthy galvanic response and quit the vicinity with her usual efficiency.
Once seated, the AEC man said "I'll get right to the point. You may find this troublesome, gentlemen, but your government intends to confiscate all of the devices using your so-called Expendable field, and forever bar their manufacture in this country or their importation."
"You stinking G-men aren't getting away with this," Carmen said ingratiatingly. "Ever hear of the Mafia?"
"Not much," the young man admitted earnestly, "since the FBI finished with its deportations a few years back."
I cleared my throat. "I must admit that the destruction of a multi-billion business is disconcerting before lunch. May we ask why you took this step?"
The agent inserted a finger between his collar and tie. "Have you noticed how unseasonably warm it is?"
"I wondered if you had. You're going to have heat prostration if you keep that suit coat on five minutes more."
The young man collapsed back in his chair, loosening the top button of his ivy league jacket, looking from my naked hide to the gossomer scrap of sport shirt Carmen wore. "We have to dress inconspicuously in the service," he panted weakly.
I nodded understandingly. "What does the heat have to do with the outlawing of the Expendables?"
"At first we thought there might be some truth in the folk nonsense that nuclear tests had something to do with raising the mean temperature of the world," the AEC man said. "But our scientists quickly found they weren't to blame."
"Clever of them."
"Yes, they saw that the widespread use of your machines was responsible for the higher temperature. Your device violates the law of conservation of energy, seemingly . It seemingly destroys matter without creating energy. Actually—"
He paused dramatically.
"Actually, your device added the energy it created in destroying matter to the energy potential of the planet in the form of heat . You see what that means? If your devices continue in operation, the mean temperature of Earth will rise to the point where we burst into flame. They must be outlawed!"
"I agree," I said reluctantly.
Tony Carmen spoke up. "No, you don't, Professor. We don't agree to that."
I waved his protests aside.
"I would agree," I said, "except that it wouldn't work. Explain the danger to the public, let them feel the heat rise themselves, and they will hoard Expendables against seizure and continue to use them, until we do burst into flame, as you put it so religiously."
"Why?" the young man demanded.
"Because Expendables are convenient. There is a ban on frivolous use of water due to the dire need. But the police still have to go stop people from watering lawns, and I suspect not a few swimming pools are being filled on the sly. Water is somebody else's worry. So will be generating enough heat to turn Eden into Hell."
"Mass psychology isn't my strongest point," the young man said worriedly. "But I suspect you may be right. Then—we'll be damned?"
"No, not necessarily," I told him comfortingly. "All we have to do is use up the excess energy with engines of a specific design."
"But can we design those engines in time?" the young man wondered with uncharacteristic gloom.
"Certainly," I said, practising the power of positive thinking. "Now that your world-wide testing laboratories have confirmed a vague fear of mine, I can easily reverse the field of the Expendable device and create a rather low-efficiency engine that consumes the excess energy in our planetary potential."
The agent of the AEC whose name I can never remember was present along
with Tony Carmen the night my assistants finished with the work I had
outlined.
While it was midnight outside, the fluorescents made the scene more
visible than sunlight. My Disexpendable was a medium-sized drum in a
tripod frame with an unturned coolie's hat at the bottom.
Breathlessly, I closed the switch and the scooped disc began slowly to
revolve.
"Is it my imagination," the agent asked, "or is it getting cooler in
here?"
"Professor." Carmen gave me a warning nudge.
There was now something on the revolving disc. It was a bar of some
shiny gray metal.
"Kill the power, Professor," Carmen said.
"Can it be," I wondered, "that the machine is somehow recreating or
drawing back the processed material from some other time or dimension?"
"Shut the thing off, Venetti!" the racketeer demanded.
But too late.
There was now a somewhat dead man sitting in the saddle of the turning
circle of metal.
If Harry Keno had only been sane when he turned up on that
merry-go-round in Boston I feel we would have learned much of immense
value on the nature of time and space.
As it is, I feel that it is a miscarriage of justice to hold me in
connection with the murders I am sure Tony Carmen did commit.
I hope this personal account when published will end the vicious
story supported by the district attorney that it was I who sought Tony
Carmen out and offered to dispose of his enemies and that I sought his
financial backing for the exploitation of my invention.
This is the true, and only true, account of the development of the
machine known as the Expendable.
I am only sorry, now that the temperature has been standardized once
more, that the Expendable's antithesis, the Disexpendable, is of too
low an order of efficiency to be of much value as a power source in
these days of nuclear and solar energy. So the world is again stuck
with the problem of waste disposal ... including all that I dumped
before. But as a great American once said, you can't win 'em all.
If you so desire, you may send your generous and fruitful letters
towards my upcoming defense in care of this civic-minded publication.
Question:
How is the theme of capitalism explored throughout the story?
Answer:
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[
"The theme of capitalism is explored throughout the story by the greed of the racketeer, Tony Carmen, and how he prefers profits over the environment. In the story, Professor Venetti creates a machine that can easily decompose anything without knowing how it works and where the decomposed particles go. His process of creating the device is also not carefully examined under the safety rules. Despite knowing these manufacturing facts and the uncertainty of its consequences, Tony Carmen makes this machine into a business and sells it for a considerable profit, with the collaboration of Professor Venetti. The theme of capitalism is shown through the preference for profits over safety when seeking profits from a product. It is also explored through Tony’s dealings with business corporates and how he attracts business corporations’ attention to sell their products. Revealed by Tony’s testimony, big business corporations would have detectives and their sources of information to buy the inventions and sell them. Finally, the mechanism of the business world and the dark side of capitalism are shown through Tony’s plan to sell the products and all the dirty work behind it when Professor Venetti’s secretary is reading the letters regarding their business matter from several organizations.",
"The story shows how commercial benefits may outweigh all the negative consequences of inventions and products. Tony Carmen says that the government would allow a private company like Arcivox to sell anything - they just have to find a commercial use for a potential product. Tony Carmen’s and Venetti’s desire to profit off of the professor’s mechanism leads to global warming and makes the threat of climate doomsday more than realistic. The story also shows that people disregard environmental repercussions when the commodity they’re using is convenient.\n\n\n",
"Capitalism is one of the most important themes in the story. Veretti’s and Tony’s hunger for money is what led them to selling these very controversial boxes, and Veretti deciding to look away when the boxes were used for murder. When convincing Veretti to work with him, Tony even compares him to Henry Ford and Sam Colt, two famous capitalists that also decided to look away when their inventions lead to death. Capitalism also was the reason that led to an absurd number of sales of the expendables, as consumers are always looking for their lives to be easier. The expendables provided this exact same service, as it was a very easy and simple way that people could get rid of trash.",
"One of the main themes explored in “The Expenables” is also the concept of capitalism. We are first introduced to a scientist working for the government with the best intentions to find a fix to a global issue through innovation. As the story goes on, however, he is lured by a stranger belonging to the mafia to take the easy and riskier path to speed up the process of creating a successful innovation. Additionally, when this machine works, we see the professor ditch his ethical concerns around it and rather starts getting attracted by the financial benefits he is told he could get by the stranger if he were to launch his product on the market. Instead of sticking with his initial intentions of helping the government, he chooses to partner with a large corporation who takes on his machines worldwide as he is promised a big sum of the stocks. This showcases human greed that arises from capitalism and how it can consume an individual to the point that they disregard all ethical thoughts, even when on a global level. Moreover, we are introduced to the idea of convenience the public is used to. Instead of ending his machines, the scientist creates another machine to counter the effect of his first one as he believes the public will not be able to part its convenience. This showcases the speed as to which capitalism has led our lives to adapt to and how because of that, people would choose convenience over the greater good at any time.\n"
] |
61171
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THE EXPENDABLES
BY JIM HARMON
It was just a little black box, useful for getting rid of things. Trouble was, it worked too well!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
"You see my problem, Professor?" Tony Carmen held his pinkly manicured, flashily ringed hands wide.
I saw his problem and it was warmly embarrassing.
"Really, Mr. Carmen," I said, "this isn't the sort of thing you discuss with a total stranger. I'm not a doctor—not of medicine, anyway—or a lawyer."
"They can't help me. I need an operator in your line."
"I work for the United States government. I can't become involved in anything illegal."
Carmen smoothed down the front of his too-tight midnight blue suit and touched the diamond sticking in his silver tie. "You can't, Professor Venetti? Ever hear of the Mafia?"
"I've heard of it," I said uneasily. "An old fraternal organization something like the Moose or Rosicrucians, founded in Sicily. It allegedly controls organized crime in the U.S. But that is a responsibility-eluding myth that honest Italian-Americans are stamping out. We don't even like to see the word in print."
"I can understand honest Italian-Americans feeling that way. But guys like me know the Mafia is still with it. We can put the squeeze on marks like you pretty easy."
You don't have to tell even a third generation American about the Mafia. Maybe that was the trouble. I had heard too much and for too long. All the stories I had ever heard about the Mafia, true or false, built up an unendurable threat.
"All right, I'll try to help you, Carmen. But ... that is, you didn't kill any of these people?"
He snorted. "I haven't killed anybody since early 1943."
"Please," I said weakly. "You needn't incriminate yourself with me."
"I was in the Marines," Carmen said hotly. "Listen, Professor, these aren't no Prohibition times. Not many people get made for a hit these days. Mother, most of these bodies they keep ditching at my club haven't been murdered by anybody. They're accident victims. Rumbums with too much anti-freeze for a summer's day, Spanish-American War vets going to visit Teddy in the natural course of events. Harry Keno just stows them at my place to embarrass me. Figures to make me lose my liquor license or take a contempt before the Grand Jury."
"I don't suppose you could just go to the police—" I saw the answer in his eyes. "No. I don't suppose you could."
"I told you once, Professor, but I'll tell you again. I have to get rid of these bodies they keep leaving in my kitchen. I can take 'em and throw them in the river, sure. But what if me or my boys are stopped en route by some tipped badge?"
"Quicklime?" I suggested automatically.
"What are you talking about? Are you sure you're some kind of scientist? Lime doesn't do much to a stiff at all. Kind of putrifies them like...."
"I forgot," I admitted. "I'd read it in so many stories I'd forgotten it wouldn't work. And I suppose the furnace leaves ashes and there's always traces of hair and teeth in the garbage disposal... An interesting problem, at that."
"I figured you could handle it," Carmen said, leaning back comfortably in the favorite chair of my bachelor apartment. "I heard you were working on something to get rid of trash for the government."
"That," I told him, "is restricted information. I subcontracted that work from the big telephone laboratories. How did you find it out?"
"Ways, Professor, ways."
The government did want me to find a way to dispose of wastes—radioactive wastes. It was the most important problem any country could have in this time of growing atomic industry. Now a small-time gangster was asking me to use this research to help him dispose of hot corpses. It made my scientific blood seethe. But the shadow of the Black Hand cooled it off.
"Maybe I can find something in that area of research to help you," I said. "I'll call you."
"Don't take too long, Professor," Carmen said cordially.
The big drum topped with a metallic coolie's hat had started out as a neutralizer for radioactivity. Now I didn't know what to call it.
The AEC had found burying canisters of hot rubbish in the desert or in the Gulf had eventually proved unsatisfactory. Earth tremors or changes of temperature split the tanks in the ground, causing leaks. The undersea containers rusted and corroded through the time, poisoning fish and fishermen.
Through the SBA I had been awarded a subcontract to work on the problem. The ideal solution would be to find a way to neutralize radioactive emanations, alpha, beta, X et cetera. (No, my dear, et cetera rays aren't any more dangerous than the rest.) But this is easier written than done.
Of course, getting energy to destroy energy without producing energy or matter is a violation of the maxim of the conservation of energy. But I didn't let that stop me—any more than I would have let the velocity of light put any limitations on a spacecraft engine had I been engaged to work on one. You can't allow other people's ideas to tie you hand and foot. There are some who tell me, however, that my refusal to honor such time-tested cliches is why I only have a small private laboratory owned by myself, my late wife's father and the bank, instead of working in the vast facilities of Bell, Du Pont, or General Motors. To this, I can only smile and nod.
But even refusing to be balked by conservative ideas, I failed.
I could not neutralize radioactivity. All I had been able to do (by a basic disturbance in the electromagnetogravitational co-ordinant system for Earth-Sun) was to reduce the mass of the radioactive matter.
This only concentrated the radiations, as in boiling contaminated water. It did make the hot stuff vaguely easier to handle, but it was no breakthrough on the central problem.
Now, in the middle of this, I was supposed to find a way to get rid of some damned bodies for Carmen.
Pressed for time and knowing the results wouldn't have to be so precise or carefully defined for a racketeer as for the United States government, I began experimenting.
I cut corners.
I bypassed complete safety circuits.
I put dangerous overloads on some transformers and doodled with the wiring diagrams. If I got some kind of passable incinerator I would be happy.
I turned the machine on.
The lights popped out.
There were changes that should be made before I tried that again, but instead I only found a larger fuse for a heavier load and jammed that in the switchbox.
I flipped my machine into service once again. The lights flickered and held.
The dials on my control board told me the story. It was hard to take.
But there it was.
The internal Scale showed zero.
I had had a slightly hot bar of silver alloy inside. It was completely gone. Mass zero. The temperature gauge showed that there had been no change in centigrade reading that couldn't be explained by the mechanical operation of the machine itself. There had been no sudden discharge of electricity or radioactivity. I checked for a standard anti-gravity effect but there was none. Gravity inside the cylinder had gone to zero but never to minus.
I was at last violating conservation of energy—not by successfully inverting the cube of the ionization factor, but by destroying mass ... by simply making it cease to exist with no cause-and-effect side effects.
I knew the government wouldn't be interested, since I couldn't explain how my device worked. No amount of successful demonstration could ever convince anybody with any scientific training that it actually did work.
But I shrewdly judged that Tony Carmen wouldn't ask an embarrassing
"how" when he was incapable of understanding the explanation.
"Yeah, but how does it work?" Tony Carmen demanded of me, sleeking his mirror-black hair and staring up at the disk-topped drum.
"Why do you care?" I asked irritably. "It will dispose of your bodies for you."
"I got a reason that goes beyond the stiff, but let's stick to that just for now. Where are these bodies going? I don't want them winding up in the D.A.'s bathtub."
"Why not? How could they trace them back to you?"
"You're the scientist," Tony said hotly. "I got great respect for those crime lab boys. Maybe the stiff got some of my exclusive brand of talc on it, I don't know."
"Listen here, Carmen," I said, "what makes you think these bodies are going somewhere? Think of it only as a kind of—incinerator."
"Not on your life, Professor. The gadget don't get hot so how can it burn? It don't use enough electricity to fry. It don't cut 'em up or crush 'em down, or dissolve them in acid. I've seen disappearing cabinets before."
Mafia or not, I saw red. "Are you daring to suggest that I am working some trick with trap doors or sliding panels?"
"Easy, Professor," Carmen said, effortlessly shoving me back with one palm. "I'm not saying you have the machine rigged. It's just that you have to be dropping the stuff through a sliding panel in—well, everything around us. You're sliding all that aside and dropping things through. But I want to know where they wind up. Reasonable?"
Carmen was an uneducated lout and a criminal but he had an instinctive feel for the mechanics of physics.
"I don't know where the stuff goes, Carmen," I finally admitted. "It might go into another plane of existence. 'Another dimension' the writers for the American Weekly would describe it. Or into our past, or our future."
The swarthy racketeer pursed his lips and apparently did some rapid calculation.
"I don't mind the first two, but I don't like them going into the future. If they do that, they may show up again in six months."
"Or six million years."
"You'll have to cut that future part out, Professor."
I was beginning to get a trifle impatient. All those folk tales I had heard about the Mafia were getting more distant. "See here, Carmen, I could lie to you and say they went into the prehistoric past and you would never know the difference. But the truth is, I just don't know where the processed material goes. There's a chance it may go into the future, yes. But unless it goes exactly one year or exactly so many years it would appear in empty space ... because the earth will have moved from the spot it was transmitted. I don't know for sure. Perhaps the slight Deneb-ward movement of the Solar System would wreck a perfect three-point landing even then and cause the dispatched materials to burn up from atmospheric friction, like meteors. You will just have to take a chance on the future. That's the best I can do."
Carmen inhaled deeply. "Okay. I'll risk it. Pretty long odds against any squeal on the play. How many of these things can you turn out, Professor?"
"I can construct a duplicate of this device so that you may destroy the unwanted corpses that you would have me believe are delivered to you with the regularity of the morning milk run."
The racketeer waved that suggestion aside. "I'm talking about a big operation, Venetti. These things can take the place of incinerators, garbage disposals, waste baskets...."
"Impractical," I snorted. "You don't realize the tremendous amount of electrical power these devices require...."
"Nuts! From what you said, the machine is like a TV set; it takes a lot of power to get it started, but then on it coasts on its own generators."
"There's something to what you say," I admitted in the face of his unexpected information. "But I can hardly turn my invention over to your entirely persuasive salesmen, I'm sure. This is part of the results of an investigation for the government. Washington will have to decide what to do with the machine."
"Listen, Professor," Carmen began, "the Mafia—"
"What makes you think I'm any more afraid of the Mafia than I am of the F.B.I.? I may have already sealed my fate by letting you in on this much. Machinegunning is hardly a less attractive fate to me than a poor security rating. To me, being dead professionally would be as bad as being dead biologically."
Tony Carmen laid a heavy hand on my shoulder. I finally deduced he intended to be cordial.
"Of course," he said smoothly "you have to give this to Washington but there are ways , Professor. I know. I'm a business man—"
"You are ?" I said.
He named some of the businesses in which he held large shares of stock.
"You are ."
"I've had experience in this sort of thing. We simply leak the information to a few hundred well selected persons about all that your machine can do. We'll call 'em Expendables, because they can expend anything."
"I," I interjected, "planned to call it the Venetti Machine."
"Professor, who calls the radio the Marconi these days?"
"There are Geiger-Muller Counters, though," I said.
"You don't have to give a Geiger counter the sex appeal of a TV set or a hardtop convertible. We'll call them Expendables. No home will be complete without one."
"Perfect for disposing of unwanted bodies," I mused. "The murder rate will go alarmingly with those devices within easy reach."
"Did that stop Sam Colt or Henry Ford?" Tony Carmen asked reasonably....
Naturally, I was aware that the government would not be interested in my machine. I am not a Fortean, a psychic, a psionicist or a screwball. But the government frequently gets things it doesn't know what to do with—like airplanes in the 'twenties. When it doesn't know what to do, it doesn't do it.
There have been hundreds of workable perpetual motion machines patented, for example. Of course, they weren't vices in the strictest sense of the word. Many of them used the external power of gravity, they would wear out or slow down in time from friction, but for the meanwhile, for some ten to two hundred years they would just sit there, moving. No one had ever been able to figure out what to do with them.
I knew the AEC wasn't going to dump tons of radioactive waste (with some possible future reclaimation value) into a machine which they didn't believe actually could work.
Tony Carmen knew exactly what to do with an Expendable once he got his hands on it.
Naturally, that was what I had been afraid of.
The closed sedan was warm, even in early December.
Outside, the street was a progression of shadowed block forms. I was shivering slightly, my teeth rattling like the porcelain they were. Was this the storied "ride," I wondered?
Carmen finally returned to the car, unlatched the door and slid in. He did not reinsert the ignition key. I did not feel like sprinting down the deserted street.
"The boys will have it set up in a minute," Tony the racketeer informed me.
"What?" The firing squad?
"The Expendable, of course."
"Here? You dragged me out here to see how you have prostituted my invention? I presume you've set it up with a 'Keep Our City Clean' sign pasted on it."
He chuckled. It was a somewhat nasty sound, or so I imagined.
A flashlight winked in the sooty twilight.
"Okay. Let's go," Tony said, slapping my shoulder.
I got out of the car, rubbing my flabby bicep. Whenever I took my teen-age daughter to the beach from my late wife's parents' home, I frequently found 230 pound bullies did kick sand in my ears.
The machine was installed on the corner, half covered with a gloomy white shroud, and fearlessly plugged into the city lighting system via a blanketed streetlamp. Two hoods hovered in a doorway ready to take care of the first cop with a couple of fifties or a single .38, as necessity dictated.
Tony guided my elbow. "Okay, Professor, I think I understand the bit now, but I'll let you run it up with the flagpole for me, to see how it waves to the national anthem."
"Here?" I spluttered once more. "I told you, Carmen, I wanted nothing more to do with you. Your check is still on deposit...."
"You didn't want anything to do with me in the first place." The thug's teeth flashed in the night. "Throw your contraption into gear, buddy."
That was the first time the tone of respect, even if faked, had gone out of his voice. I moved to the switchboard of my invention. What remained was as simple as adjusting a modern floor lamp to a medium light position. I flipped.
Restraining any impulse toward colloqualism, I was also deeply disturbed by what next occurred.
One of the massive square shapes on the horizon vanished.
"What have you done?" I yelped, ripping the cover off the machine.
Even under the uncertain illumination of the smogged stars I could see that the unit was half gone—in fact, exactly halved.
"Squint the Seal is one of my boys. He used to be a mechanic in the old days for Burger, Madle, the guys who used to rob banks and stuff." There was an unmistakable note of boyish admiration in Carmen's voice.
"He figured the thing would work like that. Separate the poles and you increase the size of the working area."
"You mean square the operational field. Your idiot doesn't even know mechanics."
"No, but he knows all about how any kind of machine works."
"You call that working?" I demanded. "Do you realize what you have there, Carmen?"
"Sure. A disintegrator ray, straight out of Startling Stories ."
My opinion as to the type of person who followed the pages of science-fiction magazines with fluttering lips and tracing finger was upheld.
I looked at the old warehouse and of course didn't see it.
"What was this a test for?" I asked, fearful of the Frankenstein I had made. "What are you planning to do now?"
"This was no test, Venetti. This was it. I just wiped out Harry Keno and his intimates right in the middle of their confidential squat."
"Good heavens. That's uncouthly old-fashioned of you, Carmen! Why, that's murder ."
"Not," Carmen said, "without no corpus delecti ."
"The body of the crime remains without the body of the victim," I remembered from my early Ellery Queen training.
"You're talking too much, Professor," Tony suggested. "Remember, you did it with your machine."
"Yes," I said at length. "And why are we standing here letting those machines sit there?"
There were two small items of interest to me in the Times the following morning.
One two-inch story—barely making page one because of a hole to fill at the bottom of an account of the number of victims of Indian summer heat prostration—told of the incineration of a warehouse on Fleet Street by an ingenious new arson bomb that left "virtually" no trace. (Maybe the fire inspector had planted a few traces to make his explanation more creditable.)
The second item was further over in a science column just off the editorial page. It told of the government—!—developing a new process of waste disposal rivaling the old Buck Rogers disintegrator ray.
This, I presumed, was one of Tony Carmen's information leaks.
If he hoped to arouse the public into demanding my invention I doubted he would succeed. The public had been told repeatedly of a new radioactive process for preserving food and a painless way of spraying injections through the skin. But they were still stuck with refrigerators and hypodermic needles.
I had forced my way half-way through the paper and the terrible coffee I made when the doorbell rang.
I was hardly surprised when it turned out to be Tony Carmen behind the front door.
He pushed in, slapping a rolled newspaper in his palm. "Action, Professor."
"The district attorney has indicted you?" I asked hopefully.
"He's not even indicted you , Venetti. No, I got a feeler on this plant in the Times ."
I shook my head. "The government will take over the invention, no matter what the public wants."
"The public? Who cares about the public? The Arcivox corporation wants this machine of yours. They have their agents tracing the plant now. They will go from the columnist to his legman to my man and finally to you. Won't be long before they get here. An hour maybe."
"Arcivox makes radios and TV sets. What do they want with the Expendables?"
"Opening up a new appliance line with real innovations. I hear they got a new refrigerator. All open. Just shelves—no doors or sides. They want a revolutionary garbage disposal too."
"Do you own stock in the company? Is that how you know?"
"I own stock in a competitor. That's how I know," Carmen informed me.
"Listen, Professor, you can sell to Arcivox and still keep control of the patents through a separate corporation. And I'll give you 49% of its stock."
This was Carmen's idea of a magnanimous offer for my invention. It was a pretty good offer—49% and my good health.
"But will the government let Arcivox have the machine for commercial use?"
"The government would let Arcivox have the hydrogen bomb if they found a commercial use for it."
There was a sturdy knock on the door, not a shrill ring of the bell.
"That must be Arcivox now," Carmen growled. "They have the best detectives in the business. You know what to tell them?"
I knew what to tell them.
I peeled off my wet shirt and threw it across the corner of my desk, casting a reproving eye at the pastel air-conditioner in the window. It wasn't really the machine's fault—The water department reported the reservoir too low to run water-cooled systems. It would be a day or two before I could get the gas type into my office.
Miss Brown, my secretary, was getting a good look at my pale, bony chest. Well, for the salary she got, she could stand to look. Of course, she herself was wearing a modest one-strap sun dress, not shorts and halters like some of the girls.
"My," she observed "it certainly is humid for March, isn't it, Professor Venetti?"
I agreed that it was.
She got her pad and pencil ready.
"Wheedling form letter to Better Mousetraps. Where are our royalties for the last quarter of the year? We know we didn't have a full three months with our Expendable Field in operation on the new traps, but we want the payola for what we have coming.
"Condescending form letter to Humane Lethal Equipment. Absolutely do not send the California penal system any chambers equipped with our patented field until legislature officially approves them. We got away with it in New Mexico, but we're older and wiser now.
"Rush priority telegram to President, United States, any time in the next ten days. Thanks for citation, et cetera. Glad buddy system working out well in training battlefield disintegrator teams.
"Indignant form letter to Arcivox. We do not feel we are properly a co-respondent in your damage suits. Small children and appliances have always been a problem, viz ice boxes and refrigerators. Suggest you put a more complicated latch on the handles of the dangerously inferior doors you have covering our efficient, patented field."
I leaned back and took a breather. There was no getting around it—I just wasn't happy as a business man. I had been counting on being only a figurehead in the Expendable Patent Holding Corporation, but Tony Carmen didn't like office work. And he hadn't anyone he trusted any more than me. Even.
I jerked open a drawer and pulled off a paper towel from the roll I had stolen in the men's room. Scrubbing my chest and neck with it, I smoothed it out and dropped it into the wastebasket. It slid down the tapering sides and through the narrow slot above the Expendable Field. I had redesigned the wastebaskets after a janitor had stepped in one. But Gimpy was happy now, with the $50,000 we paid him.
I opened my mouth and Miss Brown's pencil perked up its eraser, reflecting her fierce alertness.
Tony Carmen banged open the door, and I closed my mouth.
"G-men on the way here," he blurted and collapsed into a chair opposite Miss Brown.
"Don't revert to type," I warned him. "What kind of G-Men? FBI? FCC? CIA? FDA? USTD?"
"Investigators for the Atomic Energy Commission."
The solemn, conservatively dressed young man in the door touched the edge of his snap-brim hat as he said it.
"Miss Brown, would you mind letting our visitor use your chair?" I asked.
"Not at all, sir," she said dreamily.
"May I suggest," I said, "that we might get more business done if you then removed yourself from the chair first."
Miss Brown leaped to her feet with a healthy galvanic response and quit the vicinity with her usual efficiency.
Once seated, the AEC man said "I'll get right to the point. You may find this troublesome, gentlemen, but your government intends to confiscate all of the devices using your so-called Expendable field, and forever bar their manufacture in this country or their importation."
"You stinking G-men aren't getting away with this," Carmen said ingratiatingly. "Ever hear of the Mafia?"
"Not much," the young man admitted earnestly, "since the FBI finished with its deportations a few years back."
I cleared my throat. "I must admit that the destruction of a multi-billion business is disconcerting before lunch. May we ask why you took this step?"
The agent inserted a finger between his collar and tie. "Have you noticed how unseasonably warm it is?"
"I wondered if you had. You're going to have heat prostration if you keep that suit coat on five minutes more."
The young man collapsed back in his chair, loosening the top button of his ivy league jacket, looking from my naked hide to the gossomer scrap of sport shirt Carmen wore. "We have to dress inconspicuously in the service," he panted weakly.
I nodded understandingly. "What does the heat have to do with the outlawing of the Expendables?"
"At first we thought there might be some truth in the folk nonsense that nuclear tests had something to do with raising the mean temperature of the world," the AEC man said. "But our scientists quickly found they weren't to blame."
"Clever of them."
"Yes, they saw that the widespread use of your machines was responsible for the higher temperature. Your device violates the law of conservation of energy, seemingly . It seemingly destroys matter without creating energy. Actually—"
He paused dramatically.
"Actually, your device added the energy it created in destroying matter to the energy potential of the planet in the form of heat . You see what that means? If your devices continue in operation, the mean temperature of Earth will rise to the point where we burst into flame. They must be outlawed!"
"I agree," I said reluctantly.
Tony Carmen spoke up. "No, you don't, Professor. We don't agree to that."
I waved his protests aside.
"I would agree," I said, "except that it wouldn't work. Explain the danger to the public, let them feel the heat rise themselves, and they will hoard Expendables against seizure and continue to use them, until we do burst into flame, as you put it so religiously."
"Why?" the young man demanded.
"Because Expendables are convenient. There is a ban on frivolous use of water due to the dire need. But the police still have to go stop people from watering lawns, and I suspect not a few swimming pools are being filled on the sly. Water is somebody else's worry. So will be generating enough heat to turn Eden into Hell."
"Mass psychology isn't my strongest point," the young man said worriedly. "But I suspect you may be right. Then—we'll be damned?"
"No, not necessarily," I told him comfortingly. "All we have to do is use up the excess energy with engines of a specific design."
"But can we design those engines in time?" the young man wondered with uncharacteristic gloom.
"Certainly," I said, practising the power of positive thinking. "Now that your world-wide testing laboratories have confirmed a vague fear of mine, I can easily reverse the field of the Expendable device and create a rather low-efficiency engine that consumes the excess energy in our planetary potential."
The agent of the AEC whose name I can never remember was present along
with Tony Carmen the night my assistants finished with the work I had
outlined.
While it was midnight outside, the fluorescents made the scene more
visible than sunlight. My Disexpendable was a medium-sized drum in a
tripod frame with an unturned coolie's hat at the bottom.
Breathlessly, I closed the switch and the scooped disc began slowly to
revolve.
"Is it my imagination," the agent asked, "or is it getting cooler in
here?"
"Professor." Carmen gave me a warning nudge.
There was now something on the revolving disc. It was a bar of some
shiny gray metal.
"Kill the power, Professor," Carmen said.
"Can it be," I wondered, "that the machine is somehow recreating or
drawing back the processed material from some other time or dimension?"
"Shut the thing off, Venetti!" the racketeer demanded.
But too late.
There was now a somewhat dead man sitting in the saddle of the turning
circle of metal.
If Harry Keno had only been sane when he turned up on that
merry-go-round in Boston I feel we would have learned much of immense
value on the nature of time and space.
As it is, I feel that it is a miscarriage of justice to hold me in
connection with the murders I am sure Tony Carmen did commit.
I hope this personal account when published will end the vicious
story supported by the district attorney that it was I who sought Tony
Carmen out and offered to dispose of his enemies and that I sought his
financial backing for the exploitation of my invention.
This is the true, and only true, account of the development of the
machine known as the Expendable.
I am only sorry, now that the temperature has been standardized once
more, that the Expendable's antithesis, the Disexpendable, is of too
low an order of efficiency to be of much value as a power source in
these days of nuclear and solar energy. So the world is again stuck
with the problem of waste disposal ... including all that I dumped
before. But as a great American once said, you can't win 'em all.
If you so desire, you may send your generous and fruitful letters
towards my upcoming defense in care of this civic-minded publication.
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Who is Gravgak and what is his importance to the story?
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After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about The Serpent River by Don Wilcox.
Relevant chunks:
THE SERPENT RIVER
By Don Wilcox
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Other Worlds May 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The Code was rigid—no fraternization with the peoples of other planets! Earth wanted no "shotgun weddings" of the worlds of space!
"Split" Campbell and I brought our ship down to a quiet landing on the summit of a mile-wide naked rock, and I turned to the telescope for a closer view of the strange thing we had come to see.
It shone, eighteen or twenty miles away, in the light of the late afternoon sun. It was a long silvery serpent-like
something
that crawled slowly over the planet's surface.
There was no way of guessing how large it was, at this distance. It might have been a rope rolled into shape out of a mountain—or a chain of mountains. It might have been a river of bluish-gray dough that had shaped itself into a great cable. Its diameter? If it had been a hollow tube, cities could have flowed through it upright without bending their skyscrapers. It was, to the eye, an endless rope of cloud oozing along the surface of the land. No, not cloud, for it had the compactness of solid substance.
We could see it at several points among the low foothills. Even from this distance we could guess that it had been moving along its course for centuries. Moving like a sluggish snake. It followed a deep-worn path between the nearer hills and the high jagged mountains on the horizon.
What was it?
"Split" Campbell and I had been sent here to learn the answers. Our sponsor was the well known "EGGWE" (the Earth-Galaxy Good Will Expeditions.) We were under the EGGWE Code. We were the first expedition to this planet, but we had come equipped with two important pieces of advance information. The Keynes-Roy roving cameras (unmanned) had brought back to the Earth choice items of fact about various parts of the universe. From these photos we knew (1) that man lived on this planet, a humanoid closely resembling the humans of the Earth; and
(2) that a vast cylindrical "rope" crawled the surface of this land, continuously, endlessly.
We had intentionally landed at what we guessed would be a safe distance from the rope. If it were a living thing, like a serpent, we preferred not to disturb it. If it gave off heat or poisonous gases or deadly vibrations, we meant to keep our distance. If, on the other hand, it proved to be some sort of vegetable—a vine of glacier proportions—or a river of some silvery, creamy substance—we would move in upon it gradually, gathering facts as we progressed. I could depend upon
"Split" to record all observable phenomena with the accuracy of split-hairs.
Split was working at the reports like a drudge at this very moment.
I looked up from the telescope, expecting him to be waiting his turn eagerly. I misguessed. He didn't even glance up from his books. Rare young Campbell! Always a man of duty, never a man of impulse!
"Here Campbell, take a look at the 'rope'."
"Before I finish the reports, sir? If I recall our Code, Section Two, Order of Duties upon Landing: A—"
"Forget the Code. Take a look at the rope while the sun's on it.... See it?"
"Yes sir."
"Can you see it's moving? See the little clouds of dust coming up from under its belly?"
"Yes sir. An excellent view, Captain Linden."
"What do you think of it, Split? Ever see a sight like that before?"
"No sir."
"Well, what about it? Any comments?"
Split answered me with an enthusiastic, "By gollies, sir!" Then, with restraint, "It's precisely what I expected from the photographs, sir. Any orders, sir?"
"Relax, Split! That's the order. Relax!"
"Thanks—thanks, Cap!" That was his effort to sound informal, though coming from him it was strained. His training had given him an exaggerated notion of the importance of dignity and discipline.
He was naturally so conscientious it was painful. And to top it all, his scientific habit of thought made him want to stop and weigh his words even when speaking of casual things such as how much sugar he required in his coffee.
Needless to say, I had kidded him unmercifully over these traits. Across the millions of miles of space that we had recently traveled
(our first voyage together) I had amused myself at his expense. I had sworn that he would find, in time, that he couldn't even trim his fingernails without calipers, or comb his hair without actually physically splitting the hairs that cropped up in the middle of the part. That was when I had nicknamed him "Split"—and the wide ears that stuck out from his stubble-cut blond hair had glowed with the pink of selfconsciousness. Plainly, he liked the kidding. But if I thought I could rescue him from the weight of dignity and duty, I was mistaken.
Now he had turned the telescope for a view far to the right. He paused.
"What do you see?" I asked.
"I cannot say definitely. The exact scientific classification of the object I am observing would call for more detailed scrutiny—"
"You're seeing some sort of object?"
"Yes sir."
"What sort of object?"
"A living creature, sir—upright, wearing clothes—"
"A
man
?"
"To all appearances, sir—"
"You bounder, give me that telescope!"
2.
If you have explored the weird life of many a planet, as I have, you can appreciate the deep sense of excitement that comes over me when, looking out at a new world for the first time, I see a man-like animal.
Walking upright!
Wearing adornments in the nature of clothing!
I gazed, and my lungs filled with the breath of wonderment. A man! Across millions of miles of space—a man, like the men of the Earth.
Six times before in my life of exploration I had gazed at new realms within the approachable parts of our universe, but never before had the living creatures borne such wonderful resemblance to the human life of our Earth.
A man!
He might have been creeping on all fours.
He might have been skulking like a lesser animal.
He might have been entirely naked.
He was none of these—and at the very first moment of viewing him I felt a kinship toward him. Oh, he was primitive in appearance—but had my ancestors not been the same? Was this not a mirror of my own race a million years or so ago? I sensed that my own stream of life had somehow crossed with his in ages gone by. How? Who can ever know? By what faded charts of the movements through the sky will man ever be able to retrace relationships of forms of life among planets?
"Get ready to go out and meet him, Campbell," I said. "He's a friend."
Split Campbell gave me a look as if to say, Sir, you don't even know what sort of animal he is, actually, much less whether he's friendly or murderous.
"There are some things I can sense on first sight, Campbell. Take my word for it, he's a friend."
"I didn't say anything, sir."
"Good. Don't. Just get ready."
"We're going to go
out
—?"
"Yes," I said. "Orders."
"And meet both of them?" Split was at the telescope.
"Both?" I took the instrument from him. Both! "Well!"
"They seem to be coming out of the ground," Split said. "I see no signs of habitation, but apparently we've landed on top of an underground city—though I hasten to add that this is only an hypothesis."
"One's a male and the other's a female," I said.
"Another hypothesis," said Split.
The late evening sunshine gave us a clear view of our two "friends". They were fully a mile away. Split was certain they had not seen our ship, and to this conclusion I was in agreement. They had apparently come up out of the barren rock hillside to view the sunset. I studied them through the telescope while Split checked over equipment for a hike.
The man's walk was unhurried. He moved thoughtfully, one might guess. His bare chest and legs showed him to be statuesque in mold, cleanly muscled, fine of bone. His skin was almost the color of the cream-colored robe which flowed from his back, whipping lightly in the breeze. He wore a brilliant red sash about his middle, and this was matched by a red headdress that came down over his shoulders as a circular mantle.
The girl stood several yards distant, watching him. This was some sort of ritual, no doubt. He was not concerned with her, but with the setting sun. Its rays were almost horizontal, knifing through a break in the distant mountain skyline. He went through some routine motions, his moving arms highlighted by the lemon-colored light of evening.
The girl approached him. Two other persons appeared from somewhere back of her.... Three.... Four.... Five....
"Where do they come from?" Split had paused in the act of checking equipment to take his turn at the telescope. If he had not done so, I might not have made a discovery. The landscape was
moving
.
The long shadows that I had not noticed through the telescope were a prominent part of the picture I saw through the ship's window when I looked out across the scene with the naked eye. The shadows were moving.
They were tree shadows. They were moving toward the clearing where the crowd gathered. And the reason for their movement was that the trees themselves were moving.
"Notice anything?" I asked Split.
"The crowd is growing. We've certainly landed on top of a city." He gazed. "They're coming from underground."
Looking through the telescope, obviously he didn't catch the view of the moving trees.
"Notice anything else unusual?" I persisted.
"Yes. The females—I'm speaking hypothetically—but they
must
be females—are all wearing puffy white fur ornaments around their elbows. I wonder why?"
"You haven't noticed the trees?"
"The females are quite attractive," said Split.
I forgot about the moving trees, then, and took over the telescope. Mobile trees were not new to me. I had seen similar vegetation on other planets—"sponge-trees"—which possessed a sort of muscular quality. If these were similar, they were no doubt feeding along the surface of the slope below the rocky plateau. The people in the clearing beyond paid no attention to them.
I studied the crowd of people. Only the leader wore the brilliant garb. The others were more scantily clothed. All were handsome of build. The lemon-tinted sunlight glanced off the muscular shoulders of the males and the soft curves of the females.
"Those furry elbow ornaments on the females," I said to Split,
"they're for protection. The caves they live in must be narrow, so they pad their elbows."
"Why don't they pad their shoulders? They don't have anything on their shoulders."
"Are you complaining?"
We became fascinated in watching, from the seclusion of our ship. If we were to walk out, or make any sounds, we might have interrupted their meeting. Here they were in their native ritual of sunset, not knowing that people from another world watched. The tall leader must be making a speech. They sat around him in little huddles. He moved his arms in calm, graceful gestures.
"They'd better break it up!" Split said suddenly. "The jungles are moving in on them."
"They're spellbound," I said. "They're used to sponge-trees. Didn't you ever see moving trees?"
Split said sharply, "Those trees are marching! They're an army under cover. Look!"
I saw, then. The whole line of advancing vegetation was camouflage for a sneak attack. And all those natives sitting around in meeting were as innocent as a flock of sitting ducks. Split Campbell's voice was edged with alarm. "Captain! Those worshippers—how can we warn them? Oh-oh! Too late. Look!"
All at once the advancing sponge-trees were tossed back over the heads of the savage band concealed within. They were warriors—fifty or more of them—with painted naked bodies. They dashed forward in a wide semicircle, swinging crude weapons, bent on slaughter.
3.
They were waving short clubs or whips with stones tied to the ends. They charged up the slope, about sixty yards, swinging their weird clubs with a threat of death.
Wild disorder suddenly struck the audience. Campbell and I believed we were about to witness a massacre.
"Captain—
Jim
! You're not going to let this happen!"
Our sympathies had gone to the first groups, the peaceable ones. I had the same impulse as Campbell—to do something—anything! Yet here we sat in our ship, more than half a mile from our thirty-five or forty
"friends" in danger.
Our friends were panicked. But they didn't take flight. They didn't duck for the holes in the rocky hilltop. Instead, they rallied and packed themselves around their tall leader. They stood, a defiant wall.
"Can we shoot a ray, Jim?"
I didn't answer. Later I would recall that Split
could
drop his dignity under excitement—his "Captain Linden" and "sir." Just now he wanted any sort of split-second order.
We saw the naked warriors run out in a wide circle. They spun and weaved, they twirled their deadly clubs, they danced grotesquely. They were closing in. Closer and closer. It was all their party.
"Jim, can we shoot?"
"Hit number sixteen, Campbell."
Split touched the number sixteen signal.
The ship's siren wailed out over the land.
You could tell when the sound struck them. The circle of savage ones suddenly fell apart. The dancing broke into the wildest contortions you ever saw. As if they'd been spanked by a wave of electricity. The siren scream must have sounded like an animal cry from an unknown world. The attackers ran for the sponge-trees. The rootless jungle came to life. It jerked and jumped spasmodically down the slope. And our siren kept right on singing.
"Ready for that hike, Campbell? Give me my equipment coat." I got into it. I looked back to the telescope. The tall man of the party had behaved with exceptional calmness. He had turned to stare in our direction from the instant the siren sounded. He could no doubt make out the lines of our silvery ship in the shadows. Slowly, deliberately, he marched over the hilltop toward us.
Most of his party now scampered back to the safety of their hiding places in the ground. But a few—the brave ones, perhaps, or the officials of his group—came with him.
"He needs a stronger guard than that," Campbell grumbled.
Sixteen was still wailing. "Set it for ten minutes and come on," I said. Together we descended from the ship.
We took into our nostrils the tangy air, breathing fiercely, at first. We slogged along over the rock surface feeling our weight to be one-and-a-third times normal. We glanced down the slope apprehensively. We didn't want any footraces. The trees, however, were still retreating. Our siren would sing on for another eight minutes. And in case of further danger, we were equipped with the standard pocket arsenal of special purpose capsule bombs.
Soon we came face to face with the tall, stately old leader in the cream-and-red cloak.
Split and I stood together, close enough to exchange comments against the siren's wail. Fine looking people, we observed. Smooth faces. Like the features of Earth men. These creatures could walk down any main street back home. With a bit of makeup they would pass.
"Notice, Captain, they have strange looking eyes." "Very smooth."
"It's because they have no eyebrows ... no eye lashes." "Very smooth—handsome—attractive."
Then the siren went off.
The leader stood before me, apparently unafraid. He seemed to be waiting for me to explain my presence. His group of twelve gathered in close.
I had met such situations with ease before. "EGGWE" explorers come equipped. I held out a gift toward the leader. It was a singing medallion attached to a chain. It was disc-shaped, patterned after a large silver coin. It made music at the touch of a button. In clear, dainty bell tones it rang out its one tune, "Trail of Stars."
As it played I held it up for inspection. I placed it around my own neck, then offered it to the leader. I thought he was smiling. He was not overwhelmed by the "magic" of this gadget. He saw it for what it was, a token of friendship. There was a keenness about him that I liked. Yes, he was smiling. He bent his head forward and allowed me to place the gift around his neck.
"Tomboldo," he said, pointing to himself.
Split and I tried to imitate his breathy accents as we repeated aloud,
"Tomboldo."
We pointed to ourselves, in turn, and spoke our own names. And then, as the names of the others were pronounced, we tried to memorize each breathy sound that was uttered. I was able to remember four or five of them. One was Gravgak.
Gravgak's piercing eyes caused me to notice him. Suspicious eyes? I did not know these people's expressions well enough to be sure.
Gravgak was a guard, tall and muscular, whose arms and legs were painted with green and black diamond designs.
By motions and words we didn't understand, we inferred that we were invited to accompany the party back home, inside the hill, where we would be safe. I nodded to Campbell. "It's our chance to be guests of Tomboldo." Nothing could have pleased us more. For our big purpose—to understand the Serpent River—would be forwarded greatly if we could learn, through the people, what its meanings were. To analyze the river's substance, estimate its rate, its weight, its temperature, and to map its course—these facts were only a part of the information we sought. The fuller story would be to learn how the inhabitants of this planet regarded it: whether they loved or shunned it, and what legends they may have woven around it. All this knowledge would be useful when future expeditions of men from the Earth followed us (through EGGWE) for an extension of peaceful trade relationships.
Tomboldo depended upon the guard Gravgak to make sure that the way was safe. Gravgak was supposed to keep an eye on the line of floating trees that had taken flight down the hillside. Danger still lurked there, we knew. And now the siren that had frightened off the attack was silent. Our ship, locked against invaders, could be forgotten. We were guests of Tomboldo.
Gravgak was our guard, but he didn't work at it. He was too anxious to hear all the talk. In the excitement of our meeting, everyone ignored the growing darkness, the lurking dangers. Gravgak confronted us with agitated jabbering:
"Wollo—yeeta—vo—vandartch—vandartch! Grr—see—o—see—o—see—o!"
"See—o—see—o—see—o," one of the others echoed.
It began to make sense. They wanted us to repeat the siren noises. The enemy had threatened their lives. There could very well have been a wholesale slaughter. But as long as we could make the "see—o—see—o" we were all safe.
Split and I exchanged glances. He touched his hand to the equipment jacket, to remind me we were armed with something more miraculous than a yowling siren.
"See—o—see—o—see—o!" Others of Tomboldo's party echoed the demand. They must have seen the sponge-trees again moving toward our path.
"
See—o—see—o!
"
Our peaceful march turned into a spasm of terror. The sponge-trees came rushing up the slope, as if borne by a sudden gust of wind. They bounced over our path, and the war party spilled out of them.
Shouting. A wild swinging of clubs. And no cat-and-mouse tricks. No deliberate circling and closing in. An outright attack. Naked bodies gleaming in the semi-darkness. Arms swinging weapons, choosing the nearest victims. The luminous rocks on the ends of the clubs flashed. Shouting, screeching, hurling their clubs. The whizzing fury filled the air.
I hurled a capsule bomb. It struck at the base of a bouncing sponge-tree, and blew the thing to bits.
The attackers ran back into a huddle, screaming. Then they came forward, rushing defiantly.
Our muscular guard, Gravgak was too bold. He had picked up one of their clubs and he ran toward their advance, and to all of Tomboldo's party it must have appeared that he was bravely rushing to his death. Yet the gesture of the club he swung so wildly could have been intended as a
warning
! It could have meant, Run back, you fools, or these strange devils will throw fire at you.
I threw fire. And so did my lieutenant. He didn't wait for orders, thank goodness. He knew it was their lives or ours. Zip, zip, zip—BLANG-BLANG-BLANG! The bursts of fire at their feet ripped the rocks. The spray caught them and knocked them back. Three or four warriors in the fore ranks were torn up in the blasts. Others were flattened—and those who were able, ran.
They ran, not waiting for the cover of sponge-trees. Not bothering to pick up their clubs.
But the operation was not a complete success. We had suffered a serious casualty. The guard Gravgak. He had rushed out too far, and the first blast of fire and rock had knocked him down. Now Tomboldo and others of the party hovered over him.
His eyes opened a little. I thought he was staring at me, drilling me with suspicion. I worked over him with medicines. The crowd around us stood back in an attitude of awe as Split and I applied ready bandages, and held a stimulant to his nostrils that made him breath back to consciousness.
Suddenly he came to life. Lying there on his back, with the club still at his fingertips, he swung up on one elbow. The swift motion caused a cry of joy from the crowd. I heard a little of it—and then blacked out. For as the muscular Gravgak moved, his fingers closed over the handle of the club. It whizzed upward with him—apparently all by accident. The stone that dangled from the end of the club crashed into my head.
I went into instant darkness. Darkness, and a long, long silence.
4.
Vauna, the beautiful daughter of Tomboldo, came into my life during the weeks that I lay unconscious.
I must have talked aloud much during those feverish hours of darkness.
"Campbell!" I would call out of a nightmare. "Campbell, we're about to land. Is everything set? Check the instruments again, Campbell."
"S-s-sh!" The low hush of Split Campbell's voice would somehow penetrate my dream.
The voices about me were soft. My dreams echoed the soft female voices of this new, strange language.
"Campbell, are you there?... Have you forgotten the Code, Campbell?"
"Quiet, Captain."
"Who is it that's swabbing my face? I can't see."
"It's Vauna. She's smiling at you, Captain. Can't you see her?"
"Is this the pretty one we saw through the telescope?"
"One of them."
"And what of the other? There were two together. I remember—"
"Omosla is here too. She's Vauna's attendant. We're all looking after you, Captain Linden. Did you know I performed an operation to relieve the pressure on your brain? You must get well, Captain." The words of Campbell came through insistently.
After a silence that may have lasted for hours or days, I said,
"Campbell, you haven't forgot the EGGWE Code?"
"Of course not, Captain."
"Section Four?"
"Section Four," he repeated in a low voice, as if to pacify me and put me to sleep. "Conduct of EGGWE agents toward native inhabitants: A, No agent shall enter into any diplomatic agreement that shall be construed as binding—"
I interrupted. "Clause D?"
He picked it up. "D, no agent shall enter into a marriage contract with any native.... H-m-m. You're not trying to warn me, are you, Captain Linden? Or are you warning
yourself
?"
At that moment my eyes opened a little. Swimming before my blurred vision was the face of Vauna. I did remember her—yes, she must have haunted my dreams, for now my eyes burned in an effort to define her features more clearly. This was indeed Vauna, who had been one of the party of twelve, and had walked beside her father in the face of the attack. Deep within my subconscious the image of her beautiful face and figure had lingered. I murmured a single word of answer to Campbell's question. "Myself."
In the hours that followed, I came to know the soft footsteps of Vauna. The caverns in which she and her father and all these Benzendella people lived were pleasantly warm and fragrant. My misty impressions of their life about me were like the first impressions of a child learning about the world into which he has been born.
Sometimes I would hear Vauna and her attendant Omosla talking together. Often when Campbell would stop in this part of the cavern to inquire about me, Omosla would drop in also. She and Campbell were learning to converse in simple words. And Vauna and I—yes. If I could only avoid blacking out.
I wanted to see her.
So often my eyes would refuse to open. A thousand nightmares. Space ships shooting through meteor swarms. Stars like eyes. Eyes like stars. The eyes of Vauna, the daughter of Tomboldo. The sensitive stroke of Vauna's fingers, brushing my forehead, pressing my hand.
I regained my health gradually.
"Are you quite awake?" Vauna would ask me in her musical Benzendella words. "You speak better today. Your friend Campbell has brought you more recordings of our language, so you can learn to speak more. My father is eager to talk with you. But you must sleep more. You are still weak."
It gave me a weird sensation to awaken in the night, trying to adjust myself to my surroundings. The Benzendellas were sleep-singers. By night they murmured mysterious little songs through their sleep. Strange harmonies whispered through the caves.
And if I stirred restlessly, the footsteps of Vauna might come to me through the darkness. In her sleeping garments she would come to me, faintly visible in the pink light that filtered through from some corridor. She would whisper melodious Benzendella words and tell me to go back to sleep, and I would drift into the darkness of my endless dreams.
The day came when I awakened to see both Vauna and her father standing before me. Stern old Tomboldo, with his chalk-smooth face and not a hint of an eyebrow or eyelash, rapped his hand against my ribs, shook the fiber bed lightly, and smiled. From a pocket concealed in his flowing cape, he drew forth the musical watch, touched the button, and played, "Trail of Stars."
"I have learned to talk," I said.
"You have had a long sleep."
"I am well again. See, I can almost walk." But as I started to rise, the wave of blackness warned me, and I restrained my ambition. "I will walk soon."
"We will have much to talk about. Your friend has pointed to the stars and told me a strange story of your coming. We have walked around the ship. He has told me how it rides through the sky. I can hardly make myself believe." Tomboldo's eyes cast upward under the strong ridge of forehead where the eyebrows should have been. He was evidently trying to visualize the flight of a space ship. "We will have much to tell each other."
"I hope so," I said. "Campbell and I came to learn about the
serpent river
." I resorted to my own language for the last two words, not knowing the Benzendella equivalent.
I
made an eel-like motion with my arm. But they didn't understand. And before I could explain, the footsteps of other Benzendellas approached, and presently I looked around to see that quite an audience had gathered. The most prominent figure of the new group was the big muscular guard of the black and green diamond markings—Gravgak.
"You get well?" Gravgak said to me. His eyes drilled me closely.
"I get well," I said.
"The blow on the head," he said, "was not meant."
I looked at him. Everyone was looking at him, and I knew this was meant to be an occasion of apology. But the light of fire in Vauna's eyes told me that she did not believe. He saw her look, and his own eyes flashed darts of defiance. With an abrupt word to me, he wheeled and started off. "Get well!"
The crowd of men and women made way for him. But in the arched doorway he turned. "Vauna. I am ready to speak to you alone."
She started. I reached and barely touched her hand. She stopped. "I will talk with you later, Gravgak."
"Now!" he shouted. "Alone."
He stalked off. A moment later Vauna, after exchanging a word with her father, excused herself from the crowd and followed Gravgak.
From the way those in the room looked, I knew this must be a dramatic moment. It was as if she had acknowledged Gravgak as her master—or her lover. He had called for her. She had followed.
But her old father was still the master. He stepped toward the door.
"Vauna!... Gravgak!... Come back."
(I will always wonder what might have happened if he hadn't called them! Was my distrust of Gravgak justified? Had I become merely a jealous lover—or was I right in my hunch that the tall muscular guard was a potential traitor?)
Vauna reappeared at once. I believe she was glad that she had been called back.
Gravgak came sullenly. At the edge of the crowd in the arched doorway he stood scowling.
"While we are together," old Tomboldo said quietly, looking around at the assemblage, "I must tell you the decision of the council. Soon we will move back to the other part of the world."
There were low murmurs of approval through the chamber.
"We will wait a few days," Tomboldo went on, "until our new friend—" he pointed to me—"is well enough to travel. We would never leave him here to the mercy of the savage ones. He and his helper came through the sky in time to save us from being destroyed. We must never forget this kindness. When we ascend the
Kao-Wagwattl
, the ever moving
rope of life
, these friends shall come with us. On the back of the Kao-Wagwattl
they shall ride with us across the land
."
Question:
Who is Gravgak and what is his importance to the story?
Answer:
|
[
"Gravgak is a guard who serves under Tomboldo, the leader of the Benzendella people, and escorts the humans after they meet. He is tall and muscular, with piercing eyes, and his limbs are painted with diamonds in green and black. He is knocked down during the second attack, and when Linden tries to tend to him, Gravgak knocks him out with his club. After Linden comes to a few weeks later, Gravgak apologizes for accidentally knocking him out, but it's not clear if he is being sincere about it being an accident. Linden's suspicions primarily come from Vauna's reaction, but Gravgak seems to hold some power over Vauna and Linden is not able to learn what Gravgak's true intentions are. ",
"Gravgak is one of the native Benzendella people. He is a tall guard with green and black diamonds painted on his legs. Tomboldo, the leader of the Benzendella, relies on Gravgak to make sure the group can travel safely to their dwellings after the initial attack, but Gravgak is more interested in the siren and trying to communicate with Linden and Campbell. When the sponge-tree warriors regroup and attack again, he grabs one of their clubs and confronts them as they advance—either rushing to fight them or to warn them to back away. When Linden and Campbell throw fire at the enemy, he is so close that the fire and blasts of rock knock him down. He looks suspiciously at Linden as he and Campbell minister to his wounds and use smelling salts to make Gravgak fully conscious, making him jump up while holding the club and sending the rock attached to the club flying into Linden’s head. Several days later after Linden comes to, Gravgak comes to see him and tells him the blow to Linden’s head was not intentional. Vauna appears not to believe him. As Gravgak leaves, he tells Vauna he wants to speak to her alone. Linden stops her until Gravgak yells at her, and she starts to leave with him; this time, her father stops them. Linden wonders if Gravgak and Vauna have a relationship, but he also considers the possibility that Gravgak is a traitor. \n\n",
"Gravgak is one of Tomboldo's most important guards. He is tall and muscular, and his legs and arms are covered with green and black diamond paintings. Jim notices his eyes first, which appear piercing and suspicious to him, and Gravgak continues to arouse his suspicions throughout the story. Gravgak keeps watch for the tree-disguised warriors and guards Jim and Split on their way back to the underground city. However, he shows signs of agitation and distraction and commands the two men to mimic the siren sounds along with the rest of Tomboldo's party. When the attackers once again descend upon their party and Jim throws a capsule bomb at them, Gravgak retrieves one of their clubs and charges. Jim interprets this behavior to mean one of two things--either Gravgak bravely defends his people or he intends to warn the attackers of Jim and Split's advanced weaponry. After another of Jim's capsule bombs injures Gravgak, Jim and Split attempt to attend to his wounds and resuscitate him. When he regains consciousness, he clubs Jim and knocks him out. After Jim recovers, Gravgak visits him to apologize, but Jim isn't sure if the attack was accidental, especially because Vauna doesn't seem to trust Gravgak. Vauna appears to be in some kind of relationship with Gravgak, whether as a lover or some kind of subservient. While this is not completely clear to Jim, he is certain that Vauna's distrust of Gravgak strengthens his feeling that Gravgak is a traitor.",
"Gravgak is one of the main sources of conflict and betrayal in this story. Gravgak is a very large warrior of the Benzendella people. He is strong and muscular. His arms and legs are painted with green and black diamonds. When Captain Linden first meets him, he describes Gravgak’s piercing eyes as suspicious. His motives are never truly known, but his actions betray him. \nAfter Linden and Split meet Tomboldo, Gravgak is sent to guard them. He rushes into battle and gets injured. Linden and Split heal him, but when he wakes up, he hits Linden over the head with a club. Whether or not he did that on purpose is up in the air. The injury Linden sustained required surgery and days of bed rest. It could have killed him. \nOnce Linden wakes up, Gravgak returns and aggressively demands Linden to get better. He claims that he did not mean to hit him on the head, but everyone doubts his sincerity and integrity. Even Vauna, Tomboldo’s daughter and Linden’s crush, does not believe Gravgak. However, she is bound to him in some way, perhaps by marriage, but her father comes first. Possibly a traitor, Linden will forever question Gravgak’s actions. \n"
] |
50923
|
THE SERPENT RIVER
By Don Wilcox
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Other Worlds May 1957. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The Code was rigid—no fraternization with the peoples of other planets! Earth wanted no "shotgun weddings" of the worlds of space!
"Split" Campbell and I brought our ship down to a quiet landing on the summit of a mile-wide naked rock, and I turned to the telescope for a closer view of the strange thing we had come to see.
It shone, eighteen or twenty miles away, in the light of the late afternoon sun. It was a long silvery serpent-like
something
that crawled slowly over the planet's surface.
There was no way of guessing how large it was, at this distance. It might have been a rope rolled into shape out of a mountain—or a chain of mountains. It might have been a river of bluish-gray dough that had shaped itself into a great cable. Its diameter? If it had been a hollow tube, cities could have flowed through it upright without bending their skyscrapers. It was, to the eye, an endless rope of cloud oozing along the surface of the land. No, not cloud, for it had the compactness of solid substance.
We could see it at several points among the low foothills. Even from this distance we could guess that it had been moving along its course for centuries. Moving like a sluggish snake. It followed a deep-worn path between the nearer hills and the high jagged mountains on the horizon.
What was it?
"Split" Campbell and I had been sent here to learn the answers. Our sponsor was the well known "EGGWE" (the Earth-Galaxy Good Will Expeditions.) We were under the EGGWE Code. We were the first expedition to this planet, but we had come equipped with two important pieces of advance information. The Keynes-Roy roving cameras (unmanned) had brought back to the Earth choice items of fact about various parts of the universe. From these photos we knew (1) that man lived on this planet, a humanoid closely resembling the humans of the Earth; and
(2) that a vast cylindrical "rope" crawled the surface of this land, continuously, endlessly.
We had intentionally landed at what we guessed would be a safe distance from the rope. If it were a living thing, like a serpent, we preferred not to disturb it. If it gave off heat or poisonous gases or deadly vibrations, we meant to keep our distance. If, on the other hand, it proved to be some sort of vegetable—a vine of glacier proportions—or a river of some silvery, creamy substance—we would move in upon it gradually, gathering facts as we progressed. I could depend upon
"Split" to record all observable phenomena with the accuracy of split-hairs.
Split was working at the reports like a drudge at this very moment.
I looked up from the telescope, expecting him to be waiting his turn eagerly. I misguessed. He didn't even glance up from his books. Rare young Campbell! Always a man of duty, never a man of impulse!
"Here Campbell, take a look at the 'rope'."
"Before I finish the reports, sir? If I recall our Code, Section Two, Order of Duties upon Landing: A—"
"Forget the Code. Take a look at the rope while the sun's on it.... See it?"
"Yes sir."
"Can you see it's moving? See the little clouds of dust coming up from under its belly?"
"Yes sir. An excellent view, Captain Linden."
"What do you think of it, Split? Ever see a sight like that before?"
"No sir."
"Well, what about it? Any comments?"
Split answered me with an enthusiastic, "By gollies, sir!" Then, with restraint, "It's precisely what I expected from the photographs, sir. Any orders, sir?"
"Relax, Split! That's the order. Relax!"
"Thanks—thanks, Cap!" That was his effort to sound informal, though coming from him it was strained. His training had given him an exaggerated notion of the importance of dignity and discipline.
He was naturally so conscientious it was painful. And to top it all, his scientific habit of thought made him want to stop and weigh his words even when speaking of casual things such as how much sugar he required in his coffee.
Needless to say, I had kidded him unmercifully over these traits. Across the millions of miles of space that we had recently traveled
(our first voyage together) I had amused myself at his expense. I had sworn that he would find, in time, that he couldn't even trim his fingernails without calipers, or comb his hair without actually physically splitting the hairs that cropped up in the middle of the part. That was when I had nicknamed him "Split"—and the wide ears that stuck out from his stubble-cut blond hair had glowed with the pink of selfconsciousness. Plainly, he liked the kidding. But if I thought I could rescue him from the weight of dignity and duty, I was mistaken.
Now he had turned the telescope for a view far to the right. He paused.
"What do you see?" I asked.
"I cannot say definitely. The exact scientific classification of the object I am observing would call for more detailed scrutiny—"
"You're seeing some sort of object?"
"Yes sir."
"What sort of object?"
"A living creature, sir—upright, wearing clothes—"
"A
man
?"
"To all appearances, sir—"
"You bounder, give me that telescope!"
2.
If you have explored the weird life of many a planet, as I have, you can appreciate the deep sense of excitement that comes over me when, looking out at a new world for the first time, I see a man-like animal.
Walking upright!
Wearing adornments in the nature of clothing!
I gazed, and my lungs filled with the breath of wonderment. A man! Across millions of miles of space—a man, like the men of the Earth.
Six times before in my life of exploration I had gazed at new realms within the approachable parts of our universe, but never before had the living creatures borne such wonderful resemblance to the human life of our Earth.
A man!
He might have been creeping on all fours.
He might have been skulking like a lesser animal.
He might have been entirely naked.
He was none of these—and at the very first moment of viewing him I felt a kinship toward him. Oh, he was primitive in appearance—but had my ancestors not been the same? Was this not a mirror of my own race a million years or so ago? I sensed that my own stream of life had somehow crossed with his in ages gone by. How? Who can ever know? By what faded charts of the movements through the sky will man ever be able to retrace relationships of forms of life among planets?
"Get ready to go out and meet him, Campbell," I said. "He's a friend."
Split Campbell gave me a look as if to say, Sir, you don't even know what sort of animal he is, actually, much less whether he's friendly or murderous.
"There are some things I can sense on first sight, Campbell. Take my word for it, he's a friend."
"I didn't say anything, sir."
"Good. Don't. Just get ready."
"We're going to go
out
—?"
"Yes," I said. "Orders."
"And meet both of them?" Split was at the telescope.
"Both?" I took the instrument from him. Both! "Well!"
"They seem to be coming out of the ground," Split said. "I see no signs of habitation, but apparently we've landed on top of an underground city—though I hasten to add that this is only an hypothesis."
"One's a male and the other's a female," I said.
"Another hypothesis," said Split.
The late evening sunshine gave us a clear view of our two "friends". They were fully a mile away. Split was certain they had not seen our ship, and to this conclusion I was in agreement. They had apparently come up out of the barren rock hillside to view the sunset. I studied them through the telescope while Split checked over equipment for a hike.
The man's walk was unhurried. He moved thoughtfully, one might guess. His bare chest and legs showed him to be statuesque in mold, cleanly muscled, fine of bone. His skin was almost the color of the cream-colored robe which flowed from his back, whipping lightly in the breeze. He wore a brilliant red sash about his middle, and this was matched by a red headdress that came down over his shoulders as a circular mantle.
The girl stood several yards distant, watching him. This was some sort of ritual, no doubt. He was not concerned with her, but with the setting sun. Its rays were almost horizontal, knifing through a break in the distant mountain skyline. He went through some routine motions, his moving arms highlighted by the lemon-colored light of evening.
The girl approached him. Two other persons appeared from somewhere back of her.... Three.... Four.... Five....
"Where do they come from?" Split had paused in the act of checking equipment to take his turn at the telescope. If he had not done so, I might not have made a discovery. The landscape was
moving
.
The long shadows that I had not noticed through the telescope were a prominent part of the picture I saw through the ship's window when I looked out across the scene with the naked eye. The shadows were moving.
They were tree shadows. They were moving toward the clearing where the crowd gathered. And the reason for their movement was that the trees themselves were moving.
"Notice anything?" I asked Split.
"The crowd is growing. We've certainly landed on top of a city." He gazed. "They're coming from underground."
Looking through the telescope, obviously he didn't catch the view of the moving trees.
"Notice anything else unusual?" I persisted.
"Yes. The females—I'm speaking hypothetically—but they
must
be females—are all wearing puffy white fur ornaments around their elbows. I wonder why?"
"You haven't noticed the trees?"
"The females are quite attractive," said Split.
I forgot about the moving trees, then, and took over the telescope. Mobile trees were not new to me. I had seen similar vegetation on other planets—"sponge-trees"—which possessed a sort of muscular quality. If these were similar, they were no doubt feeding along the surface of the slope below the rocky plateau. The people in the clearing beyond paid no attention to them.
I studied the crowd of people. Only the leader wore the brilliant garb. The others were more scantily clothed. All were handsome of build. The lemon-tinted sunlight glanced off the muscular shoulders of the males and the soft curves of the females.
"Those furry elbow ornaments on the females," I said to Split,
"they're for protection. The caves they live in must be narrow, so they pad their elbows."
"Why don't they pad their shoulders? They don't have anything on their shoulders."
"Are you complaining?"
We became fascinated in watching, from the seclusion of our ship. If we were to walk out, or make any sounds, we might have interrupted their meeting. Here they were in their native ritual of sunset, not knowing that people from another world watched. The tall leader must be making a speech. They sat around him in little huddles. He moved his arms in calm, graceful gestures.
"They'd better break it up!" Split said suddenly. "The jungles are moving in on them."
"They're spellbound," I said. "They're used to sponge-trees. Didn't you ever see moving trees?"
Split said sharply, "Those trees are marching! They're an army under cover. Look!"
I saw, then. The whole line of advancing vegetation was camouflage for a sneak attack. And all those natives sitting around in meeting were as innocent as a flock of sitting ducks. Split Campbell's voice was edged with alarm. "Captain! Those worshippers—how can we warn them? Oh-oh! Too late. Look!"
All at once the advancing sponge-trees were tossed back over the heads of the savage band concealed within. They were warriors—fifty or more of them—with painted naked bodies. They dashed forward in a wide semicircle, swinging crude weapons, bent on slaughter.
3.
They were waving short clubs or whips with stones tied to the ends. They charged up the slope, about sixty yards, swinging their weird clubs with a threat of death.
Wild disorder suddenly struck the audience. Campbell and I believed we were about to witness a massacre.
"Captain—
Jim
! You're not going to let this happen!"
Our sympathies had gone to the first groups, the peaceable ones. I had the same impulse as Campbell—to do something—anything! Yet here we sat in our ship, more than half a mile from our thirty-five or forty
"friends" in danger.
Our friends were panicked. But they didn't take flight. They didn't duck for the holes in the rocky hilltop. Instead, they rallied and packed themselves around their tall leader. They stood, a defiant wall.
"Can we shoot a ray, Jim?"
I didn't answer. Later I would recall that Split
could
drop his dignity under excitement—his "Captain Linden" and "sir." Just now he wanted any sort of split-second order.
We saw the naked warriors run out in a wide circle. They spun and weaved, they twirled their deadly clubs, they danced grotesquely. They were closing in. Closer and closer. It was all their party.
"Jim, can we shoot?"
"Hit number sixteen, Campbell."
Split touched the number sixteen signal.
The ship's siren wailed out over the land.
You could tell when the sound struck them. The circle of savage ones suddenly fell apart. The dancing broke into the wildest contortions you ever saw. As if they'd been spanked by a wave of electricity. The siren scream must have sounded like an animal cry from an unknown world. The attackers ran for the sponge-trees. The rootless jungle came to life. It jerked and jumped spasmodically down the slope. And our siren kept right on singing.
"Ready for that hike, Campbell? Give me my equipment coat." I got into it. I looked back to the telescope. The tall man of the party had behaved with exceptional calmness. He had turned to stare in our direction from the instant the siren sounded. He could no doubt make out the lines of our silvery ship in the shadows. Slowly, deliberately, he marched over the hilltop toward us.
Most of his party now scampered back to the safety of their hiding places in the ground. But a few—the brave ones, perhaps, or the officials of his group—came with him.
"He needs a stronger guard than that," Campbell grumbled.
Sixteen was still wailing. "Set it for ten minutes and come on," I said. Together we descended from the ship.
We took into our nostrils the tangy air, breathing fiercely, at first. We slogged along over the rock surface feeling our weight to be one-and-a-third times normal. We glanced down the slope apprehensively. We didn't want any footraces. The trees, however, were still retreating. Our siren would sing on for another eight minutes. And in case of further danger, we were equipped with the standard pocket arsenal of special purpose capsule bombs.
Soon we came face to face with the tall, stately old leader in the cream-and-red cloak.
Split and I stood together, close enough to exchange comments against the siren's wail. Fine looking people, we observed. Smooth faces. Like the features of Earth men. These creatures could walk down any main street back home. With a bit of makeup they would pass.
"Notice, Captain, they have strange looking eyes." "Very smooth."
"It's because they have no eyebrows ... no eye lashes." "Very smooth—handsome—attractive."
Then the siren went off.
The leader stood before me, apparently unafraid. He seemed to be waiting for me to explain my presence. His group of twelve gathered in close.
I had met such situations with ease before. "EGGWE" explorers come equipped. I held out a gift toward the leader. It was a singing medallion attached to a chain. It was disc-shaped, patterned after a large silver coin. It made music at the touch of a button. In clear, dainty bell tones it rang out its one tune, "Trail of Stars."
As it played I held it up for inspection. I placed it around my own neck, then offered it to the leader. I thought he was smiling. He was not overwhelmed by the "magic" of this gadget. He saw it for what it was, a token of friendship. There was a keenness about him that I liked. Yes, he was smiling. He bent his head forward and allowed me to place the gift around his neck.
"Tomboldo," he said, pointing to himself.
Split and I tried to imitate his breathy accents as we repeated aloud,
"Tomboldo."
We pointed to ourselves, in turn, and spoke our own names. And then, as the names of the others were pronounced, we tried to memorize each breathy sound that was uttered. I was able to remember four or five of them. One was Gravgak.
Gravgak's piercing eyes caused me to notice him. Suspicious eyes? I did not know these people's expressions well enough to be sure.
Gravgak was a guard, tall and muscular, whose arms and legs were painted with green and black diamond designs.
By motions and words we didn't understand, we inferred that we were invited to accompany the party back home, inside the hill, where we would be safe. I nodded to Campbell. "It's our chance to be guests of Tomboldo." Nothing could have pleased us more. For our big purpose—to understand the Serpent River—would be forwarded greatly if we could learn, through the people, what its meanings were. To analyze the river's substance, estimate its rate, its weight, its temperature, and to map its course—these facts were only a part of the information we sought. The fuller story would be to learn how the inhabitants of this planet regarded it: whether they loved or shunned it, and what legends they may have woven around it. All this knowledge would be useful when future expeditions of men from the Earth followed us (through EGGWE) for an extension of peaceful trade relationships.
Tomboldo depended upon the guard Gravgak to make sure that the way was safe. Gravgak was supposed to keep an eye on the line of floating trees that had taken flight down the hillside. Danger still lurked there, we knew. And now the siren that had frightened off the attack was silent. Our ship, locked against invaders, could be forgotten. We were guests of Tomboldo.
Gravgak was our guard, but he didn't work at it. He was too anxious to hear all the talk. In the excitement of our meeting, everyone ignored the growing darkness, the lurking dangers. Gravgak confronted us with agitated jabbering:
"Wollo—yeeta—vo—vandartch—vandartch! Grr—see—o—see—o—see—o!"
"See—o—see—o—see—o," one of the others echoed.
It began to make sense. They wanted us to repeat the siren noises. The enemy had threatened their lives. There could very well have been a wholesale slaughter. But as long as we could make the "see—o—see—o" we were all safe.
Split and I exchanged glances. He touched his hand to the equipment jacket, to remind me we were armed with something more miraculous than a yowling siren.
"See—o—see—o—see—o!" Others of Tomboldo's party echoed the demand. They must have seen the sponge-trees again moving toward our path.
"
See—o—see—o!
"
Our peaceful march turned into a spasm of terror. The sponge-trees came rushing up the slope, as if borne by a sudden gust of wind. They bounced over our path, and the war party spilled out of them.
Shouting. A wild swinging of clubs. And no cat-and-mouse tricks. No deliberate circling and closing in. An outright attack. Naked bodies gleaming in the semi-darkness. Arms swinging weapons, choosing the nearest victims. The luminous rocks on the ends of the clubs flashed. Shouting, screeching, hurling their clubs. The whizzing fury filled the air.
I hurled a capsule bomb. It struck at the base of a bouncing sponge-tree, and blew the thing to bits.
The attackers ran back into a huddle, screaming. Then they came forward, rushing defiantly.
Our muscular guard, Gravgak was too bold. He had picked up one of their clubs and he ran toward their advance, and to all of Tomboldo's party it must have appeared that he was bravely rushing to his death. Yet the gesture of the club he swung so wildly could have been intended as a
warning
! It could have meant, Run back, you fools, or these strange devils will throw fire at you.
I threw fire. And so did my lieutenant. He didn't wait for orders, thank goodness. He knew it was their lives or ours. Zip, zip, zip—BLANG-BLANG-BLANG! The bursts of fire at their feet ripped the rocks. The spray caught them and knocked them back. Three or four warriors in the fore ranks were torn up in the blasts. Others were flattened—and those who were able, ran.
They ran, not waiting for the cover of sponge-trees. Not bothering to pick up their clubs.
But the operation was not a complete success. We had suffered a serious casualty. The guard Gravgak. He had rushed out too far, and the first blast of fire and rock had knocked him down. Now Tomboldo and others of the party hovered over him.
His eyes opened a little. I thought he was staring at me, drilling me with suspicion. I worked over him with medicines. The crowd around us stood back in an attitude of awe as Split and I applied ready bandages, and held a stimulant to his nostrils that made him breath back to consciousness.
Suddenly he came to life. Lying there on his back, with the club still at his fingertips, he swung up on one elbow. The swift motion caused a cry of joy from the crowd. I heard a little of it—and then blacked out. For as the muscular Gravgak moved, his fingers closed over the handle of the club. It whizzed upward with him—apparently all by accident. The stone that dangled from the end of the club crashed into my head.
I went into instant darkness. Darkness, and a long, long silence.
4.
Vauna, the beautiful daughter of Tomboldo, came into my life during the weeks that I lay unconscious.
I must have talked aloud much during those feverish hours of darkness.
"Campbell!" I would call out of a nightmare. "Campbell, we're about to land. Is everything set? Check the instruments again, Campbell."
"S-s-sh!" The low hush of Split Campbell's voice would somehow penetrate my dream.
The voices about me were soft. My dreams echoed the soft female voices of this new, strange language.
"Campbell, are you there?... Have you forgotten the Code, Campbell?"
"Quiet, Captain."
"Who is it that's swabbing my face? I can't see."
"It's Vauna. She's smiling at you, Captain. Can't you see her?"
"Is this the pretty one we saw through the telescope?"
"One of them."
"And what of the other? There were two together. I remember—"
"Omosla is here too. She's Vauna's attendant. We're all looking after you, Captain Linden. Did you know I performed an operation to relieve the pressure on your brain? You must get well, Captain." The words of Campbell came through insistently.
After a silence that may have lasted for hours or days, I said,
"Campbell, you haven't forgot the EGGWE Code?"
"Of course not, Captain."
"Section Four?"
"Section Four," he repeated in a low voice, as if to pacify me and put me to sleep. "Conduct of EGGWE agents toward native inhabitants: A, No agent shall enter into any diplomatic agreement that shall be construed as binding—"
I interrupted. "Clause D?"
He picked it up. "D, no agent shall enter into a marriage contract with any native.... H-m-m. You're not trying to warn me, are you, Captain Linden? Or are you warning
yourself
?"
At that moment my eyes opened a little. Swimming before my blurred vision was the face of Vauna. I did remember her—yes, she must have haunted my dreams, for now my eyes burned in an effort to define her features more clearly. This was indeed Vauna, who had been one of the party of twelve, and had walked beside her father in the face of the attack. Deep within my subconscious the image of her beautiful face and figure had lingered. I murmured a single word of answer to Campbell's question. "Myself."
In the hours that followed, I came to know the soft footsteps of Vauna. The caverns in which she and her father and all these Benzendella people lived were pleasantly warm and fragrant. My misty impressions of their life about me were like the first impressions of a child learning about the world into which he has been born.
Sometimes I would hear Vauna and her attendant Omosla talking together. Often when Campbell would stop in this part of the cavern to inquire about me, Omosla would drop in also. She and Campbell were learning to converse in simple words. And Vauna and I—yes. If I could only avoid blacking out.
I wanted to see her.
So often my eyes would refuse to open. A thousand nightmares. Space ships shooting through meteor swarms. Stars like eyes. Eyes like stars. The eyes of Vauna, the daughter of Tomboldo. The sensitive stroke of Vauna's fingers, brushing my forehead, pressing my hand.
I regained my health gradually.
"Are you quite awake?" Vauna would ask me in her musical Benzendella words. "You speak better today. Your friend Campbell has brought you more recordings of our language, so you can learn to speak more. My father is eager to talk with you. But you must sleep more. You are still weak."
It gave me a weird sensation to awaken in the night, trying to adjust myself to my surroundings. The Benzendellas were sleep-singers. By night they murmured mysterious little songs through their sleep. Strange harmonies whispered through the caves.
And if I stirred restlessly, the footsteps of Vauna might come to me through the darkness. In her sleeping garments she would come to me, faintly visible in the pink light that filtered through from some corridor. She would whisper melodious Benzendella words and tell me to go back to sleep, and I would drift into the darkness of my endless dreams.
The day came when I awakened to see both Vauna and her father standing before me. Stern old Tomboldo, with his chalk-smooth face and not a hint of an eyebrow or eyelash, rapped his hand against my ribs, shook the fiber bed lightly, and smiled. From a pocket concealed in his flowing cape, he drew forth the musical watch, touched the button, and played, "Trail of Stars."
"I have learned to talk," I said.
"You have had a long sleep."
"I am well again. See, I can almost walk." But as I started to rise, the wave of blackness warned me, and I restrained my ambition. "I will walk soon."
"We will have much to talk about. Your friend has pointed to the stars and told me a strange story of your coming. We have walked around the ship. He has told me how it rides through the sky. I can hardly make myself believe." Tomboldo's eyes cast upward under the strong ridge of forehead where the eyebrows should have been. He was evidently trying to visualize the flight of a space ship. "We will have much to tell each other."
"I hope so," I said. "Campbell and I came to learn about the
serpent river
." I resorted to my own language for the last two words, not knowing the Benzendella equivalent.
I
made an eel-like motion with my arm. But they didn't understand. And before I could explain, the footsteps of other Benzendellas approached, and presently I looked around to see that quite an audience had gathered. The most prominent figure of the new group was the big muscular guard of the black and green diamond markings—Gravgak.
"You get well?" Gravgak said to me. His eyes drilled me closely.
"I get well," I said.
"The blow on the head," he said, "was not meant."
I looked at him. Everyone was looking at him, and I knew this was meant to be an occasion of apology. But the light of fire in Vauna's eyes told me that she did not believe. He saw her look, and his own eyes flashed darts of defiance. With an abrupt word to me, he wheeled and started off. "Get well!"
The crowd of men and women made way for him. But in the arched doorway he turned. "Vauna. I am ready to speak to you alone."
She started. I reached and barely touched her hand. She stopped. "I will talk with you later, Gravgak."
"Now!" he shouted. "Alone."
He stalked off. A moment later Vauna, after exchanging a word with her father, excused herself from the crowd and followed Gravgak.
From the way those in the room looked, I knew this must be a dramatic moment. It was as if she had acknowledged Gravgak as her master—or her lover. He had called for her. She had followed.
But her old father was still the master. He stepped toward the door.
"Vauna!... Gravgak!... Come back."
(I will always wonder what might have happened if he hadn't called them! Was my distrust of Gravgak justified? Had I become merely a jealous lover—or was I right in my hunch that the tall muscular guard was a potential traitor?)
Vauna reappeared at once. I believe she was glad that she had been called back.
Gravgak came sullenly. At the edge of the crowd in the arched doorway he stood scowling.
"While we are together," old Tomboldo said quietly, looking around at the assemblage, "I must tell you the decision of the council. Soon we will move back to the other part of the world."
There were low murmurs of approval through the chamber.
"We will wait a few days," Tomboldo went on, "until our new friend—" he pointed to me—"is well enough to travel. We would never leave him here to the mercy of the savage ones. He and his helper came through the sky in time to save us from being destroyed. We must never forget this kindness. When we ascend the
Kao-Wagwattl
, the ever moving
rope of life
, these friends shall come with us. On the back of the Kao-Wagwattl
they shall ride with us across the land
."
|
Who is Tony Carmen and what happens to him in the story?
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After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about The Expendables by Jim Harmon.
Relevant chunks:
THE EXPENDABLES
BY JIM HARMON
It was just a little black box, useful for getting rid of things. Trouble was, it worked too well!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
"You see my problem, Professor?" Tony Carmen held his pinkly manicured, flashily ringed hands wide.
I saw his problem and it was warmly embarrassing.
"Really, Mr. Carmen," I said, "this isn't the sort of thing you discuss with a total stranger. I'm not a doctor—not of medicine, anyway—or a lawyer."
"They can't help me. I need an operator in your line."
"I work for the United States government. I can't become involved in anything illegal."
Carmen smoothed down the front of his too-tight midnight blue suit and touched the diamond sticking in his silver tie. "You can't, Professor Venetti? Ever hear of the Mafia?"
"I've heard of it," I said uneasily. "An old fraternal organization something like the Moose or Rosicrucians, founded in Sicily. It allegedly controls organized crime in the U.S. But that is a responsibility-eluding myth that honest Italian-Americans are stamping out. We don't even like to see the word in print."
"I can understand honest Italian-Americans feeling that way. But guys like me know the Mafia is still with it. We can put the squeeze on marks like you pretty easy."
You don't have to tell even a third generation American about the Mafia. Maybe that was the trouble. I had heard too much and for too long. All the stories I had ever heard about the Mafia, true or false, built up an unendurable threat.
"All right, I'll try to help you, Carmen. But ... that is, you didn't kill any of these people?"
He snorted. "I haven't killed anybody since early 1943."
"Please," I said weakly. "You needn't incriminate yourself with me."
"I was in the Marines," Carmen said hotly. "Listen, Professor, these aren't no Prohibition times. Not many people get made for a hit these days. Mother, most of these bodies they keep ditching at my club haven't been murdered by anybody. They're accident victims. Rumbums with too much anti-freeze for a summer's day, Spanish-American War vets going to visit Teddy in the natural course of events. Harry Keno just stows them at my place to embarrass me. Figures to make me lose my liquor license or take a contempt before the Grand Jury."
"I don't suppose you could just go to the police—" I saw the answer in his eyes. "No. I don't suppose you could."
"I told you once, Professor, but I'll tell you again. I have to get rid of these bodies they keep leaving in my kitchen. I can take 'em and throw them in the river, sure. But what if me or my boys are stopped en route by some tipped badge?"
"Quicklime?" I suggested automatically.
"What are you talking about? Are you sure you're some kind of scientist? Lime doesn't do much to a stiff at all. Kind of putrifies them like...."
"I forgot," I admitted. "I'd read it in so many stories I'd forgotten it wouldn't work. And I suppose the furnace leaves ashes and there's always traces of hair and teeth in the garbage disposal... An interesting problem, at that."
"I figured you could handle it," Carmen said, leaning back comfortably in the favorite chair of my bachelor apartment. "I heard you were working on something to get rid of trash for the government."
"That," I told him, "is restricted information. I subcontracted that work from the big telephone laboratories. How did you find it out?"
"Ways, Professor, ways."
The government did want me to find a way to dispose of wastes—radioactive wastes. It was the most important problem any country could have in this time of growing atomic industry. Now a small-time gangster was asking me to use this research to help him dispose of hot corpses. It made my scientific blood seethe. But the shadow of the Black Hand cooled it off.
"Maybe I can find something in that area of research to help you," I said. "I'll call you."
"Don't take too long, Professor," Carmen said cordially.
The big drum topped with a metallic coolie's hat had started out as a neutralizer for radioactivity. Now I didn't know what to call it.
The AEC had found burying canisters of hot rubbish in the desert or in the Gulf had eventually proved unsatisfactory. Earth tremors or changes of temperature split the tanks in the ground, causing leaks. The undersea containers rusted and corroded through the time, poisoning fish and fishermen.
Through the SBA I had been awarded a subcontract to work on the problem. The ideal solution would be to find a way to neutralize radioactive emanations, alpha, beta, X et cetera. (No, my dear, et cetera rays aren't any more dangerous than the rest.) But this is easier written than done.
Of course, getting energy to destroy energy without producing energy or matter is a violation of the maxim of the conservation of energy. But I didn't let that stop me—any more than I would have let the velocity of light put any limitations on a spacecraft engine had I been engaged to work on one. You can't allow other people's ideas to tie you hand and foot. There are some who tell me, however, that my refusal to honor such time-tested cliches is why I only have a small private laboratory owned by myself, my late wife's father and the bank, instead of working in the vast facilities of Bell, Du Pont, or General Motors. To this, I can only smile and nod.
But even refusing to be balked by conservative ideas, I failed.
I could not neutralize radioactivity. All I had been able to do (by a basic disturbance in the electromagnetogravitational co-ordinant system for Earth-Sun) was to reduce the mass of the radioactive matter.
This only concentrated the radiations, as in boiling contaminated water. It did make the hot stuff vaguely easier to handle, but it was no breakthrough on the central problem.
Now, in the middle of this, I was supposed to find a way to get rid of some damned bodies for Carmen.
Pressed for time and knowing the results wouldn't have to be so precise or carefully defined for a racketeer as for the United States government, I began experimenting.
I cut corners.
I bypassed complete safety circuits.
I put dangerous overloads on some transformers and doodled with the wiring diagrams. If I got some kind of passable incinerator I would be happy.
I turned the machine on.
The lights popped out.
There were changes that should be made before I tried that again, but instead I only found a larger fuse for a heavier load and jammed that in the switchbox.
I flipped my machine into service once again. The lights flickered and held.
The dials on my control board told me the story. It was hard to take.
But there it was.
The internal Scale showed zero.
I had had a slightly hot bar of silver alloy inside. It was completely gone. Mass zero. The temperature gauge showed that there had been no change in centigrade reading that couldn't be explained by the mechanical operation of the machine itself. There had been no sudden discharge of electricity or radioactivity. I checked for a standard anti-gravity effect but there was none. Gravity inside the cylinder had gone to zero but never to minus.
I was at last violating conservation of energy—not by successfully inverting the cube of the ionization factor, but by destroying mass ... by simply making it cease to exist with no cause-and-effect side effects.
I knew the government wouldn't be interested, since I couldn't explain how my device worked. No amount of successful demonstration could ever convince anybody with any scientific training that it actually did work.
But I shrewdly judged that Tony Carmen wouldn't ask an embarrassing
"how" when he was incapable of understanding the explanation.
"Yeah, but how does it work?" Tony Carmen demanded of me, sleeking his mirror-black hair and staring up at the disk-topped drum.
"Why do you care?" I asked irritably. "It will dispose of your bodies for you."
"I got a reason that goes beyond the stiff, but let's stick to that just for now. Where are these bodies going? I don't want them winding up in the D.A.'s bathtub."
"Why not? How could they trace them back to you?"
"You're the scientist," Tony said hotly. "I got great respect for those crime lab boys. Maybe the stiff got some of my exclusive brand of talc on it, I don't know."
"Listen here, Carmen," I said, "what makes you think these bodies are going somewhere? Think of it only as a kind of—incinerator."
"Not on your life, Professor. The gadget don't get hot so how can it burn? It don't use enough electricity to fry. It don't cut 'em up or crush 'em down, or dissolve them in acid. I've seen disappearing cabinets before."
Mafia or not, I saw red. "Are you daring to suggest that I am working some trick with trap doors or sliding panels?"
"Easy, Professor," Carmen said, effortlessly shoving me back with one palm. "I'm not saying you have the machine rigged. It's just that you have to be dropping the stuff through a sliding panel in—well, everything around us. You're sliding all that aside and dropping things through. But I want to know where they wind up. Reasonable?"
Carmen was an uneducated lout and a criminal but he had an instinctive feel for the mechanics of physics.
"I don't know where the stuff goes, Carmen," I finally admitted. "It might go into another plane of existence. 'Another dimension' the writers for the American Weekly would describe it. Or into our past, or our future."
The swarthy racketeer pursed his lips and apparently did some rapid calculation.
"I don't mind the first two, but I don't like them going into the future. If they do that, they may show up again in six months."
"Or six million years."
"You'll have to cut that future part out, Professor."
I was beginning to get a trifle impatient. All those folk tales I had heard about the Mafia were getting more distant. "See here, Carmen, I could lie to you and say they went into the prehistoric past and you would never know the difference. But the truth is, I just don't know where the processed material goes. There's a chance it may go into the future, yes. But unless it goes exactly one year or exactly so many years it would appear in empty space ... because the earth will have moved from the spot it was transmitted. I don't know for sure. Perhaps the slight Deneb-ward movement of the Solar System would wreck a perfect three-point landing even then and cause the dispatched materials to burn up from atmospheric friction, like meteors. You will just have to take a chance on the future. That's the best I can do."
Carmen inhaled deeply. "Okay. I'll risk it. Pretty long odds against any squeal on the play. How many of these things can you turn out, Professor?"
"I can construct a duplicate of this device so that you may destroy the unwanted corpses that you would have me believe are delivered to you with the regularity of the morning milk run."
The racketeer waved that suggestion aside. "I'm talking about a big operation, Venetti. These things can take the place of incinerators, garbage disposals, waste baskets...."
"Impractical," I snorted. "You don't realize the tremendous amount of electrical power these devices require...."
"Nuts! From what you said, the machine is like a TV set; it takes a lot of power to get it started, but then on it coasts on its own generators."
"There's something to what you say," I admitted in the face of his unexpected information. "But I can hardly turn my invention over to your entirely persuasive salesmen, I'm sure. This is part of the results of an investigation for the government. Washington will have to decide what to do with the machine."
"Listen, Professor," Carmen began, "the Mafia—"
"What makes you think I'm any more afraid of the Mafia than I am of the F.B.I.? I may have already sealed my fate by letting you in on this much. Machinegunning is hardly a less attractive fate to me than a poor security rating. To me, being dead professionally would be as bad as being dead biologically."
Tony Carmen laid a heavy hand on my shoulder. I finally deduced he intended to be cordial.
"Of course," he said smoothly "you have to give this to Washington but there are ways , Professor. I know. I'm a business man—"
"You are ?" I said.
He named some of the businesses in which he held large shares of stock.
"You are ."
"I've had experience in this sort of thing. We simply leak the information to a few hundred well selected persons about all that your machine can do. We'll call 'em Expendables, because they can expend anything."
"I," I interjected, "planned to call it the Venetti Machine."
"Professor, who calls the radio the Marconi these days?"
"There are Geiger-Muller Counters, though," I said.
"You don't have to give a Geiger counter the sex appeal of a TV set or a hardtop convertible. We'll call them Expendables. No home will be complete without one."
"Perfect for disposing of unwanted bodies," I mused. "The murder rate will go alarmingly with those devices within easy reach."
"Did that stop Sam Colt or Henry Ford?" Tony Carmen asked reasonably....
Naturally, I was aware that the government would not be interested in my machine. I am not a Fortean, a psychic, a psionicist or a screwball. But the government frequently gets things it doesn't know what to do with—like airplanes in the 'twenties. When it doesn't know what to do, it doesn't do it.
There have been hundreds of workable perpetual motion machines patented, for example. Of course, they weren't vices in the strictest sense of the word. Many of them used the external power of gravity, they would wear out or slow down in time from friction, but for the meanwhile, for some ten to two hundred years they would just sit there, moving. No one had ever been able to figure out what to do with them.
I knew the AEC wasn't going to dump tons of radioactive waste (with some possible future reclaimation value) into a machine which they didn't believe actually could work.
Tony Carmen knew exactly what to do with an Expendable once he got his hands on it.
Naturally, that was what I had been afraid of.
The closed sedan was warm, even in early December.
Outside, the street was a progression of shadowed block forms. I was shivering slightly, my teeth rattling like the porcelain they were. Was this the storied "ride," I wondered?
Carmen finally returned to the car, unlatched the door and slid in. He did not reinsert the ignition key. I did not feel like sprinting down the deserted street.
"The boys will have it set up in a minute," Tony the racketeer informed me.
"What?" The firing squad?
"The Expendable, of course."
"Here? You dragged me out here to see how you have prostituted my invention? I presume you've set it up with a 'Keep Our City Clean' sign pasted on it."
He chuckled. It was a somewhat nasty sound, or so I imagined.
A flashlight winked in the sooty twilight.
"Okay. Let's go," Tony said, slapping my shoulder.
I got out of the car, rubbing my flabby bicep. Whenever I took my teen-age daughter to the beach from my late wife's parents' home, I frequently found 230 pound bullies did kick sand in my ears.
The machine was installed on the corner, half covered with a gloomy white shroud, and fearlessly plugged into the city lighting system via a blanketed streetlamp. Two hoods hovered in a doorway ready to take care of the first cop with a couple of fifties or a single .38, as necessity dictated.
Tony guided my elbow. "Okay, Professor, I think I understand the bit now, but I'll let you run it up with the flagpole for me, to see how it waves to the national anthem."
"Here?" I spluttered once more. "I told you, Carmen, I wanted nothing more to do with you. Your check is still on deposit...."
"You didn't want anything to do with me in the first place." The thug's teeth flashed in the night. "Throw your contraption into gear, buddy."
That was the first time the tone of respect, even if faked, had gone out of his voice. I moved to the switchboard of my invention. What remained was as simple as adjusting a modern floor lamp to a medium light position. I flipped.
Restraining any impulse toward colloqualism, I was also deeply disturbed by what next occurred.
One of the massive square shapes on the horizon vanished.
"What have you done?" I yelped, ripping the cover off the machine.
Even under the uncertain illumination of the smogged stars I could see that the unit was half gone—in fact, exactly halved.
"Squint the Seal is one of my boys. He used to be a mechanic in the old days for Burger, Madle, the guys who used to rob banks and stuff." There was an unmistakable note of boyish admiration in Carmen's voice.
"He figured the thing would work like that. Separate the poles and you increase the size of the working area."
"You mean square the operational field. Your idiot doesn't even know mechanics."
"No, but he knows all about how any kind of machine works."
"You call that working?" I demanded. "Do you realize what you have there, Carmen?"
"Sure. A disintegrator ray, straight out of Startling Stories ."
My opinion as to the type of person who followed the pages of science-fiction magazines with fluttering lips and tracing finger was upheld.
I looked at the old warehouse and of course didn't see it.
"What was this a test for?" I asked, fearful of the Frankenstein I had made. "What are you planning to do now?"
"This was no test, Venetti. This was it. I just wiped out Harry Keno and his intimates right in the middle of their confidential squat."
"Good heavens. That's uncouthly old-fashioned of you, Carmen! Why, that's murder ."
"Not," Carmen said, "without no corpus delecti ."
"The body of the crime remains without the body of the victim," I remembered from my early Ellery Queen training.
"You're talking too much, Professor," Tony suggested. "Remember, you did it with your machine."
"Yes," I said at length. "And why are we standing here letting those machines sit there?"
There were two small items of interest to me in the Times the following morning.
One two-inch story—barely making page one because of a hole to fill at the bottom of an account of the number of victims of Indian summer heat prostration—told of the incineration of a warehouse on Fleet Street by an ingenious new arson bomb that left "virtually" no trace. (Maybe the fire inspector had planted a few traces to make his explanation more creditable.)
The second item was further over in a science column just off the editorial page. It told of the government—!—developing a new process of waste disposal rivaling the old Buck Rogers disintegrator ray.
This, I presumed, was one of Tony Carmen's information leaks.
If he hoped to arouse the public into demanding my invention I doubted he would succeed. The public had been told repeatedly of a new radioactive process for preserving food and a painless way of spraying injections through the skin. But they were still stuck with refrigerators and hypodermic needles.
I had forced my way half-way through the paper and the terrible coffee I made when the doorbell rang.
I was hardly surprised when it turned out to be Tony Carmen behind the front door.
He pushed in, slapping a rolled newspaper in his palm. "Action, Professor."
"The district attorney has indicted you?" I asked hopefully.
"He's not even indicted you , Venetti. No, I got a feeler on this plant in the Times ."
I shook my head. "The government will take over the invention, no matter what the public wants."
"The public? Who cares about the public? The Arcivox corporation wants this machine of yours. They have their agents tracing the plant now. They will go from the columnist to his legman to my man and finally to you. Won't be long before they get here. An hour maybe."
"Arcivox makes radios and TV sets. What do they want with the Expendables?"
"Opening up a new appliance line with real innovations. I hear they got a new refrigerator. All open. Just shelves—no doors or sides. They want a revolutionary garbage disposal too."
"Do you own stock in the company? Is that how you know?"
"I own stock in a competitor. That's how I know," Carmen informed me.
"Listen, Professor, you can sell to Arcivox and still keep control of the patents through a separate corporation. And I'll give you 49% of its stock."
This was Carmen's idea of a magnanimous offer for my invention. It was a pretty good offer—49% and my good health.
"But will the government let Arcivox have the machine for commercial use?"
"The government would let Arcivox have the hydrogen bomb if they found a commercial use for it."
There was a sturdy knock on the door, not a shrill ring of the bell.
"That must be Arcivox now," Carmen growled. "They have the best detectives in the business. You know what to tell them?"
I knew what to tell them.
I peeled off my wet shirt and threw it across the corner of my desk, casting a reproving eye at the pastel air-conditioner in the window. It wasn't really the machine's fault—The water department reported the reservoir too low to run water-cooled systems. It would be a day or two before I could get the gas type into my office.
Miss Brown, my secretary, was getting a good look at my pale, bony chest. Well, for the salary she got, she could stand to look. Of course, she herself was wearing a modest one-strap sun dress, not shorts and halters like some of the girls.
"My," she observed "it certainly is humid for March, isn't it, Professor Venetti?"
I agreed that it was.
She got her pad and pencil ready.
"Wheedling form letter to Better Mousetraps. Where are our royalties for the last quarter of the year? We know we didn't have a full three months with our Expendable Field in operation on the new traps, but we want the payola for what we have coming.
"Condescending form letter to Humane Lethal Equipment. Absolutely do not send the California penal system any chambers equipped with our patented field until legislature officially approves them. We got away with it in New Mexico, but we're older and wiser now.
"Rush priority telegram to President, United States, any time in the next ten days. Thanks for citation, et cetera. Glad buddy system working out well in training battlefield disintegrator teams.
"Indignant form letter to Arcivox. We do not feel we are properly a co-respondent in your damage suits. Small children and appliances have always been a problem, viz ice boxes and refrigerators. Suggest you put a more complicated latch on the handles of the dangerously inferior doors you have covering our efficient, patented field."
I leaned back and took a breather. There was no getting around it—I just wasn't happy as a business man. I had been counting on being only a figurehead in the Expendable Patent Holding Corporation, but Tony Carmen didn't like office work. And he hadn't anyone he trusted any more than me. Even.
I jerked open a drawer and pulled off a paper towel from the roll I had stolen in the men's room. Scrubbing my chest and neck with it, I smoothed it out and dropped it into the wastebasket. It slid down the tapering sides and through the narrow slot above the Expendable Field. I had redesigned the wastebaskets after a janitor had stepped in one. But Gimpy was happy now, with the $50,000 we paid him.
I opened my mouth and Miss Brown's pencil perked up its eraser, reflecting her fierce alertness.
Tony Carmen banged open the door, and I closed my mouth.
"G-men on the way here," he blurted and collapsed into a chair opposite Miss Brown.
"Don't revert to type," I warned him. "What kind of G-Men? FBI? FCC? CIA? FDA? USTD?"
"Investigators for the Atomic Energy Commission."
The solemn, conservatively dressed young man in the door touched the edge of his snap-brim hat as he said it.
"Miss Brown, would you mind letting our visitor use your chair?" I asked.
"Not at all, sir," she said dreamily.
"May I suggest," I said, "that we might get more business done if you then removed yourself from the chair first."
Miss Brown leaped to her feet with a healthy galvanic response and quit the vicinity with her usual efficiency.
Once seated, the AEC man said "I'll get right to the point. You may find this troublesome, gentlemen, but your government intends to confiscate all of the devices using your so-called Expendable field, and forever bar their manufacture in this country or their importation."
"You stinking G-men aren't getting away with this," Carmen said ingratiatingly. "Ever hear of the Mafia?"
"Not much," the young man admitted earnestly, "since the FBI finished with its deportations a few years back."
I cleared my throat. "I must admit that the destruction of a multi-billion business is disconcerting before lunch. May we ask why you took this step?"
The agent inserted a finger between his collar and tie. "Have you noticed how unseasonably warm it is?"
"I wondered if you had. You're going to have heat prostration if you keep that suit coat on five minutes more."
The young man collapsed back in his chair, loosening the top button of his ivy league jacket, looking from my naked hide to the gossomer scrap of sport shirt Carmen wore. "We have to dress inconspicuously in the service," he panted weakly.
I nodded understandingly. "What does the heat have to do with the outlawing of the Expendables?"
"At first we thought there might be some truth in the folk nonsense that nuclear tests had something to do with raising the mean temperature of the world," the AEC man said. "But our scientists quickly found they weren't to blame."
"Clever of them."
"Yes, they saw that the widespread use of your machines was responsible for the higher temperature. Your device violates the law of conservation of energy, seemingly . It seemingly destroys matter without creating energy. Actually—"
He paused dramatically.
"Actually, your device added the energy it created in destroying matter to the energy potential of the planet in the form of heat . You see what that means? If your devices continue in operation, the mean temperature of Earth will rise to the point where we burst into flame. They must be outlawed!"
"I agree," I said reluctantly.
Tony Carmen spoke up. "No, you don't, Professor. We don't agree to that."
I waved his protests aside.
"I would agree," I said, "except that it wouldn't work. Explain the danger to the public, let them feel the heat rise themselves, and they will hoard Expendables against seizure and continue to use them, until we do burst into flame, as you put it so religiously."
"Why?" the young man demanded.
"Because Expendables are convenient. There is a ban on frivolous use of water due to the dire need. But the police still have to go stop people from watering lawns, and I suspect not a few swimming pools are being filled on the sly. Water is somebody else's worry. So will be generating enough heat to turn Eden into Hell."
"Mass psychology isn't my strongest point," the young man said worriedly. "But I suspect you may be right. Then—we'll be damned?"
"No, not necessarily," I told him comfortingly. "All we have to do is use up the excess energy with engines of a specific design."
"But can we design those engines in time?" the young man wondered with uncharacteristic gloom.
"Certainly," I said, practising the power of positive thinking. "Now that your world-wide testing laboratories have confirmed a vague fear of mine, I can easily reverse the field of the Expendable device and create a rather low-efficiency engine that consumes the excess energy in our planetary potential."
The agent of the AEC whose name I can never remember was present along
with Tony Carmen the night my assistants finished with the work I had
outlined.
While it was midnight outside, the fluorescents made the scene more
visible than sunlight. My Disexpendable was a medium-sized drum in a
tripod frame with an unturned coolie's hat at the bottom.
Breathlessly, I closed the switch and the scooped disc began slowly to
revolve.
"Is it my imagination," the agent asked, "or is it getting cooler in
here?"
"Professor." Carmen gave me a warning nudge.
There was now something on the revolving disc. It was a bar of some
shiny gray metal.
"Kill the power, Professor," Carmen said.
"Can it be," I wondered, "that the machine is somehow recreating or
drawing back the processed material from some other time or dimension?"
"Shut the thing off, Venetti!" the racketeer demanded.
But too late.
There was now a somewhat dead man sitting in the saddle of the turning
circle of metal.
If Harry Keno had only been sane when he turned up on that
merry-go-round in Boston I feel we would have learned much of immense
value on the nature of time and space.
As it is, I feel that it is a miscarriage of justice to hold me in
connection with the murders I am sure Tony Carmen did commit.
I hope this personal account when published will end the vicious
story supported by the district attorney that it was I who sought Tony
Carmen out and offered to dispose of his enemies and that I sought his
financial backing for the exploitation of my invention.
This is the true, and only true, account of the development of the
machine known as the Expendable.
I am only sorry, now that the temperature has been standardized once
more, that the Expendable's antithesis, the Disexpendable, is of too
low an order of efficiency to be of much value as a power source in
these days of nuclear and solar energy. So the world is again stuck
with the problem of waste disposal ... including all that I dumped
before. But as a great American once said, you can't win 'em all.
If you so desire, you may send your generous and fruitful letters
towards my upcoming defense in care of this civic-minded publication.
Question:
Who is Tony Carmen and what happens to him in the story?
Answer:
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[
"Tony Carmen is a racketeer who threatens Professor Venetti to invent the machine to decompose corpses without leaving any traces. He is also a criminal who does not care about killing people, so he orders Professor Venetti to conduct the machine to wipe off the warehouse and the people inside. It is also implied that he kills the corpse he wants to get rid of. When he receives the machine Professor Venetti creates, he gives it to his subordinates and lets them modify it. He takes Professor Venetti to the place where they try the machine's function. He has many connections to business, the mafia, and the news, and he knows how to make profits by manipulating the business work behind the scene. When he realizes how much profit the machine can make after seeing its effects, he persuades Professor Venetti to collaborate with him. He leaks the information through the newspaper to attract the business corporates’ attention. When the agent from Atomic Energy Commission informs the harmful consequences of the machine, he strongly disagrees with the ban on the manufacture and the selling of the device. When Professor Venetti turns on the reverse machine, Tony is panicked, and he shouts to order the professor to turn off the engine.",
"Tony Carmen is one of the near-mafia criminals. At the beginning, he asks a scientist called Venetti, who works in the secret radioactive wastes disposal project, to come up with a mechanism that could help Tony get rid of the bodies Harry Keno leaves at his place. Soon the professor says that he created a mechanism that works like an incinerator but with no traces. Tony tries to understand where the bodies would go after disappearing in this machine. Venetti honestly says that he doesn’t know where they end up: it might be the past, the future, or another dimension. He also explains that the probability of finding these bodies is small, and Tony accepts this. Carmen also mentions that they could mass-produce these machines, which Venetti finds impractical. Tony calls it an Expendable and decides to test it. He asks his friend to halve the unit to cover the area of Harry Keno’s warehouse. When the professor turns it on, the building disappears, wiping out its inhabitants - Keno and his intimates - too. Tony starts leaking information about the mechanism to intrigue potential buyers, for example, ordering a small article in the Times. Soon he gets an offer from Arcivox - a manufacturer of radio and TV sets. Tony persuades the professor to sell the potent and control the manufacturing through a separate company. Their business grows fast. Months later, Tony learns that some government officials are going to come to them. He gets into Venetti’s office seconds before the AEC man shows up at the door. Tony starts threatening the officer but gets a witty comeback and then keeps silent. They hear that the government scientist learned that the energy the expendables seemingly destroyed has been turning into heat energy, increasing the mean temperature of Earth and leading to a climate catastrophe. Venetti proposes creating an engine that could use the excess energy by reversing the expendable mechanism. When they switch the engine on, Tony screams to the professor to turn the mechanism off, but the body of Harry Keno appears quickly. They both are under investigation. ",
"Tony Carmen is a member of the Italian mob who approaches Venetti. Tony is in desperate need of a machine to get rid of bodies. He believes that Venetti could create this device. When Venetti does create it, Tony convinces him to partner with him and start selling them commercially. Tony believes that there is a big space in the market for people to buy them. After he uses the machine to get rid of some men who were messing with his business. At the end, both Tony and Venetti are put on trial. ",
"Tony Carmen is a stranger who approaches Professor Venetti, claiming that he knows the Mafia. He threatens Venetti into helping him with his potential new invention. Carmen is in need of assistance to get rid of dead bodies he has. Venetti is currently working on a secret project with the government to create an innovation that would get rid of radioactive waste. Tony manages to make Venetti agree to help him by threatening him. When Venetti comes up with a machine, “the Expendable,” which he took unusual risks to create, they go test it together on a wide, empty lawn. Tony’s demeanor changes as he becomes more aggressive and makes the bodies, which is hinted that he actually murdered, disappear through the machine. He lures the professor to launch the machine on the market and helps him when a large corporation approaches them. As their business booms, they are approached by the Atomic Energy Commission which explains that their machines have been raising Earth’s temperature and need to be stopped. The professor explains that customer behavior will be hard to change and instead creates “Disexpendables” which does the opposite effect. Tony is very much against this and when put to use, the bodies he hid all come back. This allows the professor to restore justice by disproving the narrative that Tony was creating in which lawyers claimed that the professor approached Tony, suggesting to help him get rid of his enemies in exchange for financial backing for his innovation.\n"
] |
61171
|
THE EXPENDABLES
BY JIM HARMON
It was just a little black box, useful for getting rid of things. Trouble was, it worked too well!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Worlds of If Science Fiction, May 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
"You see my problem, Professor?" Tony Carmen held his pinkly manicured, flashily ringed hands wide.
I saw his problem and it was warmly embarrassing.
"Really, Mr. Carmen," I said, "this isn't the sort of thing you discuss with a total stranger. I'm not a doctor—not of medicine, anyway—or a lawyer."
"They can't help me. I need an operator in your line."
"I work for the United States government. I can't become involved in anything illegal."
Carmen smoothed down the front of his too-tight midnight blue suit and touched the diamond sticking in his silver tie. "You can't, Professor Venetti? Ever hear of the Mafia?"
"I've heard of it," I said uneasily. "An old fraternal organization something like the Moose or Rosicrucians, founded in Sicily. It allegedly controls organized crime in the U.S. But that is a responsibility-eluding myth that honest Italian-Americans are stamping out. We don't even like to see the word in print."
"I can understand honest Italian-Americans feeling that way. But guys like me know the Mafia is still with it. We can put the squeeze on marks like you pretty easy."
You don't have to tell even a third generation American about the Mafia. Maybe that was the trouble. I had heard too much and for too long. All the stories I had ever heard about the Mafia, true or false, built up an unendurable threat.
"All right, I'll try to help you, Carmen. But ... that is, you didn't kill any of these people?"
He snorted. "I haven't killed anybody since early 1943."
"Please," I said weakly. "You needn't incriminate yourself with me."
"I was in the Marines," Carmen said hotly. "Listen, Professor, these aren't no Prohibition times. Not many people get made for a hit these days. Mother, most of these bodies they keep ditching at my club haven't been murdered by anybody. They're accident victims. Rumbums with too much anti-freeze for a summer's day, Spanish-American War vets going to visit Teddy in the natural course of events. Harry Keno just stows them at my place to embarrass me. Figures to make me lose my liquor license or take a contempt before the Grand Jury."
"I don't suppose you could just go to the police—" I saw the answer in his eyes. "No. I don't suppose you could."
"I told you once, Professor, but I'll tell you again. I have to get rid of these bodies they keep leaving in my kitchen. I can take 'em and throw them in the river, sure. But what if me or my boys are stopped en route by some tipped badge?"
"Quicklime?" I suggested automatically.
"What are you talking about? Are you sure you're some kind of scientist? Lime doesn't do much to a stiff at all. Kind of putrifies them like...."
"I forgot," I admitted. "I'd read it in so many stories I'd forgotten it wouldn't work. And I suppose the furnace leaves ashes and there's always traces of hair and teeth in the garbage disposal... An interesting problem, at that."
"I figured you could handle it," Carmen said, leaning back comfortably in the favorite chair of my bachelor apartment. "I heard you were working on something to get rid of trash for the government."
"That," I told him, "is restricted information. I subcontracted that work from the big telephone laboratories. How did you find it out?"
"Ways, Professor, ways."
The government did want me to find a way to dispose of wastes—radioactive wastes. It was the most important problem any country could have in this time of growing atomic industry. Now a small-time gangster was asking me to use this research to help him dispose of hot corpses. It made my scientific blood seethe. But the shadow of the Black Hand cooled it off.
"Maybe I can find something in that area of research to help you," I said. "I'll call you."
"Don't take too long, Professor," Carmen said cordially.
The big drum topped with a metallic coolie's hat had started out as a neutralizer for radioactivity. Now I didn't know what to call it.
The AEC had found burying canisters of hot rubbish in the desert or in the Gulf had eventually proved unsatisfactory. Earth tremors or changes of temperature split the tanks in the ground, causing leaks. The undersea containers rusted and corroded through the time, poisoning fish and fishermen.
Through the SBA I had been awarded a subcontract to work on the problem. The ideal solution would be to find a way to neutralize radioactive emanations, alpha, beta, X et cetera. (No, my dear, et cetera rays aren't any more dangerous than the rest.) But this is easier written than done.
Of course, getting energy to destroy energy without producing energy or matter is a violation of the maxim of the conservation of energy. But I didn't let that stop me—any more than I would have let the velocity of light put any limitations on a spacecraft engine had I been engaged to work on one. You can't allow other people's ideas to tie you hand and foot. There are some who tell me, however, that my refusal to honor such time-tested cliches is why I only have a small private laboratory owned by myself, my late wife's father and the bank, instead of working in the vast facilities of Bell, Du Pont, or General Motors. To this, I can only smile and nod.
But even refusing to be balked by conservative ideas, I failed.
I could not neutralize radioactivity. All I had been able to do (by a basic disturbance in the electromagnetogravitational co-ordinant system for Earth-Sun) was to reduce the mass of the radioactive matter.
This only concentrated the radiations, as in boiling contaminated water. It did make the hot stuff vaguely easier to handle, but it was no breakthrough on the central problem.
Now, in the middle of this, I was supposed to find a way to get rid of some damned bodies for Carmen.
Pressed for time and knowing the results wouldn't have to be so precise or carefully defined for a racketeer as for the United States government, I began experimenting.
I cut corners.
I bypassed complete safety circuits.
I put dangerous overloads on some transformers and doodled with the wiring diagrams. If I got some kind of passable incinerator I would be happy.
I turned the machine on.
The lights popped out.
There were changes that should be made before I tried that again, but instead I only found a larger fuse for a heavier load and jammed that in the switchbox.
I flipped my machine into service once again. The lights flickered and held.
The dials on my control board told me the story. It was hard to take.
But there it was.
The internal Scale showed zero.
I had had a slightly hot bar of silver alloy inside. It was completely gone. Mass zero. The temperature gauge showed that there had been no change in centigrade reading that couldn't be explained by the mechanical operation of the machine itself. There had been no sudden discharge of electricity or radioactivity. I checked for a standard anti-gravity effect but there was none. Gravity inside the cylinder had gone to zero but never to minus.
I was at last violating conservation of energy—not by successfully inverting the cube of the ionization factor, but by destroying mass ... by simply making it cease to exist with no cause-and-effect side effects.
I knew the government wouldn't be interested, since I couldn't explain how my device worked. No amount of successful demonstration could ever convince anybody with any scientific training that it actually did work.
But I shrewdly judged that Tony Carmen wouldn't ask an embarrassing
"how" when he was incapable of understanding the explanation.
"Yeah, but how does it work?" Tony Carmen demanded of me, sleeking his mirror-black hair and staring up at the disk-topped drum.
"Why do you care?" I asked irritably. "It will dispose of your bodies for you."
"I got a reason that goes beyond the stiff, but let's stick to that just for now. Where are these bodies going? I don't want them winding up in the D.A.'s bathtub."
"Why not? How could they trace them back to you?"
"You're the scientist," Tony said hotly. "I got great respect for those crime lab boys. Maybe the stiff got some of my exclusive brand of talc on it, I don't know."
"Listen here, Carmen," I said, "what makes you think these bodies are going somewhere? Think of it only as a kind of—incinerator."
"Not on your life, Professor. The gadget don't get hot so how can it burn? It don't use enough electricity to fry. It don't cut 'em up or crush 'em down, or dissolve them in acid. I've seen disappearing cabinets before."
Mafia or not, I saw red. "Are you daring to suggest that I am working some trick with trap doors or sliding panels?"
"Easy, Professor," Carmen said, effortlessly shoving me back with one palm. "I'm not saying you have the machine rigged. It's just that you have to be dropping the stuff through a sliding panel in—well, everything around us. You're sliding all that aside and dropping things through. But I want to know where they wind up. Reasonable?"
Carmen was an uneducated lout and a criminal but he had an instinctive feel for the mechanics of physics.
"I don't know where the stuff goes, Carmen," I finally admitted. "It might go into another plane of existence. 'Another dimension' the writers for the American Weekly would describe it. Or into our past, or our future."
The swarthy racketeer pursed his lips and apparently did some rapid calculation.
"I don't mind the first two, but I don't like them going into the future. If they do that, they may show up again in six months."
"Or six million years."
"You'll have to cut that future part out, Professor."
I was beginning to get a trifle impatient. All those folk tales I had heard about the Mafia were getting more distant. "See here, Carmen, I could lie to you and say they went into the prehistoric past and you would never know the difference. But the truth is, I just don't know where the processed material goes. There's a chance it may go into the future, yes. But unless it goes exactly one year or exactly so many years it would appear in empty space ... because the earth will have moved from the spot it was transmitted. I don't know for sure. Perhaps the slight Deneb-ward movement of the Solar System would wreck a perfect three-point landing even then and cause the dispatched materials to burn up from atmospheric friction, like meteors. You will just have to take a chance on the future. That's the best I can do."
Carmen inhaled deeply. "Okay. I'll risk it. Pretty long odds against any squeal on the play. How many of these things can you turn out, Professor?"
"I can construct a duplicate of this device so that you may destroy the unwanted corpses that you would have me believe are delivered to you with the regularity of the morning milk run."
The racketeer waved that suggestion aside. "I'm talking about a big operation, Venetti. These things can take the place of incinerators, garbage disposals, waste baskets...."
"Impractical," I snorted. "You don't realize the tremendous amount of electrical power these devices require...."
"Nuts! From what you said, the machine is like a TV set; it takes a lot of power to get it started, but then on it coasts on its own generators."
"There's something to what you say," I admitted in the face of his unexpected information. "But I can hardly turn my invention over to your entirely persuasive salesmen, I'm sure. This is part of the results of an investigation for the government. Washington will have to decide what to do with the machine."
"Listen, Professor," Carmen began, "the Mafia—"
"What makes you think I'm any more afraid of the Mafia than I am of the F.B.I.? I may have already sealed my fate by letting you in on this much. Machinegunning is hardly a less attractive fate to me than a poor security rating. To me, being dead professionally would be as bad as being dead biologically."
Tony Carmen laid a heavy hand on my shoulder. I finally deduced he intended to be cordial.
"Of course," he said smoothly "you have to give this to Washington but there are ways , Professor. I know. I'm a business man—"
"You are ?" I said.
He named some of the businesses in which he held large shares of stock.
"You are ."
"I've had experience in this sort of thing. We simply leak the information to a few hundred well selected persons about all that your machine can do. We'll call 'em Expendables, because they can expend anything."
"I," I interjected, "planned to call it the Venetti Machine."
"Professor, who calls the radio the Marconi these days?"
"There are Geiger-Muller Counters, though," I said.
"You don't have to give a Geiger counter the sex appeal of a TV set or a hardtop convertible. We'll call them Expendables. No home will be complete without one."
"Perfect for disposing of unwanted bodies," I mused. "The murder rate will go alarmingly with those devices within easy reach."
"Did that stop Sam Colt or Henry Ford?" Tony Carmen asked reasonably....
Naturally, I was aware that the government would not be interested in my machine. I am not a Fortean, a psychic, a psionicist or a screwball. But the government frequently gets things it doesn't know what to do with—like airplanes in the 'twenties. When it doesn't know what to do, it doesn't do it.
There have been hundreds of workable perpetual motion machines patented, for example. Of course, they weren't vices in the strictest sense of the word. Many of them used the external power of gravity, they would wear out or slow down in time from friction, but for the meanwhile, for some ten to two hundred years they would just sit there, moving. No one had ever been able to figure out what to do with them.
I knew the AEC wasn't going to dump tons of radioactive waste (with some possible future reclaimation value) into a machine which they didn't believe actually could work.
Tony Carmen knew exactly what to do with an Expendable once he got his hands on it.
Naturally, that was what I had been afraid of.
The closed sedan was warm, even in early December.
Outside, the street was a progression of shadowed block forms. I was shivering slightly, my teeth rattling like the porcelain they were. Was this the storied "ride," I wondered?
Carmen finally returned to the car, unlatched the door and slid in. He did not reinsert the ignition key. I did not feel like sprinting down the deserted street.
"The boys will have it set up in a minute," Tony the racketeer informed me.
"What?" The firing squad?
"The Expendable, of course."
"Here? You dragged me out here to see how you have prostituted my invention? I presume you've set it up with a 'Keep Our City Clean' sign pasted on it."
He chuckled. It was a somewhat nasty sound, or so I imagined.
A flashlight winked in the sooty twilight.
"Okay. Let's go," Tony said, slapping my shoulder.
I got out of the car, rubbing my flabby bicep. Whenever I took my teen-age daughter to the beach from my late wife's parents' home, I frequently found 230 pound bullies did kick sand in my ears.
The machine was installed on the corner, half covered with a gloomy white shroud, and fearlessly plugged into the city lighting system via a blanketed streetlamp. Two hoods hovered in a doorway ready to take care of the first cop with a couple of fifties or a single .38, as necessity dictated.
Tony guided my elbow. "Okay, Professor, I think I understand the bit now, but I'll let you run it up with the flagpole for me, to see how it waves to the national anthem."
"Here?" I spluttered once more. "I told you, Carmen, I wanted nothing more to do with you. Your check is still on deposit...."
"You didn't want anything to do with me in the first place." The thug's teeth flashed in the night. "Throw your contraption into gear, buddy."
That was the first time the tone of respect, even if faked, had gone out of his voice. I moved to the switchboard of my invention. What remained was as simple as adjusting a modern floor lamp to a medium light position. I flipped.
Restraining any impulse toward colloqualism, I was also deeply disturbed by what next occurred.
One of the massive square shapes on the horizon vanished.
"What have you done?" I yelped, ripping the cover off the machine.
Even under the uncertain illumination of the smogged stars I could see that the unit was half gone—in fact, exactly halved.
"Squint the Seal is one of my boys. He used to be a mechanic in the old days for Burger, Madle, the guys who used to rob banks and stuff." There was an unmistakable note of boyish admiration in Carmen's voice.
"He figured the thing would work like that. Separate the poles and you increase the size of the working area."
"You mean square the operational field. Your idiot doesn't even know mechanics."
"No, but he knows all about how any kind of machine works."
"You call that working?" I demanded. "Do you realize what you have there, Carmen?"
"Sure. A disintegrator ray, straight out of Startling Stories ."
My opinion as to the type of person who followed the pages of science-fiction magazines with fluttering lips and tracing finger was upheld.
I looked at the old warehouse and of course didn't see it.
"What was this a test for?" I asked, fearful of the Frankenstein I had made. "What are you planning to do now?"
"This was no test, Venetti. This was it. I just wiped out Harry Keno and his intimates right in the middle of their confidential squat."
"Good heavens. That's uncouthly old-fashioned of you, Carmen! Why, that's murder ."
"Not," Carmen said, "without no corpus delecti ."
"The body of the crime remains without the body of the victim," I remembered from my early Ellery Queen training.
"You're talking too much, Professor," Tony suggested. "Remember, you did it with your machine."
"Yes," I said at length. "And why are we standing here letting those machines sit there?"
There were two small items of interest to me in the Times the following morning.
One two-inch story—barely making page one because of a hole to fill at the bottom of an account of the number of victims of Indian summer heat prostration—told of the incineration of a warehouse on Fleet Street by an ingenious new arson bomb that left "virtually" no trace. (Maybe the fire inspector had planted a few traces to make his explanation more creditable.)
The second item was further over in a science column just off the editorial page. It told of the government—!—developing a new process of waste disposal rivaling the old Buck Rogers disintegrator ray.
This, I presumed, was one of Tony Carmen's information leaks.
If he hoped to arouse the public into demanding my invention I doubted he would succeed. The public had been told repeatedly of a new radioactive process for preserving food and a painless way of spraying injections through the skin. But they were still stuck with refrigerators and hypodermic needles.
I had forced my way half-way through the paper and the terrible coffee I made when the doorbell rang.
I was hardly surprised when it turned out to be Tony Carmen behind the front door.
He pushed in, slapping a rolled newspaper in his palm. "Action, Professor."
"The district attorney has indicted you?" I asked hopefully.
"He's not even indicted you , Venetti. No, I got a feeler on this plant in the Times ."
I shook my head. "The government will take over the invention, no matter what the public wants."
"The public? Who cares about the public? The Arcivox corporation wants this machine of yours. They have their agents tracing the plant now. They will go from the columnist to his legman to my man and finally to you. Won't be long before they get here. An hour maybe."
"Arcivox makes radios and TV sets. What do they want with the Expendables?"
"Opening up a new appliance line with real innovations. I hear they got a new refrigerator. All open. Just shelves—no doors or sides. They want a revolutionary garbage disposal too."
"Do you own stock in the company? Is that how you know?"
"I own stock in a competitor. That's how I know," Carmen informed me.
"Listen, Professor, you can sell to Arcivox and still keep control of the patents through a separate corporation. And I'll give you 49% of its stock."
This was Carmen's idea of a magnanimous offer for my invention. It was a pretty good offer—49% and my good health.
"But will the government let Arcivox have the machine for commercial use?"
"The government would let Arcivox have the hydrogen bomb if they found a commercial use for it."
There was a sturdy knock on the door, not a shrill ring of the bell.
"That must be Arcivox now," Carmen growled. "They have the best detectives in the business. You know what to tell them?"
I knew what to tell them.
I peeled off my wet shirt and threw it across the corner of my desk, casting a reproving eye at the pastel air-conditioner in the window. It wasn't really the machine's fault—The water department reported the reservoir too low to run water-cooled systems. It would be a day or two before I could get the gas type into my office.
Miss Brown, my secretary, was getting a good look at my pale, bony chest. Well, for the salary she got, she could stand to look. Of course, she herself was wearing a modest one-strap sun dress, not shorts and halters like some of the girls.
"My," she observed "it certainly is humid for March, isn't it, Professor Venetti?"
I agreed that it was.
She got her pad and pencil ready.
"Wheedling form letter to Better Mousetraps. Where are our royalties for the last quarter of the year? We know we didn't have a full three months with our Expendable Field in operation on the new traps, but we want the payola for what we have coming.
"Condescending form letter to Humane Lethal Equipment. Absolutely do not send the California penal system any chambers equipped with our patented field until legislature officially approves them. We got away with it in New Mexico, but we're older and wiser now.
"Rush priority telegram to President, United States, any time in the next ten days. Thanks for citation, et cetera. Glad buddy system working out well in training battlefield disintegrator teams.
"Indignant form letter to Arcivox. We do not feel we are properly a co-respondent in your damage suits. Small children and appliances have always been a problem, viz ice boxes and refrigerators. Suggest you put a more complicated latch on the handles of the dangerously inferior doors you have covering our efficient, patented field."
I leaned back and took a breather. There was no getting around it—I just wasn't happy as a business man. I had been counting on being only a figurehead in the Expendable Patent Holding Corporation, but Tony Carmen didn't like office work. And he hadn't anyone he trusted any more than me. Even.
I jerked open a drawer and pulled off a paper towel from the roll I had stolen in the men's room. Scrubbing my chest and neck with it, I smoothed it out and dropped it into the wastebasket. It slid down the tapering sides and through the narrow slot above the Expendable Field. I had redesigned the wastebaskets after a janitor had stepped in one. But Gimpy was happy now, with the $50,000 we paid him.
I opened my mouth and Miss Brown's pencil perked up its eraser, reflecting her fierce alertness.
Tony Carmen banged open the door, and I closed my mouth.
"G-men on the way here," he blurted and collapsed into a chair opposite Miss Brown.
"Don't revert to type," I warned him. "What kind of G-Men? FBI? FCC? CIA? FDA? USTD?"
"Investigators for the Atomic Energy Commission."
The solemn, conservatively dressed young man in the door touched the edge of his snap-brim hat as he said it.
"Miss Brown, would you mind letting our visitor use your chair?" I asked.
"Not at all, sir," she said dreamily.
"May I suggest," I said, "that we might get more business done if you then removed yourself from the chair first."
Miss Brown leaped to her feet with a healthy galvanic response and quit the vicinity with her usual efficiency.
Once seated, the AEC man said "I'll get right to the point. You may find this troublesome, gentlemen, but your government intends to confiscate all of the devices using your so-called Expendable field, and forever bar their manufacture in this country or their importation."
"You stinking G-men aren't getting away with this," Carmen said ingratiatingly. "Ever hear of the Mafia?"
"Not much," the young man admitted earnestly, "since the FBI finished with its deportations a few years back."
I cleared my throat. "I must admit that the destruction of a multi-billion business is disconcerting before lunch. May we ask why you took this step?"
The agent inserted a finger between his collar and tie. "Have you noticed how unseasonably warm it is?"
"I wondered if you had. You're going to have heat prostration if you keep that suit coat on five minutes more."
The young man collapsed back in his chair, loosening the top button of his ivy league jacket, looking from my naked hide to the gossomer scrap of sport shirt Carmen wore. "We have to dress inconspicuously in the service," he panted weakly.
I nodded understandingly. "What does the heat have to do with the outlawing of the Expendables?"
"At first we thought there might be some truth in the folk nonsense that nuclear tests had something to do with raising the mean temperature of the world," the AEC man said. "But our scientists quickly found they weren't to blame."
"Clever of them."
"Yes, they saw that the widespread use of your machines was responsible for the higher temperature. Your device violates the law of conservation of energy, seemingly . It seemingly destroys matter without creating energy. Actually—"
He paused dramatically.
"Actually, your device added the energy it created in destroying matter to the energy potential of the planet in the form of heat . You see what that means? If your devices continue in operation, the mean temperature of Earth will rise to the point where we burst into flame. They must be outlawed!"
"I agree," I said reluctantly.
Tony Carmen spoke up. "No, you don't, Professor. We don't agree to that."
I waved his protests aside.
"I would agree," I said, "except that it wouldn't work. Explain the danger to the public, let them feel the heat rise themselves, and they will hoard Expendables against seizure and continue to use them, until we do burst into flame, as you put it so religiously."
"Why?" the young man demanded.
"Because Expendables are convenient. There is a ban on frivolous use of water due to the dire need. But the police still have to go stop people from watering lawns, and I suspect not a few swimming pools are being filled on the sly. Water is somebody else's worry. So will be generating enough heat to turn Eden into Hell."
"Mass psychology isn't my strongest point," the young man said worriedly. "But I suspect you may be right. Then—we'll be damned?"
"No, not necessarily," I told him comfortingly. "All we have to do is use up the excess energy with engines of a specific design."
"But can we design those engines in time?" the young man wondered with uncharacteristic gloom.
"Certainly," I said, practising the power of positive thinking. "Now that your world-wide testing laboratories have confirmed a vague fear of mine, I can easily reverse the field of the Expendable device and create a rather low-efficiency engine that consumes the excess energy in our planetary potential."
The agent of the AEC whose name I can never remember was present along
with Tony Carmen the night my assistants finished with the work I had
outlined.
While it was midnight outside, the fluorescents made the scene more
visible than sunlight. My Disexpendable was a medium-sized drum in a
tripod frame with an unturned coolie's hat at the bottom.
Breathlessly, I closed the switch and the scooped disc began slowly to
revolve.
"Is it my imagination," the agent asked, "or is it getting cooler in
here?"
"Professor." Carmen gave me a warning nudge.
There was now something on the revolving disc. It was a bar of some
shiny gray metal.
"Kill the power, Professor," Carmen said.
"Can it be," I wondered, "that the machine is somehow recreating or
drawing back the processed material from some other time or dimension?"
"Shut the thing off, Venetti!" the racketeer demanded.
But too late.
There was now a somewhat dead man sitting in the saddle of the turning
circle of metal.
If Harry Keno had only been sane when he turned up on that
merry-go-round in Boston I feel we would have learned much of immense
value on the nature of time and space.
As it is, I feel that it is a miscarriage of justice to hold me in
connection with the murders I am sure Tony Carmen did commit.
I hope this personal account when published will end the vicious
story supported by the district attorney that it was I who sought Tony
Carmen out and offered to dispose of his enemies and that I sought his
financial backing for the exploitation of my invention.
This is the true, and only true, account of the development of the
machine known as the Expendable.
I am only sorry, now that the temperature has been standardized once
more, that the Expendable's antithesis, the Disexpendable, is of too
low an order of efficiency to be of much value as a power source in
these days of nuclear and solar energy. So the world is again stuck
with the problem of waste disposal ... including all that I dumped
before. But as a great American once said, you can't win 'em all.
If you so desire, you may send your generous and fruitful letters
towards my upcoming defense in care of this civic-minded publication.
|
What is the relationship between Eric and the citizens?
|
After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about The Beast-Jewel of Mars by V. E. Thiessen.
Relevant chunks:
The Beast-Jewel of Mars
By V. E. THIESSEN
The city was strange, fantastic, beautiful. He'd never been there before, yet already he was a fabulous legend—a dire, hateful legend.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
He lay on his stomach, a lean man in faded one piece dungarees, and an odd metallic hat, peering over the side of the canal. Behind him the little winds sifted red dust into his collar, but he could not move; he could only sit there with his gaze riveted on the spires and minarets that twinkled in the distance, far down the bottom of the canal.
One part of his mind said, This is it, this is the fabled city of Mars. This is the beauty and the fantasy and the music of the legends, and I must go down there. Yet somewhere deeper in his mind, deep in the primal urges that kept him from death, the warning was taut and urgent. Get away. They have a part of your mind now. Get away from the city before you lose it all. Get away before your body becomes a husk, a soulless husk to walk the low canals with sightless eyes, like those who came before you.
He strained to push back from the edge, trying to get that fantastic beauty out of his sight. He fought the lids of his eyes, fought to close them while he pushed himself back, but they remained open, staring at the jeweled towers, and borne on the little winds the thin wail of music reached him, saying, Come into the city, come down into the fabled city .
He slid over the edge, sliding down the sloping sides of the canal. The rough sandstone tore at his dungarees, tore at his elbow where it touched but he did not feel the pain. His face was turned toward the towers, and the sound of his breathing was less than human.
His feet caught a projecting bit of stone and were slowed for an instant, so that he turned sideways and rolled on, down into the red dust bottom of the canal, to lie face down in the dust, with the chin strap of the odd metallic hat cutting cruelly into his chin.
He lay there an instant, knowing that now he had a chance. With his face down like this, and the dust smarting his eyes the image was gone for an instant. He had to get away, he knew that. He had to mount the sides of the canal and never look back.
He told himself, "I am Eric North, from Earth, the Third Planet of Sol, and this is not real."
He squirmed in the dust, feeling it bite his cheeks; he squirmed until he could get up and see nothing but the red sand stone walls of the canal. He ran at the walls and clawed his way up like an animal in his haste. He wouldn't look again.
The wind freshened and the tune of the music began to talk to him. It told of going barefoot over long streets of fur. It told of jewels, and wine, and women as fair as springtime. These and more were in the city, waiting for him to claim them.
He sobbed, and clawed forward. He stopped to rest, and slowly his head began to turn. He turned, and the spires and minarets twinkled at him, beautiful, soothing, stopping the tears that had welled down his cheeks.
When he reached the bottom of the canal he began to run toward the city.
When he came to the city there was a high wall around it, and a heavy gate carved with lotus blossoms. He beat against the gate and cried,
"Oh! Let me in. Let me in to the city!" The music was richer now, as if it were everywhere, and the gate swung open without the faintest sound.
A sentinel stood before the opened gate at the end of a long blue street. He was dressed in red silk with his sleeves edged in blue leopard skin, and he wore a belt with a jeweled short sword. He drew the sword from its scabbard, and bowed forward until the point of the sword touched the street of blue fur. He said, "I give you the welcome of my sword, and the welcome of the city. Speak your name so that it may be set in the records of the dreamers."
The music sang, and the spires twinkled, and Eric said, "I am Eric North!"
The sword point jerked, and the sentinel straightened. His face was white. He cried aloud, "It is Eric the Bronze. It is Eric of the Legend." He whirled the sword aloft, and smashed it upon Eric's metal hat, and the hatred was a blue flame in his eyes.
When Eric regained consciousness the people of the city were all about him. They were very fair, and the women were more beautiful than music. Yet now they stared at him with red hate in their eyes. An older man came forward and struck at the copper hat with a stick. The clang deafened Eric and the man cried, "You are right. It is Eric the Bronze. Bring the ships and let him be scourged from the city."
The man drew back the stick and struck again, and Eric's back took fire with the blow. The crowd chanted, "Whips, bring the whips," and fear forced Eric to his feet. He fled then, running on the heedless feet of panic, outstripping those who were behind him until he passed through the great gates into the red dust floor of the canal. The gates closed behind him, and the dust beat upon him, and he paused, his heart hammering inside his chest like a great bell clapper. He turned and looked behind to be sure he was safe.
The towers twinkled at him, and the music whispered to him, "Come back, Eric North. Come back to the city."
He turned and stumbled back to the great gate and hammered on it until his fists were raw, pleading for it to open and let him back.
And deep inside him some part of his mind said, "This is a madness you cannot escape. The city is evil, an evil like you have never known," and a fear as old as time coursed through his frame.
He seized the copper hat from his head, and beat on the lotus carvings of the great door, crying, "Let me in! Please, take me back into the city."
And as he beat the city changed. It became dull and sordid and evil, a city of disgust, with every part offensive to the eye. The spires and minarets were gargoyles of hatred, twisted and misshapen, and the sound of the city was a macabre song of hate.
He stared, and his back was chill with superstitions as old as the beginning of man. The city flickered, changing before his eyes until it was beautiful again.
He stood, amazed, and put the metal hat back on his head. With the motion the shift took place again, and beauty was ugliness. Amazed, he stared at the illusion, and the thought came to him that the metal hat had not entirely failed him after all.
He turned and began to walk away from the city, and when it began to call he took the hat off his head and found peace for a time. Then when it began again he replaced the hat, and revulsion sped his footsteps. And so, hat on, hat off, he made his way down the dusty floor of the canal, and up the rocky sides until he stood on the Martian desert, and the canal was a thin line behind him. He breathed easily then, for he was beyond the range of the illusions.
And now that his mind was his own again he began to study the problem, and to understand something of the nature of the forces against which he had been pitted.
The helmet contained an electrical circuit, designed as a shield against electrical waves tuned to affect his brain. But the hat had failed because the city, whatever it was, had adjusted to this revised pattern as he had approached it. Hence, the helmet had been no defense against illusion. However, when he had jerked the helmet off suddenly to beat on the door, his mental pattern had changed, too suddenly, and the machine caught up only after he had glimpsed another image. Then as the illusion adjusted replacing the helmet threw it off again.
He grinned wryly. He would have liked to know more about the city, whatever it was. He would have liked to know more about the people he had seen, whether they were real or part of the illusion, and if they were as ugly as the second city had been.
Yet the danger was too great. He would go back to his ship and make the arrangements to destroy the city. The ship was armed, and to deliver indirect fire over the edge of the canal would be simple enough. Garve North, his brother, waited back at the ship. If he knew of the city he would have to go there. Eric must not take a chance on that. After they had blasted whatever it was that lay in the canal floor, then it would be time enough to tell Garve, and go down to see what was left.
The ship rested easily on the flat sandstone area where he had established base camp. Its familiar lines brought a smile to Eric's face, a feeling of confidence now that tools and weapons were his again.
He opened the door and entered. The lock doors were left open so that he could enter directly into the body of the ship. He came in in a swift leap, calling, "Garve! Hey, Garve, where are you?"
The ship remained mute. He prowled through it, calling, "Garve," wondering where the young hothead had gone, and then he saw a note clipped to the control board of the ship. He tore it loose impatiently and began to read. Garve had scrawled:
"Funny thing, Eric. A while ago I thought I heard music. I walked down to the canal, and it seemed like there were lights, and a town of some sort far down the canal. I wanted to investigate, but thought I'd better come back. But the thing has been in my mind for hours now, and I'm going down to see what it is. If you want to follow, come straight down the canal."
Eric stared at the note, and the line of his jaw was white. Apparently Garve had seen the city from farther away, and its effect had not been so strong. Even so, Garve's natural curiosity had done the rest.
Garve had gone down to the city, and Garve had no shielded hat. Eric selected two high explosive grenades from the ship's arsenal. They were small but they packed a lot of power. He had a pistol packed with smaller pellets of the same explosive, and he had the hat. That should be adequate. He thrust the bronze hat back on his head and began walking back to the canal.
The return back to the city would always live in his mind as a phantasmagora, a montage of twisted hate and unseemly beauty. When he came again to the gate he did not attempt to enter, but circled the wall, hat on, hat off, stiff limbed like a puppet dancing to the same tune over and over again. He found a place where he could scale the wall, and thrust the helmet on his head, and clawed up the misshapen wall. It was all he could do to make himself drop into the ugly city.
He heard a familiar voice as he dropped. "Eric," the voice said. "Eric, you did come back." The voice was his brother's, and he whirled, seeking the voice. A figure stood before him, a twisted caricature of his brother. The figure cried, "The hat! You fool, get rid of that hat!" The caricature that was his brother seized the hat, and jerked so hard that the chin strap broke under Eric's chin. The hat was flung away and sailed high and far over the fence and outside the city.
The phantasm flickered, the illusion moved. Garve was now more handsome than ever, and the city was a dream of delight. Garve said, "Come," and Eric followed down a street of blue fur. He had no will to resist.
Garve said, "Keep your head down and your face hidden. If we meet someone you may not be recognized. They won't be expecting you from this side of the city."
Eric asked, "You knew I'd come after you?"
"Yes. The Legend said you'd be back."
Eric stopped and whirled to face his brother. "The Legend? Eric the Bronze? What is this wild fantasy?"
"Not so loud!" Garve's voice cautioned him. "Of course the crowd called you that because of the copper hat and your heavy tan. But the Elders believe so too. I don't know what it is, Eric, reincarnation, prophesy, superstition, I only know that when I was with the Elders I believed them. You are a part of a Legend. You are Eric the Bronze."
Eric looked down at his sun tanned hands and flexed them. He loosened the explosive pistol in its holster. At least he was going to be a well armed, well prepared Legend. And while one part of his mind marveled at the city and relaxed into a pleasure as deep as a dream, another struggled with the almost forgotten desire to rescue his brother and escape. He asked, "Who are the Elders?"
"We are going to them, to the center of the city." Garve's voice sharpened, "Keep your head down. I think the last two men we passed are looking after us. Don't look back."
After a moment Garve said, "I think they are following us. Get ready to run. If we are separated, keep going until you reach City Center. The Elders will be expecting you." Garve glanced back, and his voice sharpened, "Now! Run!"
They ran. But as they ran figures began to converge upon them. Farther up the street others appeared, cutting off their flight.
Garve cried, "In here," and pulled Eric into a crevice between two buildings. Eric drew his gun, and savagery began to dance in his eyes. The soft fur muffled sounds of pursuit closed in upon them.
Garve put one hand on Eric's gun hand and said, "Wait here. And if you value my life, don't use that gun." Then he was gone, running deerlike down the street.
For an instant Eric thought the ruse had succeeded. He heard cries and two men passed him running in pursuit. But then the cry came back. "Let him go. Get the other one. The other one."
Eric was seen an instant later, and the people of the city began to converge upon him. He could have destroyed them all with his charges in the gun, but his brother's warning shrieked in his ears, "If you value my life don't use the gun."
There was nothing he could do. Eric stood quietly until he was taken prisoner. They moved him to the center of the wide fur street. Two men held his arms, and twisted painfully. The crowd looked at him, coldly, calculatingly. One of them said, "Get the whips. If we whip him he will not come back." The city twinkled, and the music was so faint he could hardly hear it.
There was only one weapon Eric could use. He had gathered from Garve's words that these people were superstitious.
He laughed, a great chest-shattering laugh that gusted out into the thin Martian air. He laughed and cried in a great voice, "And can you so easily dispose of a Legend? If I am Eric of the Legend, can whips defeat the prophesy?"
There was an instant when he could have twisted loose. They stood, fear-bound at his words. But there was no place to hide, and without the use of his weapons Eric could not have gone far. He had to bluff it out.
Then one of the men cried, "Fools! It is true. We must take no chance with the whips. He would come back. But if he dies here before us now, then we may forget the prophesy."
The crowd murmured and a second voice cried, "Get the sword, get the guards, and kill him at once!"
Eric tensed to break away but now it was too late. His captors were alert. They increased the twist on his arms until he almost screamed with the pain.
The crowd parted, and the guard came through, his red silk clothing gleaming in the sun, his sword bright and deadly. He stopped before Eric, and the sword swirled up like a saber, ready for a slashing cut downward across Eric's neck.
A woman's voice, soft and yet authoritative, called, "Hold!" And a murmur of respect rippled through the crowd.
"Nolette! The Daughter of the City comes."
Eric turned his gaze to the side and saw the woman who had spoken. She was mounted upon a black horse with a jeweled bridle. She was young and her hair was long and free in the wind. She had ridden so softly across the fur street that no one had been aware of her presence.
She said, "Let me touch this man. Let me feel the pulse of his heart so that I may know if he is truly the Bronze one of the Legend. Give me your hand, stranger." She leaned down and grasped his hand. Eric shook his arms free, and reached up and clung to the offered hand, thinking,
"If I pull her down perhaps I can use her as a shield." He tensed his muscles and began to pull.
She cried, "No! You fool. Come up on the horse," and pulled back with an energy as fierce as his own. Then he had swung up on the horse, and the animal leaped forward, its muffled gallop beating out a tattoo of freedom.
Eric clung tightly to the girl's waist. He could feel the young suppleness of her body, and the fine strands of her hair kept swirling back into his face. It had a faint perfume, a clean and heady scent that made him more aware of the touch of her waist. He breathed deeply, oddly happy as they rode.
After five minutes ride they came to a building in the center of the city. The building was cubical, severe in line and architecture, and it contrasted oddly with the exquisite ornament of the rest of the city. It was as if it were a monolith from another time, a stranger crouched among enemies.
The girl halted before the structure and said, "Dismount here, Eric."
Eric swung down, his arms still tingling with pleasure where he had held her. She said, "Knock three times on the door. I will see you again inside. And thank your brother for sending me to bring you here."
Eric knocked on the door. The door was as plain as the building, made of a luminous plastic. It had all the beauty of the great gate door, but a more timeless, more functional beauty.
The door opened and an old man greeted Eric. "Come in. The Council awaits you. Follow me, please."
Eric followed down a hallway and into a large room. The room was obviously designed for a conference room. A great table stood in the room, made of the same luminous plastic as the door of the building. Six men sat at this conference table. Eric's guide placed him in a chair at the base of the T-shaped table.
There was one vacant seat beside the head of the T, and as Eric watched, the young woman who had rescued him entered and took her place there. She smiled at Eric, and the room took on a warmth that it had lacked with only the older men present. The man at her right, obviously presiding here looked at Eric and spoke. "I am Kroon, the eldest of the elders. We have brought you here to satisfy ourselves of your identity. In view of your danger in the City you are entitled to some sort of explanation." He glanced around the room and asked, "What is the judgment of the elders?"
Eric caught a faint nod here, a gesture there. Kroon nodded as if in satisfaction. He turned to the girl, "And what is your opinion, Daughter of the City?"
Nolette's expression held sorrow, as if she looked into the far future. She said, "He is Eric the Bronze. I have no doubt."
Eric asked, "And what is this Legend of Eric the Bronze? Why am I so despised in the city?"
Kroon answered, "According to the Ancient Legend you will destroy the city. This, and other things."
Eric gaped. No wonder the crowd had shown such hatred. But why were the elders so friendly? They were obviously the governing body, and if there was strife between them and the people it had not shown in the respect the crowd had accorded Nolette.
Kroon said, "I see you are puzzled. Let me tell you the story of the City. The City is old. It dates from long ago when the canals of Mars ran clear and green with water, and the deserts were vineyards and gardens. The drouth came, and the changes in climate, and soon it became plain that the people of Mars were doomed. They had ships, and could build more, and gradually they left to colonize other planets. Yet they could take little of their science. And fear and riots destroyed much. Also there were those who were filled with love for this homeland, and who thought that one day it might be habitable again. All the skill of the ancient Martian fathers went into the building of a giant machine, the machine that is the City, to protect a small colony of those who were chosen to remain on Mars."
"This whole city is a machine!" Eric asked.
"Yes, or the product of one. The heart of it lies underneath our feet, in caverns beneath this building. The nature of the machine is this, that it translates thought into reality."
Eric stared. The idea was staggering.
"This is essentially simple, although the technology is complex. It is necessary to have a recording device, to capture thought, a transmuting device capable of transmuting the red dust of the desert into any sort of material desired, and a construction device, to assemble this material into the pattern already recorded from thought." Kroon paused.
"You still doubt, my friend. Perhaps you are thirsty after your escape. Think strongly of a tall glass of cold water, visualize it in your mind, the sight and the fluidity and the touch of it."
Eric did so. Without warning a glass of water stood on the table before him. He touched the water to his lips. It was cool and satisfying. He drank it, convinced completely.
Eric asked, "And I am to destroy the City?"
"Yes. The time has come."
"But why?" Eric demanded. For an instant he could see the twinkling beauty as clearly as if he had stood outside the walls of this building.
Kroon said, "There are difficulties. The machine builds according to the mass will of the people, though it is sensitive to the individual in areas where it does not conflict with the imagination of the mass. We have had strangers, visitors, and even our own people, who grew drunk with the power of the machine, who dreamed more and more lust and greed into existence. These were banished from the city, and so strong is the call of the city that many of them became victims of their own evilness, and now walk mindlessly, with no thought but to seek for the beauty they have lost here."
Kroon sighed. "The people have lost the will to learn. Many do not even know of the machine. Our science is almost gone, and only a few of us, the dreamers, the elders, have kept alive the old knowledge of the machine and its history. By the collected powers of our imagination we build and control the outward appearance of the city.
"We have passed this down from father to son. A part of the ancient Legend is that the builders made provisions for the machine to be destroyed when contact with outsiders had been made once again, so that our people would again have to struggle forward to knowledge and power. The instrument of destruction was to be a man termed Eric the Bronze. It is not that you are reborn. It is just that sometime such a man would come."
Eric said, "I can understand the Bronze part. They had thought that a space man might well be sun tanned. They had thought that a science to protect against this beautiful illusion would provide a metal shield of some sort, probably copper in nature. That such a man should come is inevitable. But why Eric. Why the name Eric?"
For the first time Nolette spoke. She said quietly, "The name Eric was an honorable name of the ancient fathers. It must have been their thought that the new beginning should wait for some of their own far flung kind to return."
Eric nodded. He asked, "What happens now?"
"Nothing. Dwell here with us and you will be safe from our people. If the prediction is not soon fulfilled and you are not the Eric of the Legend, you may stay or go as you desire."
"My brother, Garve. What about him?"
"He loves the city. He will also stay, though he will be outside this building." Kroon clasped his hands. "Nolette, will you show Eric his quarters?"
Question:
What is the relationship between Eric and the citizens?
Answer:
|
[
"Eric sees the citizens in the most beautiful way and is willing to join them. They, on the contrary, meet him with hatred as they hear his name. The citizens surround and try to attack Eric, they are superstitious and believe him to be the destroyer of the city from the legends. The Elders from the Council send one of them to save Eric. They also believe him to be part of the legend, but they know more about the city and the machine. They think that it's time for the city to be destroyed as it has changed, the machine doesn't do good anymore. Nolette, the daughter of the city, also believes Eric to be the legend and stops the crowd with the use of her authority from killing him. Eric is overwhelmed and he obeys the council, listening with curiosity. He also feels happiness near the girl. ",
"The relationship between Eric and the citizens of the fabricated city is a very strange, tense and violent one. The citizens believe that Eric is \"Eric the Bronze\" and man from Earth who is prophesied to destroy their city. Eric first meets a citizen at the gate to the city, when he mentions his name, the guard strikes him in the head with his sword. He is taken into the city by the guard, where the crowd debate on killing him. He is seen as a threat to their very existence. Later, when Eric returns to the city once again to rescue his brother Garve, is captured by two men, who take him to the centre of the city, also preparing to beat and kill him. He is only saved by Nolette, Daughter of the City, and the respect the citizens have for her. \n",
"The first time he enters the city, the sentinel assumes that he is Eric the Bronze from the legend and hits Eric with a sword. The citizens stare at him with red hatred in their eyes once they learn that he is Eric the Bronze, here to destroy the city. The crowd are chanting for whips. Once he escapes the city, the gate closes right behind him. Later, when he enters the city again, he is taken prisoner by the citizens once more. They look at him coldly, calculatingly and are suggesting to whip him. However, once he speaks, they stand still and fear his words. However, a few seconds later, they decide to kill him at once so that he will not keep on coming back. Despite the hatred of the citizens, the Elders are quite friendly and they tell him about this city and the legend. They tell Eric to dwell in the building, assuring his safety. Once they find out that he is not Eric the Legend, he can choose to stay or go. ",
"There is a one-sided hateful relationship between Eric and the citizens. When the sentinel first assumes that Eric is Eric the Bronze, there is a flame of blue hatred in his eyes. Even after he wakes up, all the beautiful citizens stare at him with red hate. They want ships to be brought into the city to scourge him from it and yell for whips. An older man even strikes him on the hat and back with a stick. On the other hand, Eric is confused by all of this because he initially has no idea of the prophesy until the Elders explain it. When he returns to the city again, the citizens conclude that they should kill Eric. One of the guards even prepares to slash his sword downward on Eric’s neck until Nolette intervenes. "
] |
63605
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The Beast-Jewel of Mars
By V. E. THIESSEN
The city was strange, fantastic, beautiful. He'd never been there before, yet already he was a fabulous legend—a dire, hateful legend.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
He lay on his stomach, a lean man in faded one piece dungarees, and an odd metallic hat, peering over the side of the canal. Behind him the little winds sifted red dust into his collar, but he could not move; he could only sit there with his gaze riveted on the spires and minarets that twinkled in the distance, far down the bottom of the canal.
One part of his mind said, This is it, this is the fabled city of Mars. This is the beauty and the fantasy and the music of the legends, and I must go down there. Yet somewhere deeper in his mind, deep in the primal urges that kept him from death, the warning was taut and urgent. Get away. They have a part of your mind now. Get away from the city before you lose it all. Get away before your body becomes a husk, a soulless husk to walk the low canals with sightless eyes, like those who came before you.
He strained to push back from the edge, trying to get that fantastic beauty out of his sight. He fought the lids of his eyes, fought to close them while he pushed himself back, but they remained open, staring at the jeweled towers, and borne on the little winds the thin wail of music reached him, saying, Come into the city, come down into the fabled city .
He slid over the edge, sliding down the sloping sides of the canal. The rough sandstone tore at his dungarees, tore at his elbow where it touched but he did not feel the pain. His face was turned toward the towers, and the sound of his breathing was less than human.
His feet caught a projecting bit of stone and were slowed for an instant, so that he turned sideways and rolled on, down into the red dust bottom of the canal, to lie face down in the dust, with the chin strap of the odd metallic hat cutting cruelly into his chin.
He lay there an instant, knowing that now he had a chance. With his face down like this, and the dust smarting his eyes the image was gone for an instant. He had to get away, he knew that. He had to mount the sides of the canal and never look back.
He told himself, "I am Eric North, from Earth, the Third Planet of Sol, and this is not real."
He squirmed in the dust, feeling it bite his cheeks; he squirmed until he could get up and see nothing but the red sand stone walls of the canal. He ran at the walls and clawed his way up like an animal in his haste. He wouldn't look again.
The wind freshened and the tune of the music began to talk to him. It told of going barefoot over long streets of fur. It told of jewels, and wine, and women as fair as springtime. These and more were in the city, waiting for him to claim them.
He sobbed, and clawed forward. He stopped to rest, and slowly his head began to turn. He turned, and the spires and minarets twinkled at him, beautiful, soothing, stopping the tears that had welled down his cheeks.
When he reached the bottom of the canal he began to run toward the city.
When he came to the city there was a high wall around it, and a heavy gate carved with lotus blossoms. He beat against the gate and cried,
"Oh! Let me in. Let me in to the city!" The music was richer now, as if it were everywhere, and the gate swung open without the faintest sound.
A sentinel stood before the opened gate at the end of a long blue street. He was dressed in red silk with his sleeves edged in blue leopard skin, and he wore a belt with a jeweled short sword. He drew the sword from its scabbard, and bowed forward until the point of the sword touched the street of blue fur. He said, "I give you the welcome of my sword, and the welcome of the city. Speak your name so that it may be set in the records of the dreamers."
The music sang, and the spires twinkled, and Eric said, "I am Eric North!"
The sword point jerked, and the sentinel straightened. His face was white. He cried aloud, "It is Eric the Bronze. It is Eric of the Legend." He whirled the sword aloft, and smashed it upon Eric's metal hat, and the hatred was a blue flame in his eyes.
When Eric regained consciousness the people of the city were all about him. They were very fair, and the women were more beautiful than music. Yet now they stared at him with red hate in their eyes. An older man came forward and struck at the copper hat with a stick. The clang deafened Eric and the man cried, "You are right. It is Eric the Bronze. Bring the ships and let him be scourged from the city."
The man drew back the stick and struck again, and Eric's back took fire with the blow. The crowd chanted, "Whips, bring the whips," and fear forced Eric to his feet. He fled then, running on the heedless feet of panic, outstripping those who were behind him until he passed through the great gates into the red dust floor of the canal. The gates closed behind him, and the dust beat upon him, and he paused, his heart hammering inside his chest like a great bell clapper. He turned and looked behind to be sure he was safe.
The towers twinkled at him, and the music whispered to him, "Come back, Eric North. Come back to the city."
He turned and stumbled back to the great gate and hammered on it until his fists were raw, pleading for it to open and let him back.
And deep inside him some part of his mind said, "This is a madness you cannot escape. The city is evil, an evil like you have never known," and a fear as old as time coursed through his frame.
He seized the copper hat from his head, and beat on the lotus carvings of the great door, crying, "Let me in! Please, take me back into the city."
And as he beat the city changed. It became dull and sordid and evil, a city of disgust, with every part offensive to the eye. The spires and minarets were gargoyles of hatred, twisted and misshapen, and the sound of the city was a macabre song of hate.
He stared, and his back was chill with superstitions as old as the beginning of man. The city flickered, changing before his eyes until it was beautiful again.
He stood, amazed, and put the metal hat back on his head. With the motion the shift took place again, and beauty was ugliness. Amazed, he stared at the illusion, and the thought came to him that the metal hat had not entirely failed him after all.
He turned and began to walk away from the city, and when it began to call he took the hat off his head and found peace for a time. Then when it began again he replaced the hat, and revulsion sped his footsteps. And so, hat on, hat off, he made his way down the dusty floor of the canal, and up the rocky sides until he stood on the Martian desert, and the canal was a thin line behind him. He breathed easily then, for he was beyond the range of the illusions.
And now that his mind was his own again he began to study the problem, and to understand something of the nature of the forces against which he had been pitted.
The helmet contained an electrical circuit, designed as a shield against electrical waves tuned to affect his brain. But the hat had failed because the city, whatever it was, had adjusted to this revised pattern as he had approached it. Hence, the helmet had been no defense against illusion. However, when he had jerked the helmet off suddenly to beat on the door, his mental pattern had changed, too suddenly, and the machine caught up only after he had glimpsed another image. Then as the illusion adjusted replacing the helmet threw it off again.
He grinned wryly. He would have liked to know more about the city, whatever it was. He would have liked to know more about the people he had seen, whether they were real or part of the illusion, and if they were as ugly as the second city had been.
Yet the danger was too great. He would go back to his ship and make the arrangements to destroy the city. The ship was armed, and to deliver indirect fire over the edge of the canal would be simple enough. Garve North, his brother, waited back at the ship. If he knew of the city he would have to go there. Eric must not take a chance on that. After they had blasted whatever it was that lay in the canal floor, then it would be time enough to tell Garve, and go down to see what was left.
The ship rested easily on the flat sandstone area where he had established base camp. Its familiar lines brought a smile to Eric's face, a feeling of confidence now that tools and weapons were his again.
He opened the door and entered. The lock doors were left open so that he could enter directly into the body of the ship. He came in in a swift leap, calling, "Garve! Hey, Garve, where are you?"
The ship remained mute. He prowled through it, calling, "Garve," wondering where the young hothead had gone, and then he saw a note clipped to the control board of the ship. He tore it loose impatiently and began to read. Garve had scrawled:
"Funny thing, Eric. A while ago I thought I heard music. I walked down to the canal, and it seemed like there were lights, and a town of some sort far down the canal. I wanted to investigate, but thought I'd better come back. But the thing has been in my mind for hours now, and I'm going down to see what it is. If you want to follow, come straight down the canal."
Eric stared at the note, and the line of his jaw was white. Apparently Garve had seen the city from farther away, and its effect had not been so strong. Even so, Garve's natural curiosity had done the rest.
Garve had gone down to the city, and Garve had no shielded hat. Eric selected two high explosive grenades from the ship's arsenal. They were small but they packed a lot of power. He had a pistol packed with smaller pellets of the same explosive, and he had the hat. That should be adequate. He thrust the bronze hat back on his head and began walking back to the canal.
The return back to the city would always live in his mind as a phantasmagora, a montage of twisted hate and unseemly beauty. When he came again to the gate he did not attempt to enter, but circled the wall, hat on, hat off, stiff limbed like a puppet dancing to the same tune over and over again. He found a place where he could scale the wall, and thrust the helmet on his head, and clawed up the misshapen wall. It was all he could do to make himself drop into the ugly city.
He heard a familiar voice as he dropped. "Eric," the voice said. "Eric, you did come back." The voice was his brother's, and he whirled, seeking the voice. A figure stood before him, a twisted caricature of his brother. The figure cried, "The hat! You fool, get rid of that hat!" The caricature that was his brother seized the hat, and jerked so hard that the chin strap broke under Eric's chin. The hat was flung away and sailed high and far over the fence and outside the city.
The phantasm flickered, the illusion moved. Garve was now more handsome than ever, and the city was a dream of delight. Garve said, "Come," and Eric followed down a street of blue fur. He had no will to resist.
Garve said, "Keep your head down and your face hidden. If we meet someone you may not be recognized. They won't be expecting you from this side of the city."
Eric asked, "You knew I'd come after you?"
"Yes. The Legend said you'd be back."
Eric stopped and whirled to face his brother. "The Legend? Eric the Bronze? What is this wild fantasy?"
"Not so loud!" Garve's voice cautioned him. "Of course the crowd called you that because of the copper hat and your heavy tan. But the Elders believe so too. I don't know what it is, Eric, reincarnation, prophesy, superstition, I only know that when I was with the Elders I believed them. You are a part of a Legend. You are Eric the Bronze."
Eric looked down at his sun tanned hands and flexed them. He loosened the explosive pistol in its holster. At least he was going to be a well armed, well prepared Legend. And while one part of his mind marveled at the city and relaxed into a pleasure as deep as a dream, another struggled with the almost forgotten desire to rescue his brother and escape. He asked, "Who are the Elders?"
"We are going to them, to the center of the city." Garve's voice sharpened, "Keep your head down. I think the last two men we passed are looking after us. Don't look back."
After a moment Garve said, "I think they are following us. Get ready to run. If we are separated, keep going until you reach City Center. The Elders will be expecting you." Garve glanced back, and his voice sharpened, "Now! Run!"
They ran. But as they ran figures began to converge upon them. Farther up the street others appeared, cutting off their flight.
Garve cried, "In here," and pulled Eric into a crevice between two buildings. Eric drew his gun, and savagery began to dance in his eyes. The soft fur muffled sounds of pursuit closed in upon them.
Garve put one hand on Eric's gun hand and said, "Wait here. And if you value my life, don't use that gun." Then he was gone, running deerlike down the street.
For an instant Eric thought the ruse had succeeded. He heard cries and two men passed him running in pursuit. But then the cry came back. "Let him go. Get the other one. The other one."
Eric was seen an instant later, and the people of the city began to converge upon him. He could have destroyed them all with his charges in the gun, but his brother's warning shrieked in his ears, "If you value my life don't use the gun."
There was nothing he could do. Eric stood quietly until he was taken prisoner. They moved him to the center of the wide fur street. Two men held his arms, and twisted painfully. The crowd looked at him, coldly, calculatingly. One of them said, "Get the whips. If we whip him he will not come back." The city twinkled, and the music was so faint he could hardly hear it.
There was only one weapon Eric could use. He had gathered from Garve's words that these people were superstitious.
He laughed, a great chest-shattering laugh that gusted out into the thin Martian air. He laughed and cried in a great voice, "And can you so easily dispose of a Legend? If I am Eric of the Legend, can whips defeat the prophesy?"
There was an instant when he could have twisted loose. They stood, fear-bound at his words. But there was no place to hide, and without the use of his weapons Eric could not have gone far. He had to bluff it out.
Then one of the men cried, "Fools! It is true. We must take no chance with the whips. He would come back. But if he dies here before us now, then we may forget the prophesy."
The crowd murmured and a second voice cried, "Get the sword, get the guards, and kill him at once!"
Eric tensed to break away but now it was too late. His captors were alert. They increased the twist on his arms until he almost screamed with the pain.
The crowd parted, and the guard came through, his red silk clothing gleaming in the sun, his sword bright and deadly. He stopped before Eric, and the sword swirled up like a saber, ready for a slashing cut downward across Eric's neck.
A woman's voice, soft and yet authoritative, called, "Hold!" And a murmur of respect rippled through the crowd.
"Nolette! The Daughter of the City comes."
Eric turned his gaze to the side and saw the woman who had spoken. She was mounted upon a black horse with a jeweled bridle. She was young and her hair was long and free in the wind. She had ridden so softly across the fur street that no one had been aware of her presence.
She said, "Let me touch this man. Let me feel the pulse of his heart so that I may know if he is truly the Bronze one of the Legend. Give me your hand, stranger." She leaned down and grasped his hand. Eric shook his arms free, and reached up and clung to the offered hand, thinking,
"If I pull her down perhaps I can use her as a shield." He tensed his muscles and began to pull.
She cried, "No! You fool. Come up on the horse," and pulled back with an energy as fierce as his own. Then he had swung up on the horse, and the animal leaped forward, its muffled gallop beating out a tattoo of freedom.
Eric clung tightly to the girl's waist. He could feel the young suppleness of her body, and the fine strands of her hair kept swirling back into his face. It had a faint perfume, a clean and heady scent that made him more aware of the touch of her waist. He breathed deeply, oddly happy as they rode.
After five minutes ride they came to a building in the center of the city. The building was cubical, severe in line and architecture, and it contrasted oddly with the exquisite ornament of the rest of the city. It was as if it were a monolith from another time, a stranger crouched among enemies.
The girl halted before the structure and said, "Dismount here, Eric."
Eric swung down, his arms still tingling with pleasure where he had held her. She said, "Knock three times on the door. I will see you again inside. And thank your brother for sending me to bring you here."
Eric knocked on the door. The door was as plain as the building, made of a luminous plastic. It had all the beauty of the great gate door, but a more timeless, more functional beauty.
The door opened and an old man greeted Eric. "Come in. The Council awaits you. Follow me, please."
Eric followed down a hallway and into a large room. The room was obviously designed for a conference room. A great table stood in the room, made of the same luminous plastic as the door of the building. Six men sat at this conference table. Eric's guide placed him in a chair at the base of the T-shaped table.
There was one vacant seat beside the head of the T, and as Eric watched, the young woman who had rescued him entered and took her place there. She smiled at Eric, and the room took on a warmth that it had lacked with only the older men present. The man at her right, obviously presiding here looked at Eric and spoke. "I am Kroon, the eldest of the elders. We have brought you here to satisfy ourselves of your identity. In view of your danger in the City you are entitled to some sort of explanation." He glanced around the room and asked, "What is the judgment of the elders?"
Eric caught a faint nod here, a gesture there. Kroon nodded as if in satisfaction. He turned to the girl, "And what is your opinion, Daughter of the City?"
Nolette's expression held sorrow, as if she looked into the far future. She said, "He is Eric the Bronze. I have no doubt."
Eric asked, "And what is this Legend of Eric the Bronze? Why am I so despised in the city?"
Kroon answered, "According to the Ancient Legend you will destroy the city. This, and other things."
Eric gaped. No wonder the crowd had shown such hatred. But why were the elders so friendly? They were obviously the governing body, and if there was strife between them and the people it had not shown in the respect the crowd had accorded Nolette.
Kroon said, "I see you are puzzled. Let me tell you the story of the City. The City is old. It dates from long ago when the canals of Mars ran clear and green with water, and the deserts were vineyards and gardens. The drouth came, and the changes in climate, and soon it became plain that the people of Mars were doomed. They had ships, and could build more, and gradually they left to colonize other planets. Yet they could take little of their science. And fear and riots destroyed much. Also there were those who were filled with love for this homeland, and who thought that one day it might be habitable again. All the skill of the ancient Martian fathers went into the building of a giant machine, the machine that is the City, to protect a small colony of those who were chosen to remain on Mars."
"This whole city is a machine!" Eric asked.
"Yes, or the product of one. The heart of it lies underneath our feet, in caverns beneath this building. The nature of the machine is this, that it translates thought into reality."
Eric stared. The idea was staggering.
"This is essentially simple, although the technology is complex. It is necessary to have a recording device, to capture thought, a transmuting device capable of transmuting the red dust of the desert into any sort of material desired, and a construction device, to assemble this material into the pattern already recorded from thought." Kroon paused.
"You still doubt, my friend. Perhaps you are thirsty after your escape. Think strongly of a tall glass of cold water, visualize it in your mind, the sight and the fluidity and the touch of it."
Eric did so. Without warning a glass of water stood on the table before him. He touched the water to his lips. It was cool and satisfying. He drank it, convinced completely.
Eric asked, "And I am to destroy the City?"
"Yes. The time has come."
"But why?" Eric demanded. For an instant he could see the twinkling beauty as clearly as if he had stood outside the walls of this building.
Kroon said, "There are difficulties. The machine builds according to the mass will of the people, though it is sensitive to the individual in areas where it does not conflict with the imagination of the mass. We have had strangers, visitors, and even our own people, who grew drunk with the power of the machine, who dreamed more and more lust and greed into existence. These were banished from the city, and so strong is the call of the city that many of them became victims of their own evilness, and now walk mindlessly, with no thought but to seek for the beauty they have lost here."
Kroon sighed. "The people have lost the will to learn. Many do not even know of the machine. Our science is almost gone, and only a few of us, the dreamers, the elders, have kept alive the old knowledge of the machine and its history. By the collected powers of our imagination we build and control the outward appearance of the city.
"We have passed this down from father to son. A part of the ancient Legend is that the builders made provisions for the machine to be destroyed when contact with outsiders had been made once again, so that our people would again have to struggle forward to knowledge and power. The instrument of destruction was to be a man termed Eric the Bronze. It is not that you are reborn. It is just that sometime such a man would come."
Eric said, "I can understand the Bronze part. They had thought that a space man might well be sun tanned. They had thought that a science to protect against this beautiful illusion would provide a metal shield of some sort, probably copper in nature. That such a man should come is inevitable. But why Eric. Why the name Eric?"
For the first time Nolette spoke. She said quietly, "The name Eric was an honorable name of the ancient fathers. It must have been their thought that the new beginning should wait for some of their own far flung kind to return."
Eric nodded. He asked, "What happens now?"
"Nothing. Dwell here with us and you will be safe from our people. If the prediction is not soon fulfilled and you are not the Eric of the Legend, you may stay or go as you desire."
"My brother, Garve. What about him?"
"He loves the city. He will also stay, though he will be outside this building." Kroon clasped his hands. "Nolette, will you show Eric his quarters?"
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Describe the Grannies, or Granitebacks.
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After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about Trouble on Tycho by Nelson S. Bond.
Relevant chunks:
TROUBLE ON TYCHO
By NELSON S. BOND
Isobar and his squeeze-pipes were the bane of the Moon Station's existence. But there came the day when his comrades found that the worth of a man lies sometimes in his nuisance value.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories March 1943. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The audiophone buzzed thrice—one long, followed by two shorts—and Isobar Jones pressed the stud activating its glowing scanner-disc.
"Hummm?" he said absent-mindedly.
The selenoplate glowed faintly, and the image of the Dome Commander appeared.
"Report ready, Jones?"
"Almost," acknowledged Isobar gloomily. "It prob'ly ain't right, though. How anybody can be expected to get anything right on this dagnabbed hunk o' green cheese—"
"Send it up," interrupted Colonel Eagan, "as soon as you can. Sparks is making Terra contact now. That is all."
"That ain't all!" declared Isobar indignantly. "How about my bag—?"
It was all , so far as the D.C. was concerned. Isobar was talking to himself. The plate dulled. Isobar said, "Nuts!" and returned to his duties. He jotted neat ditto marks under the word "Clear" which, six months ago, he had placed beneath the column headed: Cond. of Obs. He noted the proper figures under the headings Sun Spots : Max Freq. — Min. Freq. ; then he sketched careful curves in blue and red ink upon the Mercator projection of Earth which was his daily work sheet.
This done, he drew a clean sheet of paper out of his desk drawer, frowned thoughtfully at the tabulated results of his observations, and began writing.
" Weather forecast for Terra ," he wrote, his pen making scratching sounds.
The audiophone rasped again. Isobar jabbed the stud and answered without looking.
"O.Q.," he said wearily. "O.Q. I told you it would be ready in a couple o' minutes. Keep your pants on!"
"I—er—I beg your pardon, Isobar?" queried a mild voice.
Isobar started. His sallow cheeks achieved a sickly salmon hue. He blinked nervously.
"Oh, jumpin' jimminy!" he gulped. " You , Miss Sally! Golly—'scuse me! I didn't realize—"
The Dome Commander's niece giggled.
"That's all right, Isobar. I just called to ask you about the weather in Oceania Sector 4B next week. I've got a swimming date at Waikiki, but I won't make the shuttle unless the weather's going to be nice."
"It is," promised Isobar. "It'll be swell all weekend, Miss Sally. Fine sunshiny weather. You can go."
"That's wonderful. Thanks so much, Isobar."
"Don't mention it, ma'am," said Isobar, and returned to his work.
South America. Africa. Asia. Pan-Europa. Swiftly he outlined the meteorological prospects for each sector. He enjoyed this part of his job. As he wrote forecasts for each area, in his mind's eye he saw himself enjoying such pastimes as each geographical division's terrain rendered possible.
If home is where the heart is, Horatio Jones—known better as "Isobar" to his associates at the Experimental Dome on Luna—was a long, long way from home. His lean, gangling frame was immured, and had been for six tedious Earth months, beneath the impervite hemisphere of Lunar III—that frontier outpost which served as a rocket refueling station, teleradio transmission point and meteorological base.
"Six solid months! Six sad, dreary months!" thought Isobar, "Locked up in an airtight Dome like—like a goldfish in a glass bowl!" Sunlight? Oh, sure! But filtered through ultraviolet wave-traps so it could not burn, it left the skin pale and lustreless and clammy as the belly of a toad. Fresh air? Pooh! Nothing but that everlasting sickening, scented, reoxygenated stuff gushing from atmo-conditioning units.
Excitement? Adventure? The romance he had been led to expect when he signed on for frontier service? Bah! Only a weary, monotonous, routine existence.
"A pain!" declared Isobar Jones. "That's what it is; a pain in the stummick. Not even allowed to—Yeah?"
It was Sparks, audioing from the Dome's transmission turret. He said,
"Hyah, Jonesy! How comes with the report?"
"Done," said Isobar. "I was just gettin' the sheets together for you."
"O.Q. But just bring it . Nothing else."
Isobar bridled.
"I don't know what you're talkin' about."
"Oh, no? Well, I'm talking about that squawk-filled doodlesack of yours, sonny boy. Don't bring that bag-full of noise up here with you."
Isobar said defiantly, "It ain't a doodlesack. It's a bagpipe. And I guess I can play it if I want to—"
"Not," said Sparks emphatically, "in my cubby! I've got sensitive eardrums. Well, stir your stumps! I've got to get the report rolling quick today. Big doings up here."
"Yeah? What?"
"Well, it's Roberts and Brown—"
"What about 'em?"
"They've gone Outside to make foundation repairs."
"Lucky stiffs!" commented Isobar ruefully.
"Lucky, no. Stiffs, maybe—if they should meet any Grannies. Well, scoot along. I'm on the ether in four point sixteen minutes."
"Be right up," promised Isobar, and, sheets in hand, he ambled from his cloistered cell toward the central section of the Dome.
He didn't leave Sparks' turret after the sheets were delivered. Instead, he hung around, fidgeting so obtrusively that Riley finally turned to him in sheer exasperation.
"Sweet snakes of Saturn, Jonesy, what's the trouble? Bugs in your britches?"
Isobar said, "H-huh? Oh, you mean—Oh, thanks, no! I just thought mebbe you wouldn't mind if I—well—er—"
"I get it!" Sparks grinned. "Want to play peekaboo while the contact's open, eh? Well, O.Q. Watch the birdie!"
He twisted dials, adjusted verniers, fingered a host of incomprehensible keys. Current hummed and howled. Then a plate before him cleared, and the voice of the Earth operator came in, enunciating with painstaking clarity:
"Earth answering Luna. Earth answering Luna's call. Can you hear me, Luna? Can you hear—?"
"I can not only hear you," snorted Riley, "I can see you and smell you, as well. Stop hamming it, stupid! You're lousing up the earth!"
The now-visible face of the Earth radioman drew into a grimace of displeasure.
"Oh, it's you ? Funny man, eh? Funny man Riley?"
"Sure," said Riley agreeably. "I'm a scream. Four-alarm Riley, the cosmic comedian—didn't you know? Flick on your dictacoder, oyster-puss; here's the weather report." He read it. "' Weather forecast for Terra, week of May 15-21 —'"
"Ask him," whispered Isobar eagerly. "Sparks, don't forget to ask him!"
Riley motioned for silence, but nodded. He finished the weather report, entered the Dome Commander's log upon the Home Office records, and dictated a short entry from the Luna Biological Commission. Then:
"That is all," he concluded.
"O.Q.," verified the other radioman. Isobar writhed anxiously, prodded Riley's shoulder.
"Ask him, Sparks! Go on ask him!"
"Oh, cut jets, will you?" snapped Sparks. The Terra operator looked startled.
"How's that? I didn't say a word—"
"Don't be a dope," said Sparks, "you dope! I wasn't talking to you. I'm entertaining a visitor, a refugee from a cuckoo clock. Look, do me a favor, chum? Can you twist your mike around so it's pointing out a window?"
"What? Why—why, yes, but—"
"Without buts," said Sparks grumpily. "Yours not to reason why; yours but to do or don't. Will you do it?"
"Well, sure. But I don't understand—" The silver platter which had mirrored the radioman's face clouded as the Earth operator twirled the inconoscope. Walls and desks of an ordinary broadcasting office spun briefly into view; then the plate reflected a glimpse of an Earthly landscape. Soft blue sky warmed by an atmosphere-shielded sun ... green trees firmly rooted in still-greener grass ... flowers ... birds ... people....
"Enough?" asked Sparks.
Isobar Jones awakened from his trance, eyes dulling. Reluctantly he nodded. Riley stared at him strangely, almost gently. To the other radioman, "O.Q., pal," he said. "Cut!"
"Cut!" agreed the other. The plate blanked out.
"Thanks, Sparks," said Isobar.
"Nothing," shrugged Riley " He twisted the mike; not me. But—how come you always want to take a squint at Earth when the circuit's open, Jonesy? Homesick?"
"Sort of," admitted Isobar guiltily.
"Well, hell, aren't we all? But we can't leave here for another six months at least. Not till our tricks are up. I should think it'd only make you feel worse to see Earth."
"It ain't Earth I'm homesick for," explained Isobar. "It's—well, it's the things that go with it. I mean things like grass and flowers and trees."
Sparks grinned; a mirthless, lopsided grin.
"We've got them right here on Luna. Go look out the tower window, Jonesy. The Dome's nestled smack in the middle of the prettiest, greenest little valley you ever saw."
"I know," complained Isobar. "And that's what makes it even worse. All that pretty, soft, green stuff Outside—and we ain't allowed to go out in it. Sometimes I get so mad I'd like to—"
"To," interrupted a crisp voice, "what?"
Isobar spun, flushing; his eyes dropped before those of Dome Commander Eagan. He squirmed.
"N-nothing, sir. I was only saying—"
"I heard you, Jones. And please let me hear no more of such talk, sir! It is strictly forbidden for anyone to go Outside except in cases of absolute necessity. Such labor as caused Patrolmen Brown and Roberts to go, for example—"
"Any word from them yet, sir?" asked Sparks eagerly.
"Not yet. But we're expecting them to return at any minute now. Jones! Where are you going?"
"Why—why, just back to my quarters, sir."
"That's what I thought. And what did you plan to do there?"
Isobar said stubbornly, "Well, I sort of figured I'd amuse myself for a while—"
"I thought that, too. And with what , pray, Jones?"
"With the only dratted thing," said Isobar, suddenly petulant, "that gives me any fun around this dagnabbed place! With my bagpipe."
Commander Eagan said, "You'd better find some new way of amusing yourself, Jones. Have you read General Order 17?"
Isobar said, "I seen it. But if you think—"
"It says," stated Eagan deliberately, "' In order that work or rest periods of the Dome's staff may not be disturbed, it is hereby ordered that the playing or practicing of all or any musical instruments must be discontinued immediately. By order of the Dome Commander ,' That means you, Jones!"
"But, dingbust it!" keened Isobar, "it don't disturb nobody for me to play my bagpipes! I know these lunks around here don't appreciate good music, so I always go in my office and lock the door after me—"
"But the Dome," pointed out Commander Eagan, "has an air-conditioning system which can't be shut off. The ungodly moans of your—er—so-called musical instrument can be heard through the entire structure."
He suddenly seemed to gain stature.
"No, Jones, this order is final! You cannot disrupt our entire organization for your own—er—amusement."
"But—" said Isobar.
"No!"
Isobar wriggled desperately. Life on Luna was sorry enough already. If now they took from him the last remaining solace he had, the last amusement which lightened his moments of freedom—
"Look, Commander!" he pleaded, "I tell you what I'll do. I won't bother nobody. I'll go Outside and play it—"
"Outside!" Eagan stared at him incredulously. "Are you mad? How about the Grannies?"
Isobar knew all about the Grannies. The only mobile form of life found by space-questing man on Earth's satellite, their name was an abbreviation of the descriptive one applied to them by the first Lunar exployers: Granitebacks. This was no exaggeration; if anything, it was an understatement. For the Grannies, though possessed of certain low intelligence, had quickly proven themselves a deadly, unyielding and implacable foe.
Worse yet, they were an enemy almost indestructible! No man had ever yet brought to Earth laboratories the carcass of a Grannie; science was completely baffled in its endeavors to explain the composition of Graniteback physiology—but it was known, from bitter experience, that the carapace or exoskeleton of the Grannies was formed of something harder than steel, diamond, or battleplate! This flesh could be penetrated by no weapon known to man; neither by steel nor flame, by electronic nor ionic wave, nor by the lethal, newly discovered atomo-needle dispenser.
All this Isobar knew about the Grannies. Yet:
"They ain't been any Grannies seen around the Dome," he said, "for a 'coon's age. Anyhow, if I seen any comin', I could run right back inside—"
"No!" said Commander Eagan flatly. "Absolutely, no ! I have no time for such nonsense. You know the orders—obey them! And now, gentlemen, good afternoon!"
He left. Sparks turned to Isobar, grinning.
"Well," he said, "one man's fish—hey, Jonesy? Too bad you can't play your doodlesack any more, but frankly, I'm just as glad. Of all the awful screeching wails—"
But Isobar Jones, generally mild and gentle, was now in a perfect fury. His pale eyes blazed, he stomped his foot on the floor, and from his lips poured a stream of such angry invective that Riley looked startled. Words that, to Isobar, were the utter dregs of violent profanity.
"Oh, dagnab it!" fumed Isobar Jones. "Oh, tarnation and dingbust! Oh— fiddlesticks !"
II
"And so," chuckled Riley, "he left, bubbling like a kettle on a red-hot oven. But, boy! was he ever mad! Just about ready to bust, he was."
Some minutes had passed since Isobar had left; Riley was talking to Dr. Loesch, head of the Dome's Physics Research Division. The older man nodded commiseratingly.
"It is funny, yes," he agreed, "but at the same time it is not altogether amusing. I feel sorry for him. He is a very unhappy man, our poor Isobar."
"Yeah, I know," said Riley, "but, hell, we all get a little bit homesick now and then. He ought to learn to—"
"Excuse me, my boy," interrupted the aged physicist, his voice gentle,
"it is not mere homesickness that troubles our friend. It is something deeper, much more vital and serious. It is what my people call: weltschmertz . There is no accurate translation in English. It means
'world sickness,' or better, 'world weariness'—something like that but intensified a thousandfold.
"It is a deeply-rooted mental condition, sometimes a dangerous frame of mind. Under its grip, men do wild things. Hating the world on which they find themselves, they rebel in curious ways. Suicide ... mad acts of valor ... deeds of cunning or knavery...."
"You mean," demanded Sparks anxiously, "Isobar ain't got all his buttons?"
"Not that exactly. He is perfectly sane. But he is in a dark morass of despair. He may try anything to retrieve his lost happiness, rid his soul of its dark oppression. His world-sickness is like a crying hunger—By the way, where is he now?"
"Below, I guess. In his quarters."
"Ah, good! Perhaps he is sleeping. Let us hope so. In slumber he will find peace and forgetfulness."
But Dr. Loesch would have been far less sanguine had some power the
"giftie gi'en" him of watching Isobar Jones at that moment.
Isobar was not asleep. Far from it. Wide awake and very much astir, he was acting in a singularly sinister role: that of a slinking, furtive culprit.
Returning to his private cubicle after his conversation with Dome Commander Eagan, he had stalked straightway to the cabinet wherein was encased his precious set of bagpipes. These he had taken from their pegs, gazed upon defiantly, and fondled with almost parental affection.
"So I can't play you, huh?" he muttered darkly. "It disturbs the peace o' the dingfounded, dumblasted Dome staff, does it? Well, we'll see about that!"
And tucking the bag under his arm, he had cautiously slipped from the room, down little-used corridors, and now he stood before the huge impervite gates which were the entrance to the Dome and the doorway to Outside.
On all save those occasions when a spacecraft landed in the cradle adjacent the gateway, these portals were doubly locked and barred. But today they had been unbolted that the two maintenance men might venture out. And since it was quite possible that Brown and Roberts might have to get inside in a hurry, their bolts remained drawn. Sole guardian of the entrance was a very bored Junior Patrolman.
Up to this worthy strode Isobar Jones, confident and assured, exuding an aura of propriety.
"Very well, Wilkins," he said. "I'll take over now. You may go to the meeting."
Wilkins looked at him bewilderedly.
"Huh? Whuzzat, Mr. Jones?"
Isobar's eyebrows arched.
"You mean you haven't been notified?"
"Notified of what ?"
"Why, the general council of all Patrolmen! Weren't you told that I would take your place here while you reported to G.H.Q.?"
"I ain't," puzzled Wilkins, "heard nothing about it. Maybe I ought to call the office, maybe?"
And he moved the wall-audio. But Isobar said swiftly. "That—er—won't be necessary, Wilkins. My orders were plain enough. Now, you just run along. I'll watch this entrance for you."
"We-e-ell," said Wilkins, "if you say so. Orders is orders. But keep a sharp eye out, Mister Jones, in case Roberts and Brown should come back sudden-like."
"I will," promised Isobar, "don't worry."
Wilkins moved away. Isobar waited until the Patrolman was completely out of sight. Then swiftly he pulled open the massive gate, slipped through, and closed it behind him.
A flood of warmth, exhilarating after the constantly regulated temperature of the Dome, descended upon him. Fresh air, thin, but fragrant with the scent of growing things, made his pulses stir with joyous abandon. He was Outside! He was Outside, in good sunlight, at last! After six long and dreary months!
Raptly, blissfully, all thought of caution tossed to the gentle breezes that ruffled his sparse hair, Isobar Jones stepped forward into the lunar valley....
How long he wandered thus, carefree and utterly content, he could not afterward say. It seemed like minutes; it must have been longer. He only knew that the grass was green beneath his feet, the trees were a lacy network through which warm sunlight filtered benevolently, the chirrupings of small insects and the rustling whisper of the breezes formed a tiny symphony of happiness through which he moved as one charmed.
It did not occur to him that he had wandered too far from the Dome's entrance until, strolling through an enchanting flower-decked glade, he was startled to hear—off to his right—the sharp, explosive bark of a Haemholtz ray pistol.
He whirled, staring about him wildly, and discovered that though his meandering had kept him near the Dome, he had unconsciously followed its hemispherical perimeter to a point nearly two miles from the Gateway. By the placement of ports and windows, Isobar was able to judge his location perfectly; he was opposite that portion of the structure which housed Sparks' radio turret.
And the shooting? That could only be—
He did not have to name its reason, even to himself. For at that moment, there came racing around the curve of the Dome a pair of figures, Patrolmen clad in fatigue drab. Roberts and Brown. Roberts was staggering, one foot dragged awkwardly as he ran; Brown's left arm, bloodstained from shoulder to elbow, hung limply at his side, but in his good right fist he held a spitting Haemholtz with which he tried to cover his comrade's sluggish retreat.
And behind these two, grim, grey, gaunt figures that moved with astonishing speed despite their massive bulk, came three ... six ... a dozen of those lunarites whom all men feared. The Grannies!
III
Simultaneously with his recognition of the pair, Joe Roberts saw him. A gasp of relief escaped the wounded man.
"Jones! Thank the Lord! Then you picked up our cry for help? Quick, man—where is it? Theres not a moment to waste!"
"W-where," faltered Isobar feebly, "is what ?"
"The tank, of course! Didn't you hear our telecast? We can't possibly make it back to the gate without an armored car. My foot's broken, and—" Roberts stopped suddenly, an abrupt horror in his eyes. "You don't have one! You're here alone ! Then you didn't pick up our call? But, why—?"
"Never mind that," snapped Isobar, "now!" Placid by nature, he could move when urgency drove. His quick mind saw the immediateness of their peril. Unarmed, he could not help the Patrolmen fight a delaying action against their foes, nor could he hasten their retreat. Anyway, weapons were useless, and time was of the essence. There was but one temporary way of staving off disaster. "Over here ... this tree! Quick! Up you go! Give him a lift, Brown—There! That's the stuff!"
He was the last to scramble up the gnarled bole to a tentative leafy sanctuary. He had barely gained the security of the lowermost bough when a thundering crash resounded, the sturdy trunk trembled beneath his clutch. Stony claws gouged yellow parallels in the bark scant inches beneath one kicking foot, then the Granny fell back with a thud. The Graniteback was not a climber. It was far too ungainly, much too weighty for that.
Roberts said weakly, "Th-thanks, Jonesy! That was a close call."
"That goes for me, too, Jonesy," added Brown from an upper bough.
"But I'm afraid you just delayed matters. This tree's O.Q. as long as it lasts, but—" He stared down upon the gathering knot of Grannies unhappily—"it's not going to last long with that bunch of superdreadnaughts working out on it! Hold tight, fellows! Here they come!"
For the Grannies, who had huddled for a moment as if in telepathic consultation, now joined forces, turned, and as one body charged headlong toward the tree. The unified force of their attack was like the shattering impact of a battering ram. Bark rasped and gritted beneath the besieged men's hands, dry leaves and twigs pelted about them in a tiny rain, tormented fibrous sinews groaned as the aged forest monarch shuddered in agony.
Desperately they clung to their perches. Though the great tree bent, it did not break. But when it stopped trembling, it was canted drunkenly to one side, and the erstwhile solid earth about its base was broken and cracked—revealing fleshy tentacles uprooted from ancient moorings!
Brown stared at this evidence of the Grannies' power with terror-fascinated eyes. His voice was none too firm.
"Lord! Piledrivers! A couple more like that—"
Isobar nodded. He knew what falling into the clutch of the Grannies meant. He had once seen the grisly aftermath of a Graniteback feast. Even now their adversaries had drawn back for a second attack. A sudden idea struck him. A straw of hope at which he grasped feverishly.
"You telecast a message to the Dome? Help should be on the way by now. If we can just hold out—"
But Roberts shook his head.
"We sent a message, Jonesy, but I don't think it got through. I've just been looking at my portable. It seems to be busted. Happened when they first attacked us, I guess. I tripped and fell on it."
Isobar's last hope flickered out.
"Then I—I guess it won't be long now," he mourned. "If we could have only got a message through, they would have sent out an armored car to pick us up. But as it is—"
Brown's shrug displayed a bravado he did not feel.
"Well, that's the way it goes. We knew what we were risking when we volunteered to come Outside. This damn moon! It'll never be worth a plugged credit until men find some way to fight those murderous stones-on-legs!"
Roberts said, "That's right. But what are you doing out here, Isobar? And why, for Pete's sake, the bagpipes?"
"Oh—the pipes?" Isobar flushed painfully. He had almost forgotten his original reason for adventuring Outside, had quite forgotten his instrument, and was now rather amazed to discover that somehow throughout all the excitement he had held onto it. "Why, I just happened to—Oh! the pipes! "
"Hold on!" roared Roberts. His warning came just in time. Once more, the three tree-sitters shook like dried peas in a pod as their leafy refuge trembled before the locomotive onslaught of the lunar beasts. This time the already-exposed roots strained and lifted, several snapped; when the Grannies again withdrew, complacently unaware that the "lethal ray" of Brown's Haemholtz was wasting itself upon their adamant hides in futile fury, the tree was bent at a precarious angle.
Brown sobbed, not with fear but with impotent anger, and in a gesture of enraged desperation, hurled his now-empty weapon at the retreating Grannies.
"No good! Not a damn bit of good! Oh, if there was only some way of fighting those filthy things—"
But Isobar Jones had a one-track mind. "The pipes!" he cried again, excitedly. "That's the answer!" And he drew the instrument into playing position, bag cuddled beneath one arm-pit, drones stiffly erect over his shoulder, blow-pipe at his lips. His cheeks puffed, his breath expelled. The giant lung swelled, the chaunter emitted its distinctive, fearsome, " Kaa-aa-o-o-o-oro-oong! "
Roberts moaned.
"Oh, Lord! A guy can't even die in peace!"
And Brown stared at him hopelessly.
"It's no use, Isobar. You trying to scare them off? They have no sense of hearing. That's been proven—"
Isobar took his lips from the reed to explain.
"It's not that. I'm trying to rouse the boys in the Dome. We're right opposite the atmosphere-conditioning-unit. See that grilled duct over there? That's an inhalation-vent. The portable transmitter's out of order, and our voices ain't strong enough to carry into the Dome—but the sound of these pipes is! And Commander Eagan told me just a short while ago that the sound of the pipes carries all over the building!
"If they hear this, they'll get mad because I'm disobeyin' orders. They'll start lookin' for me. If they can't find me inside, maybe they'll look Outside. See that window? That's Sparks' turret. If we can make him look out here—"
" Stop talking! " roared Roberts. "Stop talking, guy, and start blowing! I think you've got something there. Anyhow, it's our last hope. Blow! "
"And quick!" appended Brown. "For here they come!"
Isobar played, blew with all his might, while the Grannies raged below.
He meant the Grannies. Again they were huddling for attack, once more, a solid phalanx of indestructible, granite flesh, they were smashing down upon the tree.
" Haa-a-roong! " blew Isobar Jones.
IV
And—even he could not have foreseen the astounding results of his piping! What happened next was as astonishing as it was incomprehensible. For as the pipes, filled now and primed to burst into whatever substitute for melody they were prodded into, wailed into action—the Grannies' rush came to an abrupt halt!
As one, they stopped cold in their tracks and turned dull, colorless, questioning eyes upward into the tree whence came this weird and vibrant droning!
So stunned with surprise was Isobar that his grip on the pipes relaxed, his lips almost slipped from the reed. But Brown's delighted bellow lifted his paralysis.
"Sacred rings of Saturn-look! They like it! Keep playing, Jonesy! Play, boy, like you never played before!"
And Roberts roared, above the skirling of the piobaireachd into which Isobar had instinctively swung, "Music hath charms to soothe the savage beast! Then we were wrong. They can hear, after all! See that? They're lying down to listen—like so many lambs! Keep playing, Isobar! For once in my life I'm glad to hear that lovely, wonderful music!"
Isobar needed no urging. He, too, had noted how the Grannies' attack had stopped, how every last one of the gaunt grey beasts had suddenly, quietly, almost happily, dropped to its haunches at the base of the tree.
There was no doubt about it; the Grannies liked this music. Eyes raptly fixed, unblinking, unwavering, they froze into postures of gentle beatitude. One stirred once, dangerously, as for a moment Isobar paused to catch his breath, but Isobar hastily lipped the blow-pipe with redoubled eagerness, and the Granny relapsed into quietude.
Followed then what, under somewhat different circumstances, should have been a piper's dream. For Isobar had an audience which would not—and in two cases dared not—allow him to stop playing. And to this audience he played over and over again his entire repertoire. Marches, flings, dances—the stirring Rhoderik Dhu and the lilting Lassies O'Skye , the mournful Coghiegh nha Shie whose keening is like the sound of a sobbing nation.
The Cock o' the North , he played, and Mironton ... Wee Flow'r o' Dee and MacArthur's March ... La Cucuracha and—
And his lungs were parched, his lips dry as swabs of cotton. Blood pounded through his temples, throbbing in time to the drone of the chaunter, and a dark mist gathered before his eyes. He tore the blow-pipe from his lips, gasped,
"Keep playing!" came the dim, distant howl of Johnny Brown. "Just a few minutes longer, Jonesy! Relief is on the way. Sparks saw us from his turret window five minutes ago!"
And Isobar played on. How, or what, he did not know. The memory of those next few minutes was never afterward clear in his mind. All he knew was that above the skirling drone of his pipes there came another sound, the metallic clanking of a man-made machine ... an armored tank, sent from the Dome to rescue the beleaguered trio.
He was conscious, then, of a friendly voice shouting words of encouragement, of Joe Roberts calling a warning to those below.
"Careful, boys! Drive the tank right up beneath us so we can hop in and get out of here! Watch the Grannies—they'll be after us the minute Isobar stops playing!"
Then the answer from below. The fantastic answer in Sparks' familiar voice. The answer that caused the bagpipes to slip from Isobar's fingers as Isobar Jones passed out in a dead faint:
"After you? Those Grannies? Hell's howling acres— those Grannies are stone dead !"
Question:
Describe the Grannies, or Granitebacks.
Answer:
|
[
"Granitebacks are huge creatures that live on Luna III. Their immense size, hulking form, and impenetrable body make them practically indestructible. As of the beginning of this story, no Grannie had ever been killed. It was also believed that they were unable to hear, lacking ear canals, and potentially intelligence. Their exoskeleton or carapace was impenetrable, even harder than diamond or steel. Each weapon the Earthman devised to use against the Grannies failed. However, at the end of the story, it’s revealed that Grannies can, in fact, hear and are deeply affected by the sounds of the bagpipe. Isobar’s playing kills them all within 10 minutes and allows him and his companions to escape safe and sound. ",
"The Granitebacks, colloquially referred to as the \"Grannies\", are the only mobile form of life found on Luna, and were named by the first explorers of the moon. Although the Grannies have low intelligence, they are a deadly threat to humans. They move fast for their size and weight, and their bodies are covered with impervious exoskeletons impenetrable even by humans' most sophisticated technologies. Isobar does not fear them because they haven't been seen around the Dome in quite a long time. However, when Roberts and Brown run afoul of a hostile group of them during a routine maintenance run Outside, they take shelter with Isobar up a tree, knowing that none of their weapons can defend against the Grannies. The Grannies attack as a group, throwing their hard bodies against the tree, which bends and dents upon impact. When Isobar plays his bagpipes, the men learn that Grannies can be lulled and ultimately killed by the sounds emitted from that instrument. ",
"The Grannies, also known as Granitebacks, are mobile creatures that live on the moon, and they are highly dangerous to humans. The people working at Lunar III are not allowed to venture Outside because the Grannies will attack with little notice or reason. They are described as rocks on legs, which is where their moniker came from. The Grannies are not highly intelligent creatures, but intelligence isn’t necessary when they have exoskeletons made of incredibly strong material that can’t be wounded by steel or fire. Their exteriors are stronger than diamonds, steel, or any other known material to humans. Due to their immense weight, the Grannies cannot climb trees, so Isobar’s plan to climb to avoid them is a great move. However, the creatures work in packs, and about a dozen of them begin hurling their bodies at the tree at the same time, and this breaks the tree’s trunk. The men believe that the Grannies are deaf, but that turns out to be incorrect information. So far, the humans have not found a single weapon that works to fight against the Grannies. Isobar’s discovery that the music he creates with the bagpipes actually kills the Grannies is literally lifesaving. ",
"The Granitebacks (Grannies) are deadly beasts of low intelligence - the only life form found on Luna - so named because they are indestructibly impervious to human weapons. Their biology is a mystery to science because one has never been killed so it can be studied in a laboratory. All that is known is that their outer shell is harder than steel, diamond, or battleplate. \nOne weakness of the Grannies is that they are unable to climb, which is how Isobar, Roberts and Brown escape their land attack by climbing a tree in the Outside dome. However, the Grannies are exceptionally strong, capable of uprooting a tree large enough to hold three adult men. Ultimately, the thing that kills Grannies is bagpipe music, which causes them to lay down and die.\n"
] |
62260
|
TROUBLE ON TYCHO
By NELSON S. BOND
Isobar and his squeeze-pipes were the bane of the Moon Station's existence. But there came the day when his comrades found that the worth of a man lies sometimes in his nuisance value.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories March 1943. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The audiophone buzzed thrice—one long, followed by two shorts—and Isobar Jones pressed the stud activating its glowing scanner-disc.
"Hummm?" he said absent-mindedly.
The selenoplate glowed faintly, and the image of the Dome Commander appeared.
"Report ready, Jones?"
"Almost," acknowledged Isobar gloomily. "It prob'ly ain't right, though. How anybody can be expected to get anything right on this dagnabbed hunk o' green cheese—"
"Send it up," interrupted Colonel Eagan, "as soon as you can. Sparks is making Terra contact now. That is all."
"That ain't all!" declared Isobar indignantly. "How about my bag—?"
It was all , so far as the D.C. was concerned. Isobar was talking to himself. The plate dulled. Isobar said, "Nuts!" and returned to his duties. He jotted neat ditto marks under the word "Clear" which, six months ago, he had placed beneath the column headed: Cond. of Obs. He noted the proper figures under the headings Sun Spots : Max Freq. — Min. Freq. ; then he sketched careful curves in blue and red ink upon the Mercator projection of Earth which was his daily work sheet.
This done, he drew a clean sheet of paper out of his desk drawer, frowned thoughtfully at the tabulated results of his observations, and began writing.
" Weather forecast for Terra ," he wrote, his pen making scratching sounds.
The audiophone rasped again. Isobar jabbed the stud and answered without looking.
"O.Q.," he said wearily. "O.Q. I told you it would be ready in a couple o' minutes. Keep your pants on!"
"I—er—I beg your pardon, Isobar?" queried a mild voice.
Isobar started. His sallow cheeks achieved a sickly salmon hue. He blinked nervously.
"Oh, jumpin' jimminy!" he gulped. " You , Miss Sally! Golly—'scuse me! I didn't realize—"
The Dome Commander's niece giggled.
"That's all right, Isobar. I just called to ask you about the weather in Oceania Sector 4B next week. I've got a swimming date at Waikiki, but I won't make the shuttle unless the weather's going to be nice."
"It is," promised Isobar. "It'll be swell all weekend, Miss Sally. Fine sunshiny weather. You can go."
"That's wonderful. Thanks so much, Isobar."
"Don't mention it, ma'am," said Isobar, and returned to his work.
South America. Africa. Asia. Pan-Europa. Swiftly he outlined the meteorological prospects for each sector. He enjoyed this part of his job. As he wrote forecasts for each area, in his mind's eye he saw himself enjoying such pastimes as each geographical division's terrain rendered possible.
If home is where the heart is, Horatio Jones—known better as "Isobar" to his associates at the Experimental Dome on Luna—was a long, long way from home. His lean, gangling frame was immured, and had been for six tedious Earth months, beneath the impervite hemisphere of Lunar III—that frontier outpost which served as a rocket refueling station, teleradio transmission point and meteorological base.
"Six solid months! Six sad, dreary months!" thought Isobar, "Locked up in an airtight Dome like—like a goldfish in a glass bowl!" Sunlight? Oh, sure! But filtered through ultraviolet wave-traps so it could not burn, it left the skin pale and lustreless and clammy as the belly of a toad. Fresh air? Pooh! Nothing but that everlasting sickening, scented, reoxygenated stuff gushing from atmo-conditioning units.
Excitement? Adventure? The romance he had been led to expect when he signed on for frontier service? Bah! Only a weary, monotonous, routine existence.
"A pain!" declared Isobar Jones. "That's what it is; a pain in the stummick. Not even allowed to—Yeah?"
It was Sparks, audioing from the Dome's transmission turret. He said,
"Hyah, Jonesy! How comes with the report?"
"Done," said Isobar. "I was just gettin' the sheets together for you."
"O.Q. But just bring it . Nothing else."
Isobar bridled.
"I don't know what you're talkin' about."
"Oh, no? Well, I'm talking about that squawk-filled doodlesack of yours, sonny boy. Don't bring that bag-full of noise up here with you."
Isobar said defiantly, "It ain't a doodlesack. It's a bagpipe. And I guess I can play it if I want to—"
"Not," said Sparks emphatically, "in my cubby! I've got sensitive eardrums. Well, stir your stumps! I've got to get the report rolling quick today. Big doings up here."
"Yeah? What?"
"Well, it's Roberts and Brown—"
"What about 'em?"
"They've gone Outside to make foundation repairs."
"Lucky stiffs!" commented Isobar ruefully.
"Lucky, no. Stiffs, maybe—if they should meet any Grannies. Well, scoot along. I'm on the ether in four point sixteen minutes."
"Be right up," promised Isobar, and, sheets in hand, he ambled from his cloistered cell toward the central section of the Dome.
He didn't leave Sparks' turret after the sheets were delivered. Instead, he hung around, fidgeting so obtrusively that Riley finally turned to him in sheer exasperation.
"Sweet snakes of Saturn, Jonesy, what's the trouble? Bugs in your britches?"
Isobar said, "H-huh? Oh, you mean—Oh, thanks, no! I just thought mebbe you wouldn't mind if I—well—er—"
"I get it!" Sparks grinned. "Want to play peekaboo while the contact's open, eh? Well, O.Q. Watch the birdie!"
He twisted dials, adjusted verniers, fingered a host of incomprehensible keys. Current hummed and howled. Then a plate before him cleared, and the voice of the Earth operator came in, enunciating with painstaking clarity:
"Earth answering Luna. Earth answering Luna's call. Can you hear me, Luna? Can you hear—?"
"I can not only hear you," snorted Riley, "I can see you and smell you, as well. Stop hamming it, stupid! You're lousing up the earth!"
The now-visible face of the Earth radioman drew into a grimace of displeasure.
"Oh, it's you ? Funny man, eh? Funny man Riley?"
"Sure," said Riley agreeably. "I'm a scream. Four-alarm Riley, the cosmic comedian—didn't you know? Flick on your dictacoder, oyster-puss; here's the weather report." He read it. "' Weather forecast for Terra, week of May 15-21 —'"
"Ask him," whispered Isobar eagerly. "Sparks, don't forget to ask him!"
Riley motioned for silence, but nodded. He finished the weather report, entered the Dome Commander's log upon the Home Office records, and dictated a short entry from the Luna Biological Commission. Then:
"That is all," he concluded.
"O.Q.," verified the other radioman. Isobar writhed anxiously, prodded Riley's shoulder.
"Ask him, Sparks! Go on ask him!"
"Oh, cut jets, will you?" snapped Sparks. The Terra operator looked startled.
"How's that? I didn't say a word—"
"Don't be a dope," said Sparks, "you dope! I wasn't talking to you. I'm entertaining a visitor, a refugee from a cuckoo clock. Look, do me a favor, chum? Can you twist your mike around so it's pointing out a window?"
"What? Why—why, yes, but—"
"Without buts," said Sparks grumpily. "Yours not to reason why; yours but to do or don't. Will you do it?"
"Well, sure. But I don't understand—" The silver platter which had mirrored the radioman's face clouded as the Earth operator twirled the inconoscope. Walls and desks of an ordinary broadcasting office spun briefly into view; then the plate reflected a glimpse of an Earthly landscape. Soft blue sky warmed by an atmosphere-shielded sun ... green trees firmly rooted in still-greener grass ... flowers ... birds ... people....
"Enough?" asked Sparks.
Isobar Jones awakened from his trance, eyes dulling. Reluctantly he nodded. Riley stared at him strangely, almost gently. To the other radioman, "O.Q., pal," he said. "Cut!"
"Cut!" agreed the other. The plate blanked out.
"Thanks, Sparks," said Isobar.
"Nothing," shrugged Riley " He twisted the mike; not me. But—how come you always want to take a squint at Earth when the circuit's open, Jonesy? Homesick?"
"Sort of," admitted Isobar guiltily.
"Well, hell, aren't we all? But we can't leave here for another six months at least. Not till our tricks are up. I should think it'd only make you feel worse to see Earth."
"It ain't Earth I'm homesick for," explained Isobar. "It's—well, it's the things that go with it. I mean things like grass and flowers and trees."
Sparks grinned; a mirthless, lopsided grin.
"We've got them right here on Luna. Go look out the tower window, Jonesy. The Dome's nestled smack in the middle of the prettiest, greenest little valley you ever saw."
"I know," complained Isobar. "And that's what makes it even worse. All that pretty, soft, green stuff Outside—and we ain't allowed to go out in it. Sometimes I get so mad I'd like to—"
"To," interrupted a crisp voice, "what?"
Isobar spun, flushing; his eyes dropped before those of Dome Commander Eagan. He squirmed.
"N-nothing, sir. I was only saying—"
"I heard you, Jones. And please let me hear no more of such talk, sir! It is strictly forbidden for anyone to go Outside except in cases of absolute necessity. Such labor as caused Patrolmen Brown and Roberts to go, for example—"
"Any word from them yet, sir?" asked Sparks eagerly.
"Not yet. But we're expecting them to return at any minute now. Jones! Where are you going?"
"Why—why, just back to my quarters, sir."
"That's what I thought. And what did you plan to do there?"
Isobar said stubbornly, "Well, I sort of figured I'd amuse myself for a while—"
"I thought that, too. And with what , pray, Jones?"
"With the only dratted thing," said Isobar, suddenly petulant, "that gives me any fun around this dagnabbed place! With my bagpipe."
Commander Eagan said, "You'd better find some new way of amusing yourself, Jones. Have you read General Order 17?"
Isobar said, "I seen it. But if you think—"
"It says," stated Eagan deliberately, "' In order that work or rest periods of the Dome's staff may not be disturbed, it is hereby ordered that the playing or practicing of all or any musical instruments must be discontinued immediately. By order of the Dome Commander ,' That means you, Jones!"
"But, dingbust it!" keened Isobar, "it don't disturb nobody for me to play my bagpipes! I know these lunks around here don't appreciate good music, so I always go in my office and lock the door after me—"
"But the Dome," pointed out Commander Eagan, "has an air-conditioning system which can't be shut off. The ungodly moans of your—er—so-called musical instrument can be heard through the entire structure."
He suddenly seemed to gain stature.
"No, Jones, this order is final! You cannot disrupt our entire organization for your own—er—amusement."
"But—" said Isobar.
"No!"
Isobar wriggled desperately. Life on Luna was sorry enough already. If now they took from him the last remaining solace he had, the last amusement which lightened his moments of freedom—
"Look, Commander!" he pleaded, "I tell you what I'll do. I won't bother nobody. I'll go Outside and play it—"
"Outside!" Eagan stared at him incredulously. "Are you mad? How about the Grannies?"
Isobar knew all about the Grannies. The only mobile form of life found by space-questing man on Earth's satellite, their name was an abbreviation of the descriptive one applied to them by the first Lunar exployers: Granitebacks. This was no exaggeration; if anything, it was an understatement. For the Grannies, though possessed of certain low intelligence, had quickly proven themselves a deadly, unyielding and implacable foe.
Worse yet, they were an enemy almost indestructible! No man had ever yet brought to Earth laboratories the carcass of a Grannie; science was completely baffled in its endeavors to explain the composition of Graniteback physiology—but it was known, from bitter experience, that the carapace or exoskeleton of the Grannies was formed of something harder than steel, diamond, or battleplate! This flesh could be penetrated by no weapon known to man; neither by steel nor flame, by electronic nor ionic wave, nor by the lethal, newly discovered atomo-needle dispenser.
All this Isobar knew about the Grannies. Yet:
"They ain't been any Grannies seen around the Dome," he said, "for a 'coon's age. Anyhow, if I seen any comin', I could run right back inside—"
"No!" said Commander Eagan flatly. "Absolutely, no ! I have no time for such nonsense. You know the orders—obey them! And now, gentlemen, good afternoon!"
He left. Sparks turned to Isobar, grinning.
"Well," he said, "one man's fish—hey, Jonesy? Too bad you can't play your doodlesack any more, but frankly, I'm just as glad. Of all the awful screeching wails—"
But Isobar Jones, generally mild and gentle, was now in a perfect fury. His pale eyes blazed, he stomped his foot on the floor, and from his lips poured a stream of such angry invective that Riley looked startled. Words that, to Isobar, were the utter dregs of violent profanity.
"Oh, dagnab it!" fumed Isobar Jones. "Oh, tarnation and dingbust! Oh— fiddlesticks !"
II
"And so," chuckled Riley, "he left, bubbling like a kettle on a red-hot oven. But, boy! was he ever mad! Just about ready to bust, he was."
Some minutes had passed since Isobar had left; Riley was talking to Dr. Loesch, head of the Dome's Physics Research Division. The older man nodded commiseratingly.
"It is funny, yes," he agreed, "but at the same time it is not altogether amusing. I feel sorry for him. He is a very unhappy man, our poor Isobar."
"Yeah, I know," said Riley, "but, hell, we all get a little bit homesick now and then. He ought to learn to—"
"Excuse me, my boy," interrupted the aged physicist, his voice gentle,
"it is not mere homesickness that troubles our friend. It is something deeper, much more vital and serious. It is what my people call: weltschmertz . There is no accurate translation in English. It means
'world sickness,' or better, 'world weariness'—something like that but intensified a thousandfold.
"It is a deeply-rooted mental condition, sometimes a dangerous frame of mind. Under its grip, men do wild things. Hating the world on which they find themselves, they rebel in curious ways. Suicide ... mad acts of valor ... deeds of cunning or knavery...."
"You mean," demanded Sparks anxiously, "Isobar ain't got all his buttons?"
"Not that exactly. He is perfectly sane. But he is in a dark morass of despair. He may try anything to retrieve his lost happiness, rid his soul of its dark oppression. His world-sickness is like a crying hunger—By the way, where is he now?"
"Below, I guess. In his quarters."
"Ah, good! Perhaps he is sleeping. Let us hope so. In slumber he will find peace and forgetfulness."
But Dr. Loesch would have been far less sanguine had some power the
"giftie gi'en" him of watching Isobar Jones at that moment.
Isobar was not asleep. Far from it. Wide awake and very much astir, he was acting in a singularly sinister role: that of a slinking, furtive culprit.
Returning to his private cubicle after his conversation with Dome Commander Eagan, he had stalked straightway to the cabinet wherein was encased his precious set of bagpipes. These he had taken from their pegs, gazed upon defiantly, and fondled with almost parental affection.
"So I can't play you, huh?" he muttered darkly. "It disturbs the peace o' the dingfounded, dumblasted Dome staff, does it? Well, we'll see about that!"
And tucking the bag under his arm, he had cautiously slipped from the room, down little-used corridors, and now he stood before the huge impervite gates which were the entrance to the Dome and the doorway to Outside.
On all save those occasions when a spacecraft landed in the cradle adjacent the gateway, these portals were doubly locked and barred. But today they had been unbolted that the two maintenance men might venture out. And since it was quite possible that Brown and Roberts might have to get inside in a hurry, their bolts remained drawn. Sole guardian of the entrance was a very bored Junior Patrolman.
Up to this worthy strode Isobar Jones, confident and assured, exuding an aura of propriety.
"Very well, Wilkins," he said. "I'll take over now. You may go to the meeting."
Wilkins looked at him bewilderedly.
"Huh? Whuzzat, Mr. Jones?"
Isobar's eyebrows arched.
"You mean you haven't been notified?"
"Notified of what ?"
"Why, the general council of all Patrolmen! Weren't you told that I would take your place here while you reported to G.H.Q.?"
"I ain't," puzzled Wilkins, "heard nothing about it. Maybe I ought to call the office, maybe?"
And he moved the wall-audio. But Isobar said swiftly. "That—er—won't be necessary, Wilkins. My orders were plain enough. Now, you just run along. I'll watch this entrance for you."
"We-e-ell," said Wilkins, "if you say so. Orders is orders. But keep a sharp eye out, Mister Jones, in case Roberts and Brown should come back sudden-like."
"I will," promised Isobar, "don't worry."
Wilkins moved away. Isobar waited until the Patrolman was completely out of sight. Then swiftly he pulled open the massive gate, slipped through, and closed it behind him.
A flood of warmth, exhilarating after the constantly regulated temperature of the Dome, descended upon him. Fresh air, thin, but fragrant with the scent of growing things, made his pulses stir with joyous abandon. He was Outside! He was Outside, in good sunlight, at last! After six long and dreary months!
Raptly, blissfully, all thought of caution tossed to the gentle breezes that ruffled his sparse hair, Isobar Jones stepped forward into the lunar valley....
How long he wandered thus, carefree and utterly content, he could not afterward say. It seemed like minutes; it must have been longer. He only knew that the grass was green beneath his feet, the trees were a lacy network through which warm sunlight filtered benevolently, the chirrupings of small insects and the rustling whisper of the breezes formed a tiny symphony of happiness through which he moved as one charmed.
It did not occur to him that he had wandered too far from the Dome's entrance until, strolling through an enchanting flower-decked glade, he was startled to hear—off to his right—the sharp, explosive bark of a Haemholtz ray pistol.
He whirled, staring about him wildly, and discovered that though his meandering had kept him near the Dome, he had unconsciously followed its hemispherical perimeter to a point nearly two miles from the Gateway. By the placement of ports and windows, Isobar was able to judge his location perfectly; he was opposite that portion of the structure which housed Sparks' radio turret.
And the shooting? That could only be—
He did not have to name its reason, even to himself. For at that moment, there came racing around the curve of the Dome a pair of figures, Patrolmen clad in fatigue drab. Roberts and Brown. Roberts was staggering, one foot dragged awkwardly as he ran; Brown's left arm, bloodstained from shoulder to elbow, hung limply at his side, but in his good right fist he held a spitting Haemholtz with which he tried to cover his comrade's sluggish retreat.
And behind these two, grim, grey, gaunt figures that moved with astonishing speed despite their massive bulk, came three ... six ... a dozen of those lunarites whom all men feared. The Grannies!
III
Simultaneously with his recognition of the pair, Joe Roberts saw him. A gasp of relief escaped the wounded man.
"Jones! Thank the Lord! Then you picked up our cry for help? Quick, man—where is it? Theres not a moment to waste!"
"W-where," faltered Isobar feebly, "is what ?"
"The tank, of course! Didn't you hear our telecast? We can't possibly make it back to the gate without an armored car. My foot's broken, and—" Roberts stopped suddenly, an abrupt horror in his eyes. "You don't have one! You're here alone ! Then you didn't pick up our call? But, why—?"
"Never mind that," snapped Isobar, "now!" Placid by nature, he could move when urgency drove. His quick mind saw the immediateness of their peril. Unarmed, he could not help the Patrolmen fight a delaying action against their foes, nor could he hasten their retreat. Anyway, weapons were useless, and time was of the essence. There was but one temporary way of staving off disaster. "Over here ... this tree! Quick! Up you go! Give him a lift, Brown—There! That's the stuff!"
He was the last to scramble up the gnarled bole to a tentative leafy sanctuary. He had barely gained the security of the lowermost bough when a thundering crash resounded, the sturdy trunk trembled beneath his clutch. Stony claws gouged yellow parallels in the bark scant inches beneath one kicking foot, then the Granny fell back with a thud. The Graniteback was not a climber. It was far too ungainly, much too weighty for that.
Roberts said weakly, "Th-thanks, Jonesy! That was a close call."
"That goes for me, too, Jonesy," added Brown from an upper bough.
"But I'm afraid you just delayed matters. This tree's O.Q. as long as it lasts, but—" He stared down upon the gathering knot of Grannies unhappily—"it's not going to last long with that bunch of superdreadnaughts working out on it! Hold tight, fellows! Here they come!"
For the Grannies, who had huddled for a moment as if in telepathic consultation, now joined forces, turned, and as one body charged headlong toward the tree. The unified force of their attack was like the shattering impact of a battering ram. Bark rasped and gritted beneath the besieged men's hands, dry leaves and twigs pelted about them in a tiny rain, tormented fibrous sinews groaned as the aged forest monarch shuddered in agony.
Desperately they clung to their perches. Though the great tree bent, it did not break. But when it stopped trembling, it was canted drunkenly to one side, and the erstwhile solid earth about its base was broken and cracked—revealing fleshy tentacles uprooted from ancient moorings!
Brown stared at this evidence of the Grannies' power with terror-fascinated eyes. His voice was none too firm.
"Lord! Piledrivers! A couple more like that—"
Isobar nodded. He knew what falling into the clutch of the Grannies meant. He had once seen the grisly aftermath of a Graniteback feast. Even now their adversaries had drawn back for a second attack. A sudden idea struck him. A straw of hope at which he grasped feverishly.
"You telecast a message to the Dome? Help should be on the way by now. If we can just hold out—"
But Roberts shook his head.
"We sent a message, Jonesy, but I don't think it got through. I've just been looking at my portable. It seems to be busted. Happened when they first attacked us, I guess. I tripped and fell on it."
Isobar's last hope flickered out.
"Then I—I guess it won't be long now," he mourned. "If we could have only got a message through, they would have sent out an armored car to pick us up. But as it is—"
Brown's shrug displayed a bravado he did not feel.
"Well, that's the way it goes. We knew what we were risking when we volunteered to come Outside. This damn moon! It'll never be worth a plugged credit until men find some way to fight those murderous stones-on-legs!"
Roberts said, "That's right. But what are you doing out here, Isobar? And why, for Pete's sake, the bagpipes?"
"Oh—the pipes?" Isobar flushed painfully. He had almost forgotten his original reason for adventuring Outside, had quite forgotten his instrument, and was now rather amazed to discover that somehow throughout all the excitement he had held onto it. "Why, I just happened to—Oh! the pipes! "
"Hold on!" roared Roberts. His warning came just in time. Once more, the three tree-sitters shook like dried peas in a pod as their leafy refuge trembled before the locomotive onslaught of the lunar beasts. This time the already-exposed roots strained and lifted, several snapped; when the Grannies again withdrew, complacently unaware that the "lethal ray" of Brown's Haemholtz was wasting itself upon their adamant hides in futile fury, the tree was bent at a precarious angle.
Brown sobbed, not with fear but with impotent anger, and in a gesture of enraged desperation, hurled his now-empty weapon at the retreating Grannies.
"No good! Not a damn bit of good! Oh, if there was only some way of fighting those filthy things—"
But Isobar Jones had a one-track mind. "The pipes!" he cried again, excitedly. "That's the answer!" And he drew the instrument into playing position, bag cuddled beneath one arm-pit, drones stiffly erect over his shoulder, blow-pipe at his lips. His cheeks puffed, his breath expelled. The giant lung swelled, the chaunter emitted its distinctive, fearsome, " Kaa-aa-o-o-o-oro-oong! "
Roberts moaned.
"Oh, Lord! A guy can't even die in peace!"
And Brown stared at him hopelessly.
"It's no use, Isobar. You trying to scare them off? They have no sense of hearing. That's been proven—"
Isobar took his lips from the reed to explain.
"It's not that. I'm trying to rouse the boys in the Dome. We're right opposite the atmosphere-conditioning-unit. See that grilled duct over there? That's an inhalation-vent. The portable transmitter's out of order, and our voices ain't strong enough to carry into the Dome—but the sound of these pipes is! And Commander Eagan told me just a short while ago that the sound of the pipes carries all over the building!
"If they hear this, they'll get mad because I'm disobeyin' orders. They'll start lookin' for me. If they can't find me inside, maybe they'll look Outside. See that window? That's Sparks' turret. If we can make him look out here—"
" Stop talking! " roared Roberts. "Stop talking, guy, and start blowing! I think you've got something there. Anyhow, it's our last hope. Blow! "
"And quick!" appended Brown. "For here they come!"
Isobar played, blew with all his might, while the Grannies raged below.
He meant the Grannies. Again they were huddling for attack, once more, a solid phalanx of indestructible, granite flesh, they were smashing down upon the tree.
" Haa-a-roong! " blew Isobar Jones.
IV
And—even he could not have foreseen the astounding results of his piping! What happened next was as astonishing as it was incomprehensible. For as the pipes, filled now and primed to burst into whatever substitute for melody they were prodded into, wailed into action—the Grannies' rush came to an abrupt halt!
As one, they stopped cold in their tracks and turned dull, colorless, questioning eyes upward into the tree whence came this weird and vibrant droning!
So stunned with surprise was Isobar that his grip on the pipes relaxed, his lips almost slipped from the reed. But Brown's delighted bellow lifted his paralysis.
"Sacred rings of Saturn-look! They like it! Keep playing, Jonesy! Play, boy, like you never played before!"
And Roberts roared, above the skirling of the piobaireachd into which Isobar had instinctively swung, "Music hath charms to soothe the savage beast! Then we were wrong. They can hear, after all! See that? They're lying down to listen—like so many lambs! Keep playing, Isobar! For once in my life I'm glad to hear that lovely, wonderful music!"
Isobar needed no urging. He, too, had noted how the Grannies' attack had stopped, how every last one of the gaunt grey beasts had suddenly, quietly, almost happily, dropped to its haunches at the base of the tree.
There was no doubt about it; the Grannies liked this music. Eyes raptly fixed, unblinking, unwavering, they froze into postures of gentle beatitude. One stirred once, dangerously, as for a moment Isobar paused to catch his breath, but Isobar hastily lipped the blow-pipe with redoubled eagerness, and the Granny relapsed into quietude.
Followed then what, under somewhat different circumstances, should have been a piper's dream. For Isobar had an audience which would not—and in two cases dared not—allow him to stop playing. And to this audience he played over and over again his entire repertoire. Marches, flings, dances—the stirring Rhoderik Dhu and the lilting Lassies O'Skye , the mournful Coghiegh nha Shie whose keening is like the sound of a sobbing nation.
The Cock o' the North , he played, and Mironton ... Wee Flow'r o' Dee and MacArthur's March ... La Cucuracha and—
And his lungs were parched, his lips dry as swabs of cotton. Blood pounded through his temples, throbbing in time to the drone of the chaunter, and a dark mist gathered before his eyes. He tore the blow-pipe from his lips, gasped,
"Keep playing!" came the dim, distant howl of Johnny Brown. "Just a few minutes longer, Jonesy! Relief is on the way. Sparks saw us from his turret window five minutes ago!"
And Isobar played on. How, or what, he did not know. The memory of those next few minutes was never afterward clear in his mind. All he knew was that above the skirling drone of his pipes there came another sound, the metallic clanking of a man-made machine ... an armored tank, sent from the Dome to rescue the beleaguered trio.
He was conscious, then, of a friendly voice shouting words of encouragement, of Joe Roberts calling a warning to those below.
"Careful, boys! Drive the tank right up beneath us so we can hop in and get out of here! Watch the Grannies—they'll be after us the minute Isobar stops playing!"
Then the answer from below. The fantastic answer in Sparks' familiar voice. The answer that caused the bagpipes to slip from Isobar's fingers as Isobar Jones passed out in a dead faint:
"After you? Those Grannies? Hell's howling acres— those Grannies are stone dead !"
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Describe what the robots are.
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After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about Orphans of the Void by Michael Shaara.
Relevant chunks:
Orphans of the Void
By MICHAEL SHAARA
Illustrated by EMSH
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Finding a cause worth dying for is no great trick—the Universe is full of them. Finding one worth living for is the genuine problem!
In the region of the Coal Sack Nebula, on the dead fourth planet of a star called Tyban, Captain Steffens of the Mapping Command stood counting buildings. Eleven. No, twelve. He wondered if there was any significance in the number. He had no idea.
"What do you make of it?" he asked.
Lieutenant Ball, the executive officer of the ship, almost tried to scratch his head before he remembered that he was wearing a spacesuit.
"Looks like a temporary camp," Ball said. "Very few buildings, and all built out of native materials, the only stuff available. Castaways, maybe?"
Steffens was silent as he walked up onto the rise. The flat weathered stone jutted out of the sand before him.
"No inscriptions," he pointed out.
"They would have been worn away. See the wind grooves? Anyway, there's not another building on the whole damn planet. You wouldn't call it much of a civilization."
"You don't think these are native?"
Ball said he didn't. Steffens nodded.
Standing there and gazing at the stone, Steffens felt the awe of great age. He had a hunch, deep and intuitive, that this was old— too old. He reached out a gloved hand, ran it gently over the smooth stone ridges of the wall. Although the atmosphere was very thin, he noticed that the buildings had no airlocks.
Ball's voice sounded in his helmet: "Want to set up shop, Skipper?"
Steffens paused. "All right, if you think it will do any good."
"You never can tell. Excavation probably won't be much use. These things are on a raised rock foundation, swept clean by the wind. And you can see that the rock itself is native—" he indicated the ledge beneath their feet—"and was cut out a long while back."
"How long?"
Ball toed the sand uncomfortably. "I wouldn't like to say off-hand."
"Make a rough estimate."
Ball looked at the captain, knowing what was in his mind. He smiled wryly and said: "Five thousand years? Ten thousand? I don't know."
Steffens whistled.
Ball pointed again at the wall. "Look at the striations. You can tell from that alone. It would take even a brisk Earth wind at least several thousand years to cut that deep, and the wind here has only a fraction of that force."
The two men stood for a long moment in silence. Man had been in interstellar space for three hundred years and this was the first uncovered evidence of an advanced, space-crossing, alien race. It was an historic moment, but neither of them was thinking about history.
Man had been in space for only three hundred years. Whatever had built these had been in space for thousands of years.
Which ought to give them , thought Steffens uncomfortably, one hell of a good head-start.
While the excav crew worked steadily, turning up nothing, Steffens remained alone among the buildings. Ball came out to him, looked dryly at the walls.
"Well," he said, "whoever they were, we haven't heard from them since."
"No? How can you be sure?" Steffens grunted. "A space-borne race was roaming this part of the Galaxy while men were still pitching spears at each other, that long ago. And this planet is only a parsec from Varius II, a civilization as old as Earth's. Did whoever built these get to Varius? Or did they get to Earth? How can you know?"
He kicked at the sand distractedly. "And most important, where are they now? A race with several thousand years...."
"Fifteen thousand," Ball said. When Steffens looked up, he added:
"That's what the geology boys say. Fifteen thousand, at the least."
Steffens turned to stare unhappily at the buildings. When he realized now how really old they were, a sudden thought struck him.
"But why buildings? Why did they have to build in stone, to last? There's something wrong with that. They shouldn't have had a need to build, unless they were castaways. And castaways would have left something behind. The only reason they would need a camp would be—"
"If the ship left and some of them stayed."
Steffens nodded. "But then the ship must have come back. Where did it go?" He ceased kicking at the sand and looked up into the blue-black midday sky. "We'll never know."
"How about the other planets?" Ball asked.
"The report was negative. Inner too hot, outer too heavy and cold. The third planet is the only one with a decent temperature range, but it has a CO
2
atmosphere."
"How about moons?"
Steffens shrugged. "We could try them and find out."
The third planet was a blank, gleaming ball until they were in close, and then the blankness resolved into folds and piling clouds and dimly, in places, the surface showed through. The ship went down through the clouds, falling the last few miles on her brakers. They came into the misty gas below, leveled off and moved along the edge of the twilight zone.
The moons of this solar system had yielded nothing. The third planet, a hot, heavy world which had no free oxygen and from which the monitors had detected nothing, was all that was left. Steffens expected nothing, but he had to try.
At a height of several miles, the ship moved up the zone, scanning, moving in the familiar slow spiral of the Mapping Command. Faint dark outlines of bare rocks and hills moved by below.
Steffens turned the screen to full magnification and watched silently.
After a while he saw a city.
The main screen being on, the whole crew saw it. Someone shouted and they stopped to stare, and Steffens was about to call for altitude when he saw that the city was dead.
He looked down on splintered walls that were like cloudy glass pieces rising above a plain, rising in a shattered circle. Near the center of the city, there was a huge, charred hole at least three miles in diameter and very deep. In all the piled rubble, nothing moved.
Steffens went down low to make sure, then brought the ship around and headed out across the main continent into the bright area of the sun. The rocks rolled by below, there was no vegetation at all, and then there were more cities—all with the black depression, the circular stamp that blotted away and fused the buildings into nothing.
No one on the ship had anything to say. None had ever seen a war, for there had not been war on Earth or near it for more than three hundred years.
The ship circled around to the dark side of the planet. When they were down below a mile, the radiation counters began to react. It became apparent, from the dials, that there could be nothing alive.
After a while Ball said: "Well, which do you figure? Did our friends from the fourth planet do this, or were they the same people as these?"
Steffens did not take his eyes from the screen. They were coming around to the daylight side.
"We'll go down and look for the answer," he said. "Break out the radiation suits."
He paused, thinking. If the ones on the fourth planet were alien to this world, they were from outer space, could not have come from one of the other planets here. They had starships and were warlike. Then, thousands of years ago. He began to realize how important it really was that Ball's question be answered.
When the ship had gone very low, looking for a landing site, Steffens was still by the screen. It was Steffens, then, who saw the thing move.
Down far below, it had been a still black shadow, and then it moved. Steffens froze. And he knew, even at that distance, that it was a robot.
Tiny and black, a mass of hanging arms and legs, the thing went gliding down the slope of a hill. Steffens saw it clearly for a full second, saw the dull ball of its head tilt upward as the ship came over, and then the hill was past.
Quickly Steffens called for height. The ship bucked beneath him and blasted straight up; some of the crew went crashing to the deck. Steffens remained by the screen, increasing the magnification as the ship drew away. And he saw another, then two, then a black gliding group, all matched with bunches of hanging arms.
Nothing alive but robots, he thought, robots . He adjusted to full close up as quickly as he could and the picture focused on the screen. Behind him he heard a crewman grunt in amazement.
A band of clear, plasticlike stuff ran round the head—it would be the eye, a band of eye that saw all ways. On the top of the head was a single round spot of the plastic, and the rest was black metal, joined, he realized, with fantastic perfection. The angle of sight was now almost perpendicular. He could see very little of the branching arms of the trunk, but what had been on the screen was enough. They were the most perfect robots he had ever seen.
The ship leveled off. Steffens had no idea what to do; the sudden sight of the moving things had unnerved him. He had already sounded the alert, flicked out the defense screens. Now he had nothing to do. He tried to concentrate on what the League Law would have him do.
The Law was no help. Contact with planet-bound races was forbidden under any circumstances. But could a bunch of robots be called a race? The Law said nothing about robots because Earthmen had none. The building of imaginative robots was expressly forbidden. But at any rate, Steffens thought, he had made contact already.
While Steffens stood by the screen, completely bewildered for the first time in his space career, Lieutenant Ball came up, hobbling slightly. From the bright new bruise on his cheek, Steffens guessed that the sudden climb had caught him unaware. The exec was pale with surprise.
"What were they?" he said blankly. "Lord, they looked like robots!"
"They were."
Ball stared confoundedly at the screen. The things were now a confusion of dots in the mist.
"Almost humanoid," Steffens said, "but not quite."
Ball was slowly absorbing the situation. He turned to gaze inquiringly at Steffens.
"Well, what do we do now?"
Steffens shrugged. "They saw us. We could leave now and let them quite possibly make a ... a legend out of our visit, or we could go down and see if they tie in with the buildings on Tyban IV."
" Can we go down?"
"Legally? I don't know. If they are robots, yes, since robots cannot constitute a race. But there's another possibility." He tapped his fingers on the screen confusedly. "They don't have to be robots at all. They could be the natives."
Ball gulped. "I don't follow you."
"They could be the original inhabitants of this planet—the brains of them, at least, protected in radiation-proof metal. Anyway," he added,
"they're the most perfect mechanicals I've ever seen."
Ball shook his head, sat down abruptly. Steffens turned from the screen, strode nervously across the Main Deck, thinking.
The Mapping Command, they called it. Theoretically, all he was supposed to do was make a closeup examination of unexplored systems, checking for the presence of life-forms as well as for the possibilities of human colonization. Make a check and nothing else. But he knew very clearly that if he returned to Sirius base without investigating this robot situation, he could very well be court-martialed one way or the other, either for breaking the Law of Contact or for dereliction of duty.
And there was also the possibility, which abruptly occurred to him, that the robots might well be prepared to blow his ship to hell and gone.
He stopped in the center of the deck. A whole new line of thought opened up. If the robots were armed and ready ... could this be an outpost?
An outpost!
He turned and raced for the bridge. If he went in and landed and was lost, then the League might never know in time. If he went in and stirred up trouble....
The thought in his mind was scattered suddenly, like a mist blown away. A voice was speaking in his mind, a deep calm voice that seemed to say:
" Greetings. Do not be alarmed. We do not wish you to be alarmed. Our desire is only to serve.... "
"Greetings, it said! Greetings!" Ball was mumbling incredulously through shocked lips.
Everyone on the ship had heard the voice. When it spoke again, Steffens was not sure whether it was just one voice or many voices.
"We await your coming," it said gravely, and repeated: "Our desire is only to serve."
And then the robots sent a picture .
As perfect and as clear as a tridim movie, a rectangular plate took shape in Steffens' mind. On the face of the plate, standing alone against a background of red-brown, bare rocks, was one of the robots. With slow, perfect movement, the robot carefully lifted one of the hanging arms of its side, of its right side, and extended it toward Steffens, a graciously offered hand.
Steffens felt a peculiar, compelling urge to take the hand, realized right away that the urge to take the hand was not entirely his. The robot mind had helped.
When the picture vanished, he knew that the others had seen it. He waited for a while; there was no further contact, but the feeling of the robot's urging was still strong within him. He had an idea that, if they wanted to, the robots could control his mind. So when nothing more happened, he began to lose his fear.
While the crew watched in fascination, Steffens tried to talk back. He concentrated hard on what he was saying, said it aloud for good measure, then held his own hand extended in the robot manner of shaking hands.
"Greetings," he said, because it was what they had said, and explained: "We have come from the stars."
It was overly dramatic, but so was the whole situation. He wondered baffledly if he should have let the Alien Contact crew handle it. Order someone to stand there, feeling like a fool, and think a message?
No, it was his responsibility; he had to go on:
"We request—we respectfully request permission to land upon your planet."
Steffens had not realized that there were so many.
They had been gathering since his ship was first seen, and now there were hundreds of them clustered upon the hill. Others were arriving even as the skiff landed; they glided in over the rocky hills with fantastic ease and power, so that Steffens felt a momentary anxiety. Most of the robots were standing with the silent immobility of metal. Others threaded their way to the fore and came near the skiff, but none touched it, and a circle was cleared for Steffens when he came out.
One of the near robots came forward alone, moving, as Steffens now saw, on a number of short, incredibly strong and agile legs. The black thing paused before him, extended a hand as it had done in the picture. Steffens took it, he hoped, warmly; felt the power of the metal through the glove of his suit.
"Welcome," the robot said, speaking again to his mind, and now Steffens detected a peculiar alteration in the robot's tone. It was less friendly now, less—Steffens could not understand—somehow less interested , as if the robot had been—expecting someone else.
"Thank you," Steffens said. "We are deeply grateful for your permission to land."
"Our desire," the robot repeated mechanically, "is only to serve."
Suddenly, Steffens began to feel alone, surrounded by machines. He tried to push the thought out of his mind, because he knew that they should seem inhuman. But....
"Will the others come down?" asked the robot, still mechanically.
Steffens felt his embarrassment. The ship lay high in the mist above, jets throbbing gently.
"They must remain with the ship," Steffens said aloud, trusting to the robot's formality not to ask him why. Although, if they could read his mind, there was no need to ask.
For a long while, neither spoke, long enough for Steffens to grow tense and uncomfortable. He could not think of a thing to say, the robot was obviously waiting, and so, in desperation, he signaled the Aliencon men to come on out of the skiff.
They came, wonderingly, and the ring of robots widened. Steffens heard the one robot speak again. The voice was now much more friendly.
"We hope you will forgive us for intruding upon your thought. It is our—custom—not to communicate unless we are called upon. But when we observed that you were in ignorance of our real—nature—and were about to leave our planet, we decided to put aside our custom, so that you might base your decision upon sufficient data."
Steffens replied haltingly that he appreciated their action.
"We perceive," the robot went on, "that you are unaware of our complete access to your mind, and would perhaps be—dismayed—to learn that we have been gathering information from you. We must—apologize. Our only purpose was so that we could communicate with you. Only that information was taken which is necessary for communication and—understanding. We will enter your minds henceforth only at your request."
Steffens did not react to the news that his mind was being probed as violently as he might have. Nevertheless it was a shock, and he retreated into observant silence as the Aliencon men went to work.
The robot which seemed to have been doing the speaking was in no way different from any of the others in the group. Since each of the robots was immediately aware of all that was being said or thought, Steffens guessed that they had sent one forward just for appearance's sake, because they perceived that the Earthmen would feel more at home. The picture of the extended hand, the characteristic handshake of Earthmen, had probably been borrowed, too, for the same purpose of making him and the others feel at ease. The one jarring note was the robot's momentary lapse, those unexplainable few seconds when the things had seemed almost disappointed. Steffens gave up wondering about that and began to examine the first robot in detail.
It was not very tall, being at least a foot shorter than the Earthmen. The most peculiar thing about it, except for the circling eye-band of the head, was a mass of symbols which were apparently engraved upon the metal chest. Symbols in row upon row—numbers, perhaps—were upon the chest, and repeated again below the level of the arms, and continued in orderly rows across the front of the robot, all the way down to the base of the trunk. If they were numbers, Steffens thought, then it was a remarkably complicated system. But he noticed the same pattern on the nearer robots, all apparently identical. He was forced to conclude that the symbols were merely decoration and let it go tentatively at that, although the answer seemed illogical.
It wasn't until he was on his way home that Steffens remembered the symbols again. And only then did he realized what they were.
After a while, convinced that there was no danger, Steffens had the ship brought down. When the crew came out of the airlock, they were met by the robots, and each man found himself with a robot at his side, humbly requesting to be of service. There were literally thousands of the robots now, come from all over the barren horizon. The mass of them stood apart, immobile on a plain near the ship, glinting in the sun like a vast, metallic field of black wheat.
The robots had obviously been built to serve. Steffens began to feel their pleasure, to sense it in spite of the blank, expressionless faces. They were almost like children in their eagerness, yet they were still reserved. Whoever had built them, Steffens thought in wonder, had built them well.
Ball came to join Steffens, staring at the robots through the clear plastic of his helmet with baffledly widened eyes. A robot moved out from the mass in the field, allied itself to him. The first to speak had remained with Steffens.
Realizing that the robot could hear every word he was saying, Ball was for a while apprehensive. But the sheer unreality of standing and talking with a multi-limbed, intelligent hunk of dead metal upon the bare rock of a dead, ancient world, the unreality of it slowly died. It was impossible not to like the things. There was something in their very lines which was pleasant and relaxing.
Their builders, Steffens thought, had probably thought of that, too.
"There's no harm in them," said Ball at last, openly, not minding if the robots heard. "They seem actually glad we're here. My God, whoever heard of a robot being glad?"
Steffens, embarrassed, spoke quickly to the nearest mechanical: "I hope you will forgive us our curiosity, but—yours is a remarkable race. We have never before made contact with a race like yours." It was said haltingly, but it was the best he could do.
The robot made a singularly human nodding motion of its head.
"I perceive that the nature of our construction is unfamiliar to you. Your question is whether or not we are entirely 'mechanical.' I am not exactly certain as to what the word 'mechanical' is intended to convey—I would have to examine your thought more fully—but I believe that there is fundamental similarity between our structures."
The robot paused. Steffens had a distinct impression that it was disconcerted.
"I must tell you," the thing went on, "that we ourselves are—curious." It stopped suddenly, struggling with a word it could not comprehend. Steffens waited, listening with absolute interest. It said at length:
"We know of only two types of living structure. Ours, which is largely metallic, and that of the Makers , which would appear to be somewhat more like yours. I am not a—doctor—and therefore cannot acquaint you with the specific details of the Makers' composition, but if you are interested I will have a doctor brought forward. It will be glad to be of assistance."
It was Steffens' turn to struggle, and the robot waited patiently while Ball and the second robot looked on in silence. The Makers, obviously, were whoever or whatever had built the robots, and the "doctors," Steffens decided, were probably just that—doctor-robots, designed specifically to care for the apparently flesh-bodies of the Makers.
The efficiency of the things continued to amaze him, but the question he had been waiting to ask came out now with a rush:
"Can you tell us where the Makers are?"
Both robots stood motionless. It occurred to Steffens that he couldn't really be sure which was speaking. The voice that came to him spoke with difficulty.
"The Makers—are not here."
Steffens stared in puzzlement. The robot detected his confusion and went on:
"The Makers have gone away. They have been gone for a very long time."
Could that be pain in its voice, Steffens wondered, and then the spectre of the ruined cities rose harsh in his mind.
War. The Makers had all been killed in that war. And these had not been killed.
He tried to grasp it, but he couldn't. There were robots here in the midst of a radiation so lethal that nothing , nothing could live; robots on a dead planet, living in an atmosphere of carbon dioxide.
The carbon dioxide brought him up sharp.
If there had been life here once, there would have been plant life as well, and therefore oxygen. If the war had been so long ago that the free oxygen had since gone out of the atmosphere—good God, how old were the robots? Steffens looked at Ball, then at the silent robots, then out across the field to where the rest of them stood. The black wheat. Steffens felt a deep chill.
Were they immortal?
"Would you like to see a doctor?"
Steffens jumped at the familiar words, then realized to what the robot was referring.
"No, not yet," he said, "thank you." He swallowed hard as the robots continued waiting patiently.
"Could you tell me," he said at last, "how old you are? Individually?"
"By your reckoning," said his robot, and paused to make the calculation, "I am forty-four years, seven months, and eighteen days of age, with ten years and approximately nine months yet to be alive."
Steffens tried to understand that.
"It would perhaps simplify our conversations," said the robot, "if you were to refer to me by a name, as is your custom. Using the first—letters—of my designation, my name would translate as Elb."
"Glad to meet you," Steffens mumbled.
"You are called 'Stef,'" said the robot obligingly. Then it added, pointing an arm at the robot near Ball: "The age of—Peb—is seventeen years, one month and four days. Peb has therefore remaining some thirty-eight years."
Steffens was trying to keep up. Then the life span was obviously about fifty-five years. But the cities, and the carbon dioxide? The robot, Elb, had said that the Makers were similar to him, and therefore oxygen and plant life would have been needed. Unless—
He remembered the buildings on Tyban IV.
Unless the Makers had not come from this planet at all.
His mind helplessly began to revolve. It was Ball who restored order.
"Do you build yourselves?" the exec asked.
Peb answered quickly, that faint note of happiness again apparent, as if the robot was glad for the opportunity of answering.
"No, we do not build ourselves. We are made by the—" another pause for a word—"by the Factory ."
"The Factory?"
"Yes. It was built by the Makers. Would you care to see it?"
Both of the Earthmen nodded dumbly.
"Would you prefer to use your—skiff? It is quite a long way from here."
It was indeed a long way, even by skiff. Some of the Aliencon crew went along with them. And near the edge of the twilight zone, on the other side of the world, they saw the Factory outlined in the dim light of dusk. A huge, fantastic block, wrought of gray and cloudy metal, lay in a valley between two worn mountains. Steffens went down low, circling in the skiff, stared in awe at the size of the building. Robots moved outside the thing, little black bugs in the distance—moving around their birthplace.
The Earthmen remained for several weeks. During that time, Steffens was usually with Elb, talking now as often as he listened, and the Aliencon team roamed the planet freely, investigating what was certainly the strangest culture in history. There was still the mystery of those buildings on Tyban IV; that, as well as the robots' origin, would have to be cleared up before they could leave.
Surprisingly, Steffens did not think about the future. Whenever he came near a robot, he sensed such a general, comfortable air of good feeling that it warmed him, and he was so preoccupied with watching the robots that he did little thinking.
Something he had not realized at the beginning was that he was as unusual to the robots as they were to him. It came to him with a great shock that not one of the robots had ever seen a living thing. Not a bug, a worm, a leaf. They did not know what flesh was. Only the doctors knew that, and none of them could readily understand what was meant by the words "organic matter." It had taken them some time to recognize that the Earthmen wore suits which were not parts of their bodies, and it was even more difficult for them to understand why the suits were needed.
But when they did understand, the robots did a surprising thing.
At first, because of the excessive radiation, none of the Earthmen could remain outside the ship for long, even in radiation suits. And one morning, when Steffens came out of the ship, it was to discover that hundreds of the robots, working through the night, had effectively decontaminated the entire area.
It was at this point that Steffens asked how many robots there were. He learned to his amazement that there were more than nine million. The great mass of them had politely remained a great distance from the ship, spread out over the planet, since they were highly radioactive.
Steffens, meanwhile, courteously allowed Elb to probe into his mind. The robot extracted all the knowledge of matter that Steffens held, pondered over the knowledge and tried to digest it, and passed it on to the other robots. Steffens, in turn, had a difficult time picturing the mind of a thing that had never known life.
He had a vague idea of the robot's history—more, perhaps, then they knew themselves—but he refrained from forming an opinion until Aliencon made its report. What fascinated him was Elb's amazing philosophy, the only outlook, really, that the robot could have had.
"What do you do ?" Steffens asked.
Elb replied quickly, with characteristic simplicity: "We can do very little. A certain amount of physical knowledge was imparted to us at birth by the Makers. We spend the main part of our time expanding that knowledge wherever possible. We have made some progress in the natural sciences, and some in mathematics. Our purpose in being, you see, is to serve the Makers. Any ability we can acquire will make us that much more fit to serve when the Makers return."
"When they return?" It had not occurred to Steffens until now that the robots expected the Makers to do so.
Elb regarded him out of the band of the circling eye. "I see you had surmised that the Makers were not coming back."
If the robot could have laughed, Steffens thought it would have, then. But it just stood there, motionless, its tone politely emphatic.
"It has always been our belief that the Makers would return. Why else would we have been built?"
Steffens thought the robot would go on, but it didn't. The question, to Elb, was no question at all.
Although Steffens knew already what the robot could not possibly have known—that the Makers were gone and would never come back—he was a long time understanding. What he did was push this speculation into the back of his mind, to keep it from Elb. He had no desire to destroy a faith.
But it created a problem in him. He had begun to picture for Elb the structure of human society, and the robot—a machine which did not eat or sleep—listened gravely and tried to understand. One day Steffens mentioned God.
"God?" the robot repeated without comprehension. "What is God?"
Steffens explained briefly, and the robot answered:
"It is a matter which has troubled us. We thought at first that you were the Makers returning—" Steffens remembered the brief lapse, the seeming disappointment he had sensed—"but then we probed your minds and found that you were not, that you were another kind of being, unlike either the Makers or ourselves. You were not even—" Elb caught himself—"you did not happen to be telepaths. Therefore we troubled over who made you. We did detect the word 'Maker' in your theology, but it seemed to have a peculiar—" Elb paused for a long while—"an untouchable, intangible meaning which varies among you."
Steffens understood. He nodded.
The Makers were the robots' God, were all the God they needed. The Makers had built them, the planet, the universe. If he were to ask them who made the Makers, it would be like their asking him who made God.
It was an ironic parallel, and he smiled to himself.
But on that planet, it was the last time he smiled.
Question:
Describe what the robots are.
Answer:
|
[
"The robots are the first evidence of an advanced alien race that man has discovered in 300 years of interstellar travel. They are at least a foot shorter than the humans, with an eye-band circling their entire head, bunches of hanging arms, and a gliding type of locomotion. Steffens remarks that they are some of the most well-built machinery he has ever seen. The robots are made of black plastic, and have rows of dense symbols engraved all over their torsos. Their communication comes to the humans telepathically, and they are fully sentient - aware of their life spans of ~55 years, and their time until death. They also have the ability to probe the minds of the humans and even urge them to make certain decisions, but they reveal they only use this to get the humans to land and will not use it further except when given permission.\nThey claim to have been made by the Makers, and exhibit the Factory where they are built to Steffens and his crew while they are on the Third planet. There are more than nine million of them in total on the planet, which astonishes the humans, and they spend their time trying to expand their knowledge to better serve their Makers when they eventually return to the planet. \n",
"The robots are short, black hunks of metal with several arms and legs each. They have a plastic band that circles their head, allowing them to see in every direction. They have a series of symbols that decorate the fronts of their bodies. They are telepathic robots, able to both see into the minds of others as well as communicate with them both in their language and through visual elements. They are, as is often said, built to serve, and they live in a sort of purgatory waiting for their Makers to return home. There are approximately nine million robots currently living on that planet, each with a life span of around 55 years. They are made in the Factory, which was, of course, built by the Makers. There are two types of robots: the normal ones met by Steffens and Ball, as well as the Doctors who are able to heal flesh. ",
"The robots that Steffens spots on the third planet of the star Tyban are small and black with a vision band wrapping around the top, the rest created from black metal, with a number of sturdy legs that put them about a foot shorter than the humans. They have the ability to make the humans on the ship hear thoughts that they relay to them, and can even send images this way, which makes Steffens worry that they have mind-control abilities. They do have the ability to intrude on thoughts. It is clear to Steffens that they were built to serve those around them, and at the initial encounter they do insist that their \"only desire is to serve\". Those that they want to serve are \"the Makers\", presumably the race of people who were on the planet before the city was scorched and destroyed in some kind of radioactive explosion. It is not clear what the robots' role in this part of the history is, just that the chances of their makers coming back to them was probably very low. ",
"The robots were designed by their Makers and produced in their factories which are still operational as there are over nine million of them of various ages and remaining lifespans. They are small, black structures with several hanging arms and legs. They have a band of transparent plastic-like material that runs around their heads; this is presumably their eye, enabling them to see in all directions. A similar round dot of the plastic on top of their heads suggests they can see directly over them. The robots are all identical and have rows of symbols on their torsos. Surprisingly, the robots appear to demonstrate emotion as they seem disappointed when they first meet Steffens, pleased when the ship lands and the crew joins them on the planet, pained when they refer to their Makers who have been gone a long time, and curious about the similarities and differences between themselves and the humans.\nCommunicating telepathically, the robots let Steffens and his crew know that they are designed to serve. It is possible that the robots can control human minds, but they choose not to do so. They let Steffens know that they only reached out to the humans’ minds because they detected that the humans were going to leave, so they decided to communicate some information about themselves so that the humans would stay for a visit. They also indicate that they explored the humans’ minds only enough to be able to contact and communicate with them. The robots understand human thinking: they know how to present themselves as nonthreatening, sending an image of one with an outstretched arm for a handshake and reducing the number of robots that first engage with the humans, so they won’t be overwhelmed or intimidated. They also understand that their silence will draw the humans in after their initial communication and the picture, due to their curiosity. \nLeft to their own devices after their Makers left and didn’t return, the robots engaged in building their knowledge of the natural sciences and mathematics. Their goal is to make themselves even more useful to their Makers when they return. The robots fully expect their Makers to return; otherwise, what would be their purpose?\n"
] |
50827
|
Orphans of the Void
By MICHAEL SHAARA
Illustrated by EMSH
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Finding a cause worth dying for is no great trick—the Universe is full of them. Finding one worth living for is the genuine problem!
In the region of the Coal Sack Nebula, on the dead fourth planet of a star called Tyban, Captain Steffens of the Mapping Command stood counting buildings. Eleven. No, twelve. He wondered if there was any significance in the number. He had no idea.
"What do you make of it?" he asked.
Lieutenant Ball, the executive officer of the ship, almost tried to scratch his head before he remembered that he was wearing a spacesuit.
"Looks like a temporary camp," Ball said. "Very few buildings, and all built out of native materials, the only stuff available. Castaways, maybe?"
Steffens was silent as he walked up onto the rise. The flat weathered stone jutted out of the sand before him.
"No inscriptions," he pointed out.
"They would have been worn away. See the wind grooves? Anyway, there's not another building on the whole damn planet. You wouldn't call it much of a civilization."
"You don't think these are native?"
Ball said he didn't. Steffens nodded.
Standing there and gazing at the stone, Steffens felt the awe of great age. He had a hunch, deep and intuitive, that this was old— too old. He reached out a gloved hand, ran it gently over the smooth stone ridges of the wall. Although the atmosphere was very thin, he noticed that the buildings had no airlocks.
Ball's voice sounded in his helmet: "Want to set up shop, Skipper?"
Steffens paused. "All right, if you think it will do any good."
"You never can tell. Excavation probably won't be much use. These things are on a raised rock foundation, swept clean by the wind. And you can see that the rock itself is native—" he indicated the ledge beneath their feet—"and was cut out a long while back."
"How long?"
Ball toed the sand uncomfortably. "I wouldn't like to say off-hand."
"Make a rough estimate."
Ball looked at the captain, knowing what was in his mind. He smiled wryly and said: "Five thousand years? Ten thousand? I don't know."
Steffens whistled.
Ball pointed again at the wall. "Look at the striations. You can tell from that alone. It would take even a brisk Earth wind at least several thousand years to cut that deep, and the wind here has only a fraction of that force."
The two men stood for a long moment in silence. Man had been in interstellar space for three hundred years and this was the first uncovered evidence of an advanced, space-crossing, alien race. It was an historic moment, but neither of them was thinking about history.
Man had been in space for only three hundred years. Whatever had built these had been in space for thousands of years.
Which ought to give them , thought Steffens uncomfortably, one hell of a good head-start.
While the excav crew worked steadily, turning up nothing, Steffens remained alone among the buildings. Ball came out to him, looked dryly at the walls.
"Well," he said, "whoever they were, we haven't heard from them since."
"No? How can you be sure?" Steffens grunted. "A space-borne race was roaming this part of the Galaxy while men were still pitching spears at each other, that long ago. And this planet is only a parsec from Varius II, a civilization as old as Earth's. Did whoever built these get to Varius? Or did they get to Earth? How can you know?"
He kicked at the sand distractedly. "And most important, where are they now? A race with several thousand years...."
"Fifteen thousand," Ball said. When Steffens looked up, he added:
"That's what the geology boys say. Fifteen thousand, at the least."
Steffens turned to stare unhappily at the buildings. When he realized now how really old they were, a sudden thought struck him.
"But why buildings? Why did they have to build in stone, to last? There's something wrong with that. They shouldn't have had a need to build, unless they were castaways. And castaways would have left something behind. The only reason they would need a camp would be—"
"If the ship left and some of them stayed."
Steffens nodded. "But then the ship must have come back. Where did it go?" He ceased kicking at the sand and looked up into the blue-black midday sky. "We'll never know."
"How about the other planets?" Ball asked.
"The report was negative. Inner too hot, outer too heavy and cold. The third planet is the only one with a decent temperature range, but it has a CO
2
atmosphere."
"How about moons?"
Steffens shrugged. "We could try them and find out."
The third planet was a blank, gleaming ball until they were in close, and then the blankness resolved into folds and piling clouds and dimly, in places, the surface showed through. The ship went down through the clouds, falling the last few miles on her brakers. They came into the misty gas below, leveled off and moved along the edge of the twilight zone.
The moons of this solar system had yielded nothing. The third planet, a hot, heavy world which had no free oxygen and from which the monitors had detected nothing, was all that was left. Steffens expected nothing, but he had to try.
At a height of several miles, the ship moved up the zone, scanning, moving in the familiar slow spiral of the Mapping Command. Faint dark outlines of bare rocks and hills moved by below.
Steffens turned the screen to full magnification and watched silently.
After a while he saw a city.
The main screen being on, the whole crew saw it. Someone shouted and they stopped to stare, and Steffens was about to call for altitude when he saw that the city was dead.
He looked down on splintered walls that were like cloudy glass pieces rising above a plain, rising in a shattered circle. Near the center of the city, there was a huge, charred hole at least three miles in diameter and very deep. In all the piled rubble, nothing moved.
Steffens went down low to make sure, then brought the ship around and headed out across the main continent into the bright area of the sun. The rocks rolled by below, there was no vegetation at all, and then there were more cities—all with the black depression, the circular stamp that blotted away and fused the buildings into nothing.
No one on the ship had anything to say. None had ever seen a war, for there had not been war on Earth or near it for more than three hundred years.
The ship circled around to the dark side of the planet. When they were down below a mile, the radiation counters began to react. It became apparent, from the dials, that there could be nothing alive.
After a while Ball said: "Well, which do you figure? Did our friends from the fourth planet do this, or were they the same people as these?"
Steffens did not take his eyes from the screen. They were coming around to the daylight side.
"We'll go down and look for the answer," he said. "Break out the radiation suits."
He paused, thinking. If the ones on the fourth planet were alien to this world, they were from outer space, could not have come from one of the other planets here. They had starships and were warlike. Then, thousands of years ago. He began to realize how important it really was that Ball's question be answered.
When the ship had gone very low, looking for a landing site, Steffens was still by the screen. It was Steffens, then, who saw the thing move.
Down far below, it had been a still black shadow, and then it moved. Steffens froze. And he knew, even at that distance, that it was a robot.
Tiny and black, a mass of hanging arms and legs, the thing went gliding down the slope of a hill. Steffens saw it clearly for a full second, saw the dull ball of its head tilt upward as the ship came over, and then the hill was past.
Quickly Steffens called for height. The ship bucked beneath him and blasted straight up; some of the crew went crashing to the deck. Steffens remained by the screen, increasing the magnification as the ship drew away. And he saw another, then two, then a black gliding group, all matched with bunches of hanging arms.
Nothing alive but robots, he thought, robots . He adjusted to full close up as quickly as he could and the picture focused on the screen. Behind him he heard a crewman grunt in amazement.
A band of clear, plasticlike stuff ran round the head—it would be the eye, a band of eye that saw all ways. On the top of the head was a single round spot of the plastic, and the rest was black metal, joined, he realized, with fantastic perfection. The angle of sight was now almost perpendicular. He could see very little of the branching arms of the trunk, but what had been on the screen was enough. They were the most perfect robots he had ever seen.
The ship leveled off. Steffens had no idea what to do; the sudden sight of the moving things had unnerved him. He had already sounded the alert, flicked out the defense screens. Now he had nothing to do. He tried to concentrate on what the League Law would have him do.
The Law was no help. Contact with planet-bound races was forbidden under any circumstances. But could a bunch of robots be called a race? The Law said nothing about robots because Earthmen had none. The building of imaginative robots was expressly forbidden. But at any rate, Steffens thought, he had made contact already.
While Steffens stood by the screen, completely bewildered for the first time in his space career, Lieutenant Ball came up, hobbling slightly. From the bright new bruise on his cheek, Steffens guessed that the sudden climb had caught him unaware. The exec was pale with surprise.
"What were they?" he said blankly. "Lord, they looked like robots!"
"They were."
Ball stared confoundedly at the screen. The things were now a confusion of dots in the mist.
"Almost humanoid," Steffens said, "but not quite."
Ball was slowly absorbing the situation. He turned to gaze inquiringly at Steffens.
"Well, what do we do now?"
Steffens shrugged. "They saw us. We could leave now and let them quite possibly make a ... a legend out of our visit, or we could go down and see if they tie in with the buildings on Tyban IV."
" Can we go down?"
"Legally? I don't know. If they are robots, yes, since robots cannot constitute a race. But there's another possibility." He tapped his fingers on the screen confusedly. "They don't have to be robots at all. They could be the natives."
Ball gulped. "I don't follow you."
"They could be the original inhabitants of this planet—the brains of them, at least, protected in radiation-proof metal. Anyway," he added,
"they're the most perfect mechanicals I've ever seen."
Ball shook his head, sat down abruptly. Steffens turned from the screen, strode nervously across the Main Deck, thinking.
The Mapping Command, they called it. Theoretically, all he was supposed to do was make a closeup examination of unexplored systems, checking for the presence of life-forms as well as for the possibilities of human colonization. Make a check and nothing else. But he knew very clearly that if he returned to Sirius base without investigating this robot situation, he could very well be court-martialed one way or the other, either for breaking the Law of Contact or for dereliction of duty.
And there was also the possibility, which abruptly occurred to him, that the robots might well be prepared to blow his ship to hell and gone.
He stopped in the center of the deck. A whole new line of thought opened up. If the robots were armed and ready ... could this be an outpost?
An outpost!
He turned and raced for the bridge. If he went in and landed and was lost, then the League might never know in time. If he went in and stirred up trouble....
The thought in his mind was scattered suddenly, like a mist blown away. A voice was speaking in his mind, a deep calm voice that seemed to say:
" Greetings. Do not be alarmed. We do not wish you to be alarmed. Our desire is only to serve.... "
"Greetings, it said! Greetings!" Ball was mumbling incredulously through shocked lips.
Everyone on the ship had heard the voice. When it spoke again, Steffens was not sure whether it was just one voice or many voices.
"We await your coming," it said gravely, and repeated: "Our desire is only to serve."
And then the robots sent a picture .
As perfect and as clear as a tridim movie, a rectangular plate took shape in Steffens' mind. On the face of the plate, standing alone against a background of red-brown, bare rocks, was one of the robots. With slow, perfect movement, the robot carefully lifted one of the hanging arms of its side, of its right side, and extended it toward Steffens, a graciously offered hand.
Steffens felt a peculiar, compelling urge to take the hand, realized right away that the urge to take the hand was not entirely his. The robot mind had helped.
When the picture vanished, he knew that the others had seen it. He waited for a while; there was no further contact, but the feeling of the robot's urging was still strong within him. He had an idea that, if they wanted to, the robots could control his mind. So when nothing more happened, he began to lose his fear.
While the crew watched in fascination, Steffens tried to talk back. He concentrated hard on what he was saying, said it aloud for good measure, then held his own hand extended in the robot manner of shaking hands.
"Greetings," he said, because it was what they had said, and explained: "We have come from the stars."
It was overly dramatic, but so was the whole situation. He wondered baffledly if he should have let the Alien Contact crew handle it. Order someone to stand there, feeling like a fool, and think a message?
No, it was his responsibility; he had to go on:
"We request—we respectfully request permission to land upon your planet."
Steffens had not realized that there were so many.
They had been gathering since his ship was first seen, and now there were hundreds of them clustered upon the hill. Others were arriving even as the skiff landed; they glided in over the rocky hills with fantastic ease and power, so that Steffens felt a momentary anxiety. Most of the robots were standing with the silent immobility of metal. Others threaded their way to the fore and came near the skiff, but none touched it, and a circle was cleared for Steffens when he came out.
One of the near robots came forward alone, moving, as Steffens now saw, on a number of short, incredibly strong and agile legs. The black thing paused before him, extended a hand as it had done in the picture. Steffens took it, he hoped, warmly; felt the power of the metal through the glove of his suit.
"Welcome," the robot said, speaking again to his mind, and now Steffens detected a peculiar alteration in the robot's tone. It was less friendly now, less—Steffens could not understand—somehow less interested , as if the robot had been—expecting someone else.
"Thank you," Steffens said. "We are deeply grateful for your permission to land."
"Our desire," the robot repeated mechanically, "is only to serve."
Suddenly, Steffens began to feel alone, surrounded by machines. He tried to push the thought out of his mind, because he knew that they should seem inhuman. But....
"Will the others come down?" asked the robot, still mechanically.
Steffens felt his embarrassment. The ship lay high in the mist above, jets throbbing gently.
"They must remain with the ship," Steffens said aloud, trusting to the robot's formality not to ask him why. Although, if they could read his mind, there was no need to ask.
For a long while, neither spoke, long enough for Steffens to grow tense and uncomfortable. He could not think of a thing to say, the robot was obviously waiting, and so, in desperation, he signaled the Aliencon men to come on out of the skiff.
They came, wonderingly, and the ring of robots widened. Steffens heard the one robot speak again. The voice was now much more friendly.
"We hope you will forgive us for intruding upon your thought. It is our—custom—not to communicate unless we are called upon. But when we observed that you were in ignorance of our real—nature—and were about to leave our planet, we decided to put aside our custom, so that you might base your decision upon sufficient data."
Steffens replied haltingly that he appreciated their action.
"We perceive," the robot went on, "that you are unaware of our complete access to your mind, and would perhaps be—dismayed—to learn that we have been gathering information from you. We must—apologize. Our only purpose was so that we could communicate with you. Only that information was taken which is necessary for communication and—understanding. We will enter your minds henceforth only at your request."
Steffens did not react to the news that his mind was being probed as violently as he might have. Nevertheless it was a shock, and he retreated into observant silence as the Aliencon men went to work.
The robot which seemed to have been doing the speaking was in no way different from any of the others in the group. Since each of the robots was immediately aware of all that was being said or thought, Steffens guessed that they had sent one forward just for appearance's sake, because they perceived that the Earthmen would feel more at home. The picture of the extended hand, the characteristic handshake of Earthmen, had probably been borrowed, too, for the same purpose of making him and the others feel at ease. The one jarring note was the robot's momentary lapse, those unexplainable few seconds when the things had seemed almost disappointed. Steffens gave up wondering about that and began to examine the first robot in detail.
It was not very tall, being at least a foot shorter than the Earthmen. The most peculiar thing about it, except for the circling eye-band of the head, was a mass of symbols which were apparently engraved upon the metal chest. Symbols in row upon row—numbers, perhaps—were upon the chest, and repeated again below the level of the arms, and continued in orderly rows across the front of the robot, all the way down to the base of the trunk. If they were numbers, Steffens thought, then it was a remarkably complicated system. But he noticed the same pattern on the nearer robots, all apparently identical. He was forced to conclude that the symbols were merely decoration and let it go tentatively at that, although the answer seemed illogical.
It wasn't until he was on his way home that Steffens remembered the symbols again. And only then did he realized what they were.
After a while, convinced that there was no danger, Steffens had the ship brought down. When the crew came out of the airlock, they were met by the robots, and each man found himself with a robot at his side, humbly requesting to be of service. There were literally thousands of the robots now, come from all over the barren horizon. The mass of them stood apart, immobile on a plain near the ship, glinting in the sun like a vast, metallic field of black wheat.
The robots had obviously been built to serve. Steffens began to feel their pleasure, to sense it in spite of the blank, expressionless faces. They were almost like children in their eagerness, yet they were still reserved. Whoever had built them, Steffens thought in wonder, had built them well.
Ball came to join Steffens, staring at the robots through the clear plastic of his helmet with baffledly widened eyes. A robot moved out from the mass in the field, allied itself to him. The first to speak had remained with Steffens.
Realizing that the robot could hear every word he was saying, Ball was for a while apprehensive. But the sheer unreality of standing and talking with a multi-limbed, intelligent hunk of dead metal upon the bare rock of a dead, ancient world, the unreality of it slowly died. It was impossible not to like the things. There was something in their very lines which was pleasant and relaxing.
Their builders, Steffens thought, had probably thought of that, too.
"There's no harm in them," said Ball at last, openly, not minding if the robots heard. "They seem actually glad we're here. My God, whoever heard of a robot being glad?"
Steffens, embarrassed, spoke quickly to the nearest mechanical: "I hope you will forgive us our curiosity, but—yours is a remarkable race. We have never before made contact with a race like yours." It was said haltingly, but it was the best he could do.
The robot made a singularly human nodding motion of its head.
"I perceive that the nature of our construction is unfamiliar to you. Your question is whether or not we are entirely 'mechanical.' I am not exactly certain as to what the word 'mechanical' is intended to convey—I would have to examine your thought more fully—but I believe that there is fundamental similarity between our structures."
The robot paused. Steffens had a distinct impression that it was disconcerted.
"I must tell you," the thing went on, "that we ourselves are—curious." It stopped suddenly, struggling with a word it could not comprehend. Steffens waited, listening with absolute interest. It said at length:
"We know of only two types of living structure. Ours, which is largely metallic, and that of the Makers , which would appear to be somewhat more like yours. I am not a—doctor—and therefore cannot acquaint you with the specific details of the Makers' composition, but if you are interested I will have a doctor brought forward. It will be glad to be of assistance."
It was Steffens' turn to struggle, and the robot waited patiently while Ball and the second robot looked on in silence. The Makers, obviously, were whoever or whatever had built the robots, and the "doctors," Steffens decided, were probably just that—doctor-robots, designed specifically to care for the apparently flesh-bodies of the Makers.
The efficiency of the things continued to amaze him, but the question he had been waiting to ask came out now with a rush:
"Can you tell us where the Makers are?"
Both robots stood motionless. It occurred to Steffens that he couldn't really be sure which was speaking. The voice that came to him spoke with difficulty.
"The Makers—are not here."
Steffens stared in puzzlement. The robot detected his confusion and went on:
"The Makers have gone away. They have been gone for a very long time."
Could that be pain in its voice, Steffens wondered, and then the spectre of the ruined cities rose harsh in his mind.
War. The Makers had all been killed in that war. And these had not been killed.
He tried to grasp it, but he couldn't. There were robots here in the midst of a radiation so lethal that nothing , nothing could live; robots on a dead planet, living in an atmosphere of carbon dioxide.
The carbon dioxide brought him up sharp.
If there had been life here once, there would have been plant life as well, and therefore oxygen. If the war had been so long ago that the free oxygen had since gone out of the atmosphere—good God, how old were the robots? Steffens looked at Ball, then at the silent robots, then out across the field to where the rest of them stood. The black wheat. Steffens felt a deep chill.
Were they immortal?
"Would you like to see a doctor?"
Steffens jumped at the familiar words, then realized to what the robot was referring.
"No, not yet," he said, "thank you." He swallowed hard as the robots continued waiting patiently.
"Could you tell me," he said at last, "how old you are? Individually?"
"By your reckoning," said his robot, and paused to make the calculation, "I am forty-four years, seven months, and eighteen days of age, with ten years and approximately nine months yet to be alive."
Steffens tried to understand that.
"It would perhaps simplify our conversations," said the robot, "if you were to refer to me by a name, as is your custom. Using the first—letters—of my designation, my name would translate as Elb."
"Glad to meet you," Steffens mumbled.
"You are called 'Stef,'" said the robot obligingly. Then it added, pointing an arm at the robot near Ball: "The age of—Peb—is seventeen years, one month and four days. Peb has therefore remaining some thirty-eight years."
Steffens was trying to keep up. Then the life span was obviously about fifty-five years. But the cities, and the carbon dioxide? The robot, Elb, had said that the Makers were similar to him, and therefore oxygen and plant life would have been needed. Unless—
He remembered the buildings on Tyban IV.
Unless the Makers had not come from this planet at all.
His mind helplessly began to revolve. It was Ball who restored order.
"Do you build yourselves?" the exec asked.
Peb answered quickly, that faint note of happiness again apparent, as if the robot was glad for the opportunity of answering.
"No, we do not build ourselves. We are made by the—" another pause for a word—"by the Factory ."
"The Factory?"
"Yes. It was built by the Makers. Would you care to see it?"
Both of the Earthmen nodded dumbly.
"Would you prefer to use your—skiff? It is quite a long way from here."
It was indeed a long way, even by skiff. Some of the Aliencon crew went along with them. And near the edge of the twilight zone, on the other side of the world, they saw the Factory outlined in the dim light of dusk. A huge, fantastic block, wrought of gray and cloudy metal, lay in a valley between two worn mountains. Steffens went down low, circling in the skiff, stared in awe at the size of the building. Robots moved outside the thing, little black bugs in the distance—moving around their birthplace.
The Earthmen remained for several weeks. During that time, Steffens was usually with Elb, talking now as often as he listened, and the Aliencon team roamed the planet freely, investigating what was certainly the strangest culture in history. There was still the mystery of those buildings on Tyban IV; that, as well as the robots' origin, would have to be cleared up before they could leave.
Surprisingly, Steffens did not think about the future. Whenever he came near a robot, he sensed such a general, comfortable air of good feeling that it warmed him, and he was so preoccupied with watching the robots that he did little thinking.
Something he had not realized at the beginning was that he was as unusual to the robots as they were to him. It came to him with a great shock that not one of the robots had ever seen a living thing. Not a bug, a worm, a leaf. They did not know what flesh was. Only the doctors knew that, and none of them could readily understand what was meant by the words "organic matter." It had taken them some time to recognize that the Earthmen wore suits which were not parts of their bodies, and it was even more difficult for them to understand why the suits were needed.
But when they did understand, the robots did a surprising thing.
At first, because of the excessive radiation, none of the Earthmen could remain outside the ship for long, even in radiation suits. And one morning, when Steffens came out of the ship, it was to discover that hundreds of the robots, working through the night, had effectively decontaminated the entire area.
It was at this point that Steffens asked how many robots there were. He learned to his amazement that there were more than nine million. The great mass of them had politely remained a great distance from the ship, spread out over the planet, since they were highly radioactive.
Steffens, meanwhile, courteously allowed Elb to probe into his mind. The robot extracted all the knowledge of matter that Steffens held, pondered over the knowledge and tried to digest it, and passed it on to the other robots. Steffens, in turn, had a difficult time picturing the mind of a thing that had never known life.
He had a vague idea of the robot's history—more, perhaps, then they knew themselves—but he refrained from forming an opinion until Aliencon made its report. What fascinated him was Elb's amazing philosophy, the only outlook, really, that the robot could have had.
"What do you do ?" Steffens asked.
Elb replied quickly, with characteristic simplicity: "We can do very little. A certain amount of physical knowledge was imparted to us at birth by the Makers. We spend the main part of our time expanding that knowledge wherever possible. We have made some progress in the natural sciences, and some in mathematics. Our purpose in being, you see, is to serve the Makers. Any ability we can acquire will make us that much more fit to serve when the Makers return."
"When they return?" It had not occurred to Steffens until now that the robots expected the Makers to do so.
Elb regarded him out of the band of the circling eye. "I see you had surmised that the Makers were not coming back."
If the robot could have laughed, Steffens thought it would have, then. But it just stood there, motionless, its tone politely emphatic.
"It has always been our belief that the Makers would return. Why else would we have been built?"
Steffens thought the robot would go on, but it didn't. The question, to Elb, was no question at all.
Although Steffens knew already what the robot could not possibly have known—that the Makers were gone and would never come back—he was a long time understanding. What he did was push this speculation into the back of his mind, to keep it from Elb. He had no desire to destroy a faith.
But it created a problem in him. He had begun to picture for Elb the structure of human society, and the robot—a machine which did not eat or sleep—listened gravely and tried to understand. One day Steffens mentioned God.
"God?" the robot repeated without comprehension. "What is God?"
Steffens explained briefly, and the robot answered:
"It is a matter which has troubled us. We thought at first that you were the Makers returning—" Steffens remembered the brief lapse, the seeming disappointment he had sensed—"but then we probed your minds and found that you were not, that you were another kind of being, unlike either the Makers or ourselves. You were not even—" Elb caught himself—"you did not happen to be telepaths. Therefore we troubled over who made you. We did detect the word 'Maker' in your theology, but it seemed to have a peculiar—" Elb paused for a long while—"an untouchable, intangible meaning which varies among you."
Steffens understood. He nodded.
The Makers were the robots' God, were all the God they needed. The Makers had built them, the planet, the universe. If he were to ask them who made the Makers, it would be like their asking him who made God.
It was an ironic parallel, and he smiled to himself.
But on that planet, it was the last time he smiled.
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Who is Mr. Michaelson and what is his personality like?
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After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about A City Near Centaurus by William R. Doede.
Relevant chunks:
A CITY NEAR CENTAURUS
By BILL DOEDE
Illustrated by WEST
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine October 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The city was sacred, but not to its gods. Michaelson was a god—but far from sacred!
Crouched in the ancient doorway like an animal peering out from his burrow, Mr. Michaelson saw the native.
At first he was startled, thinking it might be someone else from the Earth settlement who had discovered the old city before him. Then he saw the glint of sun against the metallic skirt, and relaxed.
He chuckled to himself, wondering with amusement what a webfooted man was doing in an old dead city so far from his people. Some facts were known about the people of Alpha Centaurus II. They were not actually natives, he recalled. They were a colony from the fifth planet of the system. They were a curious people. Some were highly intelligent, though uneducated.
He decided to ignore the man for the moment. He was far down the ancient street, a mere speck against the sand. There would be plenty of time to wonder about him.
He gazed out from his position at the complex variety of buildings before him. Some were small, obviously homes. Others were huge with tall, frail spires standing against the pale blue sky. Square buildings, ellipsoid, spheroid. Beautiful, dream-stuff bridges connected tall, conical towers, bridges that still swung in the wind after half a million years. Late afternoon sunlight shone against ebony surfaces. The sands of many centuries had blown down the wide streets and filled the doorways. Desert plants grew from roofs of smaller buildings.
Ignoring the native, Mr. Michaelson poked about among the ruins happily, exclaiming to himself about some particular artifact, marveling at its state of preservation, holding it this way and that to catch the late afternoon sun, smiling, clucking gleefully. He crawled over the rubble through old doorways half filled with the accumulation of ages. He dug experimentally in the sand with his hands, like a dog, under a roof that had weathered half a million years of rain and sun. Then he crawled out again, covered with dust and cobwebs.
The native stood in the street less than a hundred feet away, waving his arms madly. "Mr. Earthgod," he cried. "It is sacred ground where you are trespassing!"
The archeologist smiled, watching the man hurry closer. He was short, even for a native. Long gray hair hung to his shoulders, bobbing up and down as he walked. He wore no shoes. The toes of his webbed feet dragged in the sand, making a deep trail behind him. He was an old man.
"You never told us about this old dead city," Michaelson said, chidingly. "Shame on you. But never mind. I've found it now. Isn't it beautiful?"
"Yes, beautiful. You will leave now."
"Leave?" Michaelson asked, acting surprised as if the man were a child. "I just got here a few hours ago."
"You must go."
"Why? Who are you?"
"I am keeper of the city."
"You?" Michaelson laughed. Then, seeing how serious the native was, said, "What makes you think a dead city needs a keeper?"
"The spirits may return."
Michaelson crawled out of the doorway and stood up. He brushed his trousers. He pointed. "See that wall? Built of some metal, I'd say, some alloy impervious to rust and wear."
"The spirits are angry."
"Notice the inscriptions? Wind has blown sand against them for eons, and rain and sleet. But their story is there, once we decipher it."
"Leave!"
The native's lined, weathered old face was working around the mouth in anger. Michaelson was almost sorry he had mocked him. He was deadly serious.
"Look," he said. "No spirits are ever coming back here. Don't you know that? And even if they did, spirits care nothing for old cities half covered with sand and dirt."
He walked away from the old man, heading for another building. The sun had already gone below the horizon, coloring the high clouds. He glanced backward. The webfoot was following.
"Mr. Earthgod!" the webfoot cried, so sharply that Michaelson stopped.
"You must not touch, not walk upon, not handle. Your step may destroy the home of some ancient spirit. Your breath may cause one iota of change and a spirit may lose his way in the darkness. Go quickly now, or be killed."
He turned and walked off, not looking back.
Michaelson stood in the ancient street, tall, gaunt, feet planted wide, hands in pockets, watching the webfoot until he was out of sight beyond a huge circular building. There was a man to watch. There was one of the intelligent ones. One look into the alert old eyes had told him that.
Michaelson shook his head, and went about satisfying his curiosity. He entered buildings without thought of roofs falling in, or decayed floors dropping from under his weight. He began to collect small items, making a pile of them in the street. An ancient bowl, metal untouched by the ages. A statue of a man, one foot high, correct to the minutest detail, showing how identical they had been to Earthmen. He found books still standing on ancient shelves but was afraid to touch them without tools.
Darkness came swiftly and he was forced out into the street.
He stood there alone feeling the age of the place. Even the smell of age was in the air. Silver moonlight from the two moons filtered through clear air down upon the ruins. The city lay now in darkness, dead and still, waiting for morning so it could lie dead and still in the sun.
There was no hurry to be going home, although he was alone, although this was Alpha Centaurus II with many unknowns, many dangers ... although home was a very great distance away. There was no one back there to worry about him.
His wife had died many years ago back on Earth. No children. His friends in the settlement would not look for him for another day at least. Anyway, the tiny cylinder, buried in flesh behind his ear, a thing of mystery and immense power, could take him home instantly, without effort save a flicker of thought.
"You did not leave, as I asked you."
Michaelson whirled around at the sound of the native's voice. Then he relaxed. He said, "You shouldn't sneak up on a man like that."
"You must leave, or I will be forced to kill you. I do not want to kill you, but if I must...." He made a clucking sound deep in the throat.
"The spirits are angry."
"Nonsense. Superstition! But never mind. You have been here longer than I. Tell me, what are those instruments in the rooms? It looks like a clock but I'm certain it had some other function."
"What rooms?"
"Oh, come now. The small rooms back there. Look like they were bedrooms."
"I do not know." The webfoot drew closer. Michaelson decided he was sixty or seventy years old, at least.
"You've been here a long time. You are intelligent, and you must be educated, the way you talk. That gadget looks like a time-piece of some sort. What is it? What does it measure?"
"I insist that you go." The webfoot held something in his hand.
"No." Michaelson looked off down the street, trying to ignore the native, trying to feel the life of the city as it might have been.
"You are sensitive," the native said in his ear. "It takes a sensitive god to feel the spirits moving in the houses and walking in these old streets."
"Say it any way you want to. This is the most fascinating thing I've ever seen. The Inca's treasure, the ruins of Pompeii, Egyptian tombs—none can hold a candle to this."
"Mr. Earthgod...."
"Don't call me that. I'm not a god, and you know it."
The old man shrugged. "It is not an item worthy of dispute. Those names you mention, are they the names of gods?"
He chuckled. "In a way, yes. What is your name?"
"Maota."
"You must help me, Maota. These things must be preserved. We'll build a museum, right here in the street. No, over there on the hill just outside the city. We'll collect all the old writings and perhaps we may decipher them. Think of it, Maota! To read pages written so long ago and think their thoughts. We'll put everything under glass. Build and evacuate chambers to stop the decay. Catalogue, itemize...."
Michaelson was warming up to his subject, but Maota shook his head like a waving palm frond and stamped his feet.
"You will leave now."
"Can't you see? Look at the decay. These things are priceless. They must be preserved. Future generations will thank us."
"Do you mean," the old man asked, aghast, "that you want others to come here? You know the city abhors the sound of alien voices. Those who lived here may return one day! They must not find their city packaged and preserved and laid out on shelves for the curious to breathe their foul breaths upon. You will leave. Now!"
"No." Michaelson was adamant. The rock of Gibraltar.
Maota hit him, quickly, passionately, and dropped the weapon beside his body. He turned swiftly, making a swirling mark in the sand with his heel, and walked off toward the hills outside the city.
The weapon he had used was an ancient book. Its paper-thin pages rustled in the wind as if an unseen hand turned them, reading, while Michaelson's blood trickled out from the head wound upon the ancient street.
When he regained consciousness the two moons, bright sentinel orbs in the night sky, had moved to a new position down their sliding path. Old Maota's absence took some of the weirdness and fantasy away. It seemed a more practical place now.
The gash in his head was painful, throbbing with quick, short hammer-blows synchronized with his heart beats. But there was a new determination in him. If it was a fight that the old webfooted fool wanted, a fight he would get. The cylinder flicked him, at his command, across five hundred miles of desert and rocks to a small creek he remembered. Here he bathed his head in cool water until all the caked blood was dissolved from his hair. Feeling better, he went back.
The wind had turned cool. Michaelson shivered, wishing he had brought a coat. The city was absolutely still except for small gusts of wind sighing through the frail spires. The ancient book still lay in the sand beside the dark spot of blood. He stooped over and picked it up.
It was light, much lighter than most Earth books. He ran a hand over the binding. Smooth it was, untouched by time or climate. He squinted at the pages, tilting the book to catch the bright moonlight, but the writing was alien. He touched the page, ran his forefinger over the writing.
Suddenly he sprang back. The book fell from his hands.
"God in heaven!" he exclaimed.
He had heard a voice. He looked around at the old buildings, down the length of the ancient street. Something strange about the voice. Not Maota. Not his tones. Not his words. Satisfied that no one was near, he stooped and picked up the book again.
"Good God!" he said aloud. It was the book talking. His fingers had touched the writing again. It was not a voice, exactly, but a stirring in his mind, like a strange language heard for the first time.
A talking book. What other surprises were in the city? Tall, fragile buildings laughing at time and weather. A clock measuring God-knows-what. If such wonders remained, what about those already destroyed? One could only guess at the machines, the gadgets, the artistry already decayed and blown away to mix forever with the sand.
I must preserve it, he thought, whether Maota likes it or not. They say these people lived half a million years ago. A long time. Let's see, now. A man lives one hundred years on the average. Five thousand lifetimes.
And all you do is touch a book, and a voice jumps across all those years!
He started off toward the tall building he had examined upon discovery of the city. His left eyelid began to twitch and he laid his forefinger against the eye, pressing until it stopped. Then he stooped and entered the building. He laid the book down and tried to take the "clock" off the wall. It was dark in the building and his fingers felt along the wall, looking for it. Then he touched it. His fingers moved over its smooth surface. Then suddenly he jerked his hand back with an exclamation of amazement. Fear ran up his spine.
The clock was warm.
He felt like running, like flicking back to the settlement where there were people and familiar voices, for here was a thing that should not be. Half a million years—and here was warmth!
He touched it again, curiosity overwhelming his fear. It was warm. No mistake. And there was a faint vibration, a suggestion of power. He stood there in the darkness staring off into the darkness, trembling. Fear built up in him until it was a monstrous thing, drowning reason. He forgot the power of the cylinder behind his ear. He scrambled through the doorway. He got up and ran down the ancient sandy street until he came to the edge of the city. Here he stopped, gasping for air, feeling the pain throb in his head.
Common sense said that he should go home, that nothing worthwhile could be accomplished at night, that he was tired, that he was weak from loss of blood and fright and running. But when Michaelson was on the trail of important discoveries he had no common sense.
He sat down in the darkness, meaning to rest a moment.
When he awoke dawn was red against thin clouds in the east.
Old Maota stood in the street with webbed feet planted far apart in the sand, a weapon in the crook of his arm. It was a long tube affair, familiar to Michaelson.
Michaelson asked, "Did you sleep well?"
"No."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"How do you feel?"
"Fine, but my head aches a little."
"Sorry," Maota said.
"For what?"
"For hitting you. Pain is not for gods like you."
Michaelson relaxed somewhat. "What kind of man are you? First you try to break my skull, then you apologize."
"I abhor pain. I should have killed you outright."
He thought about that for a moment, eyeing the weapon.
It looked in good working order. Slim and shiny and innocent, it looked like a glorified African blowgun. But he was not deceived by its appearance. It was a deadly weapon.
"Well," he said, "before you kill me, tell me about the book." He held it up for Maota to see.
"What about the book?"
"What kind of book is it?"
"What does Mr. Earthgod mean, what kind of book? You have seen it. It is like any other book, except for the material and the fact that it talks."
"No, no. I mean, what's in it?"
"Poetry."
"Poetry? For God's sake, why poetry? Why not mathematics or history? Why not tell how to make the metal of the book itself? Now there is a subject worthy of a book."
Maota shook his head. "One does not study a dead culture to learn how they made things, but how they thought. But we are wasting time. I must kill you now, so I can get some rest."
The old man raised the gun.
"Wait! You forget that I also have a weapon." He pointed to the spot behind his ear where the cylinder was buried. "I can move faster than you can fire the gun."
Maota nodded. "I have heard how you travel. It does not matter. I will kill you anyway."
"I suggest we negotiate."
"No."
"Why not?"
Maota looked off toward the hills, old eyes filmed from years of sand and wind, leather skin lined and pitted. The hills stood immobile, brown-gray, already shimmering with heat, impotent.
"Why not?" Michaelson repeated.
"Why not what?" Maota dragged his eyes back.
"Negotiate."
"No." Maota's eyes grew hard as steel. They stood there in the sun, not twenty feet apart, hating each other. The two moons, very pale and far away on the western horizon, stared like two bottomless eyes.
"All right, then. At least it's a quick death. I hear that thing just disintegrates a man. Pfft! And that's that."
Michaelson prepared himself to move if the old man's finger slid closer toward the firing stud. The old man raised the gun.
"Wait!"
"Now what?"
"At least read some of the book to me before I die, then."
The gun wavered. "I am not an unreasonable man," the webfoot said.
Michaelson stepped forward, extending his arm with the book.
"No, stay where you are. Throw it."
"This book is priceless. You just don't go throwing such valuable items around."
"It won't break. Throw it."
Michaelson threw the book. It landed at Maota's feet, spouting sand against his leg. He shifted the weapon, picked up the book and leafed through it, raising his head in a listening attitude, searching for a suitable passage. Michaelson heard the thin, metallic pages rustle softly. He could have jumped and seized the weapon at that moment, but his desire to hear the book was strong.
Old Maota read, Michaelson listened. The cadence was different, the syntax confusing. But the thoughts were there. It might have been a professor back on Earth reading to his students. Keats, Shelley, Browning. These people were human, with human thoughts and aspirations.
The old man stopped reading. He squatted slowly, keeping Michaelson in sight, and laid the book face up in the sand. Wind moved the pages.
"See?" he said. "The spirits read. They must have been great readers, these people. They drink the book, as if it were an elixir. See how gentle! They lap at the pages like a new kitten tasting milk."
Michaelson laughed. "You certainly have an imagination."
"What difference does it make?" Maota cried, suddenly angry. "You want to close up all these things in boxes for a posterity who may have no slightest feeling or appreciation. I want to leave the city as it is, for spirits whose existence I cannot prove."
The old man's eyes were furious now, deadly. The gun came down directly in line with the Earthman's chest. The gnarled finger moved.
Michaelson, using the power of the cylinder behind his ear, jumped behind the old webfoot. To Maota it seemed that he had flicked out of existence like a match blown out. The next instant Michaelson spun him around and hit him. It was an inexpert fist, belonging to an archeologist, not a fighter. But Maota was an old man.
He dropped in the sand, momentarily stunned. Michaelson bent over to pick up the gun and the old man, feeling it slip from his fingers, hung on and was pulled to his feet.
They struggled for possession of the gun, silently, gasping, kicking sand. Faces grew red. Lips drew back over Michaelson's white teeth, over Maota's pink, toothless gums. The dead city's fragile spires threw impersonal shadows down where they fought.
Then quite suddenly a finger or hand—neither knew whose finger or hand—touched the firing stud.
There was a hollow, whooshing sound. Both stopped still, realizing the total destruction they might have caused.
"It only hit the ground," Michaelson said.
A black, charred hole, two feet in diameter and—they could not see how deep—stared at them.
Maota let go and sprawled in the sand. "The book!" he cried. "The book is gone!"
"No! We probably covered it with sand while we fought."
Both men began scooping sand in their cupped hands, digging frantically for the book. Saliva dripped from Maota's mouth, but he didn't know or care.
Finally they stopped, exhausted. They had covered a substantial area around the hole. They had covered the complete area where they had been.
"We killed it," the old man moaned.
"It was just a book. Not alive, you know."
"How do you know?" The old man's pale eyes were filled with tears. "It talked and it sang. In a way, it had a soul. Sometimes on long nights I used to imagine it loved me, for taking care of it."
"There are other books. We'll get another."
Maota shook his head. "There are no more."
"But I've seen them. Down there in the square building."
"Not poetry. Books, yes, but not poetry. That was the only book with songs."
"I'm sorry."
" You killed it!" Maota suddenly sprang for the weapon, lying forgotten in the sand. Michaelson put his foot on it and Maota was too weak to tear it loose. He could only weep out his rage.
When he could talk again, Maota said, "I am sorry, Mr. Earthgod. I've disgraced myself."
"Don't be sorry." Michaelson helped him to his feet. "We fight for some reasons, cry for others. A priceless book is a good reason for either."
"Not for that. For not winning. I should have killed you last night when I had the chance. The gods give us chances and if we don't take them we lose forever."
"I told you before! We are on the same side. Negotiate. Have you never heard of negotiation?"
"You are a god," Maota said. "One does not negotiate with gods. One either loves them, or kills them."
"That's another thing. I am not a god. Can't you understand?"
"Of course you are." Maota looked up, very sure. "Mortals cannot step from star to star like crossing a shallow brook."
"No, no. I don't step from one star to another. An invention does that. Just an invention. I carry it with me. It's a tiny thing. No one would ever guess it has such power. So you see, I'm human, just like you. Hit me and I hurt. Cut me and I bleed. I love. I hate. I was born. Some day I'll die. See? I'm human. Just a human with a machine. No more than that."
Maota laughed, then sobered quickly. "You lie."
"No."
"If I had this machine, could I travel as you?"
"Yes."
"Then I'll kill you and take yours."
"It would not work for you."
"Why?"
"Each machine is tailored for each person."
The old man hung his head. He looked down into the black, charred hole. He walked all around the hole. He kicked at the sand, looking half-heartedly again for the book.
"Look," Michaelson said. "I'm sure I've convinced you that I'm human. Why not have a try at negotiating our differences?"
He looked up. His expressive eyes, deep, resigned, studied Michaelson's face. Finally he shook his head sadly. "When we first met I hoped we could think the ancient thoughts together. But our paths diverge. We have finished, you and I."
He turned and started off, shoulders slumped dejectedly.
Michaelson caught up to him. "Are you leaving the city?"
"No."
"Where are you going?"
"Away. Far away." Maota looked off toward the hills, eyes distant.
"Don't be stupid, old man. How can you go far away and not leave the city?"
"There are many directions. You would not understand."
"East. West. North. South. Up. Down."
"No, no. There is another direction. Come, if you must see."
Michaelson followed him far down the street. They came to a section of the city he had not seen before. Buildings were smaller, spires dwarfed against larger structures. Here a path was packed in the sand, leading to a particular building.
Michaelson said, "This is where you live?"
"Yes."
Maota went inside. Michaelson stood in the entrance and looked around. The room was clean, furnished with hand made chairs and a bed. Who is this old man, he thought, far from his people, living alone, choosing a life of solitude among ancient ruins but not touching them? Above the bed a "clock" was fastened to the wall, Michaelson remembered his fright—thinking of the warmth where warmth should not be.
Maota pointed to it.
"You asked about this machine," he said. "Now I will tell you." He laid his hand against it. "Here is power to follow another direction."
Michaelson tested one of the chairs to see if it would hold his weight, then sat down. His curiosity about the instrument was colossal, but he forced a short laugh. "Maota, you are complex. Why not stop all this mystery nonsense and tell me about it? You know more about it than I."
"Of course." Maota smiled a toothless, superior smile. "What do you suppose happened to this race?"
"You tell me."
"They took the unknown direction. The books speak of it. I don't know how the instrument works, but one thing is certain. The race did not die out, as a species becomes extinct."
Michaelson was amused, but interested. "Something like a fourth dimension?"
"I don't know. I only know that with this instrument there is no death. I have read the books that speak of this race, this wonderful people who conquered all disease, who explored all the mysteries of science, who devised this machine to cheat death. See this button here on the face of the instrument? Press the button, and...."
"And what?"
"I don't know, exactly. But I have lived many years. I have walked the streets of this city and wondered, and wanted to press the button. Now I will do so."
Quickly the old man, still smiling, pressed the button. A high-pitched whine filled the air, just within audio range. Steady for a moment, it then rose in pitch passing beyond hearing quickly.
The old man's knees buckled. He sank down, fell over the bed, lay still. Michaelson touched him cautiously, then examined him more carefully. No question about it.
The old man was dead.
Feeling depressed and alone, Michaelson found a desert knoll outside the city overlooking the tall spires that shone in the sunlight and gleamed in the moonlight. He made a stretcher, rolled the old man's body on to it and dragged it down the long ancient street and up the knoll.
Here he buried him.
But it seemed a waste of time. Somehow he knew beyond any doubt that the old native and his body were completely disassociated in some sense more complete than death.
In the days that followed he gave much thought to the "clock." He came to the city every day. He spent long hours in the huge square building with the books. He learned the language by sheer bulldog determination. Then he searched the books for information about the instrument.
Finally after many weeks, long after the winds had obliterated all evidence of Maota's grave on the knoll, Michaelson made a decision. He had to know if the machine would work for him.
And so one afternoon when the ancient spires threw long shadows over the sand he walked down the long street and entered the old man's house. He stood before the instrument, trembling, afraid, but determined. He pinched his eyes shut tight like a child and pressed the button.
The high-pitched whine started.
Complete, utter silence. Void. Darkness. Awareness and memory, yes; nothing else. Then Maota's chuckle came. No sound, an impression only like the voice from the ancient book. Where was he? There was no left or right, up or down. Maota was everywhere, nowhere.
"Look!" Maota's thought was directed at him in this place of no direction. "Think of the city and you will see it."
Michaelson did, and he saw the city beyond, as if he were looking through a window. And yet he was in the city looking at his own body.
Maota's chuckle again. "The city will remain as it is. You did not win after all."
"Neither did you."
"But this existence has compensations," Maota said. "You can be anywhere, see anywhere on this planet. Even on your Earth."
Michaelson felt a great sadness, seeing his body lying across the old, home made bed. He looked closer. He sensed a vibration or life force—he didn't stop to define it—in his body. Why was his dead body different from Old Maota's? Could it be that there was some thread stretching from the reality of his body to his present state?
"I don't like your thoughts," Maota said. "No one can go back. I tried. I have discussed it with many who are not presently in communication with you. No one can go back."
Michaelson decided he try.
"No!" Maota's thought was prickled with fear and anger.
Michaelson did not know how to try, but he remembered the cylinder and gathered all the force of his mind in spite of Maota's protests, and gave his most violent command.
At first he thought it didn't work. He got up and looked around, then it struck him. He was standing up!
The cylinder. He knew it was the cylinder. That was the difference between himself and Maota. When he used the cylinder, that was where he went, the place where Maota was now. It was a door of some kind, leading to a path of some kind where distance was non-existent. But the
"clock" was a mechanism to transport only the mind to that place.
To be certain of it, he pressed the button again, with the same result as before. He saw his own body fall down. He felt Maota's presence.
"You devil!" Maota's thought-scream was a sword of hate and anger, irrational suddenly, like a person who knows his loss is irrevocable.
"I said you were a god. I said you were a god. I said you were a god...! "
Question:
Who is Mr. Michaelson and what is his personality like?
Answer:
|
[
"Mr. Michaelson is a determined, tall, gaunt archeologist who enjoys finding artifacts and methodically undergoes the process of discovering and unearthing things, like this dead city on Alpha Centaurus II. His wife died many years ago back on Earth, and he has no children and no friends in the Earth settlement. He has a tiny cylinder in the flesh behind his ear that allows him to teleport instantly to a different location when touched.\nHe does not believe in the spiritual, and rejects that the dead city he stumbles across even needs a keeper, offending Maota greatly who refers to him as “Mr. Earthgod.”\nMr. Michaelson is ignorant and pushy towards Maota, not heeding his warnings or respecting his appeals to leave because it is angering the gods. Instead, Mr. Michaelson can’t understand why Maota won’t negotiate with him, almost as if he is entitled to take possession of the secrets and artifacts of the dead city\n",
"Michaelson is an Earthman on Alpha Centaurus II and an archeologist. At first, he seems to be a cheerful, pleasant man as he explores the ruins of the dead city because he is smiling to himself, exclaiming about his finds, marveling, and chuckling. He is, indeed, extremely interested in his findings. At the same time, however, he is stubborn, strong headed, and determined and treats Maota with condescension and even rudeness, questioning Maota’s need to protect a dead city, denying Maota’s belief that the spirits will return there, and dismissing his faith as superstition. Michaelson is also convinced that his views are right and that anyone else’s are wrong. For example, he is impressed with the talking book until he learns that it is a book of poetry; then, he considers it a waste. He believes books about mathematics or history are much more valuable. On the other hand, he is eager to hear Maota read the book, and the sounds of the words, even though he cannot understand them, move him and remind him the lost people were human with human sentiments and passions. When Maota decides to leave but indicates he is going in a direction Michaelson doesn’t know, Michaelson calls him stupid outright. Michaelson is curious to decipher the ancient peoples’ language and devotes hours to doing so. He then spent weeks trying to learn more about the clock device. When he can’t find anything out about it, he finally decides to push the button to experience its effects.\n\n",
"Mr. Michaelson is an archeologist from Earth who uses a cylindrical implant placed behind his ear to travel instantly from Earth to Alpha Centaurus II. He wants to explore an old city whose inhabitants had mysteriously vanished. Michaelson's wife had died many years prior to his arrival at Alpha Centaurus II, and he has neither children nor friends in the Earth settlement where he lives. Mr. Michaelson is compelled by his curiosity and his interest in preserving historical artifacts for posterity. When he first arrives in the city, he excitedly explores the unique buildings in spite of the sand and cobwebs; he eagerly investigates the various artifacts he finds, and he makes a small pile of them that he intends to investigate further. Michaelson acknowledges the intelligence of the webfooted natives, but he still treats Maota with a great deal of dismissiveness and condescension when Maota insists on the presence of sacred spirits in the city. Michaelson is a man of science and does not have much patience for the mysticism Maota espouses. He also shrugs off Maota's persistent threats to kill him and tries to convince him to support his preservation efforts. However, Michaelson does have some sense of self-preservation, which he displays in his fight with Maota. By the end of the story, Michaelson's scientific curiosity merges with a newly-discovered spiritual awareness when he realizes he can zoom in and out of dimensions by combining the powers of the clock-like device with his own cylindrical implant.",
"Mr. Michaelson is an Earthman without any close connections. His wife passed away many years back, and they never had any children together. Without anything truly tying him down, Michaelson is able to fully devote himself to his work without any distractions. As an archaeologist, he wants to discover more about ancient cultures, the way they thought, and the things they created. When he discovers the ancient city that the webfoots kept from the Earthmen, he instantly sorts through the sand and piles artifacts in the street. He plans on building a museum there where all mankind can come and see what life was like in this city half a million years ago. Mr. Michaelson is inherently curious and a little impulsive, shown time and time again when he chose to ignore Maota’s warnings. \nHis cylinder, tailored to Michaelson specifically, makes him a god in the eyes of Maota since he can transport himself between places in the blink of an eye. However, just like Maota, Michaelson is able to grow old and die like any other human. \n"
] |
50802
|
A CITY NEAR CENTAURUS
By BILL DOEDE
Illustrated by WEST
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Magazine October 1962. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The city was sacred, but not to its gods. Michaelson was a god—but far from sacred!
Crouched in the ancient doorway like an animal peering out from his burrow, Mr. Michaelson saw the native.
At first he was startled, thinking it might be someone else from the Earth settlement who had discovered the old city before him. Then he saw the glint of sun against the metallic skirt, and relaxed.
He chuckled to himself, wondering with amusement what a webfooted man was doing in an old dead city so far from his people. Some facts were known about the people of Alpha Centaurus II. They were not actually natives, he recalled. They were a colony from the fifth planet of the system. They were a curious people. Some were highly intelligent, though uneducated.
He decided to ignore the man for the moment. He was far down the ancient street, a mere speck against the sand. There would be plenty of time to wonder about him.
He gazed out from his position at the complex variety of buildings before him. Some were small, obviously homes. Others were huge with tall, frail spires standing against the pale blue sky. Square buildings, ellipsoid, spheroid. Beautiful, dream-stuff bridges connected tall, conical towers, bridges that still swung in the wind after half a million years. Late afternoon sunlight shone against ebony surfaces. The sands of many centuries had blown down the wide streets and filled the doorways. Desert plants grew from roofs of smaller buildings.
Ignoring the native, Mr. Michaelson poked about among the ruins happily, exclaiming to himself about some particular artifact, marveling at its state of preservation, holding it this way and that to catch the late afternoon sun, smiling, clucking gleefully. He crawled over the rubble through old doorways half filled with the accumulation of ages. He dug experimentally in the sand with his hands, like a dog, under a roof that had weathered half a million years of rain and sun. Then he crawled out again, covered with dust and cobwebs.
The native stood in the street less than a hundred feet away, waving his arms madly. "Mr. Earthgod," he cried. "It is sacred ground where you are trespassing!"
The archeologist smiled, watching the man hurry closer. He was short, even for a native. Long gray hair hung to his shoulders, bobbing up and down as he walked. He wore no shoes. The toes of his webbed feet dragged in the sand, making a deep trail behind him. He was an old man.
"You never told us about this old dead city," Michaelson said, chidingly. "Shame on you. But never mind. I've found it now. Isn't it beautiful?"
"Yes, beautiful. You will leave now."
"Leave?" Michaelson asked, acting surprised as if the man were a child. "I just got here a few hours ago."
"You must go."
"Why? Who are you?"
"I am keeper of the city."
"You?" Michaelson laughed. Then, seeing how serious the native was, said, "What makes you think a dead city needs a keeper?"
"The spirits may return."
Michaelson crawled out of the doorway and stood up. He brushed his trousers. He pointed. "See that wall? Built of some metal, I'd say, some alloy impervious to rust and wear."
"The spirits are angry."
"Notice the inscriptions? Wind has blown sand against them for eons, and rain and sleet. But their story is there, once we decipher it."
"Leave!"
The native's lined, weathered old face was working around the mouth in anger. Michaelson was almost sorry he had mocked him. He was deadly serious.
"Look," he said. "No spirits are ever coming back here. Don't you know that? And even if they did, spirits care nothing for old cities half covered with sand and dirt."
He walked away from the old man, heading for another building. The sun had already gone below the horizon, coloring the high clouds. He glanced backward. The webfoot was following.
"Mr. Earthgod!" the webfoot cried, so sharply that Michaelson stopped.
"You must not touch, not walk upon, not handle. Your step may destroy the home of some ancient spirit. Your breath may cause one iota of change and a spirit may lose his way in the darkness. Go quickly now, or be killed."
He turned and walked off, not looking back.
Michaelson stood in the ancient street, tall, gaunt, feet planted wide, hands in pockets, watching the webfoot until he was out of sight beyond a huge circular building. There was a man to watch. There was one of the intelligent ones. One look into the alert old eyes had told him that.
Michaelson shook his head, and went about satisfying his curiosity. He entered buildings without thought of roofs falling in, or decayed floors dropping from under his weight. He began to collect small items, making a pile of them in the street. An ancient bowl, metal untouched by the ages. A statue of a man, one foot high, correct to the minutest detail, showing how identical they had been to Earthmen. He found books still standing on ancient shelves but was afraid to touch them without tools.
Darkness came swiftly and he was forced out into the street.
He stood there alone feeling the age of the place. Even the smell of age was in the air. Silver moonlight from the two moons filtered through clear air down upon the ruins. The city lay now in darkness, dead and still, waiting for morning so it could lie dead and still in the sun.
There was no hurry to be going home, although he was alone, although this was Alpha Centaurus II with many unknowns, many dangers ... although home was a very great distance away. There was no one back there to worry about him.
His wife had died many years ago back on Earth. No children. His friends in the settlement would not look for him for another day at least. Anyway, the tiny cylinder, buried in flesh behind his ear, a thing of mystery and immense power, could take him home instantly, without effort save a flicker of thought.
"You did not leave, as I asked you."
Michaelson whirled around at the sound of the native's voice. Then he relaxed. He said, "You shouldn't sneak up on a man like that."
"You must leave, or I will be forced to kill you. I do not want to kill you, but if I must...." He made a clucking sound deep in the throat.
"The spirits are angry."
"Nonsense. Superstition! But never mind. You have been here longer than I. Tell me, what are those instruments in the rooms? It looks like a clock but I'm certain it had some other function."
"What rooms?"
"Oh, come now. The small rooms back there. Look like they were bedrooms."
"I do not know." The webfoot drew closer. Michaelson decided he was sixty or seventy years old, at least.
"You've been here a long time. You are intelligent, and you must be educated, the way you talk. That gadget looks like a time-piece of some sort. What is it? What does it measure?"
"I insist that you go." The webfoot held something in his hand.
"No." Michaelson looked off down the street, trying to ignore the native, trying to feel the life of the city as it might have been.
"You are sensitive," the native said in his ear. "It takes a sensitive god to feel the spirits moving in the houses and walking in these old streets."
"Say it any way you want to. This is the most fascinating thing I've ever seen. The Inca's treasure, the ruins of Pompeii, Egyptian tombs—none can hold a candle to this."
"Mr. Earthgod...."
"Don't call me that. I'm not a god, and you know it."
The old man shrugged. "It is not an item worthy of dispute. Those names you mention, are they the names of gods?"
He chuckled. "In a way, yes. What is your name?"
"Maota."
"You must help me, Maota. These things must be preserved. We'll build a museum, right here in the street. No, over there on the hill just outside the city. We'll collect all the old writings and perhaps we may decipher them. Think of it, Maota! To read pages written so long ago and think their thoughts. We'll put everything under glass. Build and evacuate chambers to stop the decay. Catalogue, itemize...."
Michaelson was warming up to his subject, but Maota shook his head like a waving palm frond and stamped his feet.
"You will leave now."
"Can't you see? Look at the decay. These things are priceless. They must be preserved. Future generations will thank us."
"Do you mean," the old man asked, aghast, "that you want others to come here? You know the city abhors the sound of alien voices. Those who lived here may return one day! They must not find their city packaged and preserved and laid out on shelves for the curious to breathe their foul breaths upon. You will leave. Now!"
"No." Michaelson was adamant. The rock of Gibraltar.
Maota hit him, quickly, passionately, and dropped the weapon beside his body. He turned swiftly, making a swirling mark in the sand with his heel, and walked off toward the hills outside the city.
The weapon he had used was an ancient book. Its paper-thin pages rustled in the wind as if an unseen hand turned them, reading, while Michaelson's blood trickled out from the head wound upon the ancient street.
When he regained consciousness the two moons, bright sentinel orbs in the night sky, had moved to a new position down their sliding path. Old Maota's absence took some of the weirdness and fantasy away. It seemed a more practical place now.
The gash in his head was painful, throbbing with quick, short hammer-blows synchronized with his heart beats. But there was a new determination in him. If it was a fight that the old webfooted fool wanted, a fight he would get. The cylinder flicked him, at his command, across five hundred miles of desert and rocks to a small creek he remembered. Here he bathed his head in cool water until all the caked blood was dissolved from his hair. Feeling better, he went back.
The wind had turned cool. Michaelson shivered, wishing he had brought a coat. The city was absolutely still except for small gusts of wind sighing through the frail spires. The ancient book still lay in the sand beside the dark spot of blood. He stooped over and picked it up.
It was light, much lighter than most Earth books. He ran a hand over the binding. Smooth it was, untouched by time or climate. He squinted at the pages, tilting the book to catch the bright moonlight, but the writing was alien. He touched the page, ran his forefinger over the writing.
Suddenly he sprang back. The book fell from his hands.
"God in heaven!" he exclaimed.
He had heard a voice. He looked around at the old buildings, down the length of the ancient street. Something strange about the voice. Not Maota. Not his tones. Not his words. Satisfied that no one was near, he stooped and picked up the book again.
"Good God!" he said aloud. It was the book talking. His fingers had touched the writing again. It was not a voice, exactly, but a stirring in his mind, like a strange language heard for the first time.
A talking book. What other surprises were in the city? Tall, fragile buildings laughing at time and weather. A clock measuring God-knows-what. If such wonders remained, what about those already destroyed? One could only guess at the machines, the gadgets, the artistry already decayed and blown away to mix forever with the sand.
I must preserve it, he thought, whether Maota likes it or not. They say these people lived half a million years ago. A long time. Let's see, now. A man lives one hundred years on the average. Five thousand lifetimes.
And all you do is touch a book, and a voice jumps across all those years!
He started off toward the tall building he had examined upon discovery of the city. His left eyelid began to twitch and he laid his forefinger against the eye, pressing until it stopped. Then he stooped and entered the building. He laid the book down and tried to take the "clock" off the wall. It was dark in the building and his fingers felt along the wall, looking for it. Then he touched it. His fingers moved over its smooth surface. Then suddenly he jerked his hand back with an exclamation of amazement. Fear ran up his spine.
The clock was warm.
He felt like running, like flicking back to the settlement where there were people and familiar voices, for here was a thing that should not be. Half a million years—and here was warmth!
He touched it again, curiosity overwhelming his fear. It was warm. No mistake. And there was a faint vibration, a suggestion of power. He stood there in the darkness staring off into the darkness, trembling. Fear built up in him until it was a monstrous thing, drowning reason. He forgot the power of the cylinder behind his ear. He scrambled through the doorway. He got up and ran down the ancient sandy street until he came to the edge of the city. Here he stopped, gasping for air, feeling the pain throb in his head.
Common sense said that he should go home, that nothing worthwhile could be accomplished at night, that he was tired, that he was weak from loss of blood and fright and running. But when Michaelson was on the trail of important discoveries he had no common sense.
He sat down in the darkness, meaning to rest a moment.
When he awoke dawn was red against thin clouds in the east.
Old Maota stood in the street with webbed feet planted far apart in the sand, a weapon in the crook of his arm. It was a long tube affair, familiar to Michaelson.
Michaelson asked, "Did you sleep well?"
"No."
"I'm sorry to hear that."
"How do you feel?"
"Fine, but my head aches a little."
"Sorry," Maota said.
"For what?"
"For hitting you. Pain is not for gods like you."
Michaelson relaxed somewhat. "What kind of man are you? First you try to break my skull, then you apologize."
"I abhor pain. I should have killed you outright."
He thought about that for a moment, eyeing the weapon.
It looked in good working order. Slim and shiny and innocent, it looked like a glorified African blowgun. But he was not deceived by its appearance. It was a deadly weapon.
"Well," he said, "before you kill me, tell me about the book." He held it up for Maota to see.
"What about the book?"
"What kind of book is it?"
"What does Mr. Earthgod mean, what kind of book? You have seen it. It is like any other book, except for the material and the fact that it talks."
"No, no. I mean, what's in it?"
"Poetry."
"Poetry? For God's sake, why poetry? Why not mathematics or history? Why not tell how to make the metal of the book itself? Now there is a subject worthy of a book."
Maota shook his head. "One does not study a dead culture to learn how they made things, but how they thought. But we are wasting time. I must kill you now, so I can get some rest."
The old man raised the gun.
"Wait! You forget that I also have a weapon." He pointed to the spot behind his ear where the cylinder was buried. "I can move faster than you can fire the gun."
Maota nodded. "I have heard how you travel. It does not matter. I will kill you anyway."
"I suggest we negotiate."
"No."
"Why not?"
Maota looked off toward the hills, old eyes filmed from years of sand and wind, leather skin lined and pitted. The hills stood immobile, brown-gray, already shimmering with heat, impotent.
"Why not?" Michaelson repeated.
"Why not what?" Maota dragged his eyes back.
"Negotiate."
"No." Maota's eyes grew hard as steel. They stood there in the sun, not twenty feet apart, hating each other. The two moons, very pale and far away on the western horizon, stared like two bottomless eyes.
"All right, then. At least it's a quick death. I hear that thing just disintegrates a man. Pfft! And that's that."
Michaelson prepared himself to move if the old man's finger slid closer toward the firing stud. The old man raised the gun.
"Wait!"
"Now what?"
"At least read some of the book to me before I die, then."
The gun wavered. "I am not an unreasonable man," the webfoot said.
Michaelson stepped forward, extending his arm with the book.
"No, stay where you are. Throw it."
"This book is priceless. You just don't go throwing such valuable items around."
"It won't break. Throw it."
Michaelson threw the book. It landed at Maota's feet, spouting sand against his leg. He shifted the weapon, picked up the book and leafed through it, raising his head in a listening attitude, searching for a suitable passage. Michaelson heard the thin, metallic pages rustle softly. He could have jumped and seized the weapon at that moment, but his desire to hear the book was strong.
Old Maota read, Michaelson listened. The cadence was different, the syntax confusing. But the thoughts were there. It might have been a professor back on Earth reading to his students. Keats, Shelley, Browning. These people were human, with human thoughts and aspirations.
The old man stopped reading. He squatted slowly, keeping Michaelson in sight, and laid the book face up in the sand. Wind moved the pages.
"See?" he said. "The spirits read. They must have been great readers, these people. They drink the book, as if it were an elixir. See how gentle! They lap at the pages like a new kitten tasting milk."
Michaelson laughed. "You certainly have an imagination."
"What difference does it make?" Maota cried, suddenly angry. "You want to close up all these things in boxes for a posterity who may have no slightest feeling or appreciation. I want to leave the city as it is, for spirits whose existence I cannot prove."
The old man's eyes were furious now, deadly. The gun came down directly in line with the Earthman's chest. The gnarled finger moved.
Michaelson, using the power of the cylinder behind his ear, jumped behind the old webfoot. To Maota it seemed that he had flicked out of existence like a match blown out. The next instant Michaelson spun him around and hit him. It was an inexpert fist, belonging to an archeologist, not a fighter. But Maota was an old man.
He dropped in the sand, momentarily stunned. Michaelson bent over to pick up the gun and the old man, feeling it slip from his fingers, hung on and was pulled to his feet.
They struggled for possession of the gun, silently, gasping, kicking sand. Faces grew red. Lips drew back over Michaelson's white teeth, over Maota's pink, toothless gums. The dead city's fragile spires threw impersonal shadows down where they fought.
Then quite suddenly a finger or hand—neither knew whose finger or hand—touched the firing stud.
There was a hollow, whooshing sound. Both stopped still, realizing the total destruction they might have caused.
"It only hit the ground," Michaelson said.
A black, charred hole, two feet in diameter and—they could not see how deep—stared at them.
Maota let go and sprawled in the sand. "The book!" he cried. "The book is gone!"
"No! We probably covered it with sand while we fought."
Both men began scooping sand in their cupped hands, digging frantically for the book. Saliva dripped from Maota's mouth, but he didn't know or care.
Finally they stopped, exhausted. They had covered a substantial area around the hole. They had covered the complete area where they had been.
"We killed it," the old man moaned.
"It was just a book. Not alive, you know."
"How do you know?" The old man's pale eyes were filled with tears. "It talked and it sang. In a way, it had a soul. Sometimes on long nights I used to imagine it loved me, for taking care of it."
"There are other books. We'll get another."
Maota shook his head. "There are no more."
"But I've seen them. Down there in the square building."
"Not poetry. Books, yes, but not poetry. That was the only book with songs."
"I'm sorry."
" You killed it!" Maota suddenly sprang for the weapon, lying forgotten in the sand. Michaelson put his foot on it and Maota was too weak to tear it loose. He could only weep out his rage.
When he could talk again, Maota said, "I am sorry, Mr. Earthgod. I've disgraced myself."
"Don't be sorry." Michaelson helped him to his feet. "We fight for some reasons, cry for others. A priceless book is a good reason for either."
"Not for that. For not winning. I should have killed you last night when I had the chance. The gods give us chances and if we don't take them we lose forever."
"I told you before! We are on the same side. Negotiate. Have you never heard of negotiation?"
"You are a god," Maota said. "One does not negotiate with gods. One either loves them, or kills them."
"That's another thing. I am not a god. Can't you understand?"
"Of course you are." Maota looked up, very sure. "Mortals cannot step from star to star like crossing a shallow brook."
"No, no. I don't step from one star to another. An invention does that. Just an invention. I carry it with me. It's a tiny thing. No one would ever guess it has such power. So you see, I'm human, just like you. Hit me and I hurt. Cut me and I bleed. I love. I hate. I was born. Some day I'll die. See? I'm human. Just a human with a machine. No more than that."
Maota laughed, then sobered quickly. "You lie."
"No."
"If I had this machine, could I travel as you?"
"Yes."
"Then I'll kill you and take yours."
"It would not work for you."
"Why?"
"Each machine is tailored for each person."
The old man hung his head. He looked down into the black, charred hole. He walked all around the hole. He kicked at the sand, looking half-heartedly again for the book.
"Look," Michaelson said. "I'm sure I've convinced you that I'm human. Why not have a try at negotiating our differences?"
He looked up. His expressive eyes, deep, resigned, studied Michaelson's face. Finally he shook his head sadly. "When we first met I hoped we could think the ancient thoughts together. But our paths diverge. We have finished, you and I."
He turned and started off, shoulders slumped dejectedly.
Michaelson caught up to him. "Are you leaving the city?"
"No."
"Where are you going?"
"Away. Far away." Maota looked off toward the hills, eyes distant.
"Don't be stupid, old man. How can you go far away and not leave the city?"
"There are many directions. You would not understand."
"East. West. North. South. Up. Down."
"No, no. There is another direction. Come, if you must see."
Michaelson followed him far down the street. They came to a section of the city he had not seen before. Buildings were smaller, spires dwarfed against larger structures. Here a path was packed in the sand, leading to a particular building.
Michaelson said, "This is where you live?"
"Yes."
Maota went inside. Michaelson stood in the entrance and looked around. The room was clean, furnished with hand made chairs and a bed. Who is this old man, he thought, far from his people, living alone, choosing a life of solitude among ancient ruins but not touching them? Above the bed a "clock" was fastened to the wall, Michaelson remembered his fright—thinking of the warmth where warmth should not be.
Maota pointed to it.
"You asked about this machine," he said. "Now I will tell you." He laid his hand against it. "Here is power to follow another direction."
Michaelson tested one of the chairs to see if it would hold his weight, then sat down. His curiosity about the instrument was colossal, but he forced a short laugh. "Maota, you are complex. Why not stop all this mystery nonsense and tell me about it? You know more about it than I."
"Of course." Maota smiled a toothless, superior smile. "What do you suppose happened to this race?"
"You tell me."
"They took the unknown direction. The books speak of it. I don't know how the instrument works, but one thing is certain. The race did not die out, as a species becomes extinct."
Michaelson was amused, but interested. "Something like a fourth dimension?"
"I don't know. I only know that with this instrument there is no death. I have read the books that speak of this race, this wonderful people who conquered all disease, who explored all the mysteries of science, who devised this machine to cheat death. See this button here on the face of the instrument? Press the button, and...."
"And what?"
"I don't know, exactly. But I have lived many years. I have walked the streets of this city and wondered, and wanted to press the button. Now I will do so."
Quickly the old man, still smiling, pressed the button. A high-pitched whine filled the air, just within audio range. Steady for a moment, it then rose in pitch passing beyond hearing quickly.
The old man's knees buckled. He sank down, fell over the bed, lay still. Michaelson touched him cautiously, then examined him more carefully. No question about it.
The old man was dead.
Feeling depressed and alone, Michaelson found a desert knoll outside the city overlooking the tall spires that shone in the sunlight and gleamed in the moonlight. He made a stretcher, rolled the old man's body on to it and dragged it down the long ancient street and up the knoll.
Here he buried him.
But it seemed a waste of time. Somehow he knew beyond any doubt that the old native and his body were completely disassociated in some sense more complete than death.
In the days that followed he gave much thought to the "clock." He came to the city every day. He spent long hours in the huge square building with the books. He learned the language by sheer bulldog determination. Then he searched the books for information about the instrument.
Finally after many weeks, long after the winds had obliterated all evidence of Maota's grave on the knoll, Michaelson made a decision. He had to know if the machine would work for him.
And so one afternoon when the ancient spires threw long shadows over the sand he walked down the long street and entered the old man's house. He stood before the instrument, trembling, afraid, but determined. He pinched his eyes shut tight like a child and pressed the button.
The high-pitched whine started.
Complete, utter silence. Void. Darkness. Awareness and memory, yes; nothing else. Then Maota's chuckle came. No sound, an impression only like the voice from the ancient book. Where was he? There was no left or right, up or down. Maota was everywhere, nowhere.
"Look!" Maota's thought was directed at him in this place of no direction. "Think of the city and you will see it."
Michaelson did, and he saw the city beyond, as if he were looking through a window. And yet he was in the city looking at his own body.
Maota's chuckle again. "The city will remain as it is. You did not win after all."
"Neither did you."
"But this existence has compensations," Maota said. "You can be anywhere, see anywhere on this planet. Even on your Earth."
Michaelson felt a great sadness, seeing his body lying across the old, home made bed. He looked closer. He sensed a vibration or life force—he didn't stop to define it—in his body. Why was his dead body different from Old Maota's? Could it be that there was some thread stretching from the reality of his body to his present state?
"I don't like your thoughts," Maota said. "No one can go back. I tried. I have discussed it with many who are not presently in communication with you. No one can go back."
Michaelson decided he try.
"No!" Maota's thought was prickled with fear and anger.
Michaelson did not know how to try, but he remembered the cylinder and gathered all the force of his mind in spite of Maota's protests, and gave his most violent command.
At first he thought it didn't work. He got up and looked around, then it struck him. He was standing up!
The cylinder. He knew it was the cylinder. That was the difference between himself and Maota. When he used the cylinder, that was where he went, the place where Maota was now. It was a door of some kind, leading to a path of some kind where distance was non-existent. But the
"clock" was a mechanism to transport only the mind to that place.
To be certain of it, he pressed the button again, with the same result as before. He saw his own body fall down. He felt Maota's presence.
"You devil!" Maota's thought-scream was a sword of hate and anger, irrational suddenly, like a person who knows his loss is irrevocable.
"I said you were a god. I said you were a god. I said you were a god...! "
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What is the plot of the story?
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After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about Orphans of the Void by Michael Shaara.
Relevant chunks:
Orphans of the Void
By MICHAEL SHAARA
Illustrated by EMSH
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Finding a cause worth dying for is no great trick—the Universe is full of them. Finding one worth living for is the genuine problem!
In the region of the Coal Sack Nebula, on the dead fourth planet of a star called Tyban, Captain Steffens of the Mapping Command stood counting buildings. Eleven. No, twelve. He wondered if there was any significance in the number. He had no idea.
"What do you make of it?" he asked.
Lieutenant Ball, the executive officer of the ship, almost tried to scratch his head before he remembered that he was wearing a spacesuit.
"Looks like a temporary camp," Ball said. "Very few buildings, and all built out of native materials, the only stuff available. Castaways, maybe?"
Steffens was silent as he walked up onto the rise. The flat weathered stone jutted out of the sand before him.
"No inscriptions," he pointed out.
"They would have been worn away. See the wind grooves? Anyway, there's not another building on the whole damn planet. You wouldn't call it much of a civilization."
"You don't think these are native?"
Ball said he didn't. Steffens nodded.
Standing there and gazing at the stone, Steffens felt the awe of great age. He had a hunch, deep and intuitive, that this was old— too old. He reached out a gloved hand, ran it gently over the smooth stone ridges of the wall. Although the atmosphere was very thin, he noticed that the buildings had no airlocks.
Ball's voice sounded in his helmet: "Want to set up shop, Skipper?"
Steffens paused. "All right, if you think it will do any good."
"You never can tell. Excavation probably won't be much use. These things are on a raised rock foundation, swept clean by the wind. And you can see that the rock itself is native—" he indicated the ledge beneath their feet—"and was cut out a long while back."
"How long?"
Ball toed the sand uncomfortably. "I wouldn't like to say off-hand."
"Make a rough estimate."
Ball looked at the captain, knowing what was in his mind. He smiled wryly and said: "Five thousand years? Ten thousand? I don't know."
Steffens whistled.
Ball pointed again at the wall. "Look at the striations. You can tell from that alone. It would take even a brisk Earth wind at least several thousand years to cut that deep, and the wind here has only a fraction of that force."
The two men stood for a long moment in silence. Man had been in interstellar space for three hundred years and this was the first uncovered evidence of an advanced, space-crossing, alien race. It was an historic moment, but neither of them was thinking about history.
Man had been in space for only three hundred years. Whatever had built these had been in space for thousands of years.
Which ought to give them , thought Steffens uncomfortably, one hell of a good head-start.
While the excav crew worked steadily, turning up nothing, Steffens remained alone among the buildings. Ball came out to him, looked dryly at the walls.
"Well," he said, "whoever they were, we haven't heard from them since."
"No? How can you be sure?" Steffens grunted. "A space-borne race was roaming this part of the Galaxy while men were still pitching spears at each other, that long ago. And this planet is only a parsec from Varius II, a civilization as old as Earth's. Did whoever built these get to Varius? Or did they get to Earth? How can you know?"
He kicked at the sand distractedly. "And most important, where are they now? A race with several thousand years...."
"Fifteen thousand," Ball said. When Steffens looked up, he added:
"That's what the geology boys say. Fifteen thousand, at the least."
Steffens turned to stare unhappily at the buildings. When he realized now how really old they were, a sudden thought struck him.
"But why buildings? Why did they have to build in stone, to last? There's something wrong with that. They shouldn't have had a need to build, unless they were castaways. And castaways would have left something behind. The only reason they would need a camp would be—"
"If the ship left and some of them stayed."
Steffens nodded. "But then the ship must have come back. Where did it go?" He ceased kicking at the sand and looked up into the blue-black midday sky. "We'll never know."
"How about the other planets?" Ball asked.
"The report was negative. Inner too hot, outer too heavy and cold. The third planet is the only one with a decent temperature range, but it has a CO
2
atmosphere."
"How about moons?"
Steffens shrugged. "We could try them and find out."
The third planet was a blank, gleaming ball until they were in close, and then the blankness resolved into folds and piling clouds and dimly, in places, the surface showed through. The ship went down through the clouds, falling the last few miles on her brakers. They came into the misty gas below, leveled off and moved along the edge of the twilight zone.
The moons of this solar system had yielded nothing. The third planet, a hot, heavy world which had no free oxygen and from which the monitors had detected nothing, was all that was left. Steffens expected nothing, but he had to try.
At a height of several miles, the ship moved up the zone, scanning, moving in the familiar slow spiral of the Mapping Command. Faint dark outlines of bare rocks and hills moved by below.
Steffens turned the screen to full magnification and watched silently.
After a while he saw a city.
The main screen being on, the whole crew saw it. Someone shouted and they stopped to stare, and Steffens was about to call for altitude when he saw that the city was dead.
He looked down on splintered walls that were like cloudy glass pieces rising above a plain, rising in a shattered circle. Near the center of the city, there was a huge, charred hole at least three miles in diameter and very deep. In all the piled rubble, nothing moved.
Steffens went down low to make sure, then brought the ship around and headed out across the main continent into the bright area of the sun. The rocks rolled by below, there was no vegetation at all, and then there were more cities—all with the black depression, the circular stamp that blotted away and fused the buildings into nothing.
No one on the ship had anything to say. None had ever seen a war, for there had not been war on Earth or near it for more than three hundred years.
The ship circled around to the dark side of the planet. When they were down below a mile, the radiation counters began to react. It became apparent, from the dials, that there could be nothing alive.
After a while Ball said: "Well, which do you figure? Did our friends from the fourth planet do this, or were they the same people as these?"
Steffens did not take his eyes from the screen. They were coming around to the daylight side.
"We'll go down and look for the answer," he said. "Break out the radiation suits."
He paused, thinking. If the ones on the fourth planet were alien to this world, they were from outer space, could not have come from one of the other planets here. They had starships and were warlike. Then, thousands of years ago. He began to realize how important it really was that Ball's question be answered.
When the ship had gone very low, looking for a landing site, Steffens was still by the screen. It was Steffens, then, who saw the thing move.
Down far below, it had been a still black shadow, and then it moved. Steffens froze. And he knew, even at that distance, that it was a robot.
Tiny and black, a mass of hanging arms and legs, the thing went gliding down the slope of a hill. Steffens saw it clearly for a full second, saw the dull ball of its head tilt upward as the ship came over, and then the hill was past.
Quickly Steffens called for height. The ship bucked beneath him and blasted straight up; some of the crew went crashing to the deck. Steffens remained by the screen, increasing the magnification as the ship drew away. And he saw another, then two, then a black gliding group, all matched with bunches of hanging arms.
Nothing alive but robots, he thought, robots . He adjusted to full close up as quickly as he could and the picture focused on the screen. Behind him he heard a crewman grunt in amazement.
A band of clear, plasticlike stuff ran round the head—it would be the eye, a band of eye that saw all ways. On the top of the head was a single round spot of the plastic, and the rest was black metal, joined, he realized, with fantastic perfection. The angle of sight was now almost perpendicular. He could see very little of the branching arms of the trunk, but what had been on the screen was enough. They were the most perfect robots he had ever seen.
The ship leveled off. Steffens had no idea what to do; the sudden sight of the moving things had unnerved him. He had already sounded the alert, flicked out the defense screens. Now he had nothing to do. He tried to concentrate on what the League Law would have him do.
The Law was no help. Contact with planet-bound races was forbidden under any circumstances. But could a bunch of robots be called a race? The Law said nothing about robots because Earthmen had none. The building of imaginative robots was expressly forbidden. But at any rate, Steffens thought, he had made contact already.
While Steffens stood by the screen, completely bewildered for the first time in his space career, Lieutenant Ball came up, hobbling slightly. From the bright new bruise on his cheek, Steffens guessed that the sudden climb had caught him unaware. The exec was pale with surprise.
"What were they?" he said blankly. "Lord, they looked like robots!"
"They were."
Ball stared confoundedly at the screen. The things were now a confusion of dots in the mist.
"Almost humanoid," Steffens said, "but not quite."
Ball was slowly absorbing the situation. He turned to gaze inquiringly at Steffens.
"Well, what do we do now?"
Steffens shrugged. "They saw us. We could leave now and let them quite possibly make a ... a legend out of our visit, or we could go down and see if they tie in with the buildings on Tyban IV."
" Can we go down?"
"Legally? I don't know. If they are robots, yes, since robots cannot constitute a race. But there's another possibility." He tapped his fingers on the screen confusedly. "They don't have to be robots at all. They could be the natives."
Ball gulped. "I don't follow you."
"They could be the original inhabitants of this planet—the brains of them, at least, protected in radiation-proof metal. Anyway," he added,
"they're the most perfect mechanicals I've ever seen."
Ball shook his head, sat down abruptly. Steffens turned from the screen, strode nervously across the Main Deck, thinking.
The Mapping Command, they called it. Theoretically, all he was supposed to do was make a closeup examination of unexplored systems, checking for the presence of life-forms as well as for the possibilities of human colonization. Make a check and nothing else. But he knew very clearly that if he returned to Sirius base without investigating this robot situation, he could very well be court-martialed one way or the other, either for breaking the Law of Contact or for dereliction of duty.
And there was also the possibility, which abruptly occurred to him, that the robots might well be prepared to blow his ship to hell and gone.
He stopped in the center of the deck. A whole new line of thought opened up. If the robots were armed and ready ... could this be an outpost?
An outpost!
He turned and raced for the bridge. If he went in and landed and was lost, then the League might never know in time. If he went in and stirred up trouble....
The thought in his mind was scattered suddenly, like a mist blown away. A voice was speaking in his mind, a deep calm voice that seemed to say:
" Greetings. Do not be alarmed. We do not wish you to be alarmed. Our desire is only to serve.... "
"Greetings, it said! Greetings!" Ball was mumbling incredulously through shocked lips.
Everyone on the ship had heard the voice. When it spoke again, Steffens was not sure whether it was just one voice or many voices.
"We await your coming," it said gravely, and repeated: "Our desire is only to serve."
And then the robots sent a picture .
As perfect and as clear as a tridim movie, a rectangular plate took shape in Steffens' mind. On the face of the plate, standing alone against a background of red-brown, bare rocks, was one of the robots. With slow, perfect movement, the robot carefully lifted one of the hanging arms of its side, of its right side, and extended it toward Steffens, a graciously offered hand.
Steffens felt a peculiar, compelling urge to take the hand, realized right away that the urge to take the hand was not entirely his. The robot mind had helped.
When the picture vanished, he knew that the others had seen it. He waited for a while; there was no further contact, but the feeling of the robot's urging was still strong within him. He had an idea that, if they wanted to, the robots could control his mind. So when nothing more happened, he began to lose his fear.
While the crew watched in fascination, Steffens tried to talk back. He concentrated hard on what he was saying, said it aloud for good measure, then held his own hand extended in the robot manner of shaking hands.
"Greetings," he said, because it was what they had said, and explained: "We have come from the stars."
It was overly dramatic, but so was the whole situation. He wondered baffledly if he should have let the Alien Contact crew handle it. Order someone to stand there, feeling like a fool, and think a message?
No, it was his responsibility; he had to go on:
"We request—we respectfully request permission to land upon your planet."
Steffens had not realized that there were so many.
They had been gathering since his ship was first seen, and now there were hundreds of them clustered upon the hill. Others were arriving even as the skiff landed; they glided in over the rocky hills with fantastic ease and power, so that Steffens felt a momentary anxiety. Most of the robots were standing with the silent immobility of metal. Others threaded their way to the fore and came near the skiff, but none touched it, and a circle was cleared for Steffens when he came out.
One of the near robots came forward alone, moving, as Steffens now saw, on a number of short, incredibly strong and agile legs. The black thing paused before him, extended a hand as it had done in the picture. Steffens took it, he hoped, warmly; felt the power of the metal through the glove of his suit.
"Welcome," the robot said, speaking again to his mind, and now Steffens detected a peculiar alteration in the robot's tone. It was less friendly now, less—Steffens could not understand—somehow less interested , as if the robot had been—expecting someone else.
"Thank you," Steffens said. "We are deeply grateful for your permission to land."
"Our desire," the robot repeated mechanically, "is only to serve."
Suddenly, Steffens began to feel alone, surrounded by machines. He tried to push the thought out of his mind, because he knew that they should seem inhuman. But....
"Will the others come down?" asked the robot, still mechanically.
Steffens felt his embarrassment. The ship lay high in the mist above, jets throbbing gently.
"They must remain with the ship," Steffens said aloud, trusting to the robot's formality not to ask him why. Although, if they could read his mind, there was no need to ask.
For a long while, neither spoke, long enough for Steffens to grow tense and uncomfortable. He could not think of a thing to say, the robot was obviously waiting, and so, in desperation, he signaled the Aliencon men to come on out of the skiff.
They came, wonderingly, and the ring of robots widened. Steffens heard the one robot speak again. The voice was now much more friendly.
"We hope you will forgive us for intruding upon your thought. It is our—custom—not to communicate unless we are called upon. But when we observed that you were in ignorance of our real—nature—and were about to leave our planet, we decided to put aside our custom, so that you might base your decision upon sufficient data."
Steffens replied haltingly that he appreciated their action.
"We perceive," the robot went on, "that you are unaware of our complete access to your mind, and would perhaps be—dismayed—to learn that we have been gathering information from you. We must—apologize. Our only purpose was so that we could communicate with you. Only that information was taken which is necessary for communication and—understanding. We will enter your minds henceforth only at your request."
Steffens did not react to the news that his mind was being probed as violently as he might have. Nevertheless it was a shock, and he retreated into observant silence as the Aliencon men went to work.
The robot which seemed to have been doing the speaking was in no way different from any of the others in the group. Since each of the robots was immediately aware of all that was being said or thought, Steffens guessed that they had sent one forward just for appearance's sake, because they perceived that the Earthmen would feel more at home. The picture of the extended hand, the characteristic handshake of Earthmen, had probably been borrowed, too, for the same purpose of making him and the others feel at ease. The one jarring note was the robot's momentary lapse, those unexplainable few seconds when the things had seemed almost disappointed. Steffens gave up wondering about that and began to examine the first robot in detail.
It was not very tall, being at least a foot shorter than the Earthmen. The most peculiar thing about it, except for the circling eye-band of the head, was a mass of symbols which were apparently engraved upon the metal chest. Symbols in row upon row—numbers, perhaps—were upon the chest, and repeated again below the level of the arms, and continued in orderly rows across the front of the robot, all the way down to the base of the trunk. If they were numbers, Steffens thought, then it was a remarkably complicated system. But he noticed the same pattern on the nearer robots, all apparently identical. He was forced to conclude that the symbols were merely decoration and let it go tentatively at that, although the answer seemed illogical.
It wasn't until he was on his way home that Steffens remembered the symbols again. And only then did he realized what they were.
After a while, convinced that there was no danger, Steffens had the ship brought down. When the crew came out of the airlock, they were met by the robots, and each man found himself with a robot at his side, humbly requesting to be of service. There were literally thousands of the robots now, come from all over the barren horizon. The mass of them stood apart, immobile on a plain near the ship, glinting in the sun like a vast, metallic field of black wheat.
The robots had obviously been built to serve. Steffens began to feel their pleasure, to sense it in spite of the blank, expressionless faces. They were almost like children in their eagerness, yet they were still reserved. Whoever had built them, Steffens thought in wonder, had built them well.
Ball came to join Steffens, staring at the robots through the clear plastic of his helmet with baffledly widened eyes. A robot moved out from the mass in the field, allied itself to him. The first to speak had remained with Steffens.
Realizing that the robot could hear every word he was saying, Ball was for a while apprehensive. But the sheer unreality of standing and talking with a multi-limbed, intelligent hunk of dead metal upon the bare rock of a dead, ancient world, the unreality of it slowly died. It was impossible not to like the things. There was something in their very lines which was pleasant and relaxing.
Their builders, Steffens thought, had probably thought of that, too.
"There's no harm in them," said Ball at last, openly, not minding if the robots heard. "They seem actually glad we're here. My God, whoever heard of a robot being glad?"
Steffens, embarrassed, spoke quickly to the nearest mechanical: "I hope you will forgive us our curiosity, but—yours is a remarkable race. We have never before made contact with a race like yours." It was said haltingly, but it was the best he could do.
The robot made a singularly human nodding motion of its head.
"I perceive that the nature of our construction is unfamiliar to you. Your question is whether or not we are entirely 'mechanical.' I am not exactly certain as to what the word 'mechanical' is intended to convey—I would have to examine your thought more fully—but I believe that there is fundamental similarity between our structures."
The robot paused. Steffens had a distinct impression that it was disconcerted.
"I must tell you," the thing went on, "that we ourselves are—curious." It stopped suddenly, struggling with a word it could not comprehend. Steffens waited, listening with absolute interest. It said at length:
"We know of only two types of living structure. Ours, which is largely metallic, and that of the Makers , which would appear to be somewhat more like yours. I am not a—doctor—and therefore cannot acquaint you with the specific details of the Makers' composition, but if you are interested I will have a doctor brought forward. It will be glad to be of assistance."
It was Steffens' turn to struggle, and the robot waited patiently while Ball and the second robot looked on in silence. The Makers, obviously, were whoever or whatever had built the robots, and the "doctors," Steffens decided, were probably just that—doctor-robots, designed specifically to care for the apparently flesh-bodies of the Makers.
The efficiency of the things continued to amaze him, but the question he had been waiting to ask came out now with a rush:
"Can you tell us where the Makers are?"
Both robots stood motionless. It occurred to Steffens that he couldn't really be sure which was speaking. The voice that came to him spoke with difficulty.
"The Makers—are not here."
Steffens stared in puzzlement. The robot detected his confusion and went on:
"The Makers have gone away. They have been gone for a very long time."
Could that be pain in its voice, Steffens wondered, and then the spectre of the ruined cities rose harsh in his mind.
War. The Makers had all been killed in that war. And these had not been killed.
He tried to grasp it, but he couldn't. There were robots here in the midst of a radiation so lethal that nothing , nothing could live; robots on a dead planet, living in an atmosphere of carbon dioxide.
The carbon dioxide brought him up sharp.
If there had been life here once, there would have been plant life as well, and therefore oxygen. If the war had been so long ago that the free oxygen had since gone out of the atmosphere—good God, how old were the robots? Steffens looked at Ball, then at the silent robots, then out across the field to where the rest of them stood. The black wheat. Steffens felt a deep chill.
Were they immortal?
"Would you like to see a doctor?"
Steffens jumped at the familiar words, then realized to what the robot was referring.
"No, not yet," he said, "thank you." He swallowed hard as the robots continued waiting patiently.
"Could you tell me," he said at last, "how old you are? Individually?"
"By your reckoning," said his robot, and paused to make the calculation, "I am forty-four years, seven months, and eighteen days of age, with ten years and approximately nine months yet to be alive."
Steffens tried to understand that.
"It would perhaps simplify our conversations," said the robot, "if you were to refer to me by a name, as is your custom. Using the first—letters—of my designation, my name would translate as Elb."
"Glad to meet you," Steffens mumbled.
"You are called 'Stef,'" said the robot obligingly. Then it added, pointing an arm at the robot near Ball: "The age of—Peb—is seventeen years, one month and four days. Peb has therefore remaining some thirty-eight years."
Steffens was trying to keep up. Then the life span was obviously about fifty-five years. But the cities, and the carbon dioxide? The robot, Elb, had said that the Makers were similar to him, and therefore oxygen and plant life would have been needed. Unless—
He remembered the buildings on Tyban IV.
Unless the Makers had not come from this planet at all.
His mind helplessly began to revolve. It was Ball who restored order.
"Do you build yourselves?" the exec asked.
Peb answered quickly, that faint note of happiness again apparent, as if the robot was glad for the opportunity of answering.
"No, we do not build ourselves. We are made by the—" another pause for a word—"by the Factory ."
"The Factory?"
"Yes. It was built by the Makers. Would you care to see it?"
Both of the Earthmen nodded dumbly.
"Would you prefer to use your—skiff? It is quite a long way from here."
It was indeed a long way, even by skiff. Some of the Aliencon crew went along with them. And near the edge of the twilight zone, on the other side of the world, they saw the Factory outlined in the dim light of dusk. A huge, fantastic block, wrought of gray and cloudy metal, lay in a valley between two worn mountains. Steffens went down low, circling in the skiff, stared in awe at the size of the building. Robots moved outside the thing, little black bugs in the distance—moving around their birthplace.
The Earthmen remained for several weeks. During that time, Steffens was usually with Elb, talking now as often as he listened, and the Aliencon team roamed the planet freely, investigating what was certainly the strangest culture in history. There was still the mystery of those buildings on Tyban IV; that, as well as the robots' origin, would have to be cleared up before they could leave.
Surprisingly, Steffens did not think about the future. Whenever he came near a robot, he sensed such a general, comfortable air of good feeling that it warmed him, and he was so preoccupied with watching the robots that he did little thinking.
Something he had not realized at the beginning was that he was as unusual to the robots as they were to him. It came to him with a great shock that not one of the robots had ever seen a living thing. Not a bug, a worm, a leaf. They did not know what flesh was. Only the doctors knew that, and none of them could readily understand what was meant by the words "organic matter." It had taken them some time to recognize that the Earthmen wore suits which were not parts of their bodies, and it was even more difficult for them to understand why the suits were needed.
But when they did understand, the robots did a surprising thing.
At first, because of the excessive radiation, none of the Earthmen could remain outside the ship for long, even in radiation suits. And one morning, when Steffens came out of the ship, it was to discover that hundreds of the robots, working through the night, had effectively decontaminated the entire area.
It was at this point that Steffens asked how many robots there were. He learned to his amazement that there were more than nine million. The great mass of them had politely remained a great distance from the ship, spread out over the planet, since they were highly radioactive.
Steffens, meanwhile, courteously allowed Elb to probe into his mind. The robot extracted all the knowledge of matter that Steffens held, pondered over the knowledge and tried to digest it, and passed it on to the other robots. Steffens, in turn, had a difficult time picturing the mind of a thing that had never known life.
He had a vague idea of the robot's history—more, perhaps, then they knew themselves—but he refrained from forming an opinion until Aliencon made its report. What fascinated him was Elb's amazing philosophy, the only outlook, really, that the robot could have had.
"What do you do ?" Steffens asked.
Elb replied quickly, with characteristic simplicity: "We can do very little. A certain amount of physical knowledge was imparted to us at birth by the Makers. We spend the main part of our time expanding that knowledge wherever possible. We have made some progress in the natural sciences, and some in mathematics. Our purpose in being, you see, is to serve the Makers. Any ability we can acquire will make us that much more fit to serve when the Makers return."
"When they return?" It had not occurred to Steffens until now that the robots expected the Makers to do so.
Elb regarded him out of the band of the circling eye. "I see you had surmised that the Makers were not coming back."
If the robot could have laughed, Steffens thought it would have, then. But it just stood there, motionless, its tone politely emphatic.
"It has always been our belief that the Makers would return. Why else would we have been built?"
Steffens thought the robot would go on, but it didn't. The question, to Elb, was no question at all.
Although Steffens knew already what the robot could not possibly have known—that the Makers were gone and would never come back—he was a long time understanding. What he did was push this speculation into the back of his mind, to keep it from Elb. He had no desire to destroy a faith.
But it created a problem in him. He had begun to picture for Elb the structure of human society, and the robot—a machine which did not eat or sleep—listened gravely and tried to understand. One day Steffens mentioned God.
"God?" the robot repeated without comprehension. "What is God?"
Steffens explained briefly, and the robot answered:
"It is a matter which has troubled us. We thought at first that you were the Makers returning—" Steffens remembered the brief lapse, the seeming disappointment he had sensed—"but then we probed your minds and found that you were not, that you were another kind of being, unlike either the Makers or ourselves. You were not even—" Elb caught himself—"you did not happen to be telepaths. Therefore we troubled over who made you. We did detect the word 'Maker' in your theology, but it seemed to have a peculiar—" Elb paused for a long while—"an untouchable, intangible meaning which varies among you."
Steffens understood. He nodded.
The Makers were the robots' God, were all the God they needed. The Makers had built them, the planet, the universe. If he were to ask them who made the Makers, it would be like their asking him who made God.
It was an ironic parallel, and he smiled to himself.
But on that planet, it was the last time he smiled.
Question:
What is the plot of the story?
Answer:
|
[
"Captain Steffens and his crew, including Lieutenant Ball, are exploring the dead (uninhabited) fourth planet of the star called Tybanon in the Coal Sack Nebula. They are on a Mapping Command sent from Earth to explore new planets, assess them for life-forms and evaluate the ability of human colonization.\nThis planet is peculiar because it contains stone building structures that are over 15,000 years old. Steffens and Ball discuss the profound realization that to be that old, the alien race that erected them must be quite advanced, with interstellar travel while humans were still throwing spears around. They conclude there were castaways stranded on the planet that were then evacuated since they could find no other traces of civilization besides the structures.\nThey begin mystery-solving, wondering if the race evacuated to a different planet. The readings from the system indicate that there are moons, and the Third planet has a suitable temperature range for life, but has a CO2 atmosphere. They take their ship down to cruising altitude on the Third planet and find cities that have all been obliterated into black craters at least three miles in diameter and very deep. They are shaken, and then Steffens spots the most perfect robots he has ever seen. They are black plastic, expertly crafted, have hanging arms and legs and move with a gliding motion. \nHe is forbidden by League Law from contacting planet-bound races. He is not clear if robots are a race (sentient robots are banned on Earth) and thinks that he could be in trouble whether he contacts them or not. Contacting them if they are a race would be bad, and also he would be dismissed for not fulfilling his mapping duties if they aren’t a race. As he wonders, the robots contact the humans telepathically, urging them to land since their only desire is to serve and sending a visual of a robot extending a handshake.\nSteffens decides not to reach out to the Alien Contact branch, and makes contact and lands on the planet. The robots are disappointed when the humans land, but show examples of caring for them like cleaning up the radiation so that the humans can feel more comfortable, and spreading their robot bodies out across the planet because they themselves are radioactive.\nThe humans spend three weeks gathering knowledge of the planet. Steffens begins to inquire about their origins and finds they were constructed by “Makers” who are no longer on the planet, but that the robots believe will return. They were disappointed when the humans landed because they did not communicate telepathically and so could not be the makers. The robots also have Factories on the planet where they are constructed. The story ends with Steffens feeling an irony that he wishes to discover who made the robots, but asking them who their Makers are would be like asking a human who created their god - an impossible question.\n",
"Captain Steffens, leader of the Mapping Command, led his crew to the Coal Sack Nebula and landed on Tyban IV. There, they discover the buildings left behind by an ancient civilization. Made out of native stone, the buildings were worn away by winds and times and were built on a raised rock. Lieutenant Ball and his geologists estimate that the rock was cut at least 15,000 years ago, 14,700 years before humans took to space. Ball and Steffens discuss the other planets in the Nebula, but none are fit to host human life. Still, they check each one out until they reach the hot one. This planet was radioactive and absolutely incapable of hosting life, however, as they got closer, Steffens could see a giant hole in the center. The site of an explosion, and all that remained was rubble. The image is up on the main screen for the whole crew to see, and they watch in amazement. Steffens sees movement in the rubble, and orders his crew to move the ship closer. He sees a black robot, and then two, as does the rest of his crew. Ball, who fell in the sudden movement, comes to Steffens, and they throw around ideas as to what these robots could be. Suddenly, a calm voice speaks to them telepathically, welcoming them to their planet and claiming they only wish to serve. A picture appeared then of a robot extending one of its hands. \nSteffens asks for permission to land, and so they do. He leaves the ship first, wearing his radiation suit, and is greeted by a large amount of slightly disappointed robots. He waves it off and soon the other members of his crew join them. Elb, the first robot to speak, explains their telepathic abilities and apologizes for violating their minds. They talk for a little while until Steffens asks where the Makers are. The robots answer sadly, saying that the Makers left a long time ago but would return. Steffens believes the Makers are dead, caught in the crossfire of the explosion, but he doesn’t say so. The robots then showed his crew the Factory, which they reached by skiff. It was a large, gray building that pumped out robots left and right. \nThe Mapping Command stayed on this planet for several weeks, discovering more about this alien culture. However, the radioactive nature of the planet made it impossible for any man to stay outside the ship for long. However, one day, Steffens emerges to realize the robots effectivelyd econtaminated the area overnight. \nElb and Steffens discuss their meaning of life and what they were built to do. He realizes the Makers are like God to these robots, and he smiles at the irony. The story ends on a cliffhanger, however, claiming that that was the last time Steffens would smile on this planet. \n",
"Captain Steffens and Lieutenant Ball find themselves in a very old city on a planet far from Earth, which was the first piece of proof humans had found of another advanced race in the three hundred years humans had been in space. There is something curious about the ruins of the old city built from stone, because the humans wouldn't have expected a colony to establish a presence there. They find another city on a nearby planet with a three-mile-wide scorch mark that looked like it had decimated the city. The men detect high levels of radiation, and know nothing alive is left. They decide to explore here as well, when Steffens spots a small black robot on the surface, which makes him jump the ship back up, opening up sight to a whole field of robots, which baffled the crew. They don't know if they are entirely mechanical, how long they'd been there, or where they came from. All of a sudden, the members of the crew hear the robots talking to them in a greeting, and then plant a moving picture in everyone's mind, which startles the crew. Steffens requests permission to land, and everyone realizes how many robots there really are. Steffens is surprised that the robots seem less interested in the humans once Steffans has gotten off of their ship, which makes everyone uncomfortable. The robots explain that the humans do not understand their real nature and wanted to inform them, and they promise not to intrude on thoughts anymore without consent. Steffens notices some symbols on the robot he had met, which look identical to the markings on the other robots, though he is unsure of their importance. The more he interacts with the robots, the more Steffans finds their presence likeable and comforting. Nobody is able to determine if the robots are entirely mechanical, or if there are organic components. The robots explain that they only other living structures they are familiar with are \"the Makers\" who created the robots. The Makers have not been present for a long time, making Steffens suspect that the robots had been involved in the war he had just seen evidence of. Steffens learns that the lifespan of the robots is about 55 years, but the robots are of various ages; they are built by \"the Factory\", which was built by the Makers. The humans stay for a few weeks, learning what they can, trading knowledge. Once the robots understand the point of the radiation suits, they decontaminate the area to make it safe for the humans, though they themselves remain radioactive. Elb, the lead robot, explains that the robots' main goal is to expand knowledge which will serve the Makers. The conversation gets tense as Elb recognizes that Steffens doesn't think the Makers are coming back, so they talk about society and faith. Steffens explains the concept of God, which the robots find varies far more for humans than the idea of the Makers does for them.",
"Captain Steffens and his crew work for Mapping Command; their mission is to closely examine unexplored areas, check for life-forms, and determine whether sites are suitable for human habitation. They are currently exploring and recording information about the four planets of the star named Tyban in the Coal Sack Nebula. They find stone buildings still standing on the fourth planet but no signs of previous life. The smoothness of the stones leads them to conclude the buildings are approximately 15,000 years old. The men are amazed that space-borne beings were in this part of the Galaxy at the time when men on Earth were throwing spears at each other. They have numerous questions about the race, why there is no sign of them, and what happened to them. Lacking any way to answer these questions, they decide to move on.\n\tFlying over the fourth planet, the crew sees the remains of several cities, each destroyed by a blast that ruined the buildings. They see movement and realize it is a robot looking up at the ship; then they see more robots. At first, Steffens is undecided about what to do. League Law prohibits contact with planet-bound species, but these are robots, not living beings. Steffens decides they can legally interact with the robots, and then one of them communicates a message to him, greeting him and assuring him they do not mean any harm. It also sent a picture of one of the robots with its right arm extended for a handshake. Steffens senses the robot could control his mind if it wanted to and decides to communicate back, asking for permission to land.\n\tSteffens takes a skiff to the planet and is greeted by a robot holding out its hand for a handshake and welcoming him. Steffens signals the Aliencon men on the skiff to deplane and join him, and the robots reveal that they can read the humans’ minds but are limiting their access to what is needed to communicate with them. Steffens signals his ship to land, and more robots come into view. The robots are friendly and pleasant, even relaxing to be around. They explain they had never encountered humans before, just themselves and their Makers who had lived there and created the factory that builds the robots. The robots were built to serve the Makers, and the factory is still producing them so that now there are nine million of them. \n\tElb, the robot who stays with Steffen, asks and answers questions and explains that the robots spend their time building their knowledge to be better able to serve their Makers when they return. Elb detects that Steffens thinks the Makers will not return and says they believe they will; otherwise, why were they built? Steffens compares their Makers to God because the robots believe the Makers created them, their planet, and the universe.\n"
] |
50827
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Orphans of the Void
By MICHAEL SHAARA
Illustrated by EMSH
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction June 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Finding a cause worth dying for is no great trick—the Universe is full of them. Finding one worth living for is the genuine problem!
In the region of the Coal Sack Nebula, on the dead fourth planet of a star called Tyban, Captain Steffens of the Mapping Command stood counting buildings. Eleven. No, twelve. He wondered if there was any significance in the number. He had no idea.
"What do you make of it?" he asked.
Lieutenant Ball, the executive officer of the ship, almost tried to scratch his head before he remembered that he was wearing a spacesuit.
"Looks like a temporary camp," Ball said. "Very few buildings, and all built out of native materials, the only stuff available. Castaways, maybe?"
Steffens was silent as he walked up onto the rise. The flat weathered stone jutted out of the sand before him.
"No inscriptions," he pointed out.
"They would have been worn away. See the wind grooves? Anyway, there's not another building on the whole damn planet. You wouldn't call it much of a civilization."
"You don't think these are native?"
Ball said he didn't. Steffens nodded.
Standing there and gazing at the stone, Steffens felt the awe of great age. He had a hunch, deep and intuitive, that this was old— too old. He reached out a gloved hand, ran it gently over the smooth stone ridges of the wall. Although the atmosphere was very thin, he noticed that the buildings had no airlocks.
Ball's voice sounded in his helmet: "Want to set up shop, Skipper?"
Steffens paused. "All right, if you think it will do any good."
"You never can tell. Excavation probably won't be much use. These things are on a raised rock foundation, swept clean by the wind. And you can see that the rock itself is native—" he indicated the ledge beneath their feet—"and was cut out a long while back."
"How long?"
Ball toed the sand uncomfortably. "I wouldn't like to say off-hand."
"Make a rough estimate."
Ball looked at the captain, knowing what was in his mind. He smiled wryly and said: "Five thousand years? Ten thousand? I don't know."
Steffens whistled.
Ball pointed again at the wall. "Look at the striations. You can tell from that alone. It would take even a brisk Earth wind at least several thousand years to cut that deep, and the wind here has only a fraction of that force."
The two men stood for a long moment in silence. Man had been in interstellar space for three hundred years and this was the first uncovered evidence of an advanced, space-crossing, alien race. It was an historic moment, but neither of them was thinking about history.
Man had been in space for only three hundred years. Whatever had built these had been in space for thousands of years.
Which ought to give them , thought Steffens uncomfortably, one hell of a good head-start.
While the excav crew worked steadily, turning up nothing, Steffens remained alone among the buildings. Ball came out to him, looked dryly at the walls.
"Well," he said, "whoever they were, we haven't heard from them since."
"No? How can you be sure?" Steffens grunted. "A space-borne race was roaming this part of the Galaxy while men were still pitching spears at each other, that long ago. And this planet is only a parsec from Varius II, a civilization as old as Earth's. Did whoever built these get to Varius? Or did they get to Earth? How can you know?"
He kicked at the sand distractedly. "And most important, where are they now? A race with several thousand years...."
"Fifteen thousand," Ball said. When Steffens looked up, he added:
"That's what the geology boys say. Fifteen thousand, at the least."
Steffens turned to stare unhappily at the buildings. When he realized now how really old they were, a sudden thought struck him.
"But why buildings? Why did they have to build in stone, to last? There's something wrong with that. They shouldn't have had a need to build, unless they were castaways. And castaways would have left something behind. The only reason they would need a camp would be—"
"If the ship left and some of them stayed."
Steffens nodded. "But then the ship must have come back. Where did it go?" He ceased kicking at the sand and looked up into the blue-black midday sky. "We'll never know."
"How about the other planets?" Ball asked.
"The report was negative. Inner too hot, outer too heavy and cold. The third planet is the only one with a decent temperature range, but it has a CO
2
atmosphere."
"How about moons?"
Steffens shrugged. "We could try them and find out."
The third planet was a blank, gleaming ball until they were in close, and then the blankness resolved into folds and piling clouds and dimly, in places, the surface showed through. The ship went down through the clouds, falling the last few miles on her brakers. They came into the misty gas below, leveled off and moved along the edge of the twilight zone.
The moons of this solar system had yielded nothing. The third planet, a hot, heavy world which had no free oxygen and from which the monitors had detected nothing, was all that was left. Steffens expected nothing, but he had to try.
At a height of several miles, the ship moved up the zone, scanning, moving in the familiar slow spiral of the Mapping Command. Faint dark outlines of bare rocks and hills moved by below.
Steffens turned the screen to full magnification and watched silently.
After a while he saw a city.
The main screen being on, the whole crew saw it. Someone shouted and they stopped to stare, and Steffens was about to call for altitude when he saw that the city was dead.
He looked down on splintered walls that were like cloudy glass pieces rising above a plain, rising in a shattered circle. Near the center of the city, there was a huge, charred hole at least three miles in diameter and very deep. In all the piled rubble, nothing moved.
Steffens went down low to make sure, then brought the ship around and headed out across the main continent into the bright area of the sun. The rocks rolled by below, there was no vegetation at all, and then there were more cities—all with the black depression, the circular stamp that blotted away and fused the buildings into nothing.
No one on the ship had anything to say. None had ever seen a war, for there had not been war on Earth or near it for more than three hundred years.
The ship circled around to the dark side of the planet. When they were down below a mile, the radiation counters began to react. It became apparent, from the dials, that there could be nothing alive.
After a while Ball said: "Well, which do you figure? Did our friends from the fourth planet do this, or were they the same people as these?"
Steffens did not take his eyes from the screen. They were coming around to the daylight side.
"We'll go down and look for the answer," he said. "Break out the radiation suits."
He paused, thinking. If the ones on the fourth planet were alien to this world, they were from outer space, could not have come from one of the other planets here. They had starships and were warlike. Then, thousands of years ago. He began to realize how important it really was that Ball's question be answered.
When the ship had gone very low, looking for a landing site, Steffens was still by the screen. It was Steffens, then, who saw the thing move.
Down far below, it had been a still black shadow, and then it moved. Steffens froze. And he knew, even at that distance, that it was a robot.
Tiny and black, a mass of hanging arms and legs, the thing went gliding down the slope of a hill. Steffens saw it clearly for a full second, saw the dull ball of its head tilt upward as the ship came over, and then the hill was past.
Quickly Steffens called for height. The ship bucked beneath him and blasted straight up; some of the crew went crashing to the deck. Steffens remained by the screen, increasing the magnification as the ship drew away. And he saw another, then two, then a black gliding group, all matched with bunches of hanging arms.
Nothing alive but robots, he thought, robots . He adjusted to full close up as quickly as he could and the picture focused on the screen. Behind him he heard a crewman grunt in amazement.
A band of clear, plasticlike stuff ran round the head—it would be the eye, a band of eye that saw all ways. On the top of the head was a single round spot of the plastic, and the rest was black metal, joined, he realized, with fantastic perfection. The angle of sight was now almost perpendicular. He could see very little of the branching arms of the trunk, but what had been on the screen was enough. They were the most perfect robots he had ever seen.
The ship leveled off. Steffens had no idea what to do; the sudden sight of the moving things had unnerved him. He had already sounded the alert, flicked out the defense screens. Now he had nothing to do. He tried to concentrate on what the League Law would have him do.
The Law was no help. Contact with planet-bound races was forbidden under any circumstances. But could a bunch of robots be called a race? The Law said nothing about robots because Earthmen had none. The building of imaginative robots was expressly forbidden. But at any rate, Steffens thought, he had made contact already.
While Steffens stood by the screen, completely bewildered for the first time in his space career, Lieutenant Ball came up, hobbling slightly. From the bright new bruise on his cheek, Steffens guessed that the sudden climb had caught him unaware. The exec was pale with surprise.
"What were they?" he said blankly. "Lord, they looked like robots!"
"They were."
Ball stared confoundedly at the screen. The things were now a confusion of dots in the mist.
"Almost humanoid," Steffens said, "but not quite."
Ball was slowly absorbing the situation. He turned to gaze inquiringly at Steffens.
"Well, what do we do now?"
Steffens shrugged. "They saw us. We could leave now and let them quite possibly make a ... a legend out of our visit, or we could go down and see if they tie in with the buildings on Tyban IV."
" Can we go down?"
"Legally? I don't know. If they are robots, yes, since robots cannot constitute a race. But there's another possibility." He tapped his fingers on the screen confusedly. "They don't have to be robots at all. They could be the natives."
Ball gulped. "I don't follow you."
"They could be the original inhabitants of this planet—the brains of them, at least, protected in radiation-proof metal. Anyway," he added,
"they're the most perfect mechanicals I've ever seen."
Ball shook his head, sat down abruptly. Steffens turned from the screen, strode nervously across the Main Deck, thinking.
The Mapping Command, they called it. Theoretically, all he was supposed to do was make a closeup examination of unexplored systems, checking for the presence of life-forms as well as for the possibilities of human colonization. Make a check and nothing else. But he knew very clearly that if he returned to Sirius base without investigating this robot situation, he could very well be court-martialed one way or the other, either for breaking the Law of Contact or for dereliction of duty.
And there was also the possibility, which abruptly occurred to him, that the robots might well be prepared to blow his ship to hell and gone.
He stopped in the center of the deck. A whole new line of thought opened up. If the robots were armed and ready ... could this be an outpost?
An outpost!
He turned and raced for the bridge. If he went in and landed and was lost, then the League might never know in time. If he went in and stirred up trouble....
The thought in his mind was scattered suddenly, like a mist blown away. A voice was speaking in his mind, a deep calm voice that seemed to say:
" Greetings. Do not be alarmed. We do not wish you to be alarmed. Our desire is only to serve.... "
"Greetings, it said! Greetings!" Ball was mumbling incredulously through shocked lips.
Everyone on the ship had heard the voice. When it spoke again, Steffens was not sure whether it was just one voice or many voices.
"We await your coming," it said gravely, and repeated: "Our desire is only to serve."
And then the robots sent a picture .
As perfect and as clear as a tridim movie, a rectangular plate took shape in Steffens' mind. On the face of the plate, standing alone against a background of red-brown, bare rocks, was one of the robots. With slow, perfect movement, the robot carefully lifted one of the hanging arms of its side, of its right side, and extended it toward Steffens, a graciously offered hand.
Steffens felt a peculiar, compelling urge to take the hand, realized right away that the urge to take the hand was not entirely his. The robot mind had helped.
When the picture vanished, he knew that the others had seen it. He waited for a while; there was no further contact, but the feeling of the robot's urging was still strong within him. He had an idea that, if they wanted to, the robots could control his mind. So when nothing more happened, he began to lose his fear.
While the crew watched in fascination, Steffens tried to talk back. He concentrated hard on what he was saying, said it aloud for good measure, then held his own hand extended in the robot manner of shaking hands.
"Greetings," he said, because it was what they had said, and explained: "We have come from the stars."
It was overly dramatic, but so was the whole situation. He wondered baffledly if he should have let the Alien Contact crew handle it. Order someone to stand there, feeling like a fool, and think a message?
No, it was his responsibility; he had to go on:
"We request—we respectfully request permission to land upon your planet."
Steffens had not realized that there were so many.
They had been gathering since his ship was first seen, and now there were hundreds of them clustered upon the hill. Others were arriving even as the skiff landed; they glided in over the rocky hills with fantastic ease and power, so that Steffens felt a momentary anxiety. Most of the robots were standing with the silent immobility of metal. Others threaded their way to the fore and came near the skiff, but none touched it, and a circle was cleared for Steffens when he came out.
One of the near robots came forward alone, moving, as Steffens now saw, on a number of short, incredibly strong and agile legs. The black thing paused before him, extended a hand as it had done in the picture. Steffens took it, he hoped, warmly; felt the power of the metal through the glove of his suit.
"Welcome," the robot said, speaking again to his mind, and now Steffens detected a peculiar alteration in the robot's tone. It was less friendly now, less—Steffens could not understand—somehow less interested , as if the robot had been—expecting someone else.
"Thank you," Steffens said. "We are deeply grateful for your permission to land."
"Our desire," the robot repeated mechanically, "is only to serve."
Suddenly, Steffens began to feel alone, surrounded by machines. He tried to push the thought out of his mind, because he knew that they should seem inhuman. But....
"Will the others come down?" asked the robot, still mechanically.
Steffens felt his embarrassment. The ship lay high in the mist above, jets throbbing gently.
"They must remain with the ship," Steffens said aloud, trusting to the robot's formality not to ask him why. Although, if they could read his mind, there was no need to ask.
For a long while, neither spoke, long enough for Steffens to grow tense and uncomfortable. He could not think of a thing to say, the robot was obviously waiting, and so, in desperation, he signaled the Aliencon men to come on out of the skiff.
They came, wonderingly, and the ring of robots widened. Steffens heard the one robot speak again. The voice was now much more friendly.
"We hope you will forgive us for intruding upon your thought. It is our—custom—not to communicate unless we are called upon. But when we observed that you were in ignorance of our real—nature—and were about to leave our planet, we decided to put aside our custom, so that you might base your decision upon sufficient data."
Steffens replied haltingly that he appreciated their action.
"We perceive," the robot went on, "that you are unaware of our complete access to your mind, and would perhaps be—dismayed—to learn that we have been gathering information from you. We must—apologize. Our only purpose was so that we could communicate with you. Only that information was taken which is necessary for communication and—understanding. We will enter your minds henceforth only at your request."
Steffens did not react to the news that his mind was being probed as violently as he might have. Nevertheless it was a shock, and he retreated into observant silence as the Aliencon men went to work.
The robot which seemed to have been doing the speaking was in no way different from any of the others in the group. Since each of the robots was immediately aware of all that was being said or thought, Steffens guessed that they had sent one forward just for appearance's sake, because they perceived that the Earthmen would feel more at home. The picture of the extended hand, the characteristic handshake of Earthmen, had probably been borrowed, too, for the same purpose of making him and the others feel at ease. The one jarring note was the robot's momentary lapse, those unexplainable few seconds when the things had seemed almost disappointed. Steffens gave up wondering about that and began to examine the first robot in detail.
It was not very tall, being at least a foot shorter than the Earthmen. The most peculiar thing about it, except for the circling eye-band of the head, was a mass of symbols which were apparently engraved upon the metal chest. Symbols in row upon row—numbers, perhaps—were upon the chest, and repeated again below the level of the arms, and continued in orderly rows across the front of the robot, all the way down to the base of the trunk. If they were numbers, Steffens thought, then it was a remarkably complicated system. But he noticed the same pattern on the nearer robots, all apparently identical. He was forced to conclude that the symbols were merely decoration and let it go tentatively at that, although the answer seemed illogical.
It wasn't until he was on his way home that Steffens remembered the symbols again. And only then did he realized what they were.
After a while, convinced that there was no danger, Steffens had the ship brought down. When the crew came out of the airlock, they were met by the robots, and each man found himself with a robot at his side, humbly requesting to be of service. There were literally thousands of the robots now, come from all over the barren horizon. The mass of them stood apart, immobile on a plain near the ship, glinting in the sun like a vast, metallic field of black wheat.
The robots had obviously been built to serve. Steffens began to feel their pleasure, to sense it in spite of the blank, expressionless faces. They were almost like children in their eagerness, yet they were still reserved. Whoever had built them, Steffens thought in wonder, had built them well.
Ball came to join Steffens, staring at the robots through the clear plastic of his helmet with baffledly widened eyes. A robot moved out from the mass in the field, allied itself to him. The first to speak had remained with Steffens.
Realizing that the robot could hear every word he was saying, Ball was for a while apprehensive. But the sheer unreality of standing and talking with a multi-limbed, intelligent hunk of dead metal upon the bare rock of a dead, ancient world, the unreality of it slowly died. It was impossible not to like the things. There was something in their very lines which was pleasant and relaxing.
Their builders, Steffens thought, had probably thought of that, too.
"There's no harm in them," said Ball at last, openly, not minding if the robots heard. "They seem actually glad we're here. My God, whoever heard of a robot being glad?"
Steffens, embarrassed, spoke quickly to the nearest mechanical: "I hope you will forgive us our curiosity, but—yours is a remarkable race. We have never before made contact with a race like yours." It was said haltingly, but it was the best he could do.
The robot made a singularly human nodding motion of its head.
"I perceive that the nature of our construction is unfamiliar to you. Your question is whether or not we are entirely 'mechanical.' I am not exactly certain as to what the word 'mechanical' is intended to convey—I would have to examine your thought more fully—but I believe that there is fundamental similarity between our structures."
The robot paused. Steffens had a distinct impression that it was disconcerted.
"I must tell you," the thing went on, "that we ourselves are—curious." It stopped suddenly, struggling with a word it could not comprehend. Steffens waited, listening with absolute interest. It said at length:
"We know of only two types of living structure. Ours, which is largely metallic, and that of the Makers , which would appear to be somewhat more like yours. I am not a—doctor—and therefore cannot acquaint you with the specific details of the Makers' composition, but if you are interested I will have a doctor brought forward. It will be glad to be of assistance."
It was Steffens' turn to struggle, and the robot waited patiently while Ball and the second robot looked on in silence. The Makers, obviously, were whoever or whatever had built the robots, and the "doctors," Steffens decided, were probably just that—doctor-robots, designed specifically to care for the apparently flesh-bodies of the Makers.
The efficiency of the things continued to amaze him, but the question he had been waiting to ask came out now with a rush:
"Can you tell us where the Makers are?"
Both robots stood motionless. It occurred to Steffens that he couldn't really be sure which was speaking. The voice that came to him spoke with difficulty.
"The Makers—are not here."
Steffens stared in puzzlement. The robot detected his confusion and went on:
"The Makers have gone away. They have been gone for a very long time."
Could that be pain in its voice, Steffens wondered, and then the spectre of the ruined cities rose harsh in his mind.
War. The Makers had all been killed in that war. And these had not been killed.
He tried to grasp it, but he couldn't. There were robots here in the midst of a radiation so lethal that nothing , nothing could live; robots on a dead planet, living in an atmosphere of carbon dioxide.
The carbon dioxide brought him up sharp.
If there had been life here once, there would have been plant life as well, and therefore oxygen. If the war had been so long ago that the free oxygen had since gone out of the atmosphere—good God, how old were the robots? Steffens looked at Ball, then at the silent robots, then out across the field to where the rest of them stood. The black wheat. Steffens felt a deep chill.
Were they immortal?
"Would you like to see a doctor?"
Steffens jumped at the familiar words, then realized to what the robot was referring.
"No, not yet," he said, "thank you." He swallowed hard as the robots continued waiting patiently.
"Could you tell me," he said at last, "how old you are? Individually?"
"By your reckoning," said his robot, and paused to make the calculation, "I am forty-four years, seven months, and eighteen days of age, with ten years and approximately nine months yet to be alive."
Steffens tried to understand that.
"It would perhaps simplify our conversations," said the robot, "if you were to refer to me by a name, as is your custom. Using the first—letters—of my designation, my name would translate as Elb."
"Glad to meet you," Steffens mumbled.
"You are called 'Stef,'" said the robot obligingly. Then it added, pointing an arm at the robot near Ball: "The age of—Peb—is seventeen years, one month and four days. Peb has therefore remaining some thirty-eight years."
Steffens was trying to keep up. Then the life span was obviously about fifty-five years. But the cities, and the carbon dioxide? The robot, Elb, had said that the Makers were similar to him, and therefore oxygen and plant life would have been needed. Unless—
He remembered the buildings on Tyban IV.
Unless the Makers had not come from this planet at all.
His mind helplessly began to revolve. It was Ball who restored order.
"Do you build yourselves?" the exec asked.
Peb answered quickly, that faint note of happiness again apparent, as if the robot was glad for the opportunity of answering.
"No, we do not build ourselves. We are made by the—" another pause for a word—"by the Factory ."
"The Factory?"
"Yes. It was built by the Makers. Would you care to see it?"
Both of the Earthmen nodded dumbly.
"Would you prefer to use your—skiff? It is quite a long way from here."
It was indeed a long way, even by skiff. Some of the Aliencon crew went along with them. And near the edge of the twilight zone, on the other side of the world, they saw the Factory outlined in the dim light of dusk. A huge, fantastic block, wrought of gray and cloudy metal, lay in a valley between two worn mountains. Steffens went down low, circling in the skiff, stared in awe at the size of the building. Robots moved outside the thing, little black bugs in the distance—moving around their birthplace.
The Earthmen remained for several weeks. During that time, Steffens was usually with Elb, talking now as often as he listened, and the Aliencon team roamed the planet freely, investigating what was certainly the strangest culture in history. There was still the mystery of those buildings on Tyban IV; that, as well as the robots' origin, would have to be cleared up before they could leave.
Surprisingly, Steffens did not think about the future. Whenever he came near a robot, he sensed such a general, comfortable air of good feeling that it warmed him, and he was so preoccupied with watching the robots that he did little thinking.
Something he had not realized at the beginning was that he was as unusual to the robots as they were to him. It came to him with a great shock that not one of the robots had ever seen a living thing. Not a bug, a worm, a leaf. They did not know what flesh was. Only the doctors knew that, and none of them could readily understand what was meant by the words "organic matter." It had taken them some time to recognize that the Earthmen wore suits which were not parts of their bodies, and it was even more difficult for them to understand why the suits were needed.
But when they did understand, the robots did a surprising thing.
At first, because of the excessive radiation, none of the Earthmen could remain outside the ship for long, even in radiation suits. And one morning, when Steffens came out of the ship, it was to discover that hundreds of the robots, working through the night, had effectively decontaminated the entire area.
It was at this point that Steffens asked how many robots there were. He learned to his amazement that there were more than nine million. The great mass of them had politely remained a great distance from the ship, spread out over the planet, since they were highly radioactive.
Steffens, meanwhile, courteously allowed Elb to probe into his mind. The robot extracted all the knowledge of matter that Steffens held, pondered over the knowledge and tried to digest it, and passed it on to the other robots. Steffens, in turn, had a difficult time picturing the mind of a thing that had never known life.
He had a vague idea of the robot's history—more, perhaps, then they knew themselves—but he refrained from forming an opinion until Aliencon made its report. What fascinated him was Elb's amazing philosophy, the only outlook, really, that the robot could have had.
"What do you do ?" Steffens asked.
Elb replied quickly, with characteristic simplicity: "We can do very little. A certain amount of physical knowledge was imparted to us at birth by the Makers. We spend the main part of our time expanding that knowledge wherever possible. We have made some progress in the natural sciences, and some in mathematics. Our purpose in being, you see, is to serve the Makers. Any ability we can acquire will make us that much more fit to serve when the Makers return."
"When they return?" It had not occurred to Steffens until now that the robots expected the Makers to do so.
Elb regarded him out of the band of the circling eye. "I see you had surmised that the Makers were not coming back."
If the robot could have laughed, Steffens thought it would have, then. But it just stood there, motionless, its tone politely emphatic.
"It has always been our belief that the Makers would return. Why else would we have been built?"
Steffens thought the robot would go on, but it didn't. The question, to Elb, was no question at all.
Although Steffens knew already what the robot could not possibly have known—that the Makers were gone and would never come back—he was a long time understanding. What he did was push this speculation into the back of his mind, to keep it from Elb. He had no desire to destroy a faith.
But it created a problem in him. He had begun to picture for Elb the structure of human society, and the robot—a machine which did not eat or sleep—listened gravely and tried to understand. One day Steffens mentioned God.
"God?" the robot repeated without comprehension. "What is God?"
Steffens explained briefly, and the robot answered:
"It is a matter which has troubled us. We thought at first that you were the Makers returning—" Steffens remembered the brief lapse, the seeming disappointment he had sensed—"but then we probed your minds and found that you were not, that you were another kind of being, unlike either the Makers or ourselves. You were not even—" Elb caught himself—"you did not happen to be telepaths. Therefore we troubled over who made you. We did detect the word 'Maker' in your theology, but it seemed to have a peculiar—" Elb paused for a long while—"an untouchable, intangible meaning which varies among you."
Steffens understood. He nodded.
The Makers were the robots' God, were all the God they needed. The Makers had built them, the planet, the universe. If he were to ask them who made the Makers, it would be like their asking him who made God.
It was an ironic parallel, and he smiled to himself.
But on that planet, it was the last time he smiled.
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Where does the story take place?
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After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about Wanderers of the Wolf Moon by NELSON S. BOND.
Relevant chunks:
Wanderers of the Wolf Moon
By NELSON S. BOND
They were marooned on Titan, their ship wrecked, the radio smashed. Yet they had to exist, had to build a new life on a hostile world. And the man who assumed command was Gregory Malcolm, the bespectacled secretary—whose only adventures had come through the pages of a book.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Sparks snapped off the switches and followed him to the door of the radio turret. Sparks was a stunted, usually-grinning, little redhead named Hannigan. But he wasn't grinning now. He laid an anxious hand on Greg's arm. "If I was you," he said, "if I was you, Malcolm, I don't think I'd say nothing to the boss about this. Not just yet, anyhow."
Greg said, "Why not?"
Sparks spluttered and fussed and made heavy weather of answering.
"Well, for one thing, it ain't important. It would only worry him. And then there's the womenfolks, they scare easy. Which of course they ain't no cause to. Atmospherics don't mean nothing. I've rode out worse storms than this—plenty of times. And in worse crates than the Carefree ."
Greg studied him carefully from behind trim plasta-rimmed spectacles. He drew a deep breath. He said levelly, "So it's that bad, eh, Sparks?"
"What bad? I just told you—"
"I know. Sparks, I'm not a professional spaceman. But I've studied astrogation as few Earthlubbers have. It's been my hobby for years. And I think I know what we're up against.
"We hit a warp-eddy last night. We've been trapped in a vortex for more than eight hours. Lord only knows how many hundreds of thousands of miles we've been borne off our course. And now we've blasted into a super-ionized belt of atmospherics. Your radio signals are blanketed. You can't get signals in or out. We're a deaf-mute speck of metal being whirled headlong through space. Isn't that it?"
"I don't know what—" began Sparks hotly. Then he stopped, studied his companion thoughtfully, nodded. "O.Q.," he confessed, "that's it. But we ain't licked yet. We got three good men on the bridge. Townsend ... Graves ... Langhorn. They'll pull out of this if anybody can. And they ain't no sense in scaring the Old Man and his family."
"I won't tell them," said Greg. "I won't tell them unless I have to. But between you and me, what are the odds against us, Sparks?"
The radioman shrugged.
"Who knows? Vortices are unpredictable. Maybe the damn thing will toss us out on the very spot it picked us up. Maybe it will give us the old chuckeroo a million miles the other side of Pluto. Maybe it will crack us up on an asteroid or satellite. No way of telling till it happens."
"And the controls?"
"As useless," said Sparks, "as a cow in a cyclone."
"So?"
"We sit tight," said Sparks succinctly, "and hope."
Malcolm nodded quietly. He took off his spectacles, breathed on them, wiped them, replaced them. He was tall and fair; in his neat, crisply pressed business suit he appeared even slimmer than he was. But there was no nervousness in his movements. He moved measuredly. "Well," he said, "that appears to be that. I'm going up to the dining dome."
Sparks stared at him querulously.
"You're a queer duck, Malcolm. I don't think you've got a nerve in your body."
"Nerves are a luxury I can't afford," replied Greg. "If anything happens—and if there's time to do so—let me know." He paused at the door. "Good luck," he said.
"Clear ether!" said Sparks mechanically. He stared after the other man wonderingly for a long moment, then went back to his control banks, shaking his head and muttering.
Gregory Malcolm climbed down the Jacob's-ladder and strode briskly through the labyrinthine corridors that were the entrails of the space yacht Carefree . He paused once to peer through a perilens set into the ship's port plates. It was a weird sight that met his gaze. Not space, ebony-black and bejewelled with a myriad flaming splotches of color; not the old, familiar constellations treading their ever-lasting, inexorable paths about the perimeter of Sol's tiny universe, but a shimmering webwork of light, so tortured-violet that the eyes ached to look upon it. This was the mad typhoon of space-atmospherics through which the Carefree was now being twisted, topsy-turvy, toward a nameless goal.
He moved on, approaching at last the quartzite-paned observation rotunda which was the dining dome of the ship.
His footsteps slowed as he composed himself to face those within. As he hesitated in the dimly-lighted passage, a trick of lights on glass mirrored to him the room beyond. He could see the others while they were as yet unaware of his presence. Their voices reached him clearly.
J. Foster Andrews, his employer and the employer of the ten thousand or more men and women who worked for Galactic Metals Corporation, dominated the head of the table. He was a plump, impatient little Napoleon. Opposite him, calm, graceful, serene, tastefully garbed and elaborately coiffured even here in deep space, three weeks from the nearest beauty shop, sat his wife, Enid.
On Andrews' right sat his sister, Maud. Not young, features plain as a mud fence, but charming despite her age and homeliness simply because of her eyes; puckish, shrewdly intelligent eyes, constantly aglint with suppressed humor at—guessed Greg—the amusing foibles and frailties of those about her.
She gave her breakfast the enthusiastic attention of one too old and shapeless to be concerned with such folderol as calories and dietetics, pausing only from time to time to share smidgeons of food with a watery-eyed scrap of white, curly fluff beside her chair. Her pet poodle, whom she called by the opprobrious title of "Cuddles."
On J. Foster's left sat his daughter, Crystal. She it was who caused Gregory Malcolm's staid, respectable heart to give a little lurch as he glimpsed her reflected vision—all gold and crimson and cream—in the glistening walls. If Crystal was her name, so, too, was crystal her loveliness.
But—Greg shook his head—but she was not for him. She was already pledged to the young man seated beside her. Ralph Breadon. He turned to murmur something to her as Greg watched; Greg saw and admired and disliked his rangy height, his sturdy, well-knit strength, the rich brownness of his skin, his hair, his eyes.
The sound of his own name startled Greg.
"Malcolm!" called the man at the head of the table. "Malcolm! Now where in blazes is he, anyhow?" he demanded of no one in particular, everyone in general. He spooned a dab of liquid gold from a Limoges preserve jar, tongued it suspiciously, frowned. "Bitter!" he complained.
"It's the very best Martian honey," said his wife.
"Drylands clover," added Crystal.
"It's still bitter," said J. Foster petulantly.
His sister sniffed. "Nonsense! It's delightful."
"I say it's bitter," repeated Andrews sulkily. And lifted his voice again. " Malcolm! Where are you?"
"You called me, sir?" said Malcolm, moving into the room. He nodded politely to the others. "Good morning, Mrs. Andrews ... Miss Andrews ... Mr. Breadon...."
"Oh, sit down!" snapped J. Foster. "Sit down here and stop bobbing your head like a teetotum! Had your breakfast? The honey's no good; it's bitter." He glared at his sister challengingly. "Where have you been, anyway? What kind of secretary are you? Have you been up to the radio turret? How's the market today? Is Galactic up or down?"
Malcolm said, "I don't know, sir."
"Fine! Fine!" Andrews rattled on automatically before the words registered. Then he started, his face turning red. "Eh? What's that? Don't know! What do you mean, you don't know? I pay you to—"
"There's no transmission, sir," said Greg quietly.
"No trans—nonsense! Of course there's transmission! I put a million credits into this ship. Finest space-yacht ever built. Latest equipment throughout. Sparks is drunk, that's what you mean! Well, you hop right up there and—"
Maud Andrews put down her fork with a clatter. "Oh, for goodness sakes, Jonathan, shut up and give the boy time to explain! He's standing there with his mouth gaping like a rain-spout, trying to get a word in edgewise! What's the trouble, Gregory?" She turned to Greg, as Jonathan Foster Andrews wheezed into startled silence. " That? "
She glanced at the quartzite dome, beyond which the veil of iridescence wove and cross-wove and shimmered like a pallid aurora.
Greg nodded. "Yes, Miss Andrews."
Enid Andrews spoke languidly from the other end of the table.
"But what is it, Gregory? A local phenomenon?"
"You might call it that," said Greg, selecting his words cautiously.
"It's an ionized field into which we've blasted. It—it—shouldn't stay with us long. But while it persists, our radio will be blanketed out."
Breadon's chestnut head came up suddenly, sharply.
"Ionization! That means atmosphere!"
Greg said, "Yes."
"And an atmosphere means a body in space somewhere near—" Breadon stopped, bit his lip before the appeal in Malcolm's eyes, tried to pass it off easily. "Oh, well—a change of scenery, what?"
But the moment of alarm in his voice had not passed unnoticed. Crystal Andrews spoke for all of them, her voice preternaturally quiet.
"You're hiding something, Malcolm. What is it? Is there—danger?"
But Greg didn't have to answer that question. From the doorway a harsh, defiantly strident voice answered for him. The voice of Bert Andrews, Crystal's older brother.
"Danger? You're damn right there's danger! What's the matter with you folks—are you all deaf, dumb and blind? We've been caught in a space-vortex for hours. Now we're in the H-layer of a planet we can't even see—and in fifteen minutes or fifteen seconds we may all be smashed as flat as pancakes!"
The proclamation brought them out of their chairs. Greg's heart sank; his vain plea, "Mr. Andrews—" was lost in the medley of Crystal's sudden gasp, Enid Andrews' short, choking scream, J. Foster's bellowing roar at his only son.
"Bert—you're drunk!"
Bert weaved precariously from the doorway, laughed in his father's face.
"Sure I'm drunk! Why not? If you're smart you'll get drunk, too. The whole damn lot of you!" He flicked a derisive hand toward Greg. "You too, Boy Scout! What were you trying to do—hide the bad news from them? Well, it's no use. Everybody might as well know the worst. We're gone gooses ... geeses ... aw, what the hell! Dead ducks!" He fell into a chair, sprawled there laughing mirthlessly with fear riding the too-high notes of his laughter.
J. Foster turned to his secretary slowly. His ire had faded; there was only deep concern in his voice.
"Is he telling the truth, Malcolm?"
Greg said soberly, "Partly, sir. He's overstating the danger—but there is danger. We are caught in a space-vortex, and as Mr. Breadon realized, the presence of these ionics means we're in the Heaviside-layer of some heavenly body. But we may not crack up."
Maud Andrews glanced at him shrewdly.
"Is there anything we can do?"
"Not a thing. The officers on the bridge are doing everything possible."
"In that case," said the older woman, "we might as well finish our breakfast. Here, Cuddles! Come to momsy!" She sat down again. Greg looked at her admiringly. Ralph Breadon stroked his brown jaw. He said,
"The life-skiffs?"
"A last resort," said Greg. "Sparks promised he'd let me know if it were necessary. We'll hope it's not—"
But it was a vain hope, vainly spoken in the last, vain moment. For even as he phrased the hopeful words, came the sound of swift, racing footsteps up the corridor. Into the dining dome burst Hannigan, eyes hot with excitement. And his cry dispelled Greg's final hopes for safety.
"Everybody—the Number Four life-skiff— quick ! We've been caught in a grav-drag and we're going to crash!"
II
Those next hectic moments were never afterward very clear in Greg Malcolm's memory. He had a confused recollection of hearing Sparks' warning punctuated by a loud, shrill scream which he vaguely identified as emanating from Mrs. Andrews' throat ... he was conscious of feeling, suddenly, beneath his feet the sickening, quickening lurch of a ship out of control, gripped by gravitational forces beyond its power to allay ... he recalled his own voice dinning in his ears as, incredibly, with Sparks, he took command of the hasty flight from the dining dome down the corridor to the aft ramp, up the ramp, across girdered beams in the super-structure to the small, independently motored rocket-skiff cradled there.
He was aware, too, of strangely disconnected incidents happening around him, he being a part of them but seeming to be only a disinterested spectator to their strangeness. Of his forcing Maud Andrews toward the door of the dome ... of her pushing back against him with all the weight of her body ... of her irate voice, "Cuddles! I forgot him!" Then the shrill excited yapping of the poodle cradled against her as they charged on down the corridor.
J. Foster waddling beside him, tugging at his arm, panting, "The officers?" and his own unfelt assurance. "They can take care of themselves. It's a general 'bandon ship." Enid Andrews stumbling over the hem of a filmy peignoir ... himself bending to lift her boldly and bodily, sweating palms feeling the warm animal heat of her excited body hot beneath them ... Crystal Andrews stopping suddenly, crying,
"'Tina!" ... and Hannigan's reply, "Your maid? I woke her. She's in the life-skiff." Bert Andrews stopping suddenly, being sick in the middle of the corridor, his drunkenness losing itself in the thick, sure nausea of the ever-increasing unsteadiness beneath their feet.
Then the life-skiff, the clang of metal as Hannigan slammed the port behind the last of them, the fumbling for a lock-stud, the quick, grateful pant of the miniature hypos, and a weird feeling of weightlessness, rushingness, hurtlingness as his eardrums throbbed and his mouth tasted brassy and bloody with the fierce velocity of their escape.
Sense and meaning returned only when all this ended. As one waking from a nightmare dream, Greg Malcolm returned to a world he could recognize. A tiny world, encased within the walls of a forty-foot life-skiff. A world peopled too scantily. Andrews, his wife and sister, his son and daughter; 'Tina Laney, the maid; Breadon, Hannigan, young Tommy O'Doul, the cabin-boy (though where he had come from, or when, Greg did not know). And himself. In a life-skiff. In space.
Somewhere in space. He looked through the perilens . What he saw then he might better never have seen. For that shimmering pink-ochre veil had wisped away, now, and in the clean, cold, bitter-clear light of a distant sun he watched the death-dive of the yacht Carefree .
Like a vast silver top, spinning heedlessly, wildly, it streaked toward a mottled gray and green, brown and dun, hard and crushing-brutal terrain below. Still at its helm stood someone, for even in that last dreadful moment burst from its nose-jets a ruddy mushroom of flame that tried to, but could not, brake the dizzy fall.
For an instant Greg's eyes, stingingly blinded and wet, thought they glimpsed a wee black mote dancing from the bowels of the Carefree ; a mote that might be another skiff like their own. But he could not be sure, and then the Carefree was accelerating with such violence and speed that the eye could see it only as a flaming silver lance against the ugly earth-carcase beneath, and then it struck and a carmine bud of flame burst and flowered for an instant, and that was all....
And Greg Malcolm turned from the perilens , shaken.
Hannigan said, "It's over?" and Greg nodded.
Hannigan said, "The other skiffs? Did they break free, or were they caught?"
"I don't know. I couldn't see for sure."
"You must have seen. Are we the only ones?"
"I couldn't see for sure. Maybe. Maybe not."
Then a body scrambled forward, pressing through the tightness of other huddled bodies, and there was a hand upon his elbow. "I'll take over now, Malcolm."
It was Ralph Breadon. Gregory looked at him slowly, uncomprehendingly at first. His hand was reluctant to leave the guiding-gear of the small ship which was, now, all that remained to them of civilization and civilization's wondrous accomplishments. He had not realized until this moment that for a while ... for a short, eager, pulse-quickening while ... on his alertness, in his hands, had depended the destinies of ten men and women. But he knew, suddenly and completely, that it was for this single moment his whole lifetime had waited. It was for this brief moment of command that some intuition, some instinct greater than knowledge, had prepared him. This was why he, an Earthlubber, had studied astrogation, made a hobby of the empire of the stars. That he might be fitted to command when all others failed. And now—
And now the moment was past, and he was once again Gregory Malcolm, mild, lean, pale, bespectacled secretary to J. Foster Andrews. And the man at his side was Ralph Breadon, socialite and gentleman sportsman, trained pilot. And in Malcolm the habit of obedience was strong....
"Very well, sir," he said. And he turned over the controls.
What happened then was unfortunate. It might just as well have happened to Malcolm, though afterward no one could ever say with certainty. However that was, either by carelessness or malfortune or inefficiency, once-thwarted disaster struck again at the little party on the life-skiff. At the instant Breadon's hand seized the controls the skiff jerked suddenly as though struck with a ponderous fist, its throbbing motors choked and snarled in a high, rising crescendo of torment that lost itself in supersonic heights, and the ship that had been drifting easily and under control to the planet beneath now dipped viciously.
The misfortune was that too many huddled in the tiny space understood the operation of the life-skiff, and what must be done instantly. And that neither pilot was as yet in control of the ship. Breadon's hand leaped for the Dixie rod, so, too, did Malcolm's—and across both their bodies came the arm of Sparks Hannigan, searching the controls.
In the scramble someone's sleeve brushed the banks of control-keys. The motors, killed, soughed into silence. The ship rocked into a spin. Greg cried out, his voice a strange harshness in his ears; Breadon cursed; one of the women bleated fearfully.
Then Breadon, still cursing, fought all hands from the controls but his own. And the man was not without courage. For all could see plainly, in the illumined perilens , how near to swift death that moment of uncertainty had led them. The skiff, which an instant before had been high in the stratosphere of this unknown planet ... or satellite or whatever it might be ... was now flashing toward hard ground at lightning speed.
Only a miracle, Greg knew, could save them now. An impulse spun his head, he looked at Crystal Andrews. There was no fear in her eyes. Just a hotness and an inexplicable anger. Beside her was the other girl, the maid, 'Tina; she was frankly afraid. Her teeth were clenched in her nether lip, and her eyes were wide and anxious, but she did not cry out.
Only a miracle could save them now. But Breadon's hands performed that miracle; his quick, nerveless, trained hands. A stud here ... a lever there ... a swift wrenching toss of the shoulders. His face twisted back over his shoulder, and his straining lips pulled taut and bloodless away from his teeth. "Hold tight, folks! We're going to bounce—"
Then they struck!
But they struck glancingly, as Breadon had hoped, and planned for, and gambled on. They struck and bounced. The frail craft shivered and groaned in metal agony, jarred across harsh soil, bounced again, settled, nosed over and rocked to a standstill. Somewhere forward something snapped with a shrill, high ping! of stress; somewhere aft was the metallic flap-clanging of broken gear trailing behind them. But they were safe.
Breath, held so long that he could not remember its inhalation, escaped Greg's lungs in a long sigh. "Nice work, Mr. Breadon!" he cried. "Oh, nice work!"
But surprisingly, savagely, Breadon turned on him.
"It would have been better work, Malcolm, if you'd kept your damned hands off the controls! Now see what you've done? Smashed up our skiff! Our only—"
"He didn't do it!" piped the shrill voice of Tommy O'Doul. "You done it yourself, Mr. Breadon. Your sleeve. It caught the switch."
"Quiet!" Breadon, cheeks flushed, reached out smartly, stilled the youngster's defense with a swift, ungentle slap. "And you, Malcolm—after this, do as you're told, and don't try to assume responsibilities too great for you. All right, everybody. Let's get out and see how bad the damage is."
Instinctively Greg had surged a half step forward as Breadon silenced the cabin boy. Now old habit and common-sense halted him. He's overwrought, he reasoned. We're all excited and on edge. We've been to Bedlam. Our nerves are shot. In a little while we'll all be back to normal.
He said quietly, "Very well, Mr. Breadon." And he climbed from the broken skiff.
Hannigan said, "Looks bad, don't it?"
"Very," said Malcolm. He fingered a shard of loose metal flapping like a fin from the stern of the skiff. "Not hopeless, though. There should be an acetylene torch in the tool locker. With that—"
"You ought to of poked him," said Hannigan.
"What? Oh, you mean—?"
"Yeah. The kid was right, you know. He done it."
"His sleeve, you mean. Well, it was an accident," said Greg. "It could have happened to anyone. And he made a good landing. Considering everything. Anyhow—" Again he was Gregory Malcolm, serious-faced, efficient secretary. "Anyhow, we have been thrust into an extremely precarious circumstance. It would be silly to take umbrage at a man's nervous anger. We must have no quarreling, no bickering—"
"Umbrage!" snorted Sparks. "Bickering! They're big words. I ain't sure I know what they mean. I ain't exactly sure they mean anything ." He glanced at Greg oddly. "You're a queer jasper, Malcolm. Back there on the ship, I figured you for a sort of a stuffed-shirt. Yes-man to the boss. And then in the show-down, you come through like a movie hero—for a little while. Then you let that Breadon guy give you the spur without a squawk—"
Malcolm adjusted his plasta-rimmed spectacles. He said, almost stubbornly, "Our situation is grave. There must be no bickering."
"Bickering your Aunt Jenny! What do you call that?"
Sparks jerked a contemptuous thumb toward the group from which they were separated. Upon disembarking, only Greg and Sparks had moved to make a careful examination of their damaged craft. The others, more or less under the direction of Breadon, were making gestures toward removing certain necessaries from the skiff. Their efforts, slight and uncertain as they were, had already embroiled them in argument.
The gist of their argument, so far as Greg Malcolm could determine, was that everyone wanted "something" to be done, but no two could agree as to just what that something was, and no one seemed to have any bursting desire to participate in actual physical labor.
J. Foster Andrews, all traces of his former panic and confusion fled, was planted firmly, Napoleonically, some few yards from the open port of the life-skiff, barking impatient orders at little Tommy O'Doul who—as Greg watched—stumbled from the port bearing a huge armload of edibles.
'Tina, the maid, was in a frenzy of motion, trying to administer to the complaints and demands of Mrs. Andrews (whose immaculate hair-do had suffered in the frenetic minutes of their flight) and Crystal Andrews
(who knew perfectly well there were sweaters in the life-skiff) and Miss Maud (who wanted a can of prepared dog-food and a can-opener immediately, and look at poor Cuddles, momsy's 'ittle pet was so hungry)!
Bert Andrews was sulkily insisting that it was nonsense to leave the warmth and security of the skiff anyway, and he wished he had a drink, while the harassed, self-appointed commander of the refugee corps was shouting at whomever happened, at any given moment, to capture his divided and completely frantic attention. His orders were masterpieces of confusion, developing around one premise that the castaway crew should immediately set up a camp. Where, how, or with what nonexistent equipment, Breadon did not venture to say.
"You see what I mean?" demanded Sparks disgustedly.
Greg Malcolm saw. He also saw other things. That their landing-spot, while excellent for its purpose, was not by any manner of means an ideal campsite. It was a small, flat basin of sandy soil, rimmed by shallow mountains. His gaze sought these hills, looked approvingly on their greenness, upon the multitude of dark pock-marks dotting them. These caves, were they not the habitations of potential enemies, might well become the sanctuaries of spacewrecked men.
He saw, also, a thin ribbon of silver sheering the face of the northern hills. His gaze, rising still skyward, saw other things—
He nodded. He knew, now, where they were. Or approximately. There was but one planet in the solar system which boasted such a phenomenon. The apparent distance of the Sun, judged by its diminished disc, argued his judgment to be correct. The fact that they had surged through an atmospheric belt for some length of time before finally meeting with disaster.
"Titan," he said. "Hyperion possibly. But probably Titan."
Sparks' gaze, following Greg's upward, contracted in an expression of dismay.
"Dirty cow! You mean that's where we are?"
"I believe so. There's Saturn, our mother planet, looming above us as large as a dinner plate. And the grav-drag here is almost Earth norm. Titan has a 3,000 mile diameter. That, combined with the Saturnian tractile constant, would give us a strong pull."
Sparks wailed, "But Titan! Great morning, Malcolm, nobody ever comes to Titan! There ain't no mines here, no colonies, no—" He stopped suddenly, his eyes widening yet farther. "And, hey—this place is dangerous ! There are—"
"I know it," said Greg swiftly, quietly. "Shut up, Sparks. No use telling the others. If they don't guess it themselves, what they don't know won't alarm them. We've got to do something, though. Get ourselves organized into a defensive community. That's the only way—"
Ralph Breadon's sharp, dictatorial voice interrupted him. "Well, Malcolm, stop soldiering and make yourself useful!"
And J. Foster, not to have his authority usurped, supplemented the order. "Yes, Malcolm, let's get going! No time for day-dreaming, my man. We want action!"
Sparks said, "Maybe you'll get it now, fatty!" under his breath, and looked at Malcolm hopefully. But his companion merely nodded, moved forward toward the others, quietly obedient to the command.
"Yes, sir," he said.
Hannigan groaned and followed him.
III
Breadon said, "All right, Tommy, dump them here. I have a few words to say." He glanced about him pompously. "Now, folks, naturally we want to get away from here as soon as possible. Therefore I delegate you, Sparks, to immediately get a message off. An SOS to the nearest space cruiser."
Hannigan grinned. It was not a pleasant grin. He took his time answering. He spat thoughtfully on the ground before him, lifted his head. He said, "A message, huh?"
"That's what I said."
"And what'll I send it with?" drawled Sparks. "Tom-toms?"
Breadon flushed darkly.
"I believe the life-skiff was equipped with a radio? And theoretically you are a radio operator?"
"Finest radio money can buy!" interpolated J. Foster Andrews proudly.
"Put a million credits into the Carefree . Best equipment throughout."
Sparks looked from one to another of them, grinned insolently. "You're both right. I am a radio operator, and there was a radio. But we crashed, remember? On account of some dope's sleeve got caught in the master switch—"
"That will do!" snapped Breadon angrily. He stared at the bandy-legged little redhead. "You mean the radio was broken?"
"It wasn't helped none. The tubes was made out of glass, and glass don't bounce so good."
Greg Malcolm said thoughtfully, "Sparks, can't you fix it?"
"Well, mebbe. But not in five minutes. Maybe not in five years. I won't know till I get going on it."
Breadon frowned.
"I'll handle this, Malcolm," he crisped. Again to the radioman, "Well, you get to work on it immediately. And as soon as you get it fixed, send out an SOS advising the patrol where we are—"
"Speaking of which," insinuated Sparks, "where are we?"
Breadon glared at him wrathfully.
"Why—why on one of the satellites of Saturn, of course. Any fool can see that!"
"O.Q. But does any fool know which one? Or shall I tell you it's Titan? And when you know that, then what? Titan wasn't named that on account of it was a pimple. It's a big place. What'll I tell the Patrol? SOS. Stranded in the middle of we-don't-know-where, somewhere on Titan, maybe. They'll be hunting for us till we've got whiskers down to our knees."
Breadon's irate look vanished. He looked stricken. He said, "I—I don't know. We have a compass—"
Once again it was Gregory Malcolm who entered into the conversation. He had been toying, almost absentmindedly, with a funnel taken from the skiff's stores. Into this he had poured a small portion of water; his right forefinger was pressed to the bottom of the tube, closing it. He said, "I can answer part of that question now. Enough to cut the search in half, anyway. We're in the northern hemisphere of the satellite."
Maud Andrews looked at him sharply as if noticing him for the first time in her life.
"How," she asked, "did you know that, Malcolm?"
Question:
Where does the story take place?
Answer:
|
[
"\tThe story begins in the control room of J. Foster Andrews’s space yacht the Carefree, and then proceeds to the dining room. Outside of the Carefreem is a dynamic, glittering web of bright violet light, in stark contrast to the typical black of space. \n\tAs the members of the Andrews family and their household staff escape the Carefree onto a life skiff, the setting changes to the atmosphere of the moon Titan. Now free of the vortex which caused the shimmering lights, the space around their skiff is dark. \n\tAfter their uncontrolled descent onto Titan, the passengers of the skiff find themselves at the foot of a ring of shallow mountains, standing on rough soil. The mountains above are green and lush, with periodic caves along their face. In the sky is an image of Saturn, which causes the gravitational pull on the planet to be similar to Earth’s. More broadly, Titan, the moon they are on, is uninhabited and rarely visited. \n",
"The story takes place on the Andrews' family ship. The ship has multiple rooms; Malcolm and Sparks spend their time operating the ship while the Andrews family stays in the dining dome, a much more comfortable and luxurious room. However, once the ship is in distress and close to crashing, everyone on the ship must move to the independent life skiff, a smaller cramped unit. The crew eventually crashes onto the planet Titan, a mountainous, green, cavern-filled planet, though threatening in its uncertainty and lack of colonies. In the atmosphere, Saturn is visible above them, and the gravity is similar to that on Earth.",
"The story first takes place on a ship which has been in a vortex for more than eight hours. It has lost all its radio signals in and out. They are unsure of when they will be toss out, nor the place that they will be tossed out at. Then the readers follow Greg into the dining room where J. Foster Andrews, his family and some others are eating. There he is asked about the communication which he responds with no communication at all. He starts to explain when Hannigan came into the room and tells everyone to get on the life-skiff since the ship is about to crash. Once they get on to the life-skiff, however, because Breadon accidentally hits the control keys with his sleeve, which turns of the motors and they go directly towards the ground. Luckily Breadon is talented and skilled, he is able to perform the miracle that makes the life-skiff bounced and finally landed, without injuring anyone. Even though the life-skiff is a bit broken, it is not too big of a deal. As everyone got off the life-skiff, Breadon calls them together and tells Hannigan to send signals to the nearest space cruiser. Hannigan suggests to him that they aren’t even sure where they are, and the signal system are broken. Then the story ends with Greg telling them that they are on the northern hemisphere of Titan, one of the satellites of Mars. ",
"The story begins on the yacht named Carefree, owned by J. Foster Andrews. The ship is stuck in a typhoon that is causing the ship to be twisted and directed towards an unknown location. Carefree has been caught in the space vortex for hours and the ship ends up in the H-layer of an unknown planet. As the ship is about to crash, a group swarm towards a life skiff. The life skiff is forty feet. The life skiff crash lands on one of the satellites of Saturn, on Titan, in the northern hemisphere. "
] |
63048
|
Wanderers of the Wolf Moon
By NELSON S. BOND
They were marooned on Titan, their ship wrecked, the radio smashed. Yet they had to exist, had to build a new life on a hostile world. And the man who assumed command was Gregory Malcolm, the bespectacled secretary—whose only adventures had come through the pages of a book.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1944. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Sparks snapped off the switches and followed him to the door of the radio turret. Sparks was a stunted, usually-grinning, little redhead named Hannigan. But he wasn't grinning now. He laid an anxious hand on Greg's arm. "If I was you," he said, "if I was you, Malcolm, I don't think I'd say nothing to the boss about this. Not just yet, anyhow."
Greg said, "Why not?"
Sparks spluttered and fussed and made heavy weather of answering.
"Well, for one thing, it ain't important. It would only worry him. And then there's the womenfolks, they scare easy. Which of course they ain't no cause to. Atmospherics don't mean nothing. I've rode out worse storms than this—plenty of times. And in worse crates than the Carefree ."
Greg studied him carefully from behind trim plasta-rimmed spectacles. He drew a deep breath. He said levelly, "So it's that bad, eh, Sparks?"
"What bad? I just told you—"
"I know. Sparks, I'm not a professional spaceman. But I've studied astrogation as few Earthlubbers have. It's been my hobby for years. And I think I know what we're up against.
"We hit a warp-eddy last night. We've been trapped in a vortex for more than eight hours. Lord only knows how many hundreds of thousands of miles we've been borne off our course. And now we've blasted into a super-ionized belt of atmospherics. Your radio signals are blanketed. You can't get signals in or out. We're a deaf-mute speck of metal being whirled headlong through space. Isn't that it?"
"I don't know what—" began Sparks hotly. Then he stopped, studied his companion thoughtfully, nodded. "O.Q.," he confessed, "that's it. But we ain't licked yet. We got three good men on the bridge. Townsend ... Graves ... Langhorn. They'll pull out of this if anybody can. And they ain't no sense in scaring the Old Man and his family."
"I won't tell them," said Greg. "I won't tell them unless I have to. But between you and me, what are the odds against us, Sparks?"
The radioman shrugged.
"Who knows? Vortices are unpredictable. Maybe the damn thing will toss us out on the very spot it picked us up. Maybe it will give us the old chuckeroo a million miles the other side of Pluto. Maybe it will crack us up on an asteroid or satellite. No way of telling till it happens."
"And the controls?"
"As useless," said Sparks, "as a cow in a cyclone."
"So?"
"We sit tight," said Sparks succinctly, "and hope."
Malcolm nodded quietly. He took off his spectacles, breathed on them, wiped them, replaced them. He was tall and fair; in his neat, crisply pressed business suit he appeared even slimmer than he was. But there was no nervousness in his movements. He moved measuredly. "Well," he said, "that appears to be that. I'm going up to the dining dome."
Sparks stared at him querulously.
"You're a queer duck, Malcolm. I don't think you've got a nerve in your body."
"Nerves are a luxury I can't afford," replied Greg. "If anything happens—and if there's time to do so—let me know." He paused at the door. "Good luck," he said.
"Clear ether!" said Sparks mechanically. He stared after the other man wonderingly for a long moment, then went back to his control banks, shaking his head and muttering.
Gregory Malcolm climbed down the Jacob's-ladder and strode briskly through the labyrinthine corridors that were the entrails of the space yacht Carefree . He paused once to peer through a perilens set into the ship's port plates. It was a weird sight that met his gaze. Not space, ebony-black and bejewelled with a myriad flaming splotches of color; not the old, familiar constellations treading their ever-lasting, inexorable paths about the perimeter of Sol's tiny universe, but a shimmering webwork of light, so tortured-violet that the eyes ached to look upon it. This was the mad typhoon of space-atmospherics through which the Carefree was now being twisted, topsy-turvy, toward a nameless goal.
He moved on, approaching at last the quartzite-paned observation rotunda which was the dining dome of the ship.
His footsteps slowed as he composed himself to face those within. As he hesitated in the dimly-lighted passage, a trick of lights on glass mirrored to him the room beyond. He could see the others while they were as yet unaware of his presence. Their voices reached him clearly.
J. Foster Andrews, his employer and the employer of the ten thousand or more men and women who worked for Galactic Metals Corporation, dominated the head of the table. He was a plump, impatient little Napoleon. Opposite him, calm, graceful, serene, tastefully garbed and elaborately coiffured even here in deep space, three weeks from the nearest beauty shop, sat his wife, Enid.
On Andrews' right sat his sister, Maud. Not young, features plain as a mud fence, but charming despite her age and homeliness simply because of her eyes; puckish, shrewdly intelligent eyes, constantly aglint with suppressed humor at—guessed Greg—the amusing foibles and frailties of those about her.
She gave her breakfast the enthusiastic attention of one too old and shapeless to be concerned with such folderol as calories and dietetics, pausing only from time to time to share smidgeons of food with a watery-eyed scrap of white, curly fluff beside her chair. Her pet poodle, whom she called by the opprobrious title of "Cuddles."
On J. Foster's left sat his daughter, Crystal. She it was who caused Gregory Malcolm's staid, respectable heart to give a little lurch as he glimpsed her reflected vision—all gold and crimson and cream—in the glistening walls. If Crystal was her name, so, too, was crystal her loveliness.
But—Greg shook his head—but she was not for him. She was already pledged to the young man seated beside her. Ralph Breadon. He turned to murmur something to her as Greg watched; Greg saw and admired and disliked his rangy height, his sturdy, well-knit strength, the rich brownness of his skin, his hair, his eyes.
The sound of his own name startled Greg.
"Malcolm!" called the man at the head of the table. "Malcolm! Now where in blazes is he, anyhow?" he demanded of no one in particular, everyone in general. He spooned a dab of liquid gold from a Limoges preserve jar, tongued it suspiciously, frowned. "Bitter!" he complained.
"It's the very best Martian honey," said his wife.
"Drylands clover," added Crystal.
"It's still bitter," said J. Foster petulantly.
His sister sniffed. "Nonsense! It's delightful."
"I say it's bitter," repeated Andrews sulkily. And lifted his voice again. " Malcolm! Where are you?"
"You called me, sir?" said Malcolm, moving into the room. He nodded politely to the others. "Good morning, Mrs. Andrews ... Miss Andrews ... Mr. Breadon...."
"Oh, sit down!" snapped J. Foster. "Sit down here and stop bobbing your head like a teetotum! Had your breakfast? The honey's no good; it's bitter." He glared at his sister challengingly. "Where have you been, anyway? What kind of secretary are you? Have you been up to the radio turret? How's the market today? Is Galactic up or down?"
Malcolm said, "I don't know, sir."
"Fine! Fine!" Andrews rattled on automatically before the words registered. Then he started, his face turning red. "Eh? What's that? Don't know! What do you mean, you don't know? I pay you to—"
"There's no transmission, sir," said Greg quietly.
"No trans—nonsense! Of course there's transmission! I put a million credits into this ship. Finest space-yacht ever built. Latest equipment throughout. Sparks is drunk, that's what you mean! Well, you hop right up there and—"
Maud Andrews put down her fork with a clatter. "Oh, for goodness sakes, Jonathan, shut up and give the boy time to explain! He's standing there with his mouth gaping like a rain-spout, trying to get a word in edgewise! What's the trouble, Gregory?" She turned to Greg, as Jonathan Foster Andrews wheezed into startled silence. " That? "
She glanced at the quartzite dome, beyond which the veil of iridescence wove and cross-wove and shimmered like a pallid aurora.
Greg nodded. "Yes, Miss Andrews."
Enid Andrews spoke languidly from the other end of the table.
"But what is it, Gregory? A local phenomenon?"
"You might call it that," said Greg, selecting his words cautiously.
"It's an ionized field into which we've blasted. It—it—shouldn't stay with us long. But while it persists, our radio will be blanketed out."
Breadon's chestnut head came up suddenly, sharply.
"Ionization! That means atmosphere!"
Greg said, "Yes."
"And an atmosphere means a body in space somewhere near—" Breadon stopped, bit his lip before the appeal in Malcolm's eyes, tried to pass it off easily. "Oh, well—a change of scenery, what?"
But the moment of alarm in his voice had not passed unnoticed. Crystal Andrews spoke for all of them, her voice preternaturally quiet.
"You're hiding something, Malcolm. What is it? Is there—danger?"
But Greg didn't have to answer that question. From the doorway a harsh, defiantly strident voice answered for him. The voice of Bert Andrews, Crystal's older brother.
"Danger? You're damn right there's danger! What's the matter with you folks—are you all deaf, dumb and blind? We've been caught in a space-vortex for hours. Now we're in the H-layer of a planet we can't even see—and in fifteen minutes or fifteen seconds we may all be smashed as flat as pancakes!"
The proclamation brought them out of their chairs. Greg's heart sank; his vain plea, "Mr. Andrews—" was lost in the medley of Crystal's sudden gasp, Enid Andrews' short, choking scream, J. Foster's bellowing roar at his only son.
"Bert—you're drunk!"
Bert weaved precariously from the doorway, laughed in his father's face.
"Sure I'm drunk! Why not? If you're smart you'll get drunk, too. The whole damn lot of you!" He flicked a derisive hand toward Greg. "You too, Boy Scout! What were you trying to do—hide the bad news from them? Well, it's no use. Everybody might as well know the worst. We're gone gooses ... geeses ... aw, what the hell! Dead ducks!" He fell into a chair, sprawled there laughing mirthlessly with fear riding the too-high notes of his laughter.
J. Foster turned to his secretary slowly. His ire had faded; there was only deep concern in his voice.
"Is he telling the truth, Malcolm?"
Greg said soberly, "Partly, sir. He's overstating the danger—but there is danger. We are caught in a space-vortex, and as Mr. Breadon realized, the presence of these ionics means we're in the Heaviside-layer of some heavenly body. But we may not crack up."
Maud Andrews glanced at him shrewdly.
"Is there anything we can do?"
"Not a thing. The officers on the bridge are doing everything possible."
"In that case," said the older woman, "we might as well finish our breakfast. Here, Cuddles! Come to momsy!" She sat down again. Greg looked at her admiringly. Ralph Breadon stroked his brown jaw. He said,
"The life-skiffs?"
"A last resort," said Greg. "Sparks promised he'd let me know if it were necessary. We'll hope it's not—"
But it was a vain hope, vainly spoken in the last, vain moment. For even as he phrased the hopeful words, came the sound of swift, racing footsteps up the corridor. Into the dining dome burst Hannigan, eyes hot with excitement. And his cry dispelled Greg's final hopes for safety.
"Everybody—the Number Four life-skiff— quick ! We've been caught in a grav-drag and we're going to crash!"
II
Those next hectic moments were never afterward very clear in Greg Malcolm's memory. He had a confused recollection of hearing Sparks' warning punctuated by a loud, shrill scream which he vaguely identified as emanating from Mrs. Andrews' throat ... he was conscious of feeling, suddenly, beneath his feet the sickening, quickening lurch of a ship out of control, gripped by gravitational forces beyond its power to allay ... he recalled his own voice dinning in his ears as, incredibly, with Sparks, he took command of the hasty flight from the dining dome down the corridor to the aft ramp, up the ramp, across girdered beams in the super-structure to the small, independently motored rocket-skiff cradled there.
He was aware, too, of strangely disconnected incidents happening around him, he being a part of them but seeming to be only a disinterested spectator to their strangeness. Of his forcing Maud Andrews toward the door of the dome ... of her pushing back against him with all the weight of her body ... of her irate voice, "Cuddles! I forgot him!" Then the shrill excited yapping of the poodle cradled against her as they charged on down the corridor.
J. Foster waddling beside him, tugging at his arm, panting, "The officers?" and his own unfelt assurance. "They can take care of themselves. It's a general 'bandon ship." Enid Andrews stumbling over the hem of a filmy peignoir ... himself bending to lift her boldly and bodily, sweating palms feeling the warm animal heat of her excited body hot beneath them ... Crystal Andrews stopping suddenly, crying,
"'Tina!" ... and Hannigan's reply, "Your maid? I woke her. She's in the life-skiff." Bert Andrews stopping suddenly, being sick in the middle of the corridor, his drunkenness losing itself in the thick, sure nausea of the ever-increasing unsteadiness beneath their feet.
Then the life-skiff, the clang of metal as Hannigan slammed the port behind the last of them, the fumbling for a lock-stud, the quick, grateful pant of the miniature hypos, and a weird feeling of weightlessness, rushingness, hurtlingness as his eardrums throbbed and his mouth tasted brassy and bloody with the fierce velocity of their escape.
Sense and meaning returned only when all this ended. As one waking from a nightmare dream, Greg Malcolm returned to a world he could recognize. A tiny world, encased within the walls of a forty-foot life-skiff. A world peopled too scantily. Andrews, his wife and sister, his son and daughter; 'Tina Laney, the maid; Breadon, Hannigan, young Tommy O'Doul, the cabin-boy (though where he had come from, or when, Greg did not know). And himself. In a life-skiff. In space.
Somewhere in space. He looked through the perilens . What he saw then he might better never have seen. For that shimmering pink-ochre veil had wisped away, now, and in the clean, cold, bitter-clear light of a distant sun he watched the death-dive of the yacht Carefree .
Like a vast silver top, spinning heedlessly, wildly, it streaked toward a mottled gray and green, brown and dun, hard and crushing-brutal terrain below. Still at its helm stood someone, for even in that last dreadful moment burst from its nose-jets a ruddy mushroom of flame that tried to, but could not, brake the dizzy fall.
For an instant Greg's eyes, stingingly blinded and wet, thought they glimpsed a wee black mote dancing from the bowels of the Carefree ; a mote that might be another skiff like their own. But he could not be sure, and then the Carefree was accelerating with such violence and speed that the eye could see it only as a flaming silver lance against the ugly earth-carcase beneath, and then it struck and a carmine bud of flame burst and flowered for an instant, and that was all....
And Greg Malcolm turned from the perilens , shaken.
Hannigan said, "It's over?" and Greg nodded.
Hannigan said, "The other skiffs? Did they break free, or were they caught?"
"I don't know. I couldn't see for sure."
"You must have seen. Are we the only ones?"
"I couldn't see for sure. Maybe. Maybe not."
Then a body scrambled forward, pressing through the tightness of other huddled bodies, and there was a hand upon his elbow. "I'll take over now, Malcolm."
It was Ralph Breadon. Gregory looked at him slowly, uncomprehendingly at first. His hand was reluctant to leave the guiding-gear of the small ship which was, now, all that remained to them of civilization and civilization's wondrous accomplishments. He had not realized until this moment that for a while ... for a short, eager, pulse-quickening while ... on his alertness, in his hands, had depended the destinies of ten men and women. But he knew, suddenly and completely, that it was for this single moment his whole lifetime had waited. It was for this brief moment of command that some intuition, some instinct greater than knowledge, had prepared him. This was why he, an Earthlubber, had studied astrogation, made a hobby of the empire of the stars. That he might be fitted to command when all others failed. And now—
And now the moment was past, and he was once again Gregory Malcolm, mild, lean, pale, bespectacled secretary to J. Foster Andrews. And the man at his side was Ralph Breadon, socialite and gentleman sportsman, trained pilot. And in Malcolm the habit of obedience was strong....
"Very well, sir," he said. And he turned over the controls.
What happened then was unfortunate. It might just as well have happened to Malcolm, though afterward no one could ever say with certainty. However that was, either by carelessness or malfortune or inefficiency, once-thwarted disaster struck again at the little party on the life-skiff. At the instant Breadon's hand seized the controls the skiff jerked suddenly as though struck with a ponderous fist, its throbbing motors choked and snarled in a high, rising crescendo of torment that lost itself in supersonic heights, and the ship that had been drifting easily and under control to the planet beneath now dipped viciously.
The misfortune was that too many huddled in the tiny space understood the operation of the life-skiff, and what must be done instantly. And that neither pilot was as yet in control of the ship. Breadon's hand leaped for the Dixie rod, so, too, did Malcolm's—and across both their bodies came the arm of Sparks Hannigan, searching the controls.
In the scramble someone's sleeve brushed the banks of control-keys. The motors, killed, soughed into silence. The ship rocked into a spin. Greg cried out, his voice a strange harshness in his ears; Breadon cursed; one of the women bleated fearfully.
Then Breadon, still cursing, fought all hands from the controls but his own. And the man was not without courage. For all could see plainly, in the illumined perilens , how near to swift death that moment of uncertainty had led them. The skiff, which an instant before had been high in the stratosphere of this unknown planet ... or satellite or whatever it might be ... was now flashing toward hard ground at lightning speed.
Only a miracle, Greg knew, could save them now. An impulse spun his head, he looked at Crystal Andrews. There was no fear in her eyes. Just a hotness and an inexplicable anger. Beside her was the other girl, the maid, 'Tina; she was frankly afraid. Her teeth were clenched in her nether lip, and her eyes were wide and anxious, but she did not cry out.
Only a miracle could save them now. But Breadon's hands performed that miracle; his quick, nerveless, trained hands. A stud here ... a lever there ... a swift wrenching toss of the shoulders. His face twisted back over his shoulder, and his straining lips pulled taut and bloodless away from his teeth. "Hold tight, folks! We're going to bounce—"
Then they struck!
But they struck glancingly, as Breadon had hoped, and planned for, and gambled on. They struck and bounced. The frail craft shivered and groaned in metal agony, jarred across harsh soil, bounced again, settled, nosed over and rocked to a standstill. Somewhere forward something snapped with a shrill, high ping! of stress; somewhere aft was the metallic flap-clanging of broken gear trailing behind them. But they were safe.
Breath, held so long that he could not remember its inhalation, escaped Greg's lungs in a long sigh. "Nice work, Mr. Breadon!" he cried. "Oh, nice work!"
But surprisingly, savagely, Breadon turned on him.
"It would have been better work, Malcolm, if you'd kept your damned hands off the controls! Now see what you've done? Smashed up our skiff! Our only—"
"He didn't do it!" piped the shrill voice of Tommy O'Doul. "You done it yourself, Mr. Breadon. Your sleeve. It caught the switch."
"Quiet!" Breadon, cheeks flushed, reached out smartly, stilled the youngster's defense with a swift, ungentle slap. "And you, Malcolm—after this, do as you're told, and don't try to assume responsibilities too great for you. All right, everybody. Let's get out and see how bad the damage is."
Instinctively Greg had surged a half step forward as Breadon silenced the cabin boy. Now old habit and common-sense halted him. He's overwrought, he reasoned. We're all excited and on edge. We've been to Bedlam. Our nerves are shot. In a little while we'll all be back to normal.
He said quietly, "Very well, Mr. Breadon." And he climbed from the broken skiff.
Hannigan said, "Looks bad, don't it?"
"Very," said Malcolm. He fingered a shard of loose metal flapping like a fin from the stern of the skiff. "Not hopeless, though. There should be an acetylene torch in the tool locker. With that—"
"You ought to of poked him," said Hannigan.
"What? Oh, you mean—?"
"Yeah. The kid was right, you know. He done it."
"His sleeve, you mean. Well, it was an accident," said Greg. "It could have happened to anyone. And he made a good landing. Considering everything. Anyhow—" Again he was Gregory Malcolm, serious-faced, efficient secretary. "Anyhow, we have been thrust into an extremely precarious circumstance. It would be silly to take umbrage at a man's nervous anger. We must have no quarreling, no bickering—"
"Umbrage!" snorted Sparks. "Bickering! They're big words. I ain't sure I know what they mean. I ain't exactly sure they mean anything ." He glanced at Greg oddly. "You're a queer jasper, Malcolm. Back there on the ship, I figured you for a sort of a stuffed-shirt. Yes-man to the boss. And then in the show-down, you come through like a movie hero—for a little while. Then you let that Breadon guy give you the spur without a squawk—"
Malcolm adjusted his plasta-rimmed spectacles. He said, almost stubbornly, "Our situation is grave. There must be no bickering."
"Bickering your Aunt Jenny! What do you call that?"
Sparks jerked a contemptuous thumb toward the group from which they were separated. Upon disembarking, only Greg and Sparks had moved to make a careful examination of their damaged craft. The others, more or less under the direction of Breadon, were making gestures toward removing certain necessaries from the skiff. Their efforts, slight and uncertain as they were, had already embroiled them in argument.
The gist of their argument, so far as Greg Malcolm could determine, was that everyone wanted "something" to be done, but no two could agree as to just what that something was, and no one seemed to have any bursting desire to participate in actual physical labor.
J. Foster Andrews, all traces of his former panic and confusion fled, was planted firmly, Napoleonically, some few yards from the open port of the life-skiff, barking impatient orders at little Tommy O'Doul who—as Greg watched—stumbled from the port bearing a huge armload of edibles.
'Tina, the maid, was in a frenzy of motion, trying to administer to the complaints and demands of Mrs. Andrews (whose immaculate hair-do had suffered in the frenetic minutes of their flight) and Crystal Andrews
(who knew perfectly well there were sweaters in the life-skiff) and Miss Maud (who wanted a can of prepared dog-food and a can-opener immediately, and look at poor Cuddles, momsy's 'ittle pet was so hungry)!
Bert Andrews was sulkily insisting that it was nonsense to leave the warmth and security of the skiff anyway, and he wished he had a drink, while the harassed, self-appointed commander of the refugee corps was shouting at whomever happened, at any given moment, to capture his divided and completely frantic attention. His orders were masterpieces of confusion, developing around one premise that the castaway crew should immediately set up a camp. Where, how, or with what nonexistent equipment, Breadon did not venture to say.
"You see what I mean?" demanded Sparks disgustedly.
Greg Malcolm saw. He also saw other things. That their landing-spot, while excellent for its purpose, was not by any manner of means an ideal campsite. It was a small, flat basin of sandy soil, rimmed by shallow mountains. His gaze sought these hills, looked approvingly on their greenness, upon the multitude of dark pock-marks dotting them. These caves, were they not the habitations of potential enemies, might well become the sanctuaries of spacewrecked men.
He saw, also, a thin ribbon of silver sheering the face of the northern hills. His gaze, rising still skyward, saw other things—
He nodded. He knew, now, where they were. Or approximately. There was but one planet in the solar system which boasted such a phenomenon. The apparent distance of the Sun, judged by its diminished disc, argued his judgment to be correct. The fact that they had surged through an atmospheric belt for some length of time before finally meeting with disaster.
"Titan," he said. "Hyperion possibly. But probably Titan."
Sparks' gaze, following Greg's upward, contracted in an expression of dismay.
"Dirty cow! You mean that's where we are?"
"I believe so. There's Saturn, our mother planet, looming above us as large as a dinner plate. And the grav-drag here is almost Earth norm. Titan has a 3,000 mile diameter. That, combined with the Saturnian tractile constant, would give us a strong pull."
Sparks wailed, "But Titan! Great morning, Malcolm, nobody ever comes to Titan! There ain't no mines here, no colonies, no—" He stopped suddenly, his eyes widening yet farther. "And, hey—this place is dangerous ! There are—"
"I know it," said Greg swiftly, quietly. "Shut up, Sparks. No use telling the others. If they don't guess it themselves, what they don't know won't alarm them. We've got to do something, though. Get ourselves organized into a defensive community. That's the only way—"
Ralph Breadon's sharp, dictatorial voice interrupted him. "Well, Malcolm, stop soldiering and make yourself useful!"
And J. Foster, not to have his authority usurped, supplemented the order. "Yes, Malcolm, let's get going! No time for day-dreaming, my man. We want action!"
Sparks said, "Maybe you'll get it now, fatty!" under his breath, and looked at Malcolm hopefully. But his companion merely nodded, moved forward toward the others, quietly obedient to the command.
"Yes, sir," he said.
Hannigan groaned and followed him.
III
Breadon said, "All right, Tommy, dump them here. I have a few words to say." He glanced about him pompously. "Now, folks, naturally we want to get away from here as soon as possible. Therefore I delegate you, Sparks, to immediately get a message off. An SOS to the nearest space cruiser."
Hannigan grinned. It was not a pleasant grin. He took his time answering. He spat thoughtfully on the ground before him, lifted his head. He said, "A message, huh?"
"That's what I said."
"And what'll I send it with?" drawled Sparks. "Tom-toms?"
Breadon flushed darkly.
"I believe the life-skiff was equipped with a radio? And theoretically you are a radio operator?"
"Finest radio money can buy!" interpolated J. Foster Andrews proudly.
"Put a million credits into the Carefree . Best equipment throughout."
Sparks looked from one to another of them, grinned insolently. "You're both right. I am a radio operator, and there was a radio. But we crashed, remember? On account of some dope's sleeve got caught in the master switch—"
"That will do!" snapped Breadon angrily. He stared at the bandy-legged little redhead. "You mean the radio was broken?"
"It wasn't helped none. The tubes was made out of glass, and glass don't bounce so good."
Greg Malcolm said thoughtfully, "Sparks, can't you fix it?"
"Well, mebbe. But not in five minutes. Maybe not in five years. I won't know till I get going on it."
Breadon frowned.
"I'll handle this, Malcolm," he crisped. Again to the radioman, "Well, you get to work on it immediately. And as soon as you get it fixed, send out an SOS advising the patrol where we are—"
"Speaking of which," insinuated Sparks, "where are we?"
Breadon glared at him wrathfully.
"Why—why on one of the satellites of Saturn, of course. Any fool can see that!"
"O.Q. But does any fool know which one? Or shall I tell you it's Titan? And when you know that, then what? Titan wasn't named that on account of it was a pimple. It's a big place. What'll I tell the Patrol? SOS. Stranded in the middle of we-don't-know-where, somewhere on Titan, maybe. They'll be hunting for us till we've got whiskers down to our knees."
Breadon's irate look vanished. He looked stricken. He said, "I—I don't know. We have a compass—"
Once again it was Gregory Malcolm who entered into the conversation. He had been toying, almost absentmindedly, with a funnel taken from the skiff's stores. Into this he had poured a small portion of water; his right forefinger was pressed to the bottom of the tube, closing it. He said, "I can answer part of that question now. Enough to cut the search in half, anyway. We're in the northern hemisphere of the satellite."
Maud Andrews looked at him sharply as if noticing him for the first time in her life.
"How," she asked, "did you know that, Malcolm?"
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What happens to Sergeant Andy McCloud throughout the story?
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After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about The Plague by Teddy Keller.
Relevant chunks:
THE PLAGUE
By TEDDY KELLER
Suppose a strictly one hundred per cent American plague showed up.... One that attacked only people within the political borders of the United States!
Illustrated by Schoenherr
Sergeant Major Andrew McCloud ignored the jangling telephones and the excited jabber of a room full of brass, and lit a cigarette. Somebody had to keep his head in this mess. Everybody was about to flip.
Like the telephone. Two days ago Corporal Bettijean Baker had been answering the rare call on the single line—in that friendly, husky voice that gave even generals pause—by saying, "Good morning. Office of the Civil Health and Germ Warfare Protection Co-ordinator." Now there was a switchboard out in the hall with a web of lines running to a dozen girls at a half dozen desks wedged into the outer office. And now the harried girls answered with a hasty, "Germ War Protection."
All the brass hats in Washington had suddenly discovered this office deep in the recesses of the Pentagon. And none of them could quite comprehend what had happened. The situation might have been funny, or at least pathetic, if it hadn't been so desperate. Even so, Andy McCloud's nerves and patience had frayed thin.
"I told you, general," he snapped to the flustered brigadier, "Colonel Patterson was retired ten days ago. I don't know what happened. Maybe this replacement sawbones got strangled in red tape. Anyhow, the brand-new lieutenant hasn't showed up here. As far as I know, I'm in charge."
"But this is incredible," a two-star general wailed. "A mysterious epidemic is sweeping the country, possibly an insidious germ attack timed to precede an all-out invasion, and a noncom is sitting on top of the whole powder keg."
Andy's big hands clenched into fists and he had to wait a moment before he could speak safely. Doggone the freckles and the unruly mop of hair that give him such a boyish look. "May I remind you, general," he said, "that I've been entombed here for two years. My staff and I know what to do. If you'll give us some co-operation and a priority, we'll try to figure this thing out."
"But good heavens," a chicken colonel moaned, "this is all so irregular. A noncom!" He said it like a dirty word.
"Irregular, hell," the brigadier snorted, the message getting through.
"There're ways. Gentlemen, I suggest we clear out of here and let the sergeant get to work." He took a step toward the door, and the other officers, protesting and complaining, moved along after him. As they drifted out, he turned and said, "We'll clear your office for top priority." Then dead serious, he added, "Son, a whole nation could panic at any moment. You've got to come through."
Andy didn't waste time standing. He merely nodded to the general, snubbed out his cigarette, and buzzed the intercom. "Bettijean, will you bring me all the latest reports, please?" Then he peeled out of his be-ribboned blouse and rolled up his sleeves. He allowed himself one moment to enjoy the sight of the slim, black-headed corporal who entered his office.
Bettijean crossed briskly to his desk. She gave him a motherly smile as she put down a thick sheaf of papers. "You look beat," she said.
"Brass give you much trouble?"
"Not much. We're top priority now." He ran fingers through the thick, brown hair and massaged his scalp, trying to generate stimulation to his wary and confused brain. "What's new?"
"I've gone though some of these," she said. "Tried to save you a little time."
"Thanks. Sit down."
She pulled up a chair and thumbed through the papers. "So far, no fatalities. That's why there's no panic yet, I guess. But it's spreading like ... well, like a plague." Fear flickered deep in her dark eyes.
"Any water reports?" Andy asked.
"Wichita O.K., Indianapolis O.K., Tulsa O.K., Buffalo O.K.,—and a bunch more. No indication there. Except"—she fished out a one-page report—"some little town in Tennessee. Yesterday there was a campaign for everybody to write their congressman about some deal and today they were to vote on a new water system. Hardly anybody showed up at the polls. They've all got it."
Andy shrugged. "You can drink water, but don't vote for it. Oh, that's a big help." He rummaged through the clutter on his desk and came up with a crude chart. "Any trends yet?"
"It's hitting everybody," Bettijean said helplessly. "Not many kids so far, thank heavens. But housewives, businessmen, office workers, teachers, preachers—rich, poor—from Florida to Alaska. Just when you called me in, one of the girls thought she had a trend. The isolated mountain areas of the West and South. But reports are too fragmentary."
"What is it?" he cried suddenly, banging the desk. "People deathly ill, but nobody dying. And doctors can't identify the poison until they have a fatality for an autopsy. People stricken in every part of the country, but the water systems are pure. How does it spread?"
"In food?"
"How? There must be hundreds of canneries and dairies and packing plants over the country. How could they all goof at the same time—even if it was sabotage?"
"On the wind?"
"But who could accurately predict every wind over the entire country—even Alaska and Hawaii—without hitting Canada or Mexico? And why wouldn't everybody get it in a given area?"
Bettijean's smooth brow furrowed and she reached across the desk to grip his icy, sweating hands. "Andy, do ... do you think it's ... well, an enemy?"
"I don't know," he said. "I just don't know."
For a long moment he sat there, trying to draw strength from her, punishing his brain for the glimmer of an idea. Finally, shaking his head, he pushed back into his chair and reached for the sheaf of papers.
"We've got to find a clue—a trend—an inkling of something." He nodded toward the outer office. "Stop all in-coming calls. Get those girls on lines to hospitals in every city and town in the country. Have them contact individual doctors in rural areas. Then line up another relief crew, and get somebody carting in more coffee and sandwiches. And on those calls, be sure we learn the sex, age, and occupation of the victims. You and I'll start with Washington."
Bettijean snapped to her feet, grinned her encouragement and strode from the room. Andy could hear her crisp instructions to the girls on the phones. Sucking air through his teeth, he reached for his phone and directory.
He dialed until every finger of his right hand was sore. He spoke to worried doctors and frantic hospital administrators and hysterical nurses. His firm, fine penmanship deteriorated to a barely legible scrawl as writer's cramp knotted his hand and arm. His voice burned down to a rasping whisper. But columns climbed up his rough chart and broken lines pointed vaguely to trends.
It was hours later when Bettijean came back into the office with another stack of papers. Andy hung up his phone and reached for a cigarette. At that moment the door banged open. Nerves raw, Bettijean cried out. Andy's cigarette tumbled from his trembling fingers.
"Sergeant," the chicken colonel barked, parading into the office.
Andy swore under his breath and eyed the two young officers who trailed after the colonel. Emotionally exhausted, he had to clamp his jaw against a huge laugh that struggled up in his throat. For just an instant there, the colonel had reminded him of a movie version of General Rommel strutting up and down before his tanks. But it wasn't a swagger stick the colonel had tucked under his arm. It was a folded newspaper. Opening it, the colonel flung it down on Andy's desk.
"RED PLAGUE SWEEPS NATION," the scare headline screamed. Andy's first glance caught such phrases as "alleged Russian plot" and "germ warfare" and "authorities hopelessly baffled."
Snatching the paper, Andy balled it and hurled it from him. "That'll help a lot," he growled hoarsely.
"Well, then, Sergeant." The colonel tried to relax his square face, but tension rode every weathered wrinkle and fear glinted behind the pale gray eyes. "So you finally recognize the gravity of the situation."
Andy's head snapped up, heated words searing towards his lips. Bettijean stepped quickly around the desk and laid a steady hand on his shoulder.
"Colonel," she said levelly, "you should know better than that."
A shocked young captain exploded, "Corporal. Maybe you'd better report to—"
"All right," Andy said sharply.
For a long moment he stared at his clenched fists. Then he exhaled slowly and, to the colonel, flatly and without apology, he said,
"You'll have to excuse the people in this office if they overlook some of the G.I. niceties. We've been without sleep for two days, we're surviving on sandwiches and coffee, and we're fighting a war here that makes every other one look like a Sunday School picnic." He felt Bettijean's hand tighten reassuringly on his shoulder and he gave her a tired smile. Then he hunched forward and picked up a report. "So say what you came here to say and let us get back to work."
"Sergeant," the captain said, as if reading from a manual,
"insubordination cannot be tolerated, even under emergency conditions. Your conduct here will be noted and—"
"Oh, good heavens!" Bettijean cried, her fingers biting into Andy's shoulder. "Do you have to come in here trying to throw your weight around when this man—"
"That's enough," the colonel snapped. "I had hoped that you two would co-operate, but...." He let the sentence trail off as he swelled up a bit with his own importance. "I have turned Washington upside down to get these two officers from the surgeon general's office. Sergeant. Corporal. You are relieved of your duties as of this moment. You will report to my office at once for suitable disciplinary action."
Bettijean sucked in a strained breath and her hand flew to her mouth.
"But you can't—"
"Let's go," Andy said, pushing up from his chair. Ignoring the brass, he turned to her and brushed his lips across hers. "Let them sweat a while. Let 'em have the whole stinking business. Whatever they do to us, at least we can get some sleep."
"But you can't quit now," Bettijean protested. "These brass hats don't know from—"
"Corporal!" the colonel roared.
And from the door, an icy voice said, "Yes, colonel?"
The colonel and his captains wheeled, stared and saluted. "Oh, general," the colonel said. "I was just—"
"I know," the brigadier said, stepping into the room. "I've been listening to you. And I thought I suggested that everybody leave the sergeant and his staff alone."
"But, general, I—"
The general showed the colonel his back and motioned Andy into his chair. He glanced to Bettijean and a smile warmed his wedge face.
"Corporal, were you speaking just then as a woman or as a soldier?"
Crimson erupted into Bettijean's face and her tight laugh said many things. She shrugged. "Both I guess."
The general waved her to a chair and, oblivious of the colonel, pulled up a chair for himself. The last trace of humor drained from his face as he leaned elbows on the desk. "Andy, this is even worse than we had feared."
Andy fumbled for a cigarette and Bettijean passed him a match. A captain opened his mouth to speak, but the colonel shushed him.
"I've just come from Intelligence," the general said. "We haven't had a report—nothing from our agents, from the Diplomatic Corps, from the civilian newspapermen—not a word from any Iron Curtain country for a day and half. Everybody's frantic. The last item we had—it was a coded message the Reds'd tried to censor—was an indication of something big in the works."
"A day and half ago," Andy mused. "Just about the time we knew we had an epidemic. And about the time they knew it."
"It could be just propaganda," Bettijean said hopefully, "proving that they could cripple us from within."
The general nodded. "Or it could be the softening up for an all-out effort. Every American base in the world is alerted and every serviceman is being issued live ammunition. If we're wrong, we've still got an epidemic and panic that could touch it off. If we're right ... well, we've got to know. What can you do?"
Andy dropped his haggard face into his hands. His voice came through muffled. "I can sit here and cry." For an eternity he sat there, futility piling on helplessness, aware of Bettijean's hand on his arm. He heard the colonel try to speak and sensed the general's movement that silenced him.
Suddenly he sat upright and slapped a palm down on the desk. "We'll find your answers, sir. All we ask is co-operation."
The general gave both Andy and Bettijean a long, sober look, then launched himself from the chair. Pivoting, he said, "Colonel, you and your captains will be stationed by that switchboard out there. For the duration of this emergency, you will take orders only from the sergeant and the corporal here."
"But, general," the colonel wailed, "a noncom? I'm assigned—"
The general snorted. "Insubordination cannot be tolerated—unless you find a two-star general to outrank me. Now, as I said before, let's get out of here and let these people work."
The brass exited wordlessly. Bettijean sighed noisily. Andy found his cigarette dead and lit another. He fancied a tiny lever in his brain and he shifted gears to direct his thinking back into the proper channel. Abruptly his fatigue began to lift. He picked up the new pile of reports Bettijean had brought in.
She move around the desk and sat, noting the phone book he had used, studying the names he had crossed off. "Did you learn anything?" she asked.
Andy coughed, trying to clear his raw throat. "It's crazy," he said.
"From the Senate and House on down, I haven't found a single government worker sick."
"I found a few," she said. "Over in a Virginia hospital."
"But I did find," Andy said, flipping through pages of his own scrawl, "a society matron and her social secretary, a whole flock of office workers—business, not government—and new parents and newly engaged girls and...." He shrugged.
"Did you notice anything significant about those office workers?"
Andy nodded. "I was going to ask you the same, since I was just guessing. I hadn't had time to check it out."
"Well, I checked some. Practically none of my victims came from big offices, either business or industry. They were all out of one and two-girl offices or small businesses."
"That was my guess. And do you know that I didn't find a doctor, dentist or attorney?"
"Nor a single postal worker."
Andy tried to smile. "One thing we do know. It's not a communicable thing. Thank heaven for—"
He broke off as a cute blonde entered and put stacks of reports before both Andy and Bettijean. The girl hesitated, fidgeting, fingers to her teeth. Then, without speaking, she hurried out.
Andy stared at the top sheet and groaned. "This may be something. Half the adult population of Aspen, Colorado, is down."
"What?" Bettijean frowned over the report in her hands. "It's the same thing—only not quite as severe—in Taos and Santa Fe, New Mexico."
"Writers?"
"Mostly. Some artists, too, and musicians. And poets are among the hard hit."
"This is insane," Andy muttered. "Doctors and dentists are fine—writers and poets are sick. Make sense out of that."
Bettijean held up a paper and managed a confused smile. "Here's a country doctor in Tennessee. He doesn't even know what it's all about. Nobody's sick in his valley."
"Somebody in our outer office is organized," Andy said, pulling at his cigarette. "Here're reports from a dozen military installations all lumped together."
"What does it show?"
"Black-out. By order of somebody higher up—no medical releases. Must mean they've got it." He scratched the growing stubble on his chin.
"If this were a fifth column setup, wouldn't the armed forces be the first hit?"
"Sure," Bettijean brightened, then sobered. "Maybe not. The brass could keep it secret if an epidemic hit an army camp. And they could slap a control condition on any military area. But the panic will come from the general public."
"Here's another batch," Andy said. "Small college towns under twenty-five thousand population. All hard hit."
"Well, it's not split intellectually. Small colleges and small offices and writers get it. Doctors don't and dentists don't. But we can't tell who's got it on the military bases."
"And it's not geographical. Look, remember those two reports from Tennessee? That place where they voted on water bonds or something, everybody had it. But the country doctor in another section hadn't even heard of it." Andy could only shake his head.
Bettijean heaved herself up from the chair and trudged back to the outer office. She returned momentarily with a tray of food. Putting a paper cup of coffee and a sandwich in front of Andy, she sat down and nibbled at her snack like an exhausted chipmunk.
Andy banged a fist at his desk again. Coffee splashed over the rim of his cup onto the clutter of papers. "It's here," he said angrily.
"It's here somewhere, but we can't find it."
"The answer?"
"Of course. What is it that girls in small offices do or eat or drink or wear that girls in large offices don't do or eat or drink or wear? What do writers and doctors do differently? Or poets and dentists? What are we missing? What—"
In the outer office a girl cried out. A body thumped against a desk, then a chair, then to the floor. Two girls screamed.
Andy bolted up from his chair. Racing to the door, he shouted back to Bettijean, "Get a staff doctor and a chemist from the lab."
It was the girl who had been so nervous in his office earlier. Now she lay in a pathetic little heap between her desk and chair, whimpering, shivering, eyes wide with horror. The other girls clustered at the hall door, plainly ready to stampede.
"It's not contagious," Andy growled. "Find some blankets or coats to cover her. And get a glass of water."
The other girls, glad for the excuse, dashed away. Andy scooped up the fallen girl and put her down gently on the close-jammed desks. He used a chair cushion for a pillow. By then the other girls were back with a blanket and the glass of water. He covered the girl, gave her a sip of water and heard somebody murmur, "Poor Janis."
"Now," Andy said brightly, "how's that, Janis?"
She mustered a smile, and breathed, "Better. I ... I was so scared. Fever and dizzy ... symptoms like the epidemic."
"Now you know there's nothing to be afraid of," Andy said, feeling suddenly and ridiculously like a pill roller with a practiced bedside manner. "You know you may feel pretty miserable, but nobody's conked out with this stuff yet."
Janis breathed out and her taut body relaxed.
"Don't hurry," Andy said, "but I want you to tell me everything that you did—everything you ate or drank—in the last ... oh, twelve hours." He felt a pressure behind him and swiveled his head to see Bettijean standing there. He tried to smile.
"What time is it?" Janis asked weakly.
Andy glanced to a wall clock, then gave it a double take.
One of the girls said, "It's three o'clock in the morning." She edged nearer Andy, obviously eager to replace Janis as the center of attention. Andy ignored her.
"I ... I've been here since ... golly, yesterday morning at nine," Janis said. "I came to work as usual and...."
Slowly, haltingly, she recited the routine of a routine work day, then told about the quick snack that sufficed for supper and about staying on her phone and typewriter for another five hours. "It was about eleven when the relief crew came in."
"What did you do then?" Andy asked.
"I ... I took a break and...." Her ivory skin reddened, the color spreading into the roots of her fluffy curls, and she turned her face away from Andy. "And I had a sandwich and some coffee and got a little nap in the ladies' lounge and ... and that's all."
"And that's not all," Andy prompted. "What else?"
"Nothing," Janis said too quickly.
Andy shook his head. "Tell it all and maybe it'll help."
"But ... but...."
"Was it something against regulations?"
"I ... I don't know. I think...."
"I'll vouch for your job in this office."
"Well...." She seemed on the verge of tears and her pleading glance sought out Andy, then Bettijean, then her co-workers. Finally, resigned, she said, "I ... I wrote a letter to my mother."
Andy swallowed against his groan of disappointment. "And you told her about what we were doing here."
Janis nodded, and tears welled into her wide eyes.
"Did you mail it?"
"Y ... yes."
"You didn't use a government envelope to save a stamp?"
"Oh, no. I always carry a few stamps with me." She choked down a sob.
"Did I do wrong?"
"No, I don't think so," Andy said, patting her shoulder. "There's certainly nothing secret about this epidemic. Now you just take it easy and—. Oh, here's a doctor now."
The doctor, a white-headed Air Force major, bustled into the room. A lab technician in a white smock was close behind. Andy could only shrug and indicate the girl.
Turning away, lighting a cigarette, he tried to focus on the tangle of thoughts that spun through his head. Doctors, writers, society matrons, office workers—Aspen, Taos and college towns—thousands of people sick—but none in that valley in Tennessee—and few government workers—just one girl in his office—and she was sicker and more frightened about a letter—and....
"Hey, wait!" Andy yelled.
Everyone in the room froze as Andy spun around, dashed to Bettijean's desk and yanked out the wide, top drawer. He pawed through it, straightened, then leaped across to the desk Janis had used. He snatched open drawer after drawer. In a bottom one he found her purse. Ripping it open, he dumped the contents on the desk and clawed through the pile until he found what he wanted. Handing it to the lab technician, he said, "Get me a report. Fast."
The technician darted out.
Andy wheeled to Bettijean. "Get the brass in here. And call the general first." To the doctor, he said, "Give that girl the best of everything."
Then he ducked back to his own office and to the pile of reports. He was still poring over them when the general arrived. Half a dozen other brass hats, none of whom had been to bed, were close behind. The lab technician arrived a minute later. He shook his head as he handed his hastily scribbled report to Andy.
It was Bettijean who squeezed into the office and broke the brittle silence. "Andy, for heaven's sake, what is it?" Then she moved around the desk to stand behind him as he faced the officers.
"Have you got something?" the brigadier asked. "Some girl outside was babbling about writers and doctors, and dentists and college students, and little secretaries and big secretaries. Have you established a trend?"
Andy glanced at the lab report and his smile was as relieved as it was weary. "Our problem," he said, "was in figuring out what a writer does that a doctor doesn't—why girls from small offices were sick—and why senators and postal workers weren't—why college students caught the bug and people in a Tennessee community didn't.
"The lab report isn't complete. They haven't had time to isolate the poison and prescribe medication. But"—he held up a four-cent stamp—"here's the villain, gentlemen."
The big brass stood stunned and shocked. Mouths flapped open and eyes bugged at Andy, at the stamp.
Bettijean said, "Sure. College kids and engaged girls and new parents and especially writers and artists and poets—they'd all lick lots of stamps. Professional men have secretaries. Big offices have postage-meter machines. And government offices have free franking. And"—she threw her arms around the sergeant's neck—"Andy, you're wonderful."
"The old American ingenuity," the colonel said, reaching for Andy's phone. "I knew we could lick it. Now all we have to do—"
"At ease, colonel," the brigadier said sharply. He waited until the colonel had retreated, then addressed Andy. "It's your show. What do you suggest?"
"Get somebody—maybe even the President—on all radio and TV networks. Explain frankly about the four-centers and warn against licking any stamps. Then—"
He broke off as his phone rang. Answering, he listened for a moment, then hung up and said, "But before the big announcement, get somebody checking on the security clearances at whatever plant it is where they print stamps. This's a big deal. Somebody may've been planted years ago for this operation. It shouldn't be too hard.
"But there's no evidence it was a plot yet. Could be pure accident—some chemical in the stickum spoiled. Do they keep the stickum in barrels? Find out who had access. And ... oh, the phone call. That was the lab. The antidote's simple and the cure should be quick. They can phone or broadcast the medical information to doctors. The man on the phone said they could start emptying hospitals in six hours. And maybe we should release some propaganda. "United States whips mystery virus," or something like that. And we could send the Kremlin a stamp collection and.... Aw, you take it, sir. I'm pooped."
The general wheeled to fire a salvo of commands. Officers poured into the corridor. Only the brigadier remained, a puzzled frown crinkling his granite brow.
"But you said that postal workers weren't getting sick."
Andy chucked. "That's right. Did you ever see a post office clerk lick a stamp? They always use a sponge."
The general looked to Bettijean, to Andy, to the stamp. He grinned and the grin became a rumbling laugh. "How would you two like a thirty-day furlough to rest up—or to get better acquainted?"
Bettijean squealed. Andy reached for her hand.
"And while you're gone," the general continued, "I'll see what strings I can pull. If I can't wangle you a couple of battlefield commissions, I'll zip you both through O.C.S. so fast you won't even have time to pin on the bars."
But neither Andy nor Bettijean had heard a word after the mention of furlough. Like a pair of puppy-lovers, they were sinking into the depths of each other's eyes.
And the general was still chuckling as he picked up the lone four-cent stamp in his left hand, made a gun of his right hand, and marched the stamp out of the office under guard.
THE END
Question:
What happens to Sergeant Andy McCloud throughout the story?
Answer:
|
[
"Ten days prior to the epidemic, Colonel Patterson retired. He was Sergeant Andy McCloud’s superior, and his replacement has yet to show up. Andy theorizes that the replacement for the lieutenant got caught up in all the red tape, but, at the end of the day, the newly-coined Germ War Protection needed a leader. And Andy was stepping up to the job. \n\tHe had worked at the Office of the Civil Health and Germ Warfare Protection Coordinator for two years prior to the epidemic. He knew the ins and outs of the place, so, despite being a noncom, he was truly the best for the job. \n\tOne of his colleagues, Corporal Bettijean Baker, had picked up the phone two days prior, and suddenly their whole words changed. An epidemic was sweeping the nation, infecting random people left and right with no underlying cause or trend, and, despite the absence of fatalities, panic was ensuing. Though some of the officers disapprove of Andy’s noncom position, he continues working tirelessly with his colleagues to try and figure out the cause of this terrifying disease. \n\tHe and Corporal Bettijean Baker brainstorm throughout the story, desperately searching for a trend or place of infection. They realize that artists, poets, college students, and workers are the ones being infected; not necessarily doctors, dentists, and government employees. They try to figure out what activities each group does that could possibly have been the cause of their infection. They quickly rule out the disease traveling through water, wind, and food. And, later on, it’s revealed that the disease is not contagious. Bettijean and Andy put their heads together and think. \n\tTheir time spent together brainstorming was also filled with flirtatious moments. Andy, with his freckles and messy hair, and Bettijean with her jet-black hair, share a kiss or two throughout the story. \n\tAfter exhausting themselves, Andy orders all the girls to redirect all calls to go out, not in. They are to focus on hospitals and relief crews, to discover more on who the virus is infecting. He and Bettijean are almost fired by the disgruntled colonel, who came with two replacements. Thankfully, just as Andy kisses Bettijean, the general walks in and dismisses the colonel. He reinstates Andy and Bettijean to their former and rightful positions, before telling them that the Iron Curtain has gone silent, except for one coded message from two days before, possibly hinting at the epidemic. \n\tAfter the brass left, Bettijean and Andy brainstormed some more, looking through new reports brought in by Janis, a colleague. Janis soon collapses, and it is revealed that she’s been infected. Andy questions her and soon discovers the transmitter of the virus. Stamps! He relates the news to his higher-ups, and rejoices with Bettijean. They are given a 30-day furloughed vacation together, leaving the reader with a future of romance and hope. \n",
"Sergeant Andy McCloud was the highest-ranking officer in the Office of Civil Health and Germ Warfare protection when the retired Co-ordinator’s replacement didn’t show up, so he found himself in charge of the office just as a nationwide epidemic was surging. He is berated by some of his superior officers who couldn’t fathom the idea of an officer not in a combat role being in charge of such a large issue, but pushed through and continued trying to work on a solution. He goes through piles of reports with Corporal Bettijean Baker, his assistant, trying to find something that connects the victims. The two of them work through a variety of emotions, including frustration, exhaustion, confusion, and exasperation. When the colonel comes back into Andy’s office to yell more about the severity of the situation that he doesn’t seem to think Andy is the right person to handle, Andy acknowledges him curtly, which makes the colonel relieve Andy of his duties. This whole time, Bettiejean is standing with him, gripping his shoulder in his defense. The threat doesn’t stick, even though Andy was somewhat relieved to have a chance to sleep, as a captain walks in and tells him to continue working. The captain tells the colonel that he and his captains have to report to Andy for the remainder of the crisis. During each of these interactions with superior officers, Andy relies on smoking a cigarette to find some focus, and tries to listen to the captain’s report about possible influence from the Soviet Union. He is upset, and in his exhaustion, loses hope for a moment as the general asks him what Andy can do about the situation, but then finds the courage to stand up and say that he’ll get the job done as long as people work with him on it. He worked through more reports with Bettijean until they were interrupted by a scream as Janis, one of the office workers, fell sick at her desk. Andy called for a doctor and a chemist, asked Janis everything that had happened to her that day, and pondered over the new evidence over another cigarette. He has an epiphany, frantically looks for Janis’ book of stamps in her purse, and sends a stamp with a lab technician. His hunch was right: the toxin that spreads the disease is on the adhesive side of the stamps. As he works on a response plan with the general, he calls out a few orders and then defers to the general to make the rest of the decisions in his exhaustion. The general then offers Andy and Bettiejean a month of furlough so that they can spend time with one another, and they look into each other’s eyes excited to explore their connection. ",
"Andy begins the story as a non-commissioned officer running the Germ Warfare Protection division during a crisis. He was never assigned a commanding officer after his previous colonel's retirement 10 days prior. As a result he continually has to defend his standing and prove that he is the right individual to solve the mystery of the illness.\n\nHe works doggedly to try and establish a pattern or trend for the illness and calls tirelessly every hospital in the country until his hand cramps from writing and his voice verges on giving out.\n\nHe has to navigate an attempted takeover by the chicken colonel and his young officers. Eventually he pieces the mystery together by speaking to Janis, a phone operator who falls ill after licking a stamp. Finally he provides his recommendation on how to stop the illness and is rewarded with a long vacation and promotion.\n\n",
"Andy has been working at the Office of the Civil Health and Germ Warfare Protection for two years when all hell breaks loose. He is put in charge of finding out how the new American plague is spreading, and he is deeply stressed. Chicken colonel attempts to discipline him for insubordination, but the two star general shoots down that idea and asks McCloud to keep working the case with everything he’s got.\n\nMcCloud and Bettlejean look through reports and gather that the disease is not communicable, and it is not only affecting people of a certain class or geographical area. The only clues that they can piece together are that the illness is affecting people who work in small offices rather than large buildings. They also recognize that artists and poets are becoming sick when doctors and dentists are not. \n\nMcCloud’s subordinate, a woman named Janis, suddenly becomes ill. After he questions her about her day and activities, he realizes that the culprit behind the outbreak must be postage stamps. He locates one of the stamps that Janis had in her work desk and sends it to be tested in the lab. \n\nWhen his boss, the general, comes in to hear about McCloud’s findings, he says with confidence that the postage stamps are behind the epidemic. When the lab confirms his suspicions, he is hailed as the hero. The general gives him time off to relax and recuperate from this entire ordeal, and he suggests that McCloud spend some of that time with Bettlejean. McCloud is so excited to get some alone time with his coworker that he barely hears the general detail the awards and accolades that McCloud will receive for his job well done. \n\n"
] |
30062
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THE PLAGUE
By TEDDY KELLER
Suppose a strictly one hundred per cent American plague showed up.... One that attacked only people within the political borders of the United States!
Illustrated by Schoenherr
Sergeant Major Andrew McCloud ignored the jangling telephones and the excited jabber of a room full of brass, and lit a cigarette. Somebody had to keep his head in this mess. Everybody was about to flip.
Like the telephone. Two days ago Corporal Bettijean Baker had been answering the rare call on the single line—in that friendly, husky voice that gave even generals pause—by saying, "Good morning. Office of the Civil Health and Germ Warfare Protection Co-ordinator." Now there was a switchboard out in the hall with a web of lines running to a dozen girls at a half dozen desks wedged into the outer office. And now the harried girls answered with a hasty, "Germ War Protection."
All the brass hats in Washington had suddenly discovered this office deep in the recesses of the Pentagon. And none of them could quite comprehend what had happened. The situation might have been funny, or at least pathetic, if it hadn't been so desperate. Even so, Andy McCloud's nerves and patience had frayed thin.
"I told you, general," he snapped to the flustered brigadier, "Colonel Patterson was retired ten days ago. I don't know what happened. Maybe this replacement sawbones got strangled in red tape. Anyhow, the brand-new lieutenant hasn't showed up here. As far as I know, I'm in charge."
"But this is incredible," a two-star general wailed. "A mysterious epidemic is sweeping the country, possibly an insidious germ attack timed to precede an all-out invasion, and a noncom is sitting on top of the whole powder keg."
Andy's big hands clenched into fists and he had to wait a moment before he could speak safely. Doggone the freckles and the unruly mop of hair that give him such a boyish look. "May I remind you, general," he said, "that I've been entombed here for two years. My staff and I know what to do. If you'll give us some co-operation and a priority, we'll try to figure this thing out."
"But good heavens," a chicken colonel moaned, "this is all so irregular. A noncom!" He said it like a dirty word.
"Irregular, hell," the brigadier snorted, the message getting through.
"There're ways. Gentlemen, I suggest we clear out of here and let the sergeant get to work." He took a step toward the door, and the other officers, protesting and complaining, moved along after him. As they drifted out, he turned and said, "We'll clear your office for top priority." Then dead serious, he added, "Son, a whole nation could panic at any moment. You've got to come through."
Andy didn't waste time standing. He merely nodded to the general, snubbed out his cigarette, and buzzed the intercom. "Bettijean, will you bring me all the latest reports, please?" Then he peeled out of his be-ribboned blouse and rolled up his sleeves. He allowed himself one moment to enjoy the sight of the slim, black-headed corporal who entered his office.
Bettijean crossed briskly to his desk. She gave him a motherly smile as she put down a thick sheaf of papers. "You look beat," she said.
"Brass give you much trouble?"
"Not much. We're top priority now." He ran fingers through the thick, brown hair and massaged his scalp, trying to generate stimulation to his wary and confused brain. "What's new?"
"I've gone though some of these," she said. "Tried to save you a little time."
"Thanks. Sit down."
She pulled up a chair and thumbed through the papers. "So far, no fatalities. That's why there's no panic yet, I guess. But it's spreading like ... well, like a plague." Fear flickered deep in her dark eyes.
"Any water reports?" Andy asked.
"Wichita O.K., Indianapolis O.K., Tulsa O.K., Buffalo O.K.,—and a bunch more. No indication there. Except"—she fished out a one-page report—"some little town in Tennessee. Yesterday there was a campaign for everybody to write their congressman about some deal and today they were to vote on a new water system. Hardly anybody showed up at the polls. They've all got it."
Andy shrugged. "You can drink water, but don't vote for it. Oh, that's a big help." He rummaged through the clutter on his desk and came up with a crude chart. "Any trends yet?"
"It's hitting everybody," Bettijean said helplessly. "Not many kids so far, thank heavens. But housewives, businessmen, office workers, teachers, preachers—rich, poor—from Florida to Alaska. Just when you called me in, one of the girls thought she had a trend. The isolated mountain areas of the West and South. But reports are too fragmentary."
"What is it?" he cried suddenly, banging the desk. "People deathly ill, but nobody dying. And doctors can't identify the poison until they have a fatality for an autopsy. People stricken in every part of the country, but the water systems are pure. How does it spread?"
"In food?"
"How? There must be hundreds of canneries and dairies and packing plants over the country. How could they all goof at the same time—even if it was sabotage?"
"On the wind?"
"But who could accurately predict every wind over the entire country—even Alaska and Hawaii—without hitting Canada or Mexico? And why wouldn't everybody get it in a given area?"
Bettijean's smooth brow furrowed and she reached across the desk to grip his icy, sweating hands. "Andy, do ... do you think it's ... well, an enemy?"
"I don't know," he said. "I just don't know."
For a long moment he sat there, trying to draw strength from her, punishing his brain for the glimmer of an idea. Finally, shaking his head, he pushed back into his chair and reached for the sheaf of papers.
"We've got to find a clue—a trend—an inkling of something." He nodded toward the outer office. "Stop all in-coming calls. Get those girls on lines to hospitals in every city and town in the country. Have them contact individual doctors in rural areas. Then line up another relief crew, and get somebody carting in more coffee and sandwiches. And on those calls, be sure we learn the sex, age, and occupation of the victims. You and I'll start with Washington."
Bettijean snapped to her feet, grinned her encouragement and strode from the room. Andy could hear her crisp instructions to the girls on the phones. Sucking air through his teeth, he reached for his phone and directory.
He dialed until every finger of his right hand was sore. He spoke to worried doctors and frantic hospital administrators and hysterical nurses. His firm, fine penmanship deteriorated to a barely legible scrawl as writer's cramp knotted his hand and arm. His voice burned down to a rasping whisper. But columns climbed up his rough chart and broken lines pointed vaguely to trends.
It was hours later when Bettijean came back into the office with another stack of papers. Andy hung up his phone and reached for a cigarette. At that moment the door banged open. Nerves raw, Bettijean cried out. Andy's cigarette tumbled from his trembling fingers.
"Sergeant," the chicken colonel barked, parading into the office.
Andy swore under his breath and eyed the two young officers who trailed after the colonel. Emotionally exhausted, he had to clamp his jaw against a huge laugh that struggled up in his throat. For just an instant there, the colonel had reminded him of a movie version of General Rommel strutting up and down before his tanks. But it wasn't a swagger stick the colonel had tucked under his arm. It was a folded newspaper. Opening it, the colonel flung it down on Andy's desk.
"RED PLAGUE SWEEPS NATION," the scare headline screamed. Andy's first glance caught such phrases as "alleged Russian plot" and "germ warfare" and "authorities hopelessly baffled."
Snatching the paper, Andy balled it and hurled it from him. "That'll help a lot," he growled hoarsely.
"Well, then, Sergeant." The colonel tried to relax his square face, but tension rode every weathered wrinkle and fear glinted behind the pale gray eyes. "So you finally recognize the gravity of the situation."
Andy's head snapped up, heated words searing towards his lips. Bettijean stepped quickly around the desk and laid a steady hand on his shoulder.
"Colonel," she said levelly, "you should know better than that."
A shocked young captain exploded, "Corporal. Maybe you'd better report to—"
"All right," Andy said sharply.
For a long moment he stared at his clenched fists. Then he exhaled slowly and, to the colonel, flatly and without apology, he said,
"You'll have to excuse the people in this office if they overlook some of the G.I. niceties. We've been without sleep for two days, we're surviving on sandwiches and coffee, and we're fighting a war here that makes every other one look like a Sunday School picnic." He felt Bettijean's hand tighten reassuringly on his shoulder and he gave her a tired smile. Then he hunched forward and picked up a report. "So say what you came here to say and let us get back to work."
"Sergeant," the captain said, as if reading from a manual,
"insubordination cannot be tolerated, even under emergency conditions. Your conduct here will be noted and—"
"Oh, good heavens!" Bettijean cried, her fingers biting into Andy's shoulder. "Do you have to come in here trying to throw your weight around when this man—"
"That's enough," the colonel snapped. "I had hoped that you two would co-operate, but...." He let the sentence trail off as he swelled up a bit with his own importance. "I have turned Washington upside down to get these two officers from the surgeon general's office. Sergeant. Corporal. You are relieved of your duties as of this moment. You will report to my office at once for suitable disciplinary action."
Bettijean sucked in a strained breath and her hand flew to her mouth.
"But you can't—"
"Let's go," Andy said, pushing up from his chair. Ignoring the brass, he turned to her and brushed his lips across hers. "Let them sweat a while. Let 'em have the whole stinking business. Whatever they do to us, at least we can get some sleep."
"But you can't quit now," Bettijean protested. "These brass hats don't know from—"
"Corporal!" the colonel roared.
And from the door, an icy voice said, "Yes, colonel?"
The colonel and his captains wheeled, stared and saluted. "Oh, general," the colonel said. "I was just—"
"I know," the brigadier said, stepping into the room. "I've been listening to you. And I thought I suggested that everybody leave the sergeant and his staff alone."
"But, general, I—"
The general showed the colonel his back and motioned Andy into his chair. He glanced to Bettijean and a smile warmed his wedge face.
"Corporal, were you speaking just then as a woman or as a soldier?"
Crimson erupted into Bettijean's face and her tight laugh said many things. She shrugged. "Both I guess."
The general waved her to a chair and, oblivious of the colonel, pulled up a chair for himself. The last trace of humor drained from his face as he leaned elbows on the desk. "Andy, this is even worse than we had feared."
Andy fumbled for a cigarette and Bettijean passed him a match. A captain opened his mouth to speak, but the colonel shushed him.
"I've just come from Intelligence," the general said. "We haven't had a report—nothing from our agents, from the Diplomatic Corps, from the civilian newspapermen—not a word from any Iron Curtain country for a day and half. Everybody's frantic. The last item we had—it was a coded message the Reds'd tried to censor—was an indication of something big in the works."
"A day and half ago," Andy mused. "Just about the time we knew we had an epidemic. And about the time they knew it."
"It could be just propaganda," Bettijean said hopefully, "proving that they could cripple us from within."
The general nodded. "Or it could be the softening up for an all-out effort. Every American base in the world is alerted and every serviceman is being issued live ammunition. If we're wrong, we've still got an epidemic and panic that could touch it off. If we're right ... well, we've got to know. What can you do?"
Andy dropped his haggard face into his hands. His voice came through muffled. "I can sit here and cry." For an eternity he sat there, futility piling on helplessness, aware of Bettijean's hand on his arm. He heard the colonel try to speak and sensed the general's movement that silenced him.
Suddenly he sat upright and slapped a palm down on the desk. "We'll find your answers, sir. All we ask is co-operation."
The general gave both Andy and Bettijean a long, sober look, then launched himself from the chair. Pivoting, he said, "Colonel, you and your captains will be stationed by that switchboard out there. For the duration of this emergency, you will take orders only from the sergeant and the corporal here."
"But, general," the colonel wailed, "a noncom? I'm assigned—"
The general snorted. "Insubordination cannot be tolerated—unless you find a two-star general to outrank me. Now, as I said before, let's get out of here and let these people work."
The brass exited wordlessly. Bettijean sighed noisily. Andy found his cigarette dead and lit another. He fancied a tiny lever in his brain and he shifted gears to direct his thinking back into the proper channel. Abruptly his fatigue began to lift. He picked up the new pile of reports Bettijean had brought in.
She move around the desk and sat, noting the phone book he had used, studying the names he had crossed off. "Did you learn anything?" she asked.
Andy coughed, trying to clear his raw throat. "It's crazy," he said.
"From the Senate and House on down, I haven't found a single government worker sick."
"I found a few," she said. "Over in a Virginia hospital."
"But I did find," Andy said, flipping through pages of his own scrawl, "a society matron and her social secretary, a whole flock of office workers—business, not government—and new parents and newly engaged girls and...." He shrugged.
"Did you notice anything significant about those office workers?"
Andy nodded. "I was going to ask you the same, since I was just guessing. I hadn't had time to check it out."
"Well, I checked some. Practically none of my victims came from big offices, either business or industry. They were all out of one and two-girl offices or small businesses."
"That was my guess. And do you know that I didn't find a doctor, dentist or attorney?"
"Nor a single postal worker."
Andy tried to smile. "One thing we do know. It's not a communicable thing. Thank heaven for—"
He broke off as a cute blonde entered and put stacks of reports before both Andy and Bettijean. The girl hesitated, fidgeting, fingers to her teeth. Then, without speaking, she hurried out.
Andy stared at the top sheet and groaned. "This may be something. Half the adult population of Aspen, Colorado, is down."
"What?" Bettijean frowned over the report in her hands. "It's the same thing—only not quite as severe—in Taos and Santa Fe, New Mexico."
"Writers?"
"Mostly. Some artists, too, and musicians. And poets are among the hard hit."
"This is insane," Andy muttered. "Doctors and dentists are fine—writers and poets are sick. Make sense out of that."
Bettijean held up a paper and managed a confused smile. "Here's a country doctor in Tennessee. He doesn't even know what it's all about. Nobody's sick in his valley."
"Somebody in our outer office is organized," Andy said, pulling at his cigarette. "Here're reports from a dozen military installations all lumped together."
"What does it show?"
"Black-out. By order of somebody higher up—no medical releases. Must mean they've got it." He scratched the growing stubble on his chin.
"If this were a fifth column setup, wouldn't the armed forces be the first hit?"
"Sure," Bettijean brightened, then sobered. "Maybe not. The brass could keep it secret if an epidemic hit an army camp. And they could slap a control condition on any military area. But the panic will come from the general public."
"Here's another batch," Andy said. "Small college towns under twenty-five thousand population. All hard hit."
"Well, it's not split intellectually. Small colleges and small offices and writers get it. Doctors don't and dentists don't. But we can't tell who's got it on the military bases."
"And it's not geographical. Look, remember those two reports from Tennessee? That place where they voted on water bonds or something, everybody had it. But the country doctor in another section hadn't even heard of it." Andy could only shake his head.
Bettijean heaved herself up from the chair and trudged back to the outer office. She returned momentarily with a tray of food. Putting a paper cup of coffee and a sandwich in front of Andy, she sat down and nibbled at her snack like an exhausted chipmunk.
Andy banged a fist at his desk again. Coffee splashed over the rim of his cup onto the clutter of papers. "It's here," he said angrily.
"It's here somewhere, but we can't find it."
"The answer?"
"Of course. What is it that girls in small offices do or eat or drink or wear that girls in large offices don't do or eat or drink or wear? What do writers and doctors do differently? Or poets and dentists? What are we missing? What—"
In the outer office a girl cried out. A body thumped against a desk, then a chair, then to the floor. Two girls screamed.
Andy bolted up from his chair. Racing to the door, he shouted back to Bettijean, "Get a staff doctor and a chemist from the lab."
It was the girl who had been so nervous in his office earlier. Now she lay in a pathetic little heap between her desk and chair, whimpering, shivering, eyes wide with horror. The other girls clustered at the hall door, plainly ready to stampede.
"It's not contagious," Andy growled. "Find some blankets or coats to cover her. And get a glass of water."
The other girls, glad for the excuse, dashed away. Andy scooped up the fallen girl and put her down gently on the close-jammed desks. He used a chair cushion for a pillow. By then the other girls were back with a blanket and the glass of water. He covered the girl, gave her a sip of water and heard somebody murmur, "Poor Janis."
"Now," Andy said brightly, "how's that, Janis?"
She mustered a smile, and breathed, "Better. I ... I was so scared. Fever and dizzy ... symptoms like the epidemic."
"Now you know there's nothing to be afraid of," Andy said, feeling suddenly and ridiculously like a pill roller with a practiced bedside manner. "You know you may feel pretty miserable, but nobody's conked out with this stuff yet."
Janis breathed out and her taut body relaxed.
"Don't hurry," Andy said, "but I want you to tell me everything that you did—everything you ate or drank—in the last ... oh, twelve hours." He felt a pressure behind him and swiveled his head to see Bettijean standing there. He tried to smile.
"What time is it?" Janis asked weakly.
Andy glanced to a wall clock, then gave it a double take.
One of the girls said, "It's three o'clock in the morning." She edged nearer Andy, obviously eager to replace Janis as the center of attention. Andy ignored her.
"I ... I've been here since ... golly, yesterday morning at nine," Janis said. "I came to work as usual and...."
Slowly, haltingly, she recited the routine of a routine work day, then told about the quick snack that sufficed for supper and about staying on her phone and typewriter for another five hours. "It was about eleven when the relief crew came in."
"What did you do then?" Andy asked.
"I ... I took a break and...." Her ivory skin reddened, the color spreading into the roots of her fluffy curls, and she turned her face away from Andy. "And I had a sandwich and some coffee and got a little nap in the ladies' lounge and ... and that's all."
"And that's not all," Andy prompted. "What else?"
"Nothing," Janis said too quickly.
Andy shook his head. "Tell it all and maybe it'll help."
"But ... but...."
"Was it something against regulations?"
"I ... I don't know. I think...."
"I'll vouch for your job in this office."
"Well...." She seemed on the verge of tears and her pleading glance sought out Andy, then Bettijean, then her co-workers. Finally, resigned, she said, "I ... I wrote a letter to my mother."
Andy swallowed against his groan of disappointment. "And you told her about what we were doing here."
Janis nodded, and tears welled into her wide eyes.
"Did you mail it?"
"Y ... yes."
"You didn't use a government envelope to save a stamp?"
"Oh, no. I always carry a few stamps with me." She choked down a sob.
"Did I do wrong?"
"No, I don't think so," Andy said, patting her shoulder. "There's certainly nothing secret about this epidemic. Now you just take it easy and—. Oh, here's a doctor now."
The doctor, a white-headed Air Force major, bustled into the room. A lab technician in a white smock was close behind. Andy could only shrug and indicate the girl.
Turning away, lighting a cigarette, he tried to focus on the tangle of thoughts that spun through his head. Doctors, writers, society matrons, office workers—Aspen, Taos and college towns—thousands of people sick—but none in that valley in Tennessee—and few government workers—just one girl in his office—and she was sicker and more frightened about a letter—and....
"Hey, wait!" Andy yelled.
Everyone in the room froze as Andy spun around, dashed to Bettijean's desk and yanked out the wide, top drawer. He pawed through it, straightened, then leaped across to the desk Janis had used. He snatched open drawer after drawer. In a bottom one he found her purse. Ripping it open, he dumped the contents on the desk and clawed through the pile until he found what he wanted. Handing it to the lab technician, he said, "Get me a report. Fast."
The technician darted out.
Andy wheeled to Bettijean. "Get the brass in here. And call the general first." To the doctor, he said, "Give that girl the best of everything."
Then he ducked back to his own office and to the pile of reports. He was still poring over them when the general arrived. Half a dozen other brass hats, none of whom had been to bed, were close behind. The lab technician arrived a minute later. He shook his head as he handed his hastily scribbled report to Andy.
It was Bettijean who squeezed into the office and broke the brittle silence. "Andy, for heaven's sake, what is it?" Then she moved around the desk to stand behind him as he faced the officers.
"Have you got something?" the brigadier asked. "Some girl outside was babbling about writers and doctors, and dentists and college students, and little secretaries and big secretaries. Have you established a trend?"
Andy glanced at the lab report and his smile was as relieved as it was weary. "Our problem," he said, "was in figuring out what a writer does that a doctor doesn't—why girls from small offices were sick—and why senators and postal workers weren't—why college students caught the bug and people in a Tennessee community didn't.
"The lab report isn't complete. They haven't had time to isolate the poison and prescribe medication. But"—he held up a four-cent stamp—"here's the villain, gentlemen."
The big brass stood stunned and shocked. Mouths flapped open and eyes bugged at Andy, at the stamp.
Bettijean said, "Sure. College kids and engaged girls and new parents and especially writers and artists and poets—they'd all lick lots of stamps. Professional men have secretaries. Big offices have postage-meter machines. And government offices have free franking. And"—she threw her arms around the sergeant's neck—"Andy, you're wonderful."
"The old American ingenuity," the colonel said, reaching for Andy's phone. "I knew we could lick it. Now all we have to do—"
"At ease, colonel," the brigadier said sharply. He waited until the colonel had retreated, then addressed Andy. "It's your show. What do you suggest?"
"Get somebody—maybe even the President—on all radio and TV networks. Explain frankly about the four-centers and warn against licking any stamps. Then—"
He broke off as his phone rang. Answering, he listened for a moment, then hung up and said, "But before the big announcement, get somebody checking on the security clearances at whatever plant it is where they print stamps. This's a big deal. Somebody may've been planted years ago for this operation. It shouldn't be too hard.
"But there's no evidence it was a plot yet. Could be pure accident—some chemical in the stickum spoiled. Do they keep the stickum in barrels? Find out who had access. And ... oh, the phone call. That was the lab. The antidote's simple and the cure should be quick. They can phone or broadcast the medical information to doctors. The man on the phone said they could start emptying hospitals in six hours. And maybe we should release some propaganda. "United States whips mystery virus," or something like that. And we could send the Kremlin a stamp collection and.... Aw, you take it, sir. I'm pooped."
The general wheeled to fire a salvo of commands. Officers poured into the corridor. Only the brigadier remained, a puzzled frown crinkling his granite brow.
"But you said that postal workers weren't getting sick."
Andy chucked. "That's right. Did you ever see a post office clerk lick a stamp? They always use a sponge."
The general looked to Bettijean, to Andy, to the stamp. He grinned and the grin became a rumbling laugh. "How would you two like a thirty-day furlough to rest up—or to get better acquainted?"
Bettijean squealed. Andy reached for her hand.
"And while you're gone," the general continued, "I'll see what strings I can pull. If I can't wangle you a couple of battlefield commissions, I'll zip you both through O.C.S. so fast you won't even have time to pin on the bars."
But neither Andy nor Bettijean had heard a word after the mention of furlough. Like a pair of puppy-lovers, they were sinking into the depths of each other's eyes.
And the general was still chuckling as he picked up the lone four-cent stamp in his left hand, made a gun of his right hand, and marched the stamp out of the office under guard.
THE END
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What is the plot of the story?
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After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about Contagion by Katherine MacLean.
Relevant chunks:
CONTAGION
By KATHERINE MacLEAN
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction October 1950. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Minos was such a lovely planet. Not a thing seemed wrong with it. Excepting the food, perhaps. And a disease that wasn't really.
It was like an Earth forest in the fall, but it was not fall. The forest leaves were green and copper and purple and fiery red, and a wind sent patches of bright greenish sunlight dancing among the leaf shadows.
The hunt party of the Explorer filed along the narrow trail, guns ready, walking carefully, listening to the distant, half familiar cries of strange birds.
A faint crackle of static in their earphones indicated that a gun had been fired.
"Got anything?" asked June Walton. The helmet intercom carried her voice to the ears of the others without breaking the stillness of the forest.
"Took a shot at something," explained George Barton's cheerful voice in her earphones. She rounded a bend of the trail and came upon Barton standing peering up into the trees, his gun still raised. "It looked like a duck."
"This isn't Central Park," said Hal Barton, his brother, coming into sight. His green spacesuit struck an incongruous note against the bronze and red forest. "They won't all look like ducks," he said soberly.
"Maybe some will look like dragons. Don't get eaten by a dragon, June," came Max's voice quietly into her earphones. "Not while I still love you." He came out of the trees carrying the blood sample kit, and touched her glove with his, the grin on his ugly beloved face barely visible in the mingled light and shade. A patch of sunlight struck a greenish glint from his fishbowl helmet.
They walked on. A quarter of a mile back, the space ship Explorer towered over the forest like a tapering skyscraper, and the people of the ship looked out of the viewplates at fresh winds and sunlight and clouds, and they longed to be outside.
But the likeness to Earth was danger, and the cool wind might be death, for if the animals were like Earth animals, their diseases might be like Earth diseases, alike enough to be contagious, different enough to be impossible to treat. There was warning enough in the past. Colonies had vanished, and traveled spaceways drifted with the corpses of ships which had touched on some plague planet.
The people of the ship waited while their doctors, in airtight spacesuits, hunted animals to test them for contagion.
The four medicos, for June Walton was also a doctor, filed through the alien homelike forest, walking softly, watching for motion among the copper and purple shadows.
They saw it suddenly, a lighter moving copper patch among the darker browns. Reflex action swung June's gun into line, and behind her someone's gun went off with a faint crackle of static, and made a hole in the leaves beside the specimen. Then for a while no one moved.
This one looked like a man, a magnificently muscled, leanly graceful, humanlike animal. Even in its callused bare feet, it was a head taller than any of them. Red-haired, hawk-faced and darkly tanned, it stood breathing heavily, looking at them without expression. At its side hung a sheath knife, and a crossbow was slung across one wide shoulder.
They lowered their guns.
"It needs a shave," Max said reasonably in their earphones, and he reached up to his helmet and flipped the switch that let his voice be heard. "Something we could do for you, Mac?"
The friendly drawl was the first voice that had broken the forest sounds. June smiled suddenly. He was right. The strict logic of evolution did not demand beards; therefore a non-human would not be wearing a three day growth of red stubble.
Still panting, the tall figure licked dry lips and spoke. "Welcome to Minos. The Mayor sends greetings from Alexandria."
"English?" gasped June.
"We were afraid you would take off again before I could bring word to you.... It's three hundred miles.... We saw your scout plane pass twice, but we couldn't attract its attention."
June looked in stunned silence at the stranger leaning against the tree. Thirty-six light years—thirty-six times six trillion miles of monotonous space travel—to be told that the planet was already settled! "We didn't know there was a colony here," she said. "It is not on the map."
"We were afraid of that," the tall bronze man answered soberly. "We have been here three generations and yet no traders have come."
Max shifted the kit strap on his shoulder and offered a hand. "My name is Max Stark, M.D. This is June Walton, M.D., Hal Barton, M.D., and George Barton, Hal's brother, also M.D."
"Patrick Mead is the name," smiled the man, shaking hands casually.
"Just a hunter and bridge carpenter myself. Never met any medicos before."
The grip was effortless but even through her airproofed glove June could feel that the fingers that touched hers were as hard as padded steel.
"What—what is the population of Minos?" she asked.
He looked down at her curiously for a moment before answering. "Only one hundred and fifty." He smiled. "Don't worry, this isn't a city planet yet. There's room for a few more people." He shook hands with the Bartons quickly. "That is—you are people, aren't you?" he asked startlingly.
"Why not?" said Max with a poise that June admired.
"Well, you are all so—so—" Patrick Mead's eyes roamed across the faces of the group. "So varied."
They could find no meaning in that, and stood puzzled.
"I mean," Patrick Mead said into the silence, "all these—interesting different hair colors and face shapes and so forth—" He made a vague wave with one hand as if he had run out of words or was anxious not to insult them.
"Joke?" Max asked, bewildered.
June laid a hand on his arm. "No harm meant," she said to him over the intercom. "We're just as much of a shock to him as he is to us."
She addressed a question to the tall colonist on outside sound. "What should a person look like, Mr. Mead?"
He indicated her with a smile. "Like you."
June stepped closer and stood looking up at him, considering her own description. She was tall and tanned, like him; had a few freckles, like him; and wavy red hair, like his. She ignored the brightly humorous blue eyes.
"In other words," she said, "everyone on the planet looks like you and me?"
Patrick Mead took another look at their four faces and began to grin.
"Like me, I guess. But I hadn't thought of it before. I did not think that people could have different colored hair or that noses could fit so many ways onto faces. I was judging by my own appearance, but I suppose any fool can walk on his hands and say the world is upside down!" He laughed and sobered. "But then why wear spacesuits? The air is breathable."
"For safety," June told him. "We can't take any chances on plague."
Pat Mead was wearing nothing but a loin cloth and his weapons, and the wind ruffled his hair. He looked comfortable, and they longed to take off the stuffy spacesuits and feel the wind against their own skins. Minos was like home, like Earth.... But they were strangers.
"Plague," Pat Mead said thoughtfully. "We had one here. It came two years after the colony arrived and killed everyone except the Mead families. They were immune. I guess we look alike because we're all related, and that's why I grew up thinking that it is the only way people can look."
Plague. "What was the disease?" Hal Barton asked.
"Pretty gruesome, according to my father. They called it the melting sickness. The doctors died too soon to find out what it was or what to do about it."
"You should have trained for more doctors, or sent to civilization for some." A trace of impatience was in George Barton's voice.
Pat Mead explained patiently, "Our ship, with the power plant and all the books we needed, went off into the sky to avoid the contagion, and never came back. The crew must have died." Long years of hardship were indicated by that statement, a colony with electric power gone and machinery stilled, with key technicians dead and no way to replace them. June realized then the full meaning of the primitive sheath knife and bow.
"Any recurrence of melting sickness?" asked Hal Barton.
"No."
"Any other diseases?"
"Not a one."
Max was eyeing the bronze red-headed figure with something approaching awe. "Do you think all the Meads look like that?" he said to June on the intercom. "I wouldn't mind being a Mead myself!"
Their job had been made easy by the coming of Pat. They went back to the ship laughing, exchanging anecdotes with him. There was nothing now to keep Minos from being the home they wanted, except the melting sickness, and, forewarned against it, they could take precautions.
The polished silver and black column of the Explorer seemed to rise higher and higher over the trees as they neared it. Then its symmetry blurred all sense of specific size as they stepped out from among the trees and stood on the edge of the meadow, looking up.
"Nice!" said Pat. "Beautiful!" The admiration in his voice was warming.
"It was a yacht," Max said, still looking up, "second hand, an old-time beauty without a sign of wear. Synthetic diamond-studded control board and murals on the walls. It doesn't have the new speed drives, but it brought us thirty-six light years in one and a half subjective years. Plenty good enough."
The tall tanned man looked faintly wistful, and June realized that he had never had access to a full library, never seen a movie, never experienced luxury. He had been born and raised on Minos.
"May I go aboard?" Pat asked hopefully.
Max unslung the specimen kit from his shoulder, laid it on the carpet of plants that covered the ground and began to open it.
"Tests first," Hal Barton said. "We have to find out if you people still carry this so-called melting sickness. We'll have to de-microbe you and take specimens before we let you on board. Once on, you'll be no good as a check for what the other Meads might have."
Max was taking out a rack and a stand of preservative bottles and hypodermics.
"Are you going to jab me with those?" Pat asked with interest.
"You're just a specimen animal to me, bud!" Max grinned at Pat Mead, and Pat grinned back. June saw that they were friends already, the tall pantherish colonist, and the wry, black-haired doctor. She felt a stab of guilt because she loved Max and yet could pity him for being smaller and frailer than Pat Mead.
"Lie down," Max told him, "and hold still. We need two spinal fluid samples from the back, a body cavity one in front, and another from the arm."
Pat lay down obediently. Max knelt, and, as he spoke, expertly swabbed and inserted needles with the smooth speed that had made him a fine nerve surgeon on Earth.
High above them the scout helioplane came out of an opening in the ship and angled off toward the west, its buzz diminishing. Then, suddenly, it veered and headed back, and Reno Unrich's voice came tinnily from their earphones:
"What's that you've got? Hey, what are you docs doing down there?" He banked again and came to a stop, hovering fifty feet away. June could see his startled face looking through the glass at Pat.
Hal Barton switched to a narrow radio beam, explained rapidly and pointed in the direction of Alexandria. Reno's plane lifted and flew away over the odd-colored forest.
"The plane will drop a note on your town, telling them you got through to us," Hal Barton told Pat, who was sitting up watching Max dexterously put the blood and spinal fluids into the right bottles without exposing them to air.
"We won't be free to contact your people until we know if they still carry melting sickness," Max added. "You might be immune so it doesn't show on you, but still carry enough germs—if that's what caused it—to wipe out a planet."
"If you do carry melting sickness," said Hal Barton, "we won't be able to mingle with your people until we've cleared them of the disease."
"Starting with me?" Pat asked.
"Starting with you," Max told him ruefully, "as soon as you step on board."
"More needles?"
"Yes, and a few little extras thrown in."
"Rough?"
"It isn't easy."
A few minutes later, standing in the stalls for spacesuit decontamination, being buffeted by jets of hot disinfectant, bathed in glares of sterilizing ultraviolet radiation, June remembered that and compared Pat Mead's treatment to theirs.
In the Explorer , stored carefully in sealed tanks and containers, was the ultimate, multi-purpose cureall. It was a solution of enzymes so like the key catalysts of the human cell nucleus that it caused chemical derangement and disintegration in any non-human cell. Nothing could live in contact with it but human cells; any alien intruder to the body would die. Nucleocat Cureall was its trade name.
But the cureall alone was not enough for complete safety. Plagues had been known to slay too rapidly and universally to be checked by human treatment. Doctors are not reliable; they die. Therefore spaceways and interplanetary health law demanded that ship equipment for guarding against disease be totally mechanical in operation, rapid and efficient.
Somewhere near them, in a series of stalls which led around and around like a rabbit maze, Pat was being herded from stall to stall by peremptory mechanical voices, directed to soap and shower, ordered to insert his arm into a slot which took a sample of his blood, given solutions to drink, bathed in germicidal ultraviolet, shaken by sonic blasts, breathing air thick with sprays of germicidal mists, being directed to put his arms into other slots where they were anesthesized and injected with various immunizing solutions.
Finally, he would be put in a room of high temperature and extreme dryness, and instructed to sit for half an hour while more fluids were dripped into his veins through long thin tubes.
All legal spaceships were built for safety. No chance was taken of allowing a suspected carrier to bring an infection on board with him.
June stepped from the last shower stall into the locker room, zipped off her spacesuit with a sigh of relief, and contemplated herself in a wall mirror. Red hair, dark blue eyes, tall....
"I've got a good figure," she said thoughtfully.
Max turned at the door. "Why this sudden interest in your looks?" he asked suspiciously. "Do we stand here and admire you, or do we finally get something to eat?"
"Wait a minute." She went to a wall phone and dialed it carefully, using a combination from the ship's directory. "How're you doing, Pat?"
The phone picked up a hissing of water or spray. There was a startled chuckle. "Voices, too! Hello, June. How do you tell a machine to go jump in the lake?"
"Are you hungry?"
"No food since yesterday."
"We'll have a banquet ready for you when you get out," she told Pat and hung up, smiling. Pat Mead's voice had a vitality and enjoyment which made shipboard talk sound like sad artificial gaiety in contrast.
They looked into the nearby small laboratory where twelve squealing hamsters were protestingly submitting to a small injection each of Pat's blood. In most of them the injection was followed by one of antihistaminics and adaptives. Otherwise the hamster defense system would treat all non-hamster cells as enemies, even the harmless human blood cells, and fight back against them violently.
One hamster, the twelfth, was given an extra large dose of adaptive, so that if there were a disease, he would not fight it or the human cells, and thus succumb more rapidly.
"How ya doing, George?" Max asked.
"Routine," George Barton grunted absently.
On the way up the long spiral ramps to the dining hall, they passed a viewplate. It showed a long scene of mountains in the distance on the horizon, and between them, rising step by step as they grew farther away, the low rolling hills, bronze and red with patches of clear green where there were fields.
Someone was looking out, standing very still, as if she had been there a long time—Bess St. Clair, a Canadian woman. "It looks like Winnipeg," she told them as they paused. "When are you doctors going to let us out of this blithering barberpole? Look," she pointed. "See that patch of field on the south hillside, with the brook winding through it? I've staked that hillside for our house. When do we get out?"
Reno Ulrich's tiny scout plane buzzed slowly in from the distance and began circling lazily.
"Sooner than you think," Max told her. "We've discovered a castaway colony on the planet. They've done our tests for us by just living here. If there's anything here to catch, they've caught it."
"People on Minos?" Bess's handsome ruddy face grew alive with excitement.
"One of them is down in the medical department," June said. "He'll be out in twenty minutes."
"May I go see him?"
"Sure," said Max. "Show him the way to the dining hall when he gets out. Tell him we sent you."
"Right!" She turned and ran down the ramp like a small girl going to a fire. Max grinned at June and she grinned back. After a year and a half of isolation in space, everyone was hungry for the sight of new faces, the sound of unfamiliar voices.
They climbed the last two turns to the cafeteria, and entered to a rich subdued blend of soft music and quiet conversations. The cafeteria was a section of the old dining room, left when the rest of the ship had been converted to living and working quarters, and it still had the original finely grained wood of the ceiling and walls, the sound absorbency, the soft music spools and the intimate small light at each table where people leisurely ate and talked.
They stood in line at the hot foods counter, and behind her June could hear a girl's voice talking excitedly through the murmur of conversation.
"—new man, honest! I saw him through the viewplate when they came in. He's down in the medical department. A real frontiersman."
The line drew abreast of the counters, and she and Max chose three heaping trays, starting with hydroponic mushroom steak, raised in the growing trays of water and chemicals; sharp salad bowl with rose tomatoes and aromatic peppers; tank-grown fish with special sauce; four different desserts, and assorted beverages.
Presently they had three tottering trays successfully maneuvered to a table. Brant St. Clair came over. "I beg your pardon, Max, but they are saying something about Reno carrying messages to a colony of savages, for the medical department. Will he be back soon, do you know?"
Max smiled up at him, his square face affectionate. Everyone liked the shy Canadian. "He's back already. We just saw him come in."
"Oh, fine." St. Clair beamed. "I had an appointment with him to go out and confirm what looks like a nice vein of iron to the northeast. Have you seen Bess? Oh—there she is." He turned swiftly and hurried away.
A very tall man with fiery red hair came in surrounded by an eagerly talking crowd of ship people. It was Pat Mead. He stood in the doorway, alertly scanning the dining room. Sheer vitality made him seem even larger than he was. Sighting June, he smiled and began to thread toward their table.
"Look!" said someone. "There's the colonist!" Shelia, a pretty, jeweled woman, followed and caught his arm. "Did you really swim across a river to come here?"
Overflowing with good-will and curiosity, people approached from all directions. "Did you actually walk three hundred miles? Come, eat with us. Let me help choose your tray."
Everyone wanted him to eat at their table, everyone was a specialist and wanted data about Minos. They all wanted anecdotes about hunting wild animals with a bow and arrow.
"He needs to be rescued," Max said. "He won't have a chance to eat."
June and Max got up firmly, edged through the crowd, captured Pat and escorted him back to their table. June found herself pleased to be claiming the hero of the hour.
Pat sat in the simple, subtly designed chair and leaned back almost voluptuously, testing the way it gave and fitted itself to him. He ran his eyes over the bright tableware and heaped plates. He looked around at the rich grained walls and soft lights at each table. He said nothing, just looking and feeling and experiencing.
"When we build our town and leave the ship," June explained, "we will turn all the staterooms back into the lounges and ballrooms and cocktail bars that used to be inside."
"Oh, I'm not complaining," Pat said negligently. He cocked his head to the music, and tried to locate its source.
"That's big of you," said Max with gentle irony.
They fell to, Pat beginning the first meal he had had in more than a day.
Most of the other diners finished when they were halfway through, and began walking over, diffidently at first, then in another wave of smiling faces, handshakes, and introductions. Pat was asked about crops, about farming methods, about rainfall and floods, about farm animals and plant breeding, about the compatibility of imported Earth seeds with local ground, about mines and strata.
There was no need to protect him. He leaned back in his chair and drawled answers with the lazy ease of a panther; where he could think of no statistic, he would fill the gap with an anecdote. It developed that he enjoyed spinning campfire yarns and especially being the center of interest.
Between bouts of questions, he ate with undiminished and glowing relish.
June noticed that the female specialists were prolonging the questions more than they needed, clustering around the table laughing at his jokes, until presently Pat was almost surrounded by pretty faces, eager questions, and chiming laughs. Shelia the beautiful laughed most chimingly of all.
June nudged Max, and Max shrugged indifferently. It wasn't anything a man would pay attention to, perhaps. But June watched Pat for a moment more, then glanced uneasily back to Max. He was eating and listening to Pat's answers and did not feel her gaze. For some reason Max looked almost shrunken to her. He was shorter than she had realized; she had forgotten that he was only the same height as herself. She was dimly aware of the clear lilting chatter of female voices increasing at Pat's end of the table.
"That guy's a menace," Max said, and laughed to himself, cutting another slice of hydroponic mushroom steak. "What's eating you?" he added, glancing aside at her when he noticed her sudden stillness.
"Nothing," she said hastily, but she did not turn back to watching Pat Mead. She felt disloyal. Pat was only a superb animal. Max was the man she loved. Or—was he? Of course he was, she told herself angrily. They had gone colonizing together because they wanted to spend their lives together; she had never thought of marrying any other man. Yet the sense of dissatisfaction persisted, and along with it a feeling of guilt.
Len Marlow, the protein tank-culture technician responsible for the mushroom steaks, had wormed his way into the group and asked Pat a question. Now he was saying, "I don't dig you, Pat. It sounds like you're putting the people into the tanks instead of the vegetables!" He glanced at them, looking puzzled. "See if you two can make anything of this. It sounds medical to me."
Pat leaned back and smiled, sipping a glass of hydroponic burgundy.
"Wonderful stuff. You'll have to show us how to make it."
Len turned back to him. "You people live off the country, right? You hunt and bring in steaks and eat them, right? Well, say I have one of those steaks right here and I want to eat it, what happens?"
"Go ahead and eat it. It just wouldn't digest. You'd stay hungry."
"Why?" Len was aggrieved.
"Chemical differences in the basic protoplasm of Minos. Different amino linkages, left-handed instead of right-handed molecules in the carbohydrates, things like that. Nothing will be digestible here until you are adapted chemically by a little test-tube evolution. Till then you'd starve to death on a full stomach."
Pat's side of the table had been loaded with the dishes from two trays, but it was almost clear now and the dishes were stacked neatly to one side. He started on three desserts, thoughtfully tasting each in turn.
"Test-tube evolution?" Max repeated. "What's that? I thought you people had no doctors."
"It's a story." Pat leaned back again. "Alexander P. Mead, the head of the Mead clan, was a plant geneticist, a very determined personality and no man to argue with. He didn't want us to go through the struggle of killing off all Minos plants and putting in our own, spoiling the face of the planet and upsetting the balance of its ecology. He decided that he would adapt our genes to this planet or kill us trying. He did it all right.'"
"Did which?" asked June, suddenly feeling a sourceless prickle of fear.
"Adapted us to Minos. He took human cells—"
She listened intently, trying to find a reason for fear in the explanation. It would have taken many human generations to adapt to Minos by ordinary evolution, and that only at a heavy toll of death and hunger which evolution exacts. There was a shorter way: Human cells have the ability to return to their primeval condition of independence, hunting, eating and reproducing alone.
Alexander P. Mead took human cells and made them into phagocytes. He put them through the hard savage school of evolution—a thousand generations of multiplication, hardship and hunger, with the alien indigestible food always present, offering its reward of plenty to the cell that reluctantly learned to absorb it.
"Leucocytes can run through several thousand generations of evolution in six months," Pat Mead finished. "When they reached to a point where they would absorb Minos food, he planted them back in the people he had taken them from."
"What was supposed to happen then?" Max asked, leaning forward.
"I don't know exactly how it worked. He never told anybody much about it, and when I was a little boy he had gone loco and was wandering ha-ha-ing around waving a test tube. Fell down a ravine and broke his neck at the age of eighty."
"A character," Max said.
Why was she afraid? "It worked then?"
"Yes. He tried it on all the Meads the first year. The other settlers didn't want to be experimented on until they saw how it worked out. It worked. The Meads could hunt, and plant while the other settlers were still eating out of hydroponics tanks."
"It worked," said Max to Len. "You're a plant geneticist and a tank culture expert. There's a job for you."
"Uh- uh !" Len backed away. "It sounds like a medical problem to me. Human cell control—right up your alley."
"It is a one-way street," Pat warned. "Once it is done, you won't be able to digest ship food. I'll get no good from this protein. I ate it just for the taste."
Hal Barton appeared quietly beside the table. "Three of the twelve test hamsters have died," he reported, and turned to Pat. "Your people carry the germs of melting sickness, as you call it. The dead hamsters were injected with blood taken from you before you were de-infected. We can't settle here unless we de-infect everybody on Minos. Would they object?"
"We wouldn't want to give you folks germs," Pat smiled. "Anything for safety. But there'll have to be a vote on it first."
The doctors went to Reno Ulrich's table and walked with him to the hangar, explaining. He was to carry the proposal to Alexandria, mingle with the people, be persuasive and wait for them to vote before returning. He was to give himself shots of cureall every two hours on the hour or run the risk of disease.
Reno was pleased. He had dabbled in sociology before retraining as a mechanic for the expedition. "This gives me a chance to study their mores." He winked wickedly. "I may not be back for several nights." They watched through the viewplate as he took off, and then went over to the laboratory for a look at the hamsters.
Three were alive and healthy, munching lettuce. One was the control; the other two had been given shots of Pat's blood from before he entered the ship, but with no additional treatment. Apparently a hamster could fight off melting sickness easily if left alone. Three were still feverish and ruffled, with a low red blood count, but recovering. The three dead ones had been given strong shots of adaptive and counter histamine, so their bodies had not fought back against the attack.
June glanced at the dead animals hastily and looked away again. They lay twisted with a strange semi-fluid limpness, as if ready to dissolve. The last hamster, which had been given the heaviest dose of adaptive, had apparently lost all its hair before death. It was hairless and pink, like a still-born baby.
"We can find no micro-organisms," George Barton said. "None at all. Nothing in the body that should not be there. Leucosis and anemia. Fever only for the ones that fought it off." He handed Max some temperature charts and graphs of blood counts.
June wandered out into the hall. Pediatrics and obstetrics were her field; she left the cellular research to Max, and just helped him with laboratory routine. The strange mood followed her out into the hall, then abruptly lightened.
Coming toward her, busily telling a tale of adventure to the gorgeous Shelia Davenport, was a tall, red-headed, magnificently handsome man. It was his handsomeness which made Pat such a pleasure to look upon and talk with, she guiltily told herself, and it was his tremendous vitality.... It was like meeting a movie hero in the flesh, or a hero out of the pages of a book—Deer-slayer, John Clayton, Lord Greystoke.
She waited in the doorway to the laboratory and made no move to join them, merely acknowledged the two with a nod and a smile and a casual lift of the hand. They nodded and smiled back.
"Hello, June," said Pat and continued telling his tale, but as they passed he lightly touched her arm.
"Oh, pioneer!" she said mockingly and softly to his passing profile, and knew that he had heard.
Question:
What is the plot of the story?
Answer:
|
[
"The story begins with the Explorer ship landing on an unknown planet. The ships inhabitants are careful of any potential diseases and so do not readily disembark to explore their new surroundings. Instead, they send a crew of four medical doctors to go on a hunt party to understand the types of pathogens on the planet. The four doctors in the hunt party are June Walton, George Barton, Hal Barton, and Max. George and Hal are brothers. Max and June are in a relationship together. \n\nThey walk through the forest, shooting different animals that they encounter to test for diseases. As they walk through the forest, they encounter a man who speaks English. His name is Patrick Mead and he introduces the party to the planet, known as Minos. The man explains how his group was 300 miles away from their ship. \n\nPatrick and the group asks questions of each other. Patrick notes that he is shocked to see a variety of different looking people as those on Minos all look very similar to each other. The group and Pat all head back to the ship where they explain to Pat that he has to go through a process of decontamination. They begin by taking specimen from Pat and spinal fluid samples from him. Pat then continues on to the rest of the decontamination process that the others do not have to go through. \n\nWhile Pat is going through decontamination, so is the rest of the doctors – but in a different process. During June’s process, she is seen admiring her body. Once they are done, they go to the dining hall to eat. A woman asks the doctors when they will be able to let out of the ship to explore the new land, and Max answers that it might happen soon. Many people are excited about the possibility because they have all been isolated in space for the past year and a half. When they enter the cafeteria, they can hear passengers excitedly gossiping about Pat’s arrival. As soon as pat enters the room, people approach him eagerly awaiting to talk to him. During the meal, Pat explains how a geneticist on the planet adapted the citizens’ cells to their planet so that they would not destroy the planet foraging for food. \n\nDuring the conversation over food, Hall enters the room to inform them that the hamsters showed signs of infection. This means that Pat’s people still do carry the disease, the morning sickness. Pat assures them that his people would be willing to be de-infected. The crew then send Reno Ulrich to go to Pat’s town to make relations with the people.\n\nAfter eating, June goes back to the laboratory. She sees Pat and the beautiful Shelia Davenport walking in her direction. She mockingly acknowledges his presence when he walks past her. \n",
"The hunt party of the 'Explorer' proceeds through a forest on planet Minos in spacesuits and communicates through earphones. The forest reminds Earth but can be dangerous, so the rest of the people stay on the ship, longing to be outside. At that time, the party of doctors is hunting animals to test for contagion, which has been the reason for massive deaths on other planets. Suddenly, an animal-like man, Patrick Mead, appears, who was sent by the Mayor from far away. The party is surprised to see an English-speaking human as there is no colony on Minos according to the map. Patrick informs them that the population of Minos is one hundred and fifty, and the planet has room for more. The variety of the group's appearances puzzles Patrick as in his opinion all people should look like June, a member of the party. She looks similar to Patrick himself - tanned, tall, with freckles and wavy red hair. He tells about a plague which happened in the past and killed everyone except the Mead families who were immune. As all the people alive are related, they look similar. The disease was called the melting sickness and it killed all the doctors before they studied it. The colony's ship went off forever to avoid the contagion and took everything with them. The party returns to the ship with Pat, considering the planet the desirable home. Pat admires the ship as he was raised on Minos without any luxuries or technologies. Max, June's boyfriend and also a doctor, tests Pat for the melting sickness before letting him into the ship. Reno's scout plane comes in surprise and is updated about the local colony. The newcomers have cureall, a multi-purpose cure from any alien intrusion to the body, but for safety the ship equipment for testings is fully mechanical. Pat's positive attitude is opposite to the usual ship talk and, therefore, pleasing for June. The passengers abroad are staring outside and stake places for their future houses. People are eager to meet Pat after a year and a half in isolation. Soon, he comes into the cafeteria and is surrounded by curious passengers. June becomes jealous of the female attention to Pat and compares him to Max, with the least significantly losing in appearance. Pat mentions that local food won't digest for the newcomers unless they are adapted by a test-tube evolution, a method used by his ancestor to avoid destroying the local flora but rather adapt the Mead's genes to local food. That leads to the inability to digest the ship's food, only the products of Minos. For some reason June feels fear. Hal comes and reports the hamsters tested before Pat was de-infected to be dead. Reno sets off to the colony to persuade the locals to be de-infected and to give their agreement through voting. The dead hamsters have nothing wrong in their bodies and the reasons are unknown. June sees Pat and admires him from afar. ",
"The story begins on Minos, an Earthlike planet where The Explorer has landed in hopes of colonization. The medical crew on the ship, consisting of June Walton, Max Stark, and Hal and George Barton, step outside with their spacesuits to hunt animals and test them for disease, cautious of potential plagues that could wipe out their ship. They surprisingly come across a human who speaks English, finding out that Minos had been colonized prior to their arrival. The man introduces himself as Patrick Mead. He explains that the population on Minos is small, only consisting of the Mead family, all which look alike. Pat goes on to tell the crew that a plague had struck the original colony when they arrived, called the melting sickness. The mysterious disease killed everyone except for the Mead family, and the people on Minos had tried to fly back into space for escape, but the crew never came back. The crew takes Pat back to their ship, and explains to him that in order to protect themselves against disease, tests and precautions are necessary. They run several procedures on Pat, including drawing his blood, bathing him in disinfectant, and injecting his blood into hamsters to see if he carried disease. June, having developed an interest in Pat, finds herself to be drawn to him as time passes. Dinner time eventually comes, and all the people aboard The Explorer eventually hear news of the new stranger. In the meantime, Reno flies a plane to and from the ship, carrying messages to the town on Minos. Pat arrives to the dining hall, and is immediately swarmed with interest and excitement. He tells stories of Minos and answers the many questions he is asked, and is given particular attention by the women on the ship, which June feels upset about. Len Marlow, a plant geneticist, listens as Pat tells him about food on Minos; when they had first arrived, they were unable to digest the plants and animals due to genetic differences. Their head of the clan, Alexander Mead, had managed to take human cells and adapt them to the life on Minos, ultimately allowing for them to eat and digest the food there. Pat implies that this process is necessary if the people on The Explorer want to settle on Minos. Hal Burton appears and informs the crew that three of the hamsters have died, and calls for the people on Minos to be disinfected. As June observes the hamsters, she walks past Pat, who kindly acknowledges her.",
"The medical party of the Explorer is going hunting along a narrow trail in the forest. June Walton asks if George Barton has gotten anything from his shot, and he says it looks like a duck. Hal Barton, his brother, says that the creatures won’t look like ducks. Max tells June that he loves her and not to get eaten by a dragon. Many people wait on the Explorer spaceship to go outside, but it is up to the four medicos to hunt the animals and test them for disease. Someone fires at a specimen they see, but it turns out to be a man who has the three-day growth of red stubble. The man introduces the planet as Minos and says that the mayor sends his greetings from Alexandria. June is shocked to hear that after thirty-six light years of space travel, there is already a colony of one hundred and fifty living here. The man introduces himself as Patrick Mead, and he is shocked to see the wide variety of humans who have come from the Explorer. He mentions that there was a plague too, but it has disappeared, and there are no other illnesses. Pat goes with them back to the Explorer and admires all of the technology since he has been raised on Minos his entire life. When Pat asks to go abroad, Hal tells him that he must go through a few tests for melting sickness. Max performs various tests on him as Hal signals for Reno Unrich to drop a note in Pat’s town to explain that contact has been made. Pat goes through more tests, which the ultimate, multi-purpose cureall called the Nucleocat Cureall could help ensure. June checks on Pat again and tells him that there will be a banquet after he has finished the tests. A Canadian woman named Bess St. Clair asks when the people will be let out. Max tells her that they will be going out soon because of the castaway colony. Bess is excited, and Max tells her that she can show Pat the way to the dining hall. Shortly after June and Max go into the dining hall, Pat appears and gets swarmed by a large crowd. They rescue him so that he can eat, but people come by anyway. All of the women linger longer, and June even begins to question her love for Max. Pat reveals that the people on Minos have been chemically adapted by Alexander P. Mead, who had turned human cells and made them into phagocytes. Eventually, these leucocytes are put back into humans once they have become successful. Hal then says that the colony people have the germs of melting sickness, to which Pat says that health is a top priority; the colony will need to vote on first, however. Reno is excited to study the people further, while June and George study the hamsters. As June wanders down the hall, Pat walks by, and they make contact. "
] |
50774
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CONTAGION
By KATHERINE MacLEAN
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Galaxy Science Fiction October 1950. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Minos was such a lovely planet. Not a thing seemed wrong with it. Excepting the food, perhaps. And a disease that wasn't really.
It was like an Earth forest in the fall, but it was not fall. The forest leaves were green and copper and purple and fiery red, and a wind sent patches of bright greenish sunlight dancing among the leaf shadows.
The hunt party of the Explorer filed along the narrow trail, guns ready, walking carefully, listening to the distant, half familiar cries of strange birds.
A faint crackle of static in their earphones indicated that a gun had been fired.
"Got anything?" asked June Walton. The helmet intercom carried her voice to the ears of the others without breaking the stillness of the forest.
"Took a shot at something," explained George Barton's cheerful voice in her earphones. She rounded a bend of the trail and came upon Barton standing peering up into the trees, his gun still raised. "It looked like a duck."
"This isn't Central Park," said Hal Barton, his brother, coming into sight. His green spacesuit struck an incongruous note against the bronze and red forest. "They won't all look like ducks," he said soberly.
"Maybe some will look like dragons. Don't get eaten by a dragon, June," came Max's voice quietly into her earphones. "Not while I still love you." He came out of the trees carrying the blood sample kit, and touched her glove with his, the grin on his ugly beloved face barely visible in the mingled light and shade. A patch of sunlight struck a greenish glint from his fishbowl helmet.
They walked on. A quarter of a mile back, the space ship Explorer towered over the forest like a tapering skyscraper, and the people of the ship looked out of the viewplates at fresh winds and sunlight and clouds, and they longed to be outside.
But the likeness to Earth was danger, and the cool wind might be death, for if the animals were like Earth animals, their diseases might be like Earth diseases, alike enough to be contagious, different enough to be impossible to treat. There was warning enough in the past. Colonies had vanished, and traveled spaceways drifted with the corpses of ships which had touched on some plague planet.
The people of the ship waited while their doctors, in airtight spacesuits, hunted animals to test them for contagion.
The four medicos, for June Walton was also a doctor, filed through the alien homelike forest, walking softly, watching for motion among the copper and purple shadows.
They saw it suddenly, a lighter moving copper patch among the darker browns. Reflex action swung June's gun into line, and behind her someone's gun went off with a faint crackle of static, and made a hole in the leaves beside the specimen. Then for a while no one moved.
This one looked like a man, a magnificently muscled, leanly graceful, humanlike animal. Even in its callused bare feet, it was a head taller than any of them. Red-haired, hawk-faced and darkly tanned, it stood breathing heavily, looking at them without expression. At its side hung a sheath knife, and a crossbow was slung across one wide shoulder.
They lowered their guns.
"It needs a shave," Max said reasonably in their earphones, and he reached up to his helmet and flipped the switch that let his voice be heard. "Something we could do for you, Mac?"
The friendly drawl was the first voice that had broken the forest sounds. June smiled suddenly. He was right. The strict logic of evolution did not demand beards; therefore a non-human would not be wearing a three day growth of red stubble.
Still panting, the tall figure licked dry lips and spoke. "Welcome to Minos. The Mayor sends greetings from Alexandria."
"English?" gasped June.
"We were afraid you would take off again before I could bring word to you.... It's three hundred miles.... We saw your scout plane pass twice, but we couldn't attract its attention."
June looked in stunned silence at the stranger leaning against the tree. Thirty-six light years—thirty-six times six trillion miles of monotonous space travel—to be told that the planet was already settled! "We didn't know there was a colony here," she said. "It is not on the map."
"We were afraid of that," the tall bronze man answered soberly. "We have been here three generations and yet no traders have come."
Max shifted the kit strap on his shoulder and offered a hand. "My name is Max Stark, M.D. This is June Walton, M.D., Hal Barton, M.D., and George Barton, Hal's brother, also M.D."
"Patrick Mead is the name," smiled the man, shaking hands casually.
"Just a hunter and bridge carpenter myself. Never met any medicos before."
The grip was effortless but even through her airproofed glove June could feel that the fingers that touched hers were as hard as padded steel.
"What—what is the population of Minos?" she asked.
He looked down at her curiously for a moment before answering. "Only one hundred and fifty." He smiled. "Don't worry, this isn't a city planet yet. There's room for a few more people." He shook hands with the Bartons quickly. "That is—you are people, aren't you?" he asked startlingly.
"Why not?" said Max with a poise that June admired.
"Well, you are all so—so—" Patrick Mead's eyes roamed across the faces of the group. "So varied."
They could find no meaning in that, and stood puzzled.
"I mean," Patrick Mead said into the silence, "all these—interesting different hair colors and face shapes and so forth—" He made a vague wave with one hand as if he had run out of words or was anxious not to insult them.
"Joke?" Max asked, bewildered.
June laid a hand on his arm. "No harm meant," she said to him over the intercom. "We're just as much of a shock to him as he is to us."
She addressed a question to the tall colonist on outside sound. "What should a person look like, Mr. Mead?"
He indicated her with a smile. "Like you."
June stepped closer and stood looking up at him, considering her own description. She was tall and tanned, like him; had a few freckles, like him; and wavy red hair, like his. She ignored the brightly humorous blue eyes.
"In other words," she said, "everyone on the planet looks like you and me?"
Patrick Mead took another look at their four faces and began to grin.
"Like me, I guess. But I hadn't thought of it before. I did not think that people could have different colored hair or that noses could fit so many ways onto faces. I was judging by my own appearance, but I suppose any fool can walk on his hands and say the world is upside down!" He laughed and sobered. "But then why wear spacesuits? The air is breathable."
"For safety," June told him. "We can't take any chances on plague."
Pat Mead was wearing nothing but a loin cloth and his weapons, and the wind ruffled his hair. He looked comfortable, and they longed to take off the stuffy spacesuits and feel the wind against their own skins. Minos was like home, like Earth.... But they were strangers.
"Plague," Pat Mead said thoughtfully. "We had one here. It came two years after the colony arrived and killed everyone except the Mead families. They were immune. I guess we look alike because we're all related, and that's why I grew up thinking that it is the only way people can look."
Plague. "What was the disease?" Hal Barton asked.
"Pretty gruesome, according to my father. They called it the melting sickness. The doctors died too soon to find out what it was or what to do about it."
"You should have trained for more doctors, or sent to civilization for some." A trace of impatience was in George Barton's voice.
Pat Mead explained patiently, "Our ship, with the power plant and all the books we needed, went off into the sky to avoid the contagion, and never came back. The crew must have died." Long years of hardship were indicated by that statement, a colony with electric power gone and machinery stilled, with key technicians dead and no way to replace them. June realized then the full meaning of the primitive sheath knife and bow.
"Any recurrence of melting sickness?" asked Hal Barton.
"No."
"Any other diseases?"
"Not a one."
Max was eyeing the bronze red-headed figure with something approaching awe. "Do you think all the Meads look like that?" he said to June on the intercom. "I wouldn't mind being a Mead myself!"
Their job had been made easy by the coming of Pat. They went back to the ship laughing, exchanging anecdotes with him. There was nothing now to keep Minos from being the home they wanted, except the melting sickness, and, forewarned against it, they could take precautions.
The polished silver and black column of the Explorer seemed to rise higher and higher over the trees as they neared it. Then its symmetry blurred all sense of specific size as they stepped out from among the trees and stood on the edge of the meadow, looking up.
"Nice!" said Pat. "Beautiful!" The admiration in his voice was warming.
"It was a yacht," Max said, still looking up, "second hand, an old-time beauty without a sign of wear. Synthetic diamond-studded control board and murals on the walls. It doesn't have the new speed drives, but it brought us thirty-six light years in one and a half subjective years. Plenty good enough."
The tall tanned man looked faintly wistful, and June realized that he had never had access to a full library, never seen a movie, never experienced luxury. He had been born and raised on Minos.
"May I go aboard?" Pat asked hopefully.
Max unslung the specimen kit from his shoulder, laid it on the carpet of plants that covered the ground and began to open it.
"Tests first," Hal Barton said. "We have to find out if you people still carry this so-called melting sickness. We'll have to de-microbe you and take specimens before we let you on board. Once on, you'll be no good as a check for what the other Meads might have."
Max was taking out a rack and a stand of preservative bottles and hypodermics.
"Are you going to jab me with those?" Pat asked with interest.
"You're just a specimen animal to me, bud!" Max grinned at Pat Mead, and Pat grinned back. June saw that they were friends already, the tall pantherish colonist, and the wry, black-haired doctor. She felt a stab of guilt because she loved Max and yet could pity him for being smaller and frailer than Pat Mead.
"Lie down," Max told him, "and hold still. We need two spinal fluid samples from the back, a body cavity one in front, and another from the arm."
Pat lay down obediently. Max knelt, and, as he spoke, expertly swabbed and inserted needles with the smooth speed that had made him a fine nerve surgeon on Earth.
High above them the scout helioplane came out of an opening in the ship and angled off toward the west, its buzz diminishing. Then, suddenly, it veered and headed back, and Reno Unrich's voice came tinnily from their earphones:
"What's that you've got? Hey, what are you docs doing down there?" He banked again and came to a stop, hovering fifty feet away. June could see his startled face looking through the glass at Pat.
Hal Barton switched to a narrow radio beam, explained rapidly and pointed in the direction of Alexandria. Reno's plane lifted and flew away over the odd-colored forest.
"The plane will drop a note on your town, telling them you got through to us," Hal Barton told Pat, who was sitting up watching Max dexterously put the blood and spinal fluids into the right bottles without exposing them to air.
"We won't be free to contact your people until we know if they still carry melting sickness," Max added. "You might be immune so it doesn't show on you, but still carry enough germs—if that's what caused it—to wipe out a planet."
"If you do carry melting sickness," said Hal Barton, "we won't be able to mingle with your people until we've cleared them of the disease."
"Starting with me?" Pat asked.
"Starting with you," Max told him ruefully, "as soon as you step on board."
"More needles?"
"Yes, and a few little extras thrown in."
"Rough?"
"It isn't easy."
A few minutes later, standing in the stalls for spacesuit decontamination, being buffeted by jets of hot disinfectant, bathed in glares of sterilizing ultraviolet radiation, June remembered that and compared Pat Mead's treatment to theirs.
In the Explorer , stored carefully in sealed tanks and containers, was the ultimate, multi-purpose cureall. It was a solution of enzymes so like the key catalysts of the human cell nucleus that it caused chemical derangement and disintegration in any non-human cell. Nothing could live in contact with it but human cells; any alien intruder to the body would die. Nucleocat Cureall was its trade name.
But the cureall alone was not enough for complete safety. Plagues had been known to slay too rapidly and universally to be checked by human treatment. Doctors are not reliable; they die. Therefore spaceways and interplanetary health law demanded that ship equipment for guarding against disease be totally mechanical in operation, rapid and efficient.
Somewhere near them, in a series of stalls which led around and around like a rabbit maze, Pat was being herded from stall to stall by peremptory mechanical voices, directed to soap and shower, ordered to insert his arm into a slot which took a sample of his blood, given solutions to drink, bathed in germicidal ultraviolet, shaken by sonic blasts, breathing air thick with sprays of germicidal mists, being directed to put his arms into other slots where they were anesthesized and injected with various immunizing solutions.
Finally, he would be put in a room of high temperature and extreme dryness, and instructed to sit for half an hour while more fluids were dripped into his veins through long thin tubes.
All legal spaceships were built for safety. No chance was taken of allowing a suspected carrier to bring an infection on board with him.
June stepped from the last shower stall into the locker room, zipped off her spacesuit with a sigh of relief, and contemplated herself in a wall mirror. Red hair, dark blue eyes, tall....
"I've got a good figure," she said thoughtfully.
Max turned at the door. "Why this sudden interest in your looks?" he asked suspiciously. "Do we stand here and admire you, or do we finally get something to eat?"
"Wait a minute." She went to a wall phone and dialed it carefully, using a combination from the ship's directory. "How're you doing, Pat?"
The phone picked up a hissing of water or spray. There was a startled chuckle. "Voices, too! Hello, June. How do you tell a machine to go jump in the lake?"
"Are you hungry?"
"No food since yesterday."
"We'll have a banquet ready for you when you get out," she told Pat and hung up, smiling. Pat Mead's voice had a vitality and enjoyment which made shipboard talk sound like sad artificial gaiety in contrast.
They looked into the nearby small laboratory where twelve squealing hamsters were protestingly submitting to a small injection each of Pat's blood. In most of them the injection was followed by one of antihistaminics and adaptives. Otherwise the hamster defense system would treat all non-hamster cells as enemies, even the harmless human blood cells, and fight back against them violently.
One hamster, the twelfth, was given an extra large dose of adaptive, so that if there were a disease, he would not fight it or the human cells, and thus succumb more rapidly.
"How ya doing, George?" Max asked.
"Routine," George Barton grunted absently.
On the way up the long spiral ramps to the dining hall, they passed a viewplate. It showed a long scene of mountains in the distance on the horizon, and between them, rising step by step as they grew farther away, the low rolling hills, bronze and red with patches of clear green where there were fields.
Someone was looking out, standing very still, as if she had been there a long time—Bess St. Clair, a Canadian woman. "It looks like Winnipeg," she told them as they paused. "When are you doctors going to let us out of this blithering barberpole? Look," she pointed. "See that patch of field on the south hillside, with the brook winding through it? I've staked that hillside for our house. When do we get out?"
Reno Ulrich's tiny scout plane buzzed slowly in from the distance and began circling lazily.
"Sooner than you think," Max told her. "We've discovered a castaway colony on the planet. They've done our tests for us by just living here. If there's anything here to catch, they've caught it."
"People on Minos?" Bess's handsome ruddy face grew alive with excitement.
"One of them is down in the medical department," June said. "He'll be out in twenty minutes."
"May I go see him?"
"Sure," said Max. "Show him the way to the dining hall when he gets out. Tell him we sent you."
"Right!" She turned and ran down the ramp like a small girl going to a fire. Max grinned at June and she grinned back. After a year and a half of isolation in space, everyone was hungry for the sight of new faces, the sound of unfamiliar voices.
They climbed the last two turns to the cafeteria, and entered to a rich subdued blend of soft music and quiet conversations. The cafeteria was a section of the old dining room, left when the rest of the ship had been converted to living and working quarters, and it still had the original finely grained wood of the ceiling and walls, the sound absorbency, the soft music spools and the intimate small light at each table where people leisurely ate and talked.
They stood in line at the hot foods counter, and behind her June could hear a girl's voice talking excitedly through the murmur of conversation.
"—new man, honest! I saw him through the viewplate when they came in. He's down in the medical department. A real frontiersman."
The line drew abreast of the counters, and she and Max chose three heaping trays, starting with hydroponic mushroom steak, raised in the growing trays of water and chemicals; sharp salad bowl with rose tomatoes and aromatic peppers; tank-grown fish with special sauce; four different desserts, and assorted beverages.
Presently they had three tottering trays successfully maneuvered to a table. Brant St. Clair came over. "I beg your pardon, Max, but they are saying something about Reno carrying messages to a colony of savages, for the medical department. Will he be back soon, do you know?"
Max smiled up at him, his square face affectionate. Everyone liked the shy Canadian. "He's back already. We just saw him come in."
"Oh, fine." St. Clair beamed. "I had an appointment with him to go out and confirm what looks like a nice vein of iron to the northeast. Have you seen Bess? Oh—there she is." He turned swiftly and hurried away.
A very tall man with fiery red hair came in surrounded by an eagerly talking crowd of ship people. It was Pat Mead. He stood in the doorway, alertly scanning the dining room. Sheer vitality made him seem even larger than he was. Sighting June, he smiled and began to thread toward their table.
"Look!" said someone. "There's the colonist!" Shelia, a pretty, jeweled woman, followed and caught his arm. "Did you really swim across a river to come here?"
Overflowing with good-will and curiosity, people approached from all directions. "Did you actually walk three hundred miles? Come, eat with us. Let me help choose your tray."
Everyone wanted him to eat at their table, everyone was a specialist and wanted data about Minos. They all wanted anecdotes about hunting wild animals with a bow and arrow.
"He needs to be rescued," Max said. "He won't have a chance to eat."
June and Max got up firmly, edged through the crowd, captured Pat and escorted him back to their table. June found herself pleased to be claiming the hero of the hour.
Pat sat in the simple, subtly designed chair and leaned back almost voluptuously, testing the way it gave and fitted itself to him. He ran his eyes over the bright tableware and heaped plates. He looked around at the rich grained walls and soft lights at each table. He said nothing, just looking and feeling and experiencing.
"When we build our town and leave the ship," June explained, "we will turn all the staterooms back into the lounges and ballrooms and cocktail bars that used to be inside."
"Oh, I'm not complaining," Pat said negligently. He cocked his head to the music, and tried to locate its source.
"That's big of you," said Max with gentle irony.
They fell to, Pat beginning the first meal he had had in more than a day.
Most of the other diners finished when they were halfway through, and began walking over, diffidently at first, then in another wave of smiling faces, handshakes, and introductions. Pat was asked about crops, about farming methods, about rainfall and floods, about farm animals and plant breeding, about the compatibility of imported Earth seeds with local ground, about mines and strata.
There was no need to protect him. He leaned back in his chair and drawled answers with the lazy ease of a panther; where he could think of no statistic, he would fill the gap with an anecdote. It developed that he enjoyed spinning campfire yarns and especially being the center of interest.
Between bouts of questions, he ate with undiminished and glowing relish.
June noticed that the female specialists were prolonging the questions more than they needed, clustering around the table laughing at his jokes, until presently Pat was almost surrounded by pretty faces, eager questions, and chiming laughs. Shelia the beautiful laughed most chimingly of all.
June nudged Max, and Max shrugged indifferently. It wasn't anything a man would pay attention to, perhaps. But June watched Pat for a moment more, then glanced uneasily back to Max. He was eating and listening to Pat's answers and did not feel her gaze. For some reason Max looked almost shrunken to her. He was shorter than she had realized; she had forgotten that he was only the same height as herself. She was dimly aware of the clear lilting chatter of female voices increasing at Pat's end of the table.
"That guy's a menace," Max said, and laughed to himself, cutting another slice of hydroponic mushroom steak. "What's eating you?" he added, glancing aside at her when he noticed her sudden stillness.
"Nothing," she said hastily, but she did not turn back to watching Pat Mead. She felt disloyal. Pat was only a superb animal. Max was the man she loved. Or—was he? Of course he was, she told herself angrily. They had gone colonizing together because they wanted to spend their lives together; she had never thought of marrying any other man. Yet the sense of dissatisfaction persisted, and along with it a feeling of guilt.
Len Marlow, the protein tank-culture technician responsible for the mushroom steaks, had wormed his way into the group and asked Pat a question. Now he was saying, "I don't dig you, Pat. It sounds like you're putting the people into the tanks instead of the vegetables!" He glanced at them, looking puzzled. "See if you two can make anything of this. It sounds medical to me."
Pat leaned back and smiled, sipping a glass of hydroponic burgundy.
"Wonderful stuff. You'll have to show us how to make it."
Len turned back to him. "You people live off the country, right? You hunt and bring in steaks and eat them, right? Well, say I have one of those steaks right here and I want to eat it, what happens?"
"Go ahead and eat it. It just wouldn't digest. You'd stay hungry."
"Why?" Len was aggrieved.
"Chemical differences in the basic protoplasm of Minos. Different amino linkages, left-handed instead of right-handed molecules in the carbohydrates, things like that. Nothing will be digestible here until you are adapted chemically by a little test-tube evolution. Till then you'd starve to death on a full stomach."
Pat's side of the table had been loaded with the dishes from two trays, but it was almost clear now and the dishes were stacked neatly to one side. He started on three desserts, thoughtfully tasting each in turn.
"Test-tube evolution?" Max repeated. "What's that? I thought you people had no doctors."
"It's a story." Pat leaned back again. "Alexander P. Mead, the head of the Mead clan, was a plant geneticist, a very determined personality and no man to argue with. He didn't want us to go through the struggle of killing off all Minos plants and putting in our own, spoiling the face of the planet and upsetting the balance of its ecology. He decided that he would adapt our genes to this planet or kill us trying. He did it all right.'"
"Did which?" asked June, suddenly feeling a sourceless prickle of fear.
"Adapted us to Minos. He took human cells—"
She listened intently, trying to find a reason for fear in the explanation. It would have taken many human generations to adapt to Minos by ordinary evolution, and that only at a heavy toll of death and hunger which evolution exacts. There was a shorter way: Human cells have the ability to return to their primeval condition of independence, hunting, eating and reproducing alone.
Alexander P. Mead took human cells and made them into phagocytes. He put them through the hard savage school of evolution—a thousand generations of multiplication, hardship and hunger, with the alien indigestible food always present, offering its reward of plenty to the cell that reluctantly learned to absorb it.
"Leucocytes can run through several thousand generations of evolution in six months," Pat Mead finished. "When they reached to a point where they would absorb Minos food, he planted them back in the people he had taken them from."
"What was supposed to happen then?" Max asked, leaning forward.
"I don't know exactly how it worked. He never told anybody much about it, and when I was a little boy he had gone loco and was wandering ha-ha-ing around waving a test tube. Fell down a ravine and broke his neck at the age of eighty."
"A character," Max said.
Why was she afraid? "It worked then?"
"Yes. He tried it on all the Meads the first year. The other settlers didn't want to be experimented on until they saw how it worked out. It worked. The Meads could hunt, and plant while the other settlers were still eating out of hydroponics tanks."
"It worked," said Max to Len. "You're a plant geneticist and a tank culture expert. There's a job for you."
"Uh- uh !" Len backed away. "It sounds like a medical problem to me. Human cell control—right up your alley."
"It is a one-way street," Pat warned. "Once it is done, you won't be able to digest ship food. I'll get no good from this protein. I ate it just for the taste."
Hal Barton appeared quietly beside the table. "Three of the twelve test hamsters have died," he reported, and turned to Pat. "Your people carry the germs of melting sickness, as you call it. The dead hamsters were injected with blood taken from you before you were de-infected. We can't settle here unless we de-infect everybody on Minos. Would they object?"
"We wouldn't want to give you folks germs," Pat smiled. "Anything for safety. But there'll have to be a vote on it first."
The doctors went to Reno Ulrich's table and walked with him to the hangar, explaining. He was to carry the proposal to Alexandria, mingle with the people, be persuasive and wait for them to vote before returning. He was to give himself shots of cureall every two hours on the hour or run the risk of disease.
Reno was pleased. He had dabbled in sociology before retraining as a mechanic for the expedition. "This gives me a chance to study their mores." He winked wickedly. "I may not be back for several nights." They watched through the viewplate as he took off, and then went over to the laboratory for a look at the hamsters.
Three were alive and healthy, munching lettuce. One was the control; the other two had been given shots of Pat's blood from before he entered the ship, but with no additional treatment. Apparently a hamster could fight off melting sickness easily if left alone. Three were still feverish and ruffled, with a low red blood count, but recovering. The three dead ones had been given strong shots of adaptive and counter histamine, so their bodies had not fought back against the attack.
June glanced at the dead animals hastily and looked away again. They lay twisted with a strange semi-fluid limpness, as if ready to dissolve. The last hamster, which had been given the heaviest dose of adaptive, had apparently lost all its hair before death. It was hairless and pink, like a still-born baby.
"We can find no micro-organisms," George Barton said. "None at all. Nothing in the body that should not be there. Leucosis and anemia. Fever only for the ones that fought it off." He handed Max some temperature charts and graphs of blood counts.
June wandered out into the hall. Pediatrics and obstetrics were her field; she left the cellular research to Max, and just helped him with laboratory routine. The strange mood followed her out into the hall, then abruptly lightened.
Coming toward her, busily telling a tale of adventure to the gorgeous Shelia Davenport, was a tall, red-headed, magnificently handsome man. It was his handsomeness which made Pat such a pleasure to look upon and talk with, she guiltily told herself, and it was his tremendous vitality.... It was like meeting a movie hero in the flesh, or a hero out of the pages of a book—Deer-slayer, John Clayton, Lord Greystoke.
She waited in the doorway to the laboratory and made no move to join them, merely acknowledged the two with a nod and a smile and a casual lift of the hand. They nodded and smiled back.
"Hello, June," said Pat and continued telling his tale, but as they passed he lightly touched her arm.
"Oh, pioneer!" she said mockingly and softly to his passing profile, and knew that he had heard.
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What kind of city Eric finds himself in?
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After carefully reading the provided chunks, write a detailed response to the following question about The Beast-Jewel of Mars by V. E. Thiessen.
Relevant chunks:
The Beast-Jewel of Mars
By V. E. THIESSEN
The city was strange, fantastic, beautiful. He'd never been there before, yet already he was a fabulous legend—a dire, hateful legend.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
He lay on his stomach, a lean man in faded one piece dungarees, and an odd metallic hat, peering over the side of the canal. Behind him the little winds sifted red dust into his collar, but he could not move; he could only sit there with his gaze riveted on the spires and minarets that twinkled in the distance, far down the bottom of the canal.
One part of his mind said, This is it, this is the fabled city of Mars. This is the beauty and the fantasy and the music of the legends, and I must go down there. Yet somewhere deeper in his mind, deep in the primal urges that kept him from death, the warning was taut and urgent. Get away. They have a part of your mind now. Get away from the city before you lose it all. Get away before your body becomes a husk, a soulless husk to walk the low canals with sightless eyes, like those who came before you.
He strained to push back from the edge, trying to get that fantastic beauty out of his sight. He fought the lids of his eyes, fought to close them while he pushed himself back, but they remained open, staring at the jeweled towers, and borne on the little winds the thin wail of music reached him, saying, Come into the city, come down into the fabled city .
He slid over the edge, sliding down the sloping sides of the canal. The rough sandstone tore at his dungarees, tore at his elbow where it touched but he did not feel the pain. His face was turned toward the towers, and the sound of his breathing was less than human.
His feet caught a projecting bit of stone and were slowed for an instant, so that he turned sideways and rolled on, down into the red dust bottom of the canal, to lie face down in the dust, with the chin strap of the odd metallic hat cutting cruelly into his chin.
He lay there an instant, knowing that now he had a chance. With his face down like this, and the dust smarting his eyes the image was gone for an instant. He had to get away, he knew that. He had to mount the sides of the canal and never look back.
He told himself, "I am Eric North, from Earth, the Third Planet of Sol, and this is not real."
He squirmed in the dust, feeling it bite his cheeks; he squirmed until he could get up and see nothing but the red sand stone walls of the canal. He ran at the walls and clawed his way up like an animal in his haste. He wouldn't look again.
The wind freshened and the tune of the music began to talk to him. It told of going barefoot over long streets of fur. It told of jewels, and wine, and women as fair as springtime. These and more were in the city, waiting for him to claim them.
He sobbed, and clawed forward. He stopped to rest, and slowly his head began to turn. He turned, and the spires and minarets twinkled at him, beautiful, soothing, stopping the tears that had welled down his cheeks.
When he reached the bottom of the canal he began to run toward the city.
When he came to the city there was a high wall around it, and a heavy gate carved with lotus blossoms. He beat against the gate and cried,
"Oh! Let me in. Let me in to the city!" The music was richer now, as if it were everywhere, and the gate swung open without the faintest sound.
A sentinel stood before the opened gate at the end of a long blue street. He was dressed in red silk with his sleeves edged in blue leopard skin, and he wore a belt with a jeweled short sword. He drew the sword from its scabbard, and bowed forward until the point of the sword touched the street of blue fur. He said, "I give you the welcome of my sword, and the welcome of the city. Speak your name so that it may be set in the records of the dreamers."
The music sang, and the spires twinkled, and Eric said, "I am Eric North!"
The sword point jerked, and the sentinel straightened. His face was white. He cried aloud, "It is Eric the Bronze. It is Eric of the Legend." He whirled the sword aloft, and smashed it upon Eric's metal hat, and the hatred was a blue flame in his eyes.
When Eric regained consciousness the people of the city were all about him. They were very fair, and the women were more beautiful than music. Yet now they stared at him with red hate in their eyes. An older man came forward and struck at the copper hat with a stick. The clang deafened Eric and the man cried, "You are right. It is Eric the Bronze. Bring the ships and let him be scourged from the city."
The man drew back the stick and struck again, and Eric's back took fire with the blow. The crowd chanted, "Whips, bring the whips," and fear forced Eric to his feet. He fled then, running on the heedless feet of panic, outstripping those who were behind him until he passed through the great gates into the red dust floor of the canal. The gates closed behind him, and the dust beat upon him, and he paused, his heart hammering inside his chest like a great bell clapper. He turned and looked behind to be sure he was safe.
The towers twinkled at him, and the music whispered to him, "Come back, Eric North. Come back to the city."
He turned and stumbled back to the great gate and hammered on it until his fists were raw, pleading for it to open and let him back.
And deep inside him some part of his mind said, "This is a madness you cannot escape. The city is evil, an evil like you have never known," and a fear as old as time coursed through his frame.
He seized the copper hat from his head, and beat on the lotus carvings of the great door, crying, "Let me in! Please, take me back into the city."
And as he beat the city changed. It became dull and sordid and evil, a city of disgust, with every part offensive to the eye. The spires and minarets were gargoyles of hatred, twisted and misshapen, and the sound of the city was a macabre song of hate.
He stared, and his back was chill with superstitions as old as the beginning of man. The city flickered, changing before his eyes until it was beautiful again.
He stood, amazed, and put the metal hat back on his head. With the motion the shift took place again, and beauty was ugliness. Amazed, he stared at the illusion, and the thought came to him that the metal hat had not entirely failed him after all.
He turned and began to walk away from the city, and when it began to call he took the hat off his head and found peace for a time. Then when it began again he replaced the hat, and revulsion sped his footsteps. And so, hat on, hat off, he made his way down the dusty floor of the canal, and up the rocky sides until he stood on the Martian desert, and the canal was a thin line behind him. He breathed easily then, for he was beyond the range of the illusions.
And now that his mind was his own again he began to study the problem, and to understand something of the nature of the forces against which he had been pitted.
The helmet contained an electrical circuit, designed as a shield against electrical waves tuned to affect his brain. But the hat had failed because the city, whatever it was, had adjusted to this revised pattern as he had approached it. Hence, the helmet had been no defense against illusion. However, when he had jerked the helmet off suddenly to beat on the door, his mental pattern had changed, too suddenly, and the machine caught up only after he had glimpsed another image. Then as the illusion adjusted replacing the helmet threw it off again.
He grinned wryly. He would have liked to know more about the city, whatever it was. He would have liked to know more about the people he had seen, whether they were real or part of the illusion, and if they were as ugly as the second city had been.
Yet the danger was too great. He would go back to his ship and make the arrangements to destroy the city. The ship was armed, and to deliver indirect fire over the edge of the canal would be simple enough. Garve North, his brother, waited back at the ship. If he knew of the city he would have to go there. Eric must not take a chance on that. After they had blasted whatever it was that lay in the canal floor, then it would be time enough to tell Garve, and go down to see what was left.
The ship rested easily on the flat sandstone area where he had established base camp. Its familiar lines brought a smile to Eric's face, a feeling of confidence now that tools and weapons were his again.
He opened the door and entered. The lock doors were left open so that he could enter directly into the body of the ship. He came in in a swift leap, calling, "Garve! Hey, Garve, where are you?"
The ship remained mute. He prowled through it, calling, "Garve," wondering where the young hothead had gone, and then he saw a note clipped to the control board of the ship. He tore it loose impatiently and began to read. Garve had scrawled:
"Funny thing, Eric. A while ago I thought I heard music. I walked down to the canal, and it seemed like there were lights, and a town of some sort far down the canal. I wanted to investigate, but thought I'd better come back. But the thing has been in my mind for hours now, and I'm going down to see what it is. If you want to follow, come straight down the canal."
Eric stared at the note, and the line of his jaw was white. Apparently Garve had seen the city from farther away, and its effect had not been so strong. Even so, Garve's natural curiosity had done the rest.
Garve had gone down to the city, and Garve had no shielded hat. Eric selected two high explosive grenades from the ship's arsenal. They were small but they packed a lot of power. He had a pistol packed with smaller pellets of the same explosive, and he had the hat. That should be adequate. He thrust the bronze hat back on his head and began walking back to the canal.
The return back to the city would always live in his mind as a phantasmagora, a montage of twisted hate and unseemly beauty. When he came again to the gate he did not attempt to enter, but circled the wall, hat on, hat off, stiff limbed like a puppet dancing to the same tune over and over again. He found a place where he could scale the wall, and thrust the helmet on his head, and clawed up the misshapen wall. It was all he could do to make himself drop into the ugly city.
He heard a familiar voice as he dropped. "Eric," the voice said. "Eric, you did come back." The voice was his brother's, and he whirled, seeking the voice. A figure stood before him, a twisted caricature of his brother. The figure cried, "The hat! You fool, get rid of that hat!" The caricature that was his brother seized the hat, and jerked so hard that the chin strap broke under Eric's chin. The hat was flung away and sailed high and far over the fence and outside the city.
The phantasm flickered, the illusion moved. Garve was now more handsome than ever, and the city was a dream of delight. Garve said, "Come," and Eric followed down a street of blue fur. He had no will to resist.
Garve said, "Keep your head down and your face hidden. If we meet someone you may not be recognized. They won't be expecting you from this side of the city."
Eric asked, "You knew I'd come after you?"
"Yes. The Legend said you'd be back."
Eric stopped and whirled to face his brother. "The Legend? Eric the Bronze? What is this wild fantasy?"
"Not so loud!" Garve's voice cautioned him. "Of course the crowd called you that because of the copper hat and your heavy tan. But the Elders believe so too. I don't know what it is, Eric, reincarnation, prophesy, superstition, I only know that when I was with the Elders I believed them. You are a part of a Legend. You are Eric the Bronze."
Eric looked down at his sun tanned hands and flexed them. He loosened the explosive pistol in its holster. At least he was going to be a well armed, well prepared Legend. And while one part of his mind marveled at the city and relaxed into a pleasure as deep as a dream, another struggled with the almost forgotten desire to rescue his brother and escape. He asked, "Who are the Elders?"
"We are going to them, to the center of the city." Garve's voice sharpened, "Keep your head down. I think the last two men we passed are looking after us. Don't look back."
After a moment Garve said, "I think they are following us. Get ready to run. If we are separated, keep going until you reach City Center. The Elders will be expecting you." Garve glanced back, and his voice sharpened, "Now! Run!"
They ran. But as they ran figures began to converge upon them. Farther up the street others appeared, cutting off their flight.
Garve cried, "In here," and pulled Eric into a crevice between two buildings. Eric drew his gun, and savagery began to dance in his eyes. The soft fur muffled sounds of pursuit closed in upon them.
Garve put one hand on Eric's gun hand and said, "Wait here. And if you value my life, don't use that gun." Then he was gone, running deerlike down the street.
For an instant Eric thought the ruse had succeeded. He heard cries and two men passed him running in pursuit. But then the cry came back. "Let him go. Get the other one. The other one."
Eric was seen an instant later, and the people of the city began to converge upon him. He could have destroyed them all with his charges in the gun, but his brother's warning shrieked in his ears, "If you value my life don't use the gun."
There was nothing he could do. Eric stood quietly until he was taken prisoner. They moved him to the center of the wide fur street. Two men held his arms, and twisted painfully. The crowd looked at him, coldly, calculatingly. One of them said, "Get the whips. If we whip him he will not come back." The city twinkled, and the music was so faint he could hardly hear it.
There was only one weapon Eric could use. He had gathered from Garve's words that these people were superstitious.
He laughed, a great chest-shattering laugh that gusted out into the thin Martian air. He laughed and cried in a great voice, "And can you so easily dispose of a Legend? If I am Eric of the Legend, can whips defeat the prophesy?"
There was an instant when he could have twisted loose. They stood, fear-bound at his words. But there was no place to hide, and without the use of his weapons Eric could not have gone far. He had to bluff it out.
Then one of the men cried, "Fools! It is true. We must take no chance with the whips. He would come back. But if he dies here before us now, then we may forget the prophesy."
The crowd murmured and a second voice cried, "Get the sword, get the guards, and kill him at once!"
Eric tensed to break away but now it was too late. His captors were alert. They increased the twist on his arms until he almost screamed with the pain.
The crowd parted, and the guard came through, his red silk clothing gleaming in the sun, his sword bright and deadly. He stopped before Eric, and the sword swirled up like a saber, ready for a slashing cut downward across Eric's neck.
A woman's voice, soft and yet authoritative, called, "Hold!" And a murmur of respect rippled through the crowd.
"Nolette! The Daughter of the City comes."
Eric turned his gaze to the side and saw the woman who had spoken. She was mounted upon a black horse with a jeweled bridle. She was young and her hair was long and free in the wind. She had ridden so softly across the fur street that no one had been aware of her presence.
She said, "Let me touch this man. Let me feel the pulse of his heart so that I may know if he is truly the Bronze one of the Legend. Give me your hand, stranger." She leaned down and grasped his hand. Eric shook his arms free, and reached up and clung to the offered hand, thinking,
"If I pull her down perhaps I can use her as a shield." He tensed his muscles and began to pull.
She cried, "No! You fool. Come up on the horse," and pulled back with an energy as fierce as his own. Then he had swung up on the horse, and the animal leaped forward, its muffled gallop beating out a tattoo of freedom.
Eric clung tightly to the girl's waist. He could feel the young suppleness of her body, and the fine strands of her hair kept swirling back into his face. It had a faint perfume, a clean and heady scent that made him more aware of the touch of her waist. He breathed deeply, oddly happy as they rode.
After five minutes ride they came to a building in the center of the city. The building was cubical, severe in line and architecture, and it contrasted oddly with the exquisite ornament of the rest of the city. It was as if it were a monolith from another time, a stranger crouched among enemies.
The girl halted before the structure and said, "Dismount here, Eric."
Eric swung down, his arms still tingling with pleasure where he had held her. She said, "Knock three times on the door. I will see you again inside. And thank your brother for sending me to bring you here."
Eric knocked on the door. The door was as plain as the building, made of a luminous plastic. It had all the beauty of the great gate door, but a more timeless, more functional beauty.
The door opened and an old man greeted Eric. "Come in. The Council awaits you. Follow me, please."
Eric followed down a hallway and into a large room. The room was obviously designed for a conference room. A great table stood in the room, made of the same luminous plastic as the door of the building. Six men sat at this conference table. Eric's guide placed him in a chair at the base of the T-shaped table.
There was one vacant seat beside the head of the T, and as Eric watched, the young woman who had rescued him entered and took her place there. She smiled at Eric, and the room took on a warmth that it had lacked with only the older men present. The man at her right, obviously presiding here looked at Eric and spoke. "I am Kroon, the eldest of the elders. We have brought you here to satisfy ourselves of your identity. In view of your danger in the City you are entitled to some sort of explanation." He glanced around the room and asked, "What is the judgment of the elders?"
Eric caught a faint nod here, a gesture there. Kroon nodded as if in satisfaction. He turned to the girl, "And what is your opinion, Daughter of the City?"
Nolette's expression held sorrow, as if she looked into the far future. She said, "He is Eric the Bronze. I have no doubt."
Eric asked, "And what is this Legend of Eric the Bronze? Why am I so despised in the city?"
Kroon answered, "According to the Ancient Legend you will destroy the city. This, and other things."
Eric gaped. No wonder the crowd had shown such hatred. But why were the elders so friendly? They were obviously the governing body, and if there was strife between them and the people it had not shown in the respect the crowd had accorded Nolette.
Kroon said, "I see you are puzzled. Let me tell you the story of the City. The City is old. It dates from long ago when the canals of Mars ran clear and green with water, and the deserts were vineyards and gardens. The drouth came, and the changes in climate, and soon it became plain that the people of Mars were doomed. They had ships, and could build more, and gradually they left to colonize other planets. Yet they could take little of their science. And fear and riots destroyed much. Also there were those who were filled with love for this homeland, and who thought that one day it might be habitable again. All the skill of the ancient Martian fathers went into the building of a giant machine, the machine that is the City, to protect a small colony of those who were chosen to remain on Mars."
"This whole city is a machine!" Eric asked.
"Yes, or the product of one. The heart of it lies underneath our feet, in caverns beneath this building. The nature of the machine is this, that it translates thought into reality."
Eric stared. The idea was staggering.
"This is essentially simple, although the technology is complex. It is necessary to have a recording device, to capture thought, a transmuting device capable of transmuting the red dust of the desert into any sort of material desired, and a construction device, to assemble this material into the pattern already recorded from thought." Kroon paused.
"You still doubt, my friend. Perhaps you are thirsty after your escape. Think strongly of a tall glass of cold water, visualize it in your mind, the sight and the fluidity and the touch of it."
Eric did so. Without warning a glass of water stood on the table before him. He touched the water to his lips. It was cool and satisfying. He drank it, convinced completely.
Eric asked, "And I am to destroy the City?"
"Yes. The time has come."
"But why?" Eric demanded. For an instant he could see the twinkling beauty as clearly as if he had stood outside the walls of this building.
Kroon said, "There are difficulties. The machine builds according to the mass will of the people, though it is sensitive to the individual in areas where it does not conflict with the imagination of the mass. We have had strangers, visitors, and even our own people, who grew drunk with the power of the machine, who dreamed more and more lust and greed into existence. These were banished from the city, and so strong is the call of the city that many of them became victims of their own evilness, and now walk mindlessly, with no thought but to seek for the beauty they have lost here."
Kroon sighed. "The people have lost the will to learn. Many do not even know of the machine. Our science is almost gone, and only a few of us, the dreamers, the elders, have kept alive the old knowledge of the machine and its history. By the collected powers of our imagination we build and control the outward appearance of the city.
"We have passed this down from father to son. A part of the ancient Legend is that the builders made provisions for the machine to be destroyed when contact with outsiders had been made once again, so that our people would again have to struggle forward to knowledge and power. The instrument of destruction was to be a man termed Eric the Bronze. It is not that you are reborn. It is just that sometime such a man would come."
Eric said, "I can understand the Bronze part. They had thought that a space man might well be sun tanned. They had thought that a science to protect against this beautiful illusion would provide a metal shield of some sort, probably copper in nature. That such a man should come is inevitable. But why Eric. Why the name Eric?"
For the first time Nolette spoke. She said quietly, "The name Eric was an honorable name of the ancient fathers. It must have been their thought that the new beginning should wait for some of their own far flung kind to return."
Eric nodded. He asked, "What happens now?"
"Nothing. Dwell here with us and you will be safe from our people. If the prediction is not soon fulfilled and you are not the Eric of the Legend, you may stay or go as you desire."
"My brother, Garve. What about him?"
"He loves the city. He will also stay, though he will be outside this building." Kroon clasped his hands. "Nolette, will you show Eric his quarters?"
Question:
What kind of city Eric finds himself in?
Answer:
|
[
"The city is located on Mars. It was created a long time ago when Mars was flourishing. When most Martians left the planet because of the drought, a small colony remained in this place. Back then a machine, which is the whole city, was created to protect this small group. The machine translates thought into reality. It was used for the people in the city to receive all the necessary for life. At first, Eric considered it an illusion. The city captures thoughts with the use of a device and Eric's hat was an obstacle. Putting it on and off confused the machine and Eric was able to see the real ugliness of the city. When one gets into the radius of the machine, he is also called by it and can not refuse the city's beauty. When one doesn't look at the beautiful city, a voice still calls him. Many try to make their lustful desires real, they are banished for that and go mad. That's why the machine is not doing only good things anymore and should be destroyed in accordance with the prophecy. There is the council in the center of the city, whose Eldest know all about the origin of the machine. The members of the council, such as the daughter of the city, are respected by all the citizens. ",
"The city that Eric finds himself in is very strange, as it is not really a city at all. It is in fact, a machine buried underground. It was created so that the inhabitants that colonise this area could create whatever their hearts desired from the sand of the great deserts of mars. Beautiful music emanates out of it. The buildings of the city are towers that sparkle with jewels. In the centre of the city is a street covered in blue fur. All the people of the city seem to be more stunning than humanly possible. But the city is a lie. In truth, it holds ugliness and evil. It's inhabitants, while beautiful on the outside, are greedy, and drunk with power. \n",
"Eric first has illusions of long streets of fur, jewels, wine, and fair women. When he gets to the city, he sees high walls surrounding the city and a gate carved with lotus blossoms. While the women in the city are beautiful, they stare at him with hatred. The city has wide fur streets going toward the center. The Elder’s building is cubical. It is in direct contrast with the exquisite ornament of the rest of the city. In the conference room in the Elder’s building, he learns that the city is very old. It dates back to when the canals has clear, green water and the deserts have plants. This city is the product of a machine that translates the mass will of the citizens into reality. He learns that the outward appearance of the city is maintained by the combined power of their imaginations. ",
"Eric finds himself in a city that is actually a machine built to protect a small colony of the remaining inhabitants on Mars. The nature of the machine itself is to translate thought into reality, which is why the Elders can build and control its outward appearance. Many of the things in the city can be made from the machine by transmuting red dust in the desert to any desired material. The construction device of the machine then assembles the material into any pattern that has been recorded from one’s thought. Even with the many beautiful citizens, including Garve, after they return the second time, it is all an illusion as part of the machine. "
] |
63605
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The Beast-Jewel of Mars
By V. E. THIESSEN
The city was strange, fantastic, beautiful. He'd never been there before, yet already he was a fabulous legend—a dire, hateful legend.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Planet Stories Spring 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
He lay on his stomach, a lean man in faded one piece dungarees, and an odd metallic hat, peering over the side of the canal. Behind him the little winds sifted red dust into his collar, but he could not move; he could only sit there with his gaze riveted on the spires and minarets that twinkled in the distance, far down the bottom of the canal.
One part of his mind said, This is it, this is the fabled city of Mars. This is the beauty and the fantasy and the music of the legends, and I must go down there. Yet somewhere deeper in his mind, deep in the primal urges that kept him from death, the warning was taut and urgent. Get away. They have a part of your mind now. Get away from the city before you lose it all. Get away before your body becomes a husk, a soulless husk to walk the low canals with sightless eyes, like those who came before you.
He strained to push back from the edge, trying to get that fantastic beauty out of his sight. He fought the lids of his eyes, fought to close them while he pushed himself back, but they remained open, staring at the jeweled towers, and borne on the little winds the thin wail of music reached him, saying, Come into the city, come down into the fabled city .
He slid over the edge, sliding down the sloping sides of the canal. The rough sandstone tore at his dungarees, tore at his elbow where it touched but he did not feel the pain. His face was turned toward the towers, and the sound of his breathing was less than human.
His feet caught a projecting bit of stone and were slowed for an instant, so that he turned sideways and rolled on, down into the red dust bottom of the canal, to lie face down in the dust, with the chin strap of the odd metallic hat cutting cruelly into his chin.
He lay there an instant, knowing that now he had a chance. With his face down like this, and the dust smarting his eyes the image was gone for an instant. He had to get away, he knew that. He had to mount the sides of the canal and never look back.
He told himself, "I am Eric North, from Earth, the Third Planet of Sol, and this is not real."
He squirmed in the dust, feeling it bite his cheeks; he squirmed until he could get up and see nothing but the red sand stone walls of the canal. He ran at the walls and clawed his way up like an animal in his haste. He wouldn't look again.
The wind freshened and the tune of the music began to talk to him. It told of going barefoot over long streets of fur. It told of jewels, and wine, and women as fair as springtime. These and more were in the city, waiting for him to claim them.
He sobbed, and clawed forward. He stopped to rest, and slowly his head began to turn. He turned, and the spires and minarets twinkled at him, beautiful, soothing, stopping the tears that had welled down his cheeks.
When he reached the bottom of the canal he began to run toward the city.
When he came to the city there was a high wall around it, and a heavy gate carved with lotus blossoms. He beat against the gate and cried,
"Oh! Let me in. Let me in to the city!" The music was richer now, as if it were everywhere, and the gate swung open without the faintest sound.
A sentinel stood before the opened gate at the end of a long blue street. He was dressed in red silk with his sleeves edged in blue leopard skin, and he wore a belt with a jeweled short sword. He drew the sword from its scabbard, and bowed forward until the point of the sword touched the street of blue fur. He said, "I give you the welcome of my sword, and the welcome of the city. Speak your name so that it may be set in the records of the dreamers."
The music sang, and the spires twinkled, and Eric said, "I am Eric North!"
The sword point jerked, and the sentinel straightened. His face was white. He cried aloud, "It is Eric the Bronze. It is Eric of the Legend." He whirled the sword aloft, and smashed it upon Eric's metal hat, and the hatred was a blue flame in his eyes.
When Eric regained consciousness the people of the city were all about him. They were very fair, and the women were more beautiful than music. Yet now they stared at him with red hate in their eyes. An older man came forward and struck at the copper hat with a stick. The clang deafened Eric and the man cried, "You are right. It is Eric the Bronze. Bring the ships and let him be scourged from the city."
The man drew back the stick and struck again, and Eric's back took fire with the blow. The crowd chanted, "Whips, bring the whips," and fear forced Eric to his feet. He fled then, running on the heedless feet of panic, outstripping those who were behind him until he passed through the great gates into the red dust floor of the canal. The gates closed behind him, and the dust beat upon him, and he paused, his heart hammering inside his chest like a great bell clapper. He turned and looked behind to be sure he was safe.
The towers twinkled at him, and the music whispered to him, "Come back, Eric North. Come back to the city."
He turned and stumbled back to the great gate and hammered on it until his fists were raw, pleading for it to open and let him back.
And deep inside him some part of his mind said, "This is a madness you cannot escape. The city is evil, an evil like you have never known," and a fear as old as time coursed through his frame.
He seized the copper hat from his head, and beat on the lotus carvings of the great door, crying, "Let me in! Please, take me back into the city."
And as he beat the city changed. It became dull and sordid and evil, a city of disgust, with every part offensive to the eye. The spires and minarets were gargoyles of hatred, twisted and misshapen, and the sound of the city was a macabre song of hate.
He stared, and his back was chill with superstitions as old as the beginning of man. The city flickered, changing before his eyes until it was beautiful again.
He stood, amazed, and put the metal hat back on his head. With the motion the shift took place again, and beauty was ugliness. Amazed, he stared at the illusion, and the thought came to him that the metal hat had not entirely failed him after all.
He turned and began to walk away from the city, and when it began to call he took the hat off his head and found peace for a time. Then when it began again he replaced the hat, and revulsion sped his footsteps. And so, hat on, hat off, he made his way down the dusty floor of the canal, and up the rocky sides until he stood on the Martian desert, and the canal was a thin line behind him. He breathed easily then, for he was beyond the range of the illusions.
And now that his mind was his own again he began to study the problem, and to understand something of the nature of the forces against which he had been pitted.
The helmet contained an electrical circuit, designed as a shield against electrical waves tuned to affect his brain. But the hat had failed because the city, whatever it was, had adjusted to this revised pattern as he had approached it. Hence, the helmet had been no defense against illusion. However, when he had jerked the helmet off suddenly to beat on the door, his mental pattern had changed, too suddenly, and the machine caught up only after he had glimpsed another image. Then as the illusion adjusted replacing the helmet threw it off again.
He grinned wryly. He would have liked to know more about the city, whatever it was. He would have liked to know more about the people he had seen, whether they were real or part of the illusion, and if they were as ugly as the second city had been.
Yet the danger was too great. He would go back to his ship and make the arrangements to destroy the city. The ship was armed, and to deliver indirect fire over the edge of the canal would be simple enough. Garve North, his brother, waited back at the ship. If he knew of the city he would have to go there. Eric must not take a chance on that. After they had blasted whatever it was that lay in the canal floor, then it would be time enough to tell Garve, and go down to see what was left.
The ship rested easily on the flat sandstone area where he had established base camp. Its familiar lines brought a smile to Eric's face, a feeling of confidence now that tools and weapons were his again.
He opened the door and entered. The lock doors were left open so that he could enter directly into the body of the ship. He came in in a swift leap, calling, "Garve! Hey, Garve, where are you?"
The ship remained mute. He prowled through it, calling, "Garve," wondering where the young hothead had gone, and then he saw a note clipped to the control board of the ship. He tore it loose impatiently and began to read. Garve had scrawled:
"Funny thing, Eric. A while ago I thought I heard music. I walked down to the canal, and it seemed like there were lights, and a town of some sort far down the canal. I wanted to investigate, but thought I'd better come back. But the thing has been in my mind for hours now, and I'm going down to see what it is. If you want to follow, come straight down the canal."
Eric stared at the note, and the line of his jaw was white. Apparently Garve had seen the city from farther away, and its effect had not been so strong. Even so, Garve's natural curiosity had done the rest.
Garve had gone down to the city, and Garve had no shielded hat. Eric selected two high explosive grenades from the ship's arsenal. They were small but they packed a lot of power. He had a pistol packed with smaller pellets of the same explosive, and he had the hat. That should be adequate. He thrust the bronze hat back on his head and began walking back to the canal.
The return back to the city would always live in his mind as a phantasmagora, a montage of twisted hate and unseemly beauty. When he came again to the gate he did not attempt to enter, but circled the wall, hat on, hat off, stiff limbed like a puppet dancing to the same tune over and over again. He found a place where he could scale the wall, and thrust the helmet on his head, and clawed up the misshapen wall. It was all he could do to make himself drop into the ugly city.
He heard a familiar voice as he dropped. "Eric," the voice said. "Eric, you did come back." The voice was his brother's, and he whirled, seeking the voice. A figure stood before him, a twisted caricature of his brother. The figure cried, "The hat! You fool, get rid of that hat!" The caricature that was his brother seized the hat, and jerked so hard that the chin strap broke under Eric's chin. The hat was flung away and sailed high and far over the fence and outside the city.
The phantasm flickered, the illusion moved. Garve was now more handsome than ever, and the city was a dream of delight. Garve said, "Come," and Eric followed down a street of blue fur. He had no will to resist.
Garve said, "Keep your head down and your face hidden. If we meet someone you may not be recognized. They won't be expecting you from this side of the city."
Eric asked, "You knew I'd come after you?"
"Yes. The Legend said you'd be back."
Eric stopped and whirled to face his brother. "The Legend? Eric the Bronze? What is this wild fantasy?"
"Not so loud!" Garve's voice cautioned him. "Of course the crowd called you that because of the copper hat and your heavy tan. But the Elders believe so too. I don't know what it is, Eric, reincarnation, prophesy, superstition, I only know that when I was with the Elders I believed them. You are a part of a Legend. You are Eric the Bronze."
Eric looked down at his sun tanned hands and flexed them. He loosened the explosive pistol in its holster. At least he was going to be a well armed, well prepared Legend. And while one part of his mind marveled at the city and relaxed into a pleasure as deep as a dream, another struggled with the almost forgotten desire to rescue his brother and escape. He asked, "Who are the Elders?"
"We are going to them, to the center of the city." Garve's voice sharpened, "Keep your head down. I think the last two men we passed are looking after us. Don't look back."
After a moment Garve said, "I think they are following us. Get ready to run. If we are separated, keep going until you reach City Center. The Elders will be expecting you." Garve glanced back, and his voice sharpened, "Now! Run!"
They ran. But as they ran figures began to converge upon them. Farther up the street others appeared, cutting off their flight.
Garve cried, "In here," and pulled Eric into a crevice between two buildings. Eric drew his gun, and savagery began to dance in his eyes. The soft fur muffled sounds of pursuit closed in upon them.
Garve put one hand on Eric's gun hand and said, "Wait here. And if you value my life, don't use that gun." Then he was gone, running deerlike down the street.
For an instant Eric thought the ruse had succeeded. He heard cries and two men passed him running in pursuit. But then the cry came back. "Let him go. Get the other one. The other one."
Eric was seen an instant later, and the people of the city began to converge upon him. He could have destroyed them all with his charges in the gun, but his brother's warning shrieked in his ears, "If you value my life don't use the gun."
There was nothing he could do. Eric stood quietly until he was taken prisoner. They moved him to the center of the wide fur street. Two men held his arms, and twisted painfully. The crowd looked at him, coldly, calculatingly. One of them said, "Get the whips. If we whip him he will not come back." The city twinkled, and the music was so faint he could hardly hear it.
There was only one weapon Eric could use. He had gathered from Garve's words that these people were superstitious.
He laughed, a great chest-shattering laugh that gusted out into the thin Martian air. He laughed and cried in a great voice, "And can you so easily dispose of a Legend? If I am Eric of the Legend, can whips defeat the prophesy?"
There was an instant when he could have twisted loose. They stood, fear-bound at his words. But there was no place to hide, and without the use of his weapons Eric could not have gone far. He had to bluff it out.
Then one of the men cried, "Fools! It is true. We must take no chance with the whips. He would come back. But if he dies here before us now, then we may forget the prophesy."
The crowd murmured and a second voice cried, "Get the sword, get the guards, and kill him at once!"
Eric tensed to break away but now it was too late. His captors were alert. They increased the twist on his arms until he almost screamed with the pain.
The crowd parted, and the guard came through, his red silk clothing gleaming in the sun, his sword bright and deadly. He stopped before Eric, and the sword swirled up like a saber, ready for a slashing cut downward across Eric's neck.
A woman's voice, soft and yet authoritative, called, "Hold!" And a murmur of respect rippled through the crowd.
"Nolette! The Daughter of the City comes."
Eric turned his gaze to the side and saw the woman who had spoken. She was mounted upon a black horse with a jeweled bridle. She was young and her hair was long and free in the wind. She had ridden so softly across the fur street that no one had been aware of her presence.
She said, "Let me touch this man. Let me feel the pulse of his heart so that I may know if he is truly the Bronze one of the Legend. Give me your hand, stranger." She leaned down and grasped his hand. Eric shook his arms free, and reached up and clung to the offered hand, thinking,
"If I pull her down perhaps I can use her as a shield." He tensed his muscles and began to pull.
She cried, "No! You fool. Come up on the horse," and pulled back with an energy as fierce as his own. Then he had swung up on the horse, and the animal leaped forward, its muffled gallop beating out a tattoo of freedom.
Eric clung tightly to the girl's waist. He could feel the young suppleness of her body, and the fine strands of her hair kept swirling back into his face. It had a faint perfume, a clean and heady scent that made him more aware of the touch of her waist. He breathed deeply, oddly happy as they rode.
After five minutes ride they came to a building in the center of the city. The building was cubical, severe in line and architecture, and it contrasted oddly with the exquisite ornament of the rest of the city. It was as if it were a monolith from another time, a stranger crouched among enemies.
The girl halted before the structure and said, "Dismount here, Eric."
Eric swung down, his arms still tingling with pleasure where he had held her. She said, "Knock three times on the door. I will see you again inside. And thank your brother for sending me to bring you here."
Eric knocked on the door. The door was as plain as the building, made of a luminous plastic. It had all the beauty of the great gate door, but a more timeless, more functional beauty.
The door opened and an old man greeted Eric. "Come in. The Council awaits you. Follow me, please."
Eric followed down a hallway and into a large room. The room was obviously designed for a conference room. A great table stood in the room, made of the same luminous plastic as the door of the building. Six men sat at this conference table. Eric's guide placed him in a chair at the base of the T-shaped table.
There was one vacant seat beside the head of the T, and as Eric watched, the young woman who had rescued him entered and took her place there. She smiled at Eric, and the room took on a warmth that it had lacked with only the older men present. The man at her right, obviously presiding here looked at Eric and spoke. "I am Kroon, the eldest of the elders. We have brought you here to satisfy ourselves of your identity. In view of your danger in the City you are entitled to some sort of explanation." He glanced around the room and asked, "What is the judgment of the elders?"
Eric caught a faint nod here, a gesture there. Kroon nodded as if in satisfaction. He turned to the girl, "And what is your opinion, Daughter of the City?"
Nolette's expression held sorrow, as if she looked into the far future. She said, "He is Eric the Bronze. I have no doubt."
Eric asked, "And what is this Legend of Eric the Bronze? Why am I so despised in the city?"
Kroon answered, "According to the Ancient Legend you will destroy the city. This, and other things."
Eric gaped. No wonder the crowd had shown such hatred. But why were the elders so friendly? They were obviously the governing body, and if there was strife between them and the people it had not shown in the respect the crowd had accorded Nolette.
Kroon said, "I see you are puzzled. Let me tell you the story of the City. The City is old. It dates from long ago when the canals of Mars ran clear and green with water, and the deserts were vineyards and gardens. The drouth came, and the changes in climate, and soon it became plain that the people of Mars were doomed. They had ships, and could build more, and gradually they left to colonize other planets. Yet they could take little of their science. And fear and riots destroyed much. Also there were those who were filled with love for this homeland, and who thought that one day it might be habitable again. All the skill of the ancient Martian fathers went into the building of a giant machine, the machine that is the City, to protect a small colony of those who were chosen to remain on Mars."
"This whole city is a machine!" Eric asked.
"Yes, or the product of one. The heart of it lies underneath our feet, in caverns beneath this building. The nature of the machine is this, that it translates thought into reality."
Eric stared. The idea was staggering.
"This is essentially simple, although the technology is complex. It is necessary to have a recording device, to capture thought, a transmuting device capable of transmuting the red dust of the desert into any sort of material desired, and a construction device, to assemble this material into the pattern already recorded from thought." Kroon paused.
"You still doubt, my friend. Perhaps you are thirsty after your escape. Think strongly of a tall glass of cold water, visualize it in your mind, the sight and the fluidity and the touch of it."
Eric did so. Without warning a glass of water stood on the table before him. He touched the water to his lips. It was cool and satisfying. He drank it, convinced completely.
Eric asked, "And I am to destroy the City?"
"Yes. The time has come."
"But why?" Eric demanded. For an instant he could see the twinkling beauty as clearly as if he had stood outside the walls of this building.
Kroon said, "There are difficulties. The machine builds according to the mass will of the people, though it is sensitive to the individual in areas where it does not conflict with the imagination of the mass. We have had strangers, visitors, and even our own people, who grew drunk with the power of the machine, who dreamed more and more lust and greed into existence. These were banished from the city, and so strong is the call of the city that many of them became victims of their own evilness, and now walk mindlessly, with no thought but to seek for the beauty they have lost here."
Kroon sighed. "The people have lost the will to learn. Many do not even know of the machine. Our science is almost gone, and only a few of us, the dreamers, the elders, have kept alive the old knowledge of the machine and its history. By the collected powers of our imagination we build and control the outward appearance of the city.
"We have passed this down from father to son. A part of the ancient Legend is that the builders made provisions for the machine to be destroyed when contact with outsiders had been made once again, so that our people would again have to struggle forward to knowledge and power. The instrument of destruction was to be a man termed Eric the Bronze. It is not that you are reborn. It is just that sometime such a man would come."
Eric said, "I can understand the Bronze part. They had thought that a space man might well be sun tanned. They had thought that a science to protect against this beautiful illusion would provide a metal shield of some sort, probably copper in nature. That such a man should come is inevitable. But why Eric. Why the name Eric?"
For the first time Nolette spoke. She said quietly, "The name Eric was an honorable name of the ancient fathers. It must have been their thought that the new beginning should wait for some of their own far flung kind to return."
Eric nodded. He asked, "What happens now?"
"Nothing. Dwell here with us and you will be safe from our people. If the prediction is not soon fulfilled and you are not the Eric of the Legend, you may stay or go as you desire."
"My brother, Garve. What about him?"
"He loves the city. He will also stay, though he will be outside this building." Kroon clasped his hands. "Nolette, will you show Eric his quarters?"
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